Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

“Nevertheless,” said De Perche, interrupting, “it is not less true that the path of duty is often the road to honour and glory; that is what you have found it, as you were about to say; so,” added the count, gaily, “let us forth and meet our foes, and upon them with the lance, in the name of St. Denis and our good Lord Louis.”

Accordingly, De Perche and De Moreville mounted and sallied into the streets, to take each his part in the conflict that was even then beginning. And while the count joined his knights and headed the resistance well, the Norman baron that day maintained the reputation which he enjoyed in England and on the continent as a bold knight and a terrible man-at-arms. In the midst of the confusion and the panic which prevailed throughout the baronial forces, De Moreville fought with energy and courage not exceeded by any man in either army. It was he who made the charge during which Falco was taken; it was he whose lance threw Richard, surnamed Crocus, to the ground from which he was to be raised a corpse; it was he who, when his lance was broken, drew his mace, and, sweeping all before him, cleared the causeway of Falco’s mercenaries when they were pushing on to open the north gate in order to allow Pembroke’s army to rush into the city. Moreover, even after the struggle became close, and Collingham’s band were proving how well they merited the fame they had won, and the French and Anglo-Normans, huddled together and terror-stricken, were yielding themselves like sheep to the shearer, De Moreville and his riders were still bearing themselves valiantly in the mêlée, and still breaking into the ranks of the conquering foe and riding triumphantly through Collingham’s men with the well-known battle-cry of “St. Moden for De Moreville! Strike! strike! and spare not!”

In the midst of one of his fiery courses, however, the Norman baron reined up at a short distance from the north gate, on a spot which was literally surrounded by the carcases of the horses that had been slain; and he ground his teeth in bitter wrath as he surveyed the scene before him, and listened to the shouts of the victors as they pressed on in a mass towards the spot where, around De Perche, fighting bravely against odds, the war still centred.

“All is lost!” exclaimed De Moreville, in the tone of a man vexed to the heart’s core. “By St. Moden, methinks the heirs of the heroes of Hastings have lost their very manhood while feasting and bull-baiting in the company of citizens. Beshrew me if children with willow wands could not have made a better fight than the Anglo-Norman warriors have this day done.”

“My lord,” said Sir Anthony Waledger, nervously, “it seems to me that we had better save ourselves.”

De Moreville, in spite of the serious position in which he was, laughed at the drunken knight’s suggestion.

“On my faith, Sir Anthony,” replied he, as he exchanged a smile with his young nephew Richard at the knight’s expense, “methinks, for once, you are in the right in thinking rather of safety than renown, for, if we escape not, we either yield or die. But whither are we to go?”

“To Chas-Chateil,” suggested Hornmouth, in a significant tone. “No safer stronghold in all England, if matters come to the worst.”

“True,” said De Moreville, thoughtfully. “But,” added he, slowly, “after this day’s work, no fortress in England, however strong, will long hold out against King Henry. Therefore it is expedient to hold our course northward, and take refuge at Mount Moreville. But my daughter, left to her fate in London, and London certain to be surrendered!”

“She will be safe under the wing of Dame Waledger,” replied Hornmouth, “and all the more for your absence, seeing that she is a kinswoman of my Lord of Salisbury, and can easily, therefore, secure protection. Come, my good lord, time flies; let us ride. This day fortune is against you, but you may live to conquer again. Our enemies have broken near the north gate as they entered; let us charge towards it, and fly while there is yet time.”

“Ay,” said De Moreville, fiercely, “let us charge, but slaughtering the rascally rabble as we go. See how they swarm. On! on! St. Moden for De Moreville! Strike! strike! and spare not!”

And, setting spurs to his steed, the Norman baron, at the head of his riders, charged towards the north gate.

But this charge proved no such child’s play as De Moreville had expected. The rascal rabble of which he had spoken so contemptuously was Collingham’s band of patriots, who, after doing good service to their king and country in the deadly struggle, had rallied to their celebrated standard, bringing their prisoners with them, ere dispersing to secure their share of the booty, which they did not despise. No further thought of fighting that day had they; for, save on the spot where De Perche still struggled, all resistance had ceased, and the royalists, not interested in the count’s fate, were striding through the streets without finding a foe to encounter, or spreading themselves over the city to begin the work of plunder. But when Collingham suddenly descried De Moreville’s banner, and observed that the Norman baron was about to charge, he formed his men with marvellous rapidity into a phalanx resembling a wedge, and there, with their captives in the midst, they stood, presenting a wall of shields, every man grasping his axe or bending his bow, and their dauntless chief still towering in front, with his heavy club in his hand, and his attitude that of good-humoured defiance.

It was not without an unwonted thrill that De Moreville beheld that brave phalanx as he spurred forward; but he was not a man to be easily daunted. Bravely and resolutely he charged on that wall of shields; as bravely and resolutely his charge was resisted. He might as well have ridden lance in rest against the ramparts of the castle. De Moreville’s rage knew no bounds. His heart beat wildly; his eyes rolled in flames; his nostrils snorted fire; violent exclamations burst from his lips; his whole frame quivered with his angry passions. Furious at his own repulse, he again, and this time more fiercely, led on his riders to the assault, and with a charge so vehement that he all but penetrated into the midst. But as he came face to face and hand to hand with Collingham, he was hurled back with such force that his horse was thrown on its haunches, and his band of cavalry was broken on the rampart of shields as a hammer on the anvil, young Richard de Moreville falling, bruised and senseless, by the axe of the Icingla, and Sir Anthony remaining Collingham’s prisoner.

“By the bones of St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, as, having drawn back, he surveyed the wreck of what had been a gallant feudal following, “this passes all patience. Why do I live to be baffled by such a rabble rout? Why am I man in mail, and not monk in minster? Let us charge once more; for rather would I die by their hands, rather would I forfeit all chance of tasting the joys of Paradise, than live to remember that they had foiled me.”

And laying his lance at rest, and spurring his horse, De Moreville loudly shouted his battle-cry, and led on his riders with such ferocity that Collingham’s phalanx gave way, and the men went whirling hither and thither, like leaves blown about by the November blasts. At that moment Philip de Albini and John Marshal, attracted by the fray, rode hastily up to take part in it, and De Moreville, dashing side by side with Ralph Hornmouth to the north gate, darted rapidly through it, and spurred fast away on the first stage of his long journey.

And now Collingham hasted to where Oliver stood, and said, “The Count de Perche has retreated to the churchyard of the cathedral.”

Immediately the Icingla threw his battle-axe over his shoulder, and rushed off with the speed of the wind, muttering the word “Revenge!”

CHAPTER LII

DEFIANT TILL DEATH

THE Count de Perche found himself in a woeful plight. He was on foot, for his charger had been killed under him, and he was almost alone in the midst of the foes whom he had ever treated with such contempt. His friends and allies had fled or yielded, but he neither thought of flying nor yielding. At that moment, life, as life, had no charms for him; but, unfortunately, the prospect of death was bitter and horrible; for being, like his lord, an excommunicated man, he knew that he was not even entitled to Christian burial.

De Perche’s proud soul was wrung with bitter agony, and as his enemies slowly advanced he groaned aloud and uttered a sharp cry, the groan and cry of a superlatively proud warrior in extreme mental anguish. Scarcely knowing what he did in his perplexity, the count retreated slowly to the churchyard of the cathedral, and, setting his back against a wall, he shouted defiance at his assailants as they came resolutely on.

De Perche’s foes formed themselves in front of him in a semi-circle, and the Earl of Pembroke, who could not but admire the count’s dauntless bearing in the hour of defeat and despair, invited him to surrender.

“Yield, sir count,” said the earl in accents which he meant to be persuasive. “You have done all that a brave man could. Therefore yield and live. Life has its sweets.”

“No; not with glory gone,” replied De Perche with energy. “Never shall it be told in Christendom, to my dispraise, that sweet France fell into contempt through me. Let those yield who love life better than honour. Never by me shall such evil example be set. But before I die I will sell myself dear.”

“Yield, yield!” cried Pembroke, and Salisbury, and others of the English, impatiently. “Yield, sir count.”

“Never!” exclaimed De Perche, irritated by the impatience of their tone. “By the bones of St. John the Baptist, never shall any but liars have it in their power to tell that I yielded to a pack of tailed English, who are traitors to their lawful sovereign, Lord Louis.”

The victors, who stood before De Perche in a semi-circle, still hesitated; for, in spite of the count’s insulting language, the courage he displayed in the presence of such manifest peril excited their admiration. But one English knight lost temper and sprang forward.

“By the mass,” exclaimed he, setting his teeth on edge, “such pride and petulance merit sharp punishment: and if this scornful Frank will not yield to Englishmen, he must die by an Englishman’s hand.”

A keen combat ensued, but it was brief as keen. The knight aimed a blow at De Perche; the count warded off the blow, and returned it with such force that sparks of fire flew from the knight’s helmet, and he was almost beaten to his knee. But quick as thought the English knight recovered himself, and making a fierce thrust at De Perche’s eye, pierced him to the brain. Without uttering a word, the count rolled lifeless on the ground.

A brief silence succeeded De Perche’s fall; and as the victors stood in a circle, gazing on the lifeless body of their foe, who while living had been so scornful, the silence was rudely interrupted by a shout of vengeance. Breaking through the crowd, a young warrior burst wildly into the circle, in a guise which made nobles and knights stare – his steel cap battered, his shield bruised with blows, his axe reeking with gore, his white jacket spotted red with that day’s carnage, his eyes flashing fire, his teeth grinding with rage, and the word “Revenge!” on his tongue.

It was Oliver Icingla; and he came to execute the vengeance he had, weeks earlier, sworn to take on the head of the Count de Perche, whenever and wherever he might meet the man whom he regarded as his mother’s murderer.

“You are too late, Master Icingla,” said the Earl of Salisbury to his former squire and fellow-captive. “De Perche has fallen by the hand of another.”

“I grieve to hear it,” said Oliver.

“The noble count, pierced through brain and eye, has already gone to his account.”

“So perish all England’s enemies!” exclaimed Oliver, glancing at the fallen Frenchman.

“But we war not with the dead,” said Salisbury, solemnly; “and in the hour of victory it grieves me to call to mind that the body of a warrior who died so bravely cannot be laid in a Christian grave. But,” added the earl in a whisper, “may his soul be admitted within the gates of Paradise, and may it repose in holy flowers!”

“Amen,” added Oliver earnestly, as he crossed himself. “My lord, I doubt not you are right. Death clears all scores; so they say, at least. And I trust that his soul will be pardoned, and find repose in the regions whither it has winged its flight.”

CHAPTER LIII

AFTER THE BATTLE

NO sooner did intelligence that the day was going against the Count de Perche and the Anglo-Norman barons spread through Lincoln than consternation prevailed among the women whose kinsmen were connected with the army doomed to defeat. Many of them, indeed, left their houses to avoid insult, and, embarking on the Witham in boats, endeavoured to escape with their children and servants, and such valuable property as they could carry. Events proved that their fears were not unfounded.

In fact, notwithstanding the discipline maintained by Pembroke, and the desire which he naturally felt to save the country from violence and spoliation, he could not, in the hour of triumph, save Lincoln from the horrors of war. Flushed with victory and eager for spoil, the royalists, after having assured themselves that their foes were utterly beaten, assumed all the airs of conquerors, and acted as if they had a right to everything in the shape of plunder on which they could lay hands.

At first the victors contented themselves with rifling the waggons and sumpter-mules containing the baggage of the French and the barons, and found much booty in the shape of silver vessels and rich furniture of various kinds. But this merely whetted their appetites for booty, and, spreading rapidly over the city, they began to pillage the houses, rushing from place to place with axes and hammers, and breaking open store-rooms and chests, and seizing upon gold and silver goblets, and jewels, and gold rings, and women’s ornaments, and rich garments.

Nothing, in fact, seems to have come amiss to them that was not too hot or too heavy, and the churches were not respected any more than the houses. Even the cathedral was not spared. In fact, the clergy of Lincoln, being, like the bishop, stanch partisans of Prince Louis, and under sentence of excommunication, were not only odious to the king’s friends, but looked on by the English soldiers as persons whom they, as faithful sons of the Church, were justified in plundering.

Meantime the women who had embarked on the Witham with their children and domestics had not been fortunate in their efforts to escape. Much too eager to leave the scene of carnage to be cautious in the mode of doing so, they overloaded the boats to a dangerous degree, and when fairly afloat they neither knew how to row nor steer. As a consequence, serious evil befel them through the boats getting foul of one another, and by various causes, and many of the fair fugitives went to the bottom of the river with the property which they had been anxious to save, “so that,” says the chronicler, “there were afterwards found in the river by searchers goblets of silver and many other articles of value, for the boats had been overloaded, and the women, not knowing how to manage them, all perished.”

At length the riot and pillage came to an end, and the king’s peace having been proclaimed through the city, the conquerors ate and drank merrily in celebrating the victory they had so easily gained against great odds. Ere this, however, everything having been settled, Pembroke prepared to carry to the king tidings of the great triumph which had crowned the efforts of his adherents. Having, therefore, instructed the barons and knights to return to the fortresses of which they were castellans, and to carry their prisoners with them, and to keep them safely in custody till the king’s pleasure was known, the protector, without even dining or taking food, rode off to Stowe to inform young Henry of the great victory, which made him in reality sovereign of England.

Even next day the consequences began to appear. Early on Sunday morning couriers reached Stowe with intelligence that Henry de Braybroke and his garrison had abandoned Mount Sorrel, and the king sent orders to the Sheriff of Nottingham to raze the castle to the ground.

Of all the men of rank who fought in the battle few fell. Indeed, only two are mentioned by name – Richard, surnamed Crocus, and the Count de Perche – one on the winning, the other on the losing side. Richard, who was Falco’s brave knight, was carried by his companions to Croxton and laid with all honour in the abbey. The Count de Perche, whose comrades-in-arms were slain, or taken, or fled, and who, as an excommunicated man, could not, of course, be laid in consecrated ground, was interred in the orchard of the hospital of St. Giles, founded by Bishop Remigius outside the walls of Lincoln as a house of refuge for decayed priests.

And so ended the battle of Lincoln in a victory of which Pembroke might well and justly be proud. It not only overthrew the army on which Louis relied for success in his enterprise, but it utterly undid all the work which he had been doing in England since that June day when he rode into London amidst the cheers of an unreasoning multitude.

As for the feudal magnates who had offered him a crown which was not theirs to give, and who had done him homage as their sovereign, they were no longer in a position to aid him, even if they had been so inclined, but captives at the mercy of a king whose father they had hunted to death, and whose inheritance they had attempted to give to a stranger. Besides Robert Fitzwalter and the Anglo-Norman earls and barons, three hundred knights and a multitude of men holding inferior rank were prisoners.