Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

“Then let us proceed, in the name of God and good St. Edward,” said the knight, and he moved towards the entrance of the subterranean passage by which Pedro the page – or, rather, Wolf the varlet – had escaped.

Taking Wolf with him to act as a guide, and leaving a band of six picked men to keep guard at the mouth, Collingham, having ordered all the briars and stones to be cleared away from the entrance, caused a number of torches to be lighted.

“Now, my merry men,” said he, “let us enter this passage, which will conduct us to the hall of the castle. When we arrive there, if need be, we must break the door forcibly open, and combat all who oppose us. But I would fain hope that we may enter noiselessly, overpower the garrison, and do what is needful, without shedding blood. However,” added he, “if it prove necessary, be not squeamish, but strike boldly, and spare neither the oppressor nor such as serve him. What better standard do Englishmen want than the gory head of a Norman tyrant?”

“We will! we will! we will most cheerfully obey you,” answered the men, whose excitement had reached a high pitch. “Neither Hugh de Moreville nor Anthony Waledger can look for much mercy at our hands; neither for mercy nor justice have our race ever been beholden to them.”

“But shed not a drop of blood unnecessarily,” added Collingham, as, stooping down, he entered the cavern, and told Wolf to lead the way, his men following, and Styr the Saxon bringing up the rear, with his sword drawn, and firmly resolved to slay any man who attempted to turn back.

Marching noiselessly along the passage, they at length reached the stair that led to the door into the private chamber, and this both Collingham and Wolf exerted all their ingenuity to open, but in vain. The spring could only be acted on from within; and, after repeatedly making fruitless attempts, the knight gave up in despair.

“My hopes were vain,” said he, at length, “and we only waste time. Bring forward the hammers to break the door, and let every man draw his blade and be ready to follow me.”

One of the peasants, a Dane, who, as far as strength and stature were concerned, might have compared to advantage with Siward, the old Earl of Northumbria, advanced with a sledge-hammer, and with one blow smashed the door to pieces.

“Forward!” said Collingham; and the peasant, passing into the secret chamber, followed by the knight, with another blow smashed the door that led from the chamber into the great hall. Still the garrison gave no indications of having taken alarm; and Collingham, guided by Wolf, went straight to the apartment where Sir Anthony Waledger was engaged in combat with imaginary foes, took the governor prisoner, and shut him up till the work was complete.

But by this time the alarm had been given, and caught the ears of a man whose presence at Chas-Chateil Collingham did not even suspect. It was Ralph Hornmouth, who had arrived that very morning, and who, owing to recent fatigue, luckily for the assailants, slept sounder than was his wont. Springing from his bed, Hornmouth hastily armed himself, rushed from his dormitory, roused and called the garrison, and, with his sword drawn, and the soldiers at his back, made for the great hall, to which Collingham had just returned, and, with shouts of “St. Moden! St. Moden! Down with the robber herd!” rushed upon the intruders. But Collingham faced Hornmouth with a courage that equalled his ferocity, and the outlaws answered the cry of “St. Moden!” with loud shouts of “Ho, ho, for the Black Raven! Out! out!”

And now the great hall was filled with combatants, and a bloody conflict took place, both parties fighting furiously. Collingham and Hornmouth singled each other out, and between the gigantic knight and the huge squire was fought a desperate hand-to-hand fight, no man interfering with them. For a time neither had the advantage, and the rafters rang with the echoes of their blows. At length Collingham’s sword broke, and his fate seemed sealed, but he drew back, grasped his terrible club, and renewed the combat, which grew fiercer and fiercer. What might have been the issue it is difficult to guess; but Hornmouth’s foot slipped just as a terrible blow alighted on his crest, and he lay senseless on the floor. In vain the garrison attempted to rescue him. The outlaws, if not the better men, had a mighty advantage over soldiers taken by surprise, roused out of their first sleep, and hastily armed; and ere long they yielded to their fate, ceased to struggle, and sullenly laid down their arms.

And now Collingham lost no time in completing the business which had brought him there. Guided by Wolf, he proceeded to the chamber in which Oliver Icingla was a prisoner, and knocked.

“Who knocks?” cried a stern voice.

It was Oliver’s, and very bold in tone; though what the young Englishman intended to do if there had been danger it is difficult to guess, inasmuch as he had not even a weapon.

“It is I, William de Collingham,” was the reply; and forthwith the door opened and revealed Oliver standing in the dim moonlight as guard over the women who had appealed to him for protection. It is needless to relate what followed. Suffice it to say that in half an hour the castle was left to its mortified and wounded garrison; the outlaws had dispersed through the woods; and Collingham and Oliver Icingla, with Wolf perched behind Oliver on the white “haquenée,” were riding leisurely in the direction of London.

But Oliver Icingla, eager as he might be for liberty and action, did not leave Chas-Chateil without a sigh.

“Noble demoiselle,” said he, as he took leave of De Moreville’s daughter, “I once said that when I left the castle I should carry with me one pleasant memory; and now that I have the prospect of freedom before me, beshrew me if I do not deem it dearly purchased at the cost of a departure from the place which your presence consecrates in my heart. But, farewell! May the saints watch over you, and may we meet in more peaceful days and on a happier occasion!”

“Amen!” said the Norman maiden, in a soft whisper, as Oliver chivalrously carried her soft hand to his lips, and the tear from her eye alighted on his hand. “May God so order it.”

Alas! alas! for the vanity of human wishes! It was neither on a peaceful day nor a happy occasion that Oliver Icingla and Beatrix de Moreville were to meet again.

CHAPTER XXXIII

WARRIORS IN DISGUISE

ON the evening of the 1st of June, the day preceding that on which Louis of France rode into London to receive the homage of the chief citizens and barons, two persons – one of them a tall, strong man, riding a big, high horse, and the other a stripling, mounted on a white “haquenée” – reached Southwark. They reined up before the sign of the White Hart, an hostelry afterwards celebrated as the headquarters of Jack Cade during his memorable insurrection.

“Who may you be, and whence come ye?” asked the landlord, who, seeing that the times were troubled, was cautious as to the persons he received under his roof.

“I am a yeoman of Kent,” answered the elder of the horsemen, frankly, “and this youngling is my nephew, and we have this day ridden from my homestead near Foot’s Cray.”

The explanation proved satisfactory – at all events, it sufficed for the occasion – and the travellers stabled their steeds, and, having entered the White Hart, were soon doing justice to such good cheer as the tenement afforded. The yeoman, meanwhile, talked freely enough with all who addressed him. The stripling, however, sat silent and seemingly abashed, as it was natural a young peasant should sit in a scene to which he was unaccustomed, and among people who were strangers. Only once, when his companion was holding forth on the subject of flocks and herds, he opened his mouth to utter an enthusiastic exclamation in praise of a brindled bull that had recently been baited in his native village; and having done so, and, apparently, also satisfied his hunger and thirst, he, in very rustic language, proposed a visit to the “bear-gardens” hard by the hostelry.

And here the reader may as well be reminded that, in the days of King John, and for centuries after – indeed, up to the time of Queen Elizabeth – the Surrey side of the Thames was almost without houses, with the exception of a part of Lambeth, where stood the primate’s palace; and Bermondsey, a pastoral village with gardens and orchards; and Southwark, which was a considerable place, relatively to the period, and boasted of the public granary, and the city brewhouse, and the mansions inhabited by prelates and abbots when they were in London, besides many and various places of recreation to which the Londoners were wont to repair. Here was Winchester House, the residence of the Bishop of Winchester; there Rochester House, the residence of the Bishop of Rochester; there the inn of the Prior of Lewes; there the inns of the Abbots of Battle and of St. Augustine, in Canterbury; there St. Olave’s Church; and there, standing hard by in strange contrast, as if to illustrate the truth of the old proverb, “the nearer the church, the farther from grace,” certain tenements with such signs as the Boar’s Head, the Cross Keys, the Cardinal’s Head, etc., of which the reputation was such that it was presumed the faces of the decorous were never seen within their walls.

But, however that might have been, no discredit whatever attached to the bear-gardens, “where were kept bears, bulls, and other beasts to be baited, as also mastiffs in various kennels nourished to bait them, the bears and other beasts being kept in plots of ground scaffolded about for the beholders to stand safe.” Bear-baiting, in fact, ranked, like festivities and tournaments, among the fashionable diversions of the age; and the yeoman and his nephew went thither and enjoyed themselves with clear consciences, as persons in similar circumstances would in our day visit a theatre or a music-hall. Indeed, the first two individuals who attracted their attention were persons no less respectable in their day and generation than Joseph Basing the citizen, who had a lurking reverence for the monarchy of England, and Constantine Fitzarnulph, who was all eagerness to overthrow it, no matter what the consequences. Eager was the conversation which they held as they walked along, and such as proved that Basing still cherished the doubts and fears which he had in vain expressed at Clerkenwell.

“I wish all this may end well,” said he bluntly, in reply to a long narrative of the preparations made to receive the French prince and his lords.

“My worthy fellow-citizen,” said Constantine Fitzarnulph, “content yourself, I pray you, and credit me that this is all as it ought to be, and that it will all work for the welfare and prosperity of England and our city.”

“I would fain hope so if I could,” replied Basing, shaking his head incredulously; “but, by St. Thomas, I wish you may not all live to repent your handiwork, and to find, when too late, that you are like the countryman who brought up a young wolf, which no sooner grew strong enough than it began to tear his sheep to pieces.”

The two citizens passed on, and the yeoman of Kent and his nephew, having passed some time in the bear-gardens, strolled leisurely towards London Bridge, which was crowded with passengers, and enlivened by ballad-singers and minstrels bawling out the newest verses in praise of Prince Louis, and Robert Fitzwalter, and Constantine Fitzarnulph, and looked and listened till warned by the curfew bell to return to their hostelry and betake themselves to repose.

“Beshrew me,” said the stripling in a low but ardently earnest tone, as, having looked to their horses, they parted for the night – “beshrew me if the heads of the Londoners are not turned with all this babble and noise about Prince Louis, and Robert Fitzwalter, and Constantine Fitzarnulph. My patience begins to give way.”

“Heed them not,” replied the yeoman in a similar tone; “it is because Louis and his friends are the stronger party, and for no other reason. It is ever the way of the vulgar to follow those, no matter what their worth, whom Fortune favours, and despise those on whom she frowns, as I have learned to my bitter experience. See you, when the royal cause flourishes again they will shout as lustily for the king. Mayhap even we may yet be the heroes of popular song. Marry, less likely things have come to pass in changeful times.”

“May the saints forefend!” exclaimed the stripling, smiling; “for, certes, I should then conclude that we were in the wrong. I remember me of the story which tells that when the Greek orator was loudly applauded by the multitude, the philosopher chid him. ‘Sir,’ added the philosopher, ‘if you had spoken wisely, these men would have showed no signs of approbation.’”

Next morning, the yeoman and the stripling rose betimes, broke their fast, crossed London Bridge, and mingled with the crowd – pressing, surging, and swaying – that cheered and welcomed Louis, who that day charmed all hearts by his great affability and his very gracious condescension. Nothing, indeed, could have exceeded the enthusiasm of the citizens and populace of London when the French prince, crossing London Bridge, entered the city; “for,” says the chronicler, “there was nothing wanting in the salutations of the flattering people, not even that barbarous Chaire Basileus, which is, ‘Hail, dear lord.’”

The yeoman of Kent and his young comrade did not add their voices to the music of the hour. Perhaps they were too stupid to comprehend fully what was taking place. However, they certainly did seem to make the best use of their eyes. They entered the church of St. Paul’s while the citizens were doing homage and swearing allegiance, and they followed the long and brilliant cavalcade of prelates, and nobles, and knights, conspicuous among whom were Hugh de Moreville and Sir Anthony Waledger, when they conducted the French prince to Westminster; for here a similar ceremony was to be performed in the Abbey, which then stood very much as it had been left by Edward the Confessor – to wit, in the form of a cross, with a high central tower, and as it had been consecrated on the Christmas of 1065, when the saint-king lay dying in the Painted Chamber.

Both the stripling and the yeoman looked on the Abbey with peculiar reverence, and the sight of it seemed to recall to them the memory of the pious founder, but of whom few else in London or Westminster thought that day.

“Holy Edward be our aid, and the aid of England!” said the younger, uncovering his head; “for never, certes, have we and England been more in need of the protection of our tutelary saint.”

“Amen,” added the yeoman; and, separating themselves from the crowd, they proceeded to an ale-house right opposite the gate of the palace, exchanged salutations with the landlord in a confidential tone, and ascended a stair to a chamber, the window of which looked into the palace-yard. Finding themselves alone, they turned to each other with a glance of peculiar significance.

“Sir William de Collingham,” said the stripling, much agitated, “we are discovered. That drunken maniac of a knight saw through our disguise.”

“Be calm, Master Icingla,” replied the other, like a man long habituated to danger; “you may be in error. Anyhow, we gain nothing by taking fright; for, if it be as you say, he may even now have taken such measures that we must fall into the toils. Wherefore I say, be calm.”

And, in truth, their situation was perilous; for since the exploit of Collingham at Chas-Chateil, and Oliver’s escape from that castle, had become matters of notoriety in London, both had been marked men. And not only had Hugh de Moreville sworn vengeance in case of having the power to inflict it, but Sir Anthony Waledger, exasperated by the loss of his post as governor of Chas-Chateil, which he ascribed to the trick put upon him and its results, vowed never to taste joy again till he had put both the knight and the squire into his patron’s power. What was their real object in being in London under the circumstances, chroniclers have not pretended to state; but certainly they would have been safer elsewhere. Perhaps the very danger they incurred had its influence in making them venture into the midst of foes; but, however that may have been, there they were in that ale-house at Westminster, and below was Sir Anthony Waledger conversing with the woman of the hostelry.

“Dame,” said the knight, in his grandest way, “tell me, on your troth, who are they drinking above? Are they alone, or in company?”

“On my troth, sir,” answered the landlady, “I cannot tell you their names; they have come here but now.”

On hearing this, Sir Anthony Waledger, wishing to judge with his own eyes, went up-stairs to ascertain the truth, and, not doubting that he was right in the conjecture he had formed, called for a quart of ale – for the Norman knight was never neglectful of opportunities of getting liquor – and, having ordered the quart of ale, he saluted Collingham.

“God preserve you, master!” said he, dissembling; “I hope you will not take my coming amiss; for, seeing you at the window, I thought you might be one of my farmers from Berks, as you are very like him.”

“By no means,” replied Collingham, as if much honoured by being spoken to by so great a man. “I am from Kent, and hold lands from the Lord Hubert de Burgh; and the Lord Hubert being somewhat neglectful of my interests, I wish to lay my complaints before Prince Louis and the barons against the tenants of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who encroach much on my farm.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Sir Anthony, “then I may be your friend. If you will come into the hall I will have way made for you to lay your grievances before the prince and the lords.”

“Many thanks, sir, but I will not trouble you at this moment, albeit, I do not renounce your aid in the matter. Sir, may I know your name?”

“My name,” answered the knight, “is Sir Anthony Waledger;” and, after having paid for the quart of ale, and drank it hurriedly, but with evident relish, he added, “God be with you, master!” and descended the stair and left the ale-house, and hastily crossed to the palace and made for the council-chamber, whither the barons had gone, and, requesting the usher to open the door, called the Lord Hugh de Moreville.