Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

“He who doth secrets reveal
Beneath my roof shall never live;”

and when the wine, which had neither been produced on the banks of the Holborn nor in the vineyards of Gloucester, flowed freely, their tongues were loosened, and they expressed themselves without hesitation as to the crisis which public affairs had reached, not by any means sparing King John, whose character they evidently viewed in the very worst light. Two of the party, however, preserved their discretion. One was Joseph Basing, a cautious man, who had been Sheriff of London in the previous year; the other a youth of patrician aspect, in a half-martial dress, with handsome features, and a keen eye which kindled with enthusiasm when noble words were spoken, and a proud lip which curled with scorn when a mean sentiment was expressed.

“Sirs,” said Joseph Basing, after listening silently and with an air of alarm to remarks which, if repeated, might have cost ten lives, “I will not take upon me to dispute that there is some truth in much that has been said, and especially that, in the matter of taxes and imposts, the Londoners have of late had burdens laid on their shoulders which men cannot and ought not to bear with patience. Nevertheless, we must look before we leap, lest we should meet the fate of William Fitzozbert, who was hanged at the Nine Elms, in Richard’s time, for calling himself King of the Poor, and speaking ill of the powers that be. For myself, I care not to place myself in jeopardy, even for the weal of my fellow-citizens, unless I see a way of getting safely out again; and, for the king, I believe it is said in Holy Writ, ‘Curse not the king, no, not in thy thoughts, for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.’ My masters, let us be cautious. King John may be less wise and less merciful than he might be; but a king’s name is a tower of strength. He is still a king, and as yet lacks neither the will nor the power to punish those who rebel against him. Therefore, I say again, let us be cautious, and set not our lives rashly on the cast of the die.”

A murmur, in which all present joined, intimated to Joseph Basing the dissatisfaction which his speech had excited. But, however timid as to his life, he was evidently not a man to surrender his judgment to his comrades merely to please them.

“Besides,” continued he, speaking in a resolute tone, “who are these barons, that peaceful citizens should cry them ‘God speed?’ How and why did they cease to eat the bread of wickedness and drink the wine of violence? Who does not know that, up to the day when King Henry came to the throne, they taxed their ingenuity to invent instruments of torture to wring gold from their unoffending neighbours? and the Earl of Essex, who was rather better than his fellow-barons, used to send about spies to beg from door to door, that he might learn in what house there was any wealth to plunder. Verily, my masters, we ought to be careful lest we bring back such evil days, and find ourselves at the mercy of such ruthless men.”

“Sir citizen,” said the young noble, speaking for the first time, “these are old stories, and such crimes as you impute to the Earl of Essex cannot be laid to the charge of the barons forming the army of God and the Church.”

Joseph Basing was about to answer sharply, but Constantine Fitzarnulph indicated by a gesture his desire to be heard, and there was silence.

“My friends,” said Fitzarnulph, in a tone which he hoped would prevent any argument, “it seems to me that this discourse is unprofitable, and that it would be more to the purpose to come to a decision on the point we are met to decide. The barons calling themselves the army of God and the Church are at Bedford, ready to march to London, if assured of a favourable reception in the city. Such reception we here assembled have influence sufficient to secure, if we so will it; and there is here present a young Norman noble – Walter de Merley by name – who is ready to carry your decision to them as rapidly as horse can carry him. Is it your desire – yea or nay – that the army now at Bedford should march to London?”

Joseph Basing was silent: all the others with one accord shouted “Yea;” and, almost as the sound ceased, Walter de Merley, having exchanged signals with Fitzarnulph, vanished from the hall.

“By our Lady of Newminster,” said the young warrior, as he mounted his steed and set its face towards Bedford, “it was no more than prudent to make these citizens pledge themselves to secrecy by an oath which they cannot break without risking eternal perdition. Not one of them but will waken up at sunrise to-morrow, repenting of and trembling at the recollection of the scene that has just been enacted.”

And while he rode on, congratulating himself on the success of Fitzarnulph’s attempts to induce the leading citizens of London to make the cause of the barons their own, the doors of Fitzarnulph’s hall were thrown open; and wine and spices were served to the guests; and each departed to his own home to seek repose, and probably to dream of the danger in which he might be involved should the secret ooze out before the arrival of “the army of God and the Church.”

CHAPTER XII

THE BARONS IN LONDON

FITZARNULPH’S project prospered.

Everything was managed with secrecy and success. On being assured that they might count on a hearty welcome from the Londoners, the barons left Bedford, and advanced to Ware, in Hertfordshire; and, while the royalists knew nothing of their movements, save from vague and uncertain rumours, they, on Saturday, the 16th of May, left Ware after sunset, and, marching all night, found themselves in the neighbourhood of the capital without a foe having appeared to notice their approach.

It was early on Sunday when the baronial warriors reached the walls of London, and Aldgate stood open to admit them. At the time, the inhabitants were for the most part at morning mass, and the nobles and their fighting men entered the city, and took possession of the gates, at each of which they posted parties of guards, almost ere their presence was suspected by the royalists, and long before their arrival was announced at the Tower. No sooner did they find themselves in undisputed possession of the capital, and assured of the support of the chief citizens, than they gratified the prejudices of the populace by falling upon a race who from their position always suffered early in civil commotions.

At that time the Jews were odious to Christendom, and doubtless did much to deserve hatred. But to no people in Europe was the Jew, with his sensual lip, his hook nose, his peculiar features, his high square yellow cap, and his russet gabardine, an object of so much dislike and distrust as to the English. For all this antipathy there were various reasons.

Almost every Jew was understood openly or secretly to revile and insult Christianity, and scarcely a year passed without some terrible charge being made against the race in this respect. One year it was said that a Jew had stabbed the Host; in the next that a Jew had defaced an image of the Virgin; in the third that a Jew had crucified a boy, in mockery of the Saviour. At the time of the Crusades such charges became more frequent than ever; for the Jews were believed to sympathise strongly with the Saracens, and to show their sympathy by furnishing arms to carry on the war, poisoning the wells and fountains at which the armed pilgrims were likely to quench their thirst, and sneering at the zeal which prompted Christians to “take the staff and sandal in superstitious penance, and walk afoot to visit the graves of dead men.”

No doubt these circumstances would of themselves have rendered the Jew an object of hatred wherever he appeared; but there were other and very strong reasons for the detestation with which men of the Hebrew race were regarded by the multitude. Almost every Jew was rich, and a money-lender, and a usurer, and was in the habit of using his advantages in such a way as to grind the faces of men of all ranks who were under the necessity of coming to him for aid. Abbots and barons were his debtors; but it was not merely the inmate of the monastery and the castle who experienced his rapacity and atrocities. While the abbot pledged his plate, and the baron his armour and horses, the craftsman pledged his tools, the trader his wares, and the husbandman his ploughshare. Of course, all these men were frequently at the Jew’s mercy, and most of them found, to their severe experience, that the mercy of a Jew was worse than the cruelty of a Christian.

No sooner, therefore, did the barons forming “the army of God and the Church” find themselves in London, and in a position to do whatever they pleased with the city, than they proceeded to pay off some of their debts to the Jews after a fashion which was little to the taste of the Israelites. Proceeding with such intent to the Jewry – the quarter set apart for and inhabited by the Jews, and remarkable as concerned the construction of the houses, which were of a peculiar style, with a chimney over the door, a mode of building to which the persecuted race were compelled to adhere, in order that their dwellings might be distinguished from those of Christians – they stopped at one of them, over which was inscribed in Hebrew characters, “This is the station or ward of Rabbi Moses, son of the honourable Rabbi Isaac,” and, to the terror of the inmates, began to tear down the building, not forgetting in the meantime to look out for plunder, and to lay their hands on all that was not too hot or too heavy to carry away. Proceeding with the work of destruction, which some were foolish enough to mistake for doing God service, the baronial insurgents pulled down the houses of all the principal Hebrews, and had the stones carried away to repair the gates of London, especially Ludgate and Aldgate – which had so easily admitted them, but which they were determined should not admit any other armed force, save at their pleasure – rebuilding them after the Norman fashion, with small bricks and Flanders tiles. Nearly four centuries later, when Ludgate was pulled down, and when, to borrow the words of the poet, when their names were forgotten, and the places that had once known them knew them no more, and their lands had become the prey of the grooms and minions who pandered to the passions and obeyed the behests of the Tudor sovereigns, the stone which had been taken from the house of the Rabbi Moses was discovered, and the inscription interpreted – an interesting memorial of other days, and one which might have suggested salutary reflections.

“The knights were dust,
And their swords were rust – ”

Having dealt with the Jews, the Anglo-Norman barons, resolute in their plan of going all lengths till their demands were complied with, took two important steps. First, they wrote to all the lords and knights throughout England demanding aid, and declaring plainly their intention to regard as enemies and punish as traitors all who did not support “the army of God and the Church;” next, they boldly quashed all scruples as to assailing a feudal superior, and prepared to besiege the king in the Tower, and got ready their engines of war to commence operations. But by this time John’s alarm had got the better of his rashness; and, changing his tactics, he, instead of bidding defiance to the confederates as before, determined on an attempt to delude them.

Fortunately for the king, the Earl of Pembroke, on learning that a crisis was imminent, had hastened to London; and the earl, being a man of such high character and unquestionable patriotism that he either had no personal enemies or only such as were ashamed to confess their enmity, was in a position to exercise great influence with both parties. He was quite firm in his support of the crown, and was one of those men who would have stood by it, even if it had hung on a bush; but at the same time he was zealous for liberty, and as anxious as any of the confederate barons to have full securities for the liberty of Englishmen. When, therefore, Pembroke was summoned to John’s presence, along with William de Hartarad, the king’s cup-bearer, and Robert of London, a clerk of the Chapel Royal, he went with the intention of suggesting some such compromise as might prevent war and bloodshed.

“I now perceive,” said John, more calmly than he was in the habit of speaking, “that my crown is at stake.”

“Sire,” replied Pembroke, with much more deference that he was wont to speak in the king’s prosperity, “I grieve with all my heart that affairs have reached such a stage. But all is not yet lost; nor is there any reason to despair of getting over all difficulties, if God aids you. All may yet be saved by reasonable concessions.”

“It is vain,” replied John, “to speak of reasonable concessions now. When my foes are in the capital with arms and horses, and when they beleaguer my fortress with fighting men and engines of war, I know full well that neither Robert Fitzwalter nor any of his friends will listen to reason. Their answer, were you to address them in such a strain, would be ‘Sit pro ratione voluntas.’ It is no time to hesitate. In another week the handwriting would be on the wall, and in a month my crown and sceptre would pass away. I have well considered the matter, and have not been unmindful of the duty I owe to my son. Wherefore I beseech thee to go to Fitzwalter and his confederates, and tell them that, if they will forbear from their attempt to take this place, I will be prepared to grant all their demands. Let them appoint the time and place for a conference. Go forthwith, my lord earl, and promise them every satisfaction. William de Hartarad and Robert of London will bear thee company; and may God speed you in your errand!”

And so the Earl of Pembroke, attended by the cup-bearer and the clerk, left the Tower, and was admitted to an interview with Fitzwalter and the barons; and the earl delivered the king’s message, and added, —

“My lords, it remains for you to fix the time when and place where the conference is to be held.”

And Robert Fitzwalter, after consulting his confederates, turned to Pembroke, and replied briefly and somewhat sternly —

“My lord earl, for the day of our conference with the king, we appoint the 15th of June, and, for the place, we name Runnymede.”

CHAPTER XIII

EVACUATION OF THE TOWER

IT was agreed between the Earl of Pembroke and Robert Fitzwalter that John should evacuate the Tower of London, without, however, handing it over to the barons. In fact, it was to remain in the custody of Stephen Langton till the king granted the demands of the confederate nobles; and, seeing that the Archbishop of Canterbury was a personage in whose good faith both parties might have confidence, no objections were openly made to this arrangement, though some of the royalists shook their heads and muttered discontent over their cups.

Without delay, however, John prepared to leave London for Windsor; and, forthwith, the neighbourhood of the Tower was the scene of such confusion as generally in that age prevailed when kings were about to remove from one residence to another. “When the king sets out in the morning,” says Peter of Blois, “you see multitudes of people running up and down as if they were distracted – horses rushing against horses, carriages overturning carriages, players, cooks, confectioners, mimics, dancers, barbers, all making a great noise, and an intolerable jumble of horse and foot.”

It was in the midst of this excitement and disorder that Oliver Icingla, while making ready to mount and accompany the king to Windsor, was summoned to the royal presence, and went in no joyous mood, being uncertain whether or not he might be handed over, without ceremony, to the executioner. The countenance of John, however, reassured him; and he began to hope that at length the king had been convinced that the royal cause was not likely to derive much benefit from the execution of a squire capable of wielding his sword against foes with courage and dexterity.

“Master Icingla,” began John, apparently forgetting that he had once been on the point of sending the youth to the gallows, “you know, doubtless, in what peril you have been placed by the treachery of your kinsman, Hugh de Moreville?”

Oliver bent his head to indicate that he did, and, in spite of the position in which he stood, refrained, with no small difficulty, from denouncing De Moreville as the worst of humankind for having knowingly led him into a snare.

“Nevertheless,” continued John, “I have, at the instance of the Lord Neville and William de Collingham, resolved to overlook your kinsman’s treachery, so far as you are concerned; and I expect that you will show your sense of my clemency by your zeal and activity in my service. Nay, answer not. I comprehend what you would say; but listen. William de Collingham is about to ride for Savernake to conduct my lady the queen thence to Gloucester, and you will accompany him. He has a safe-conduct, and the errand is likely to entail no danger. But he does not return, and I would fain be assured that the journey has been accomplished in safety. Wherefore my command is this, that you hasten back without delay, and bring thy report to me at Windsor. And hark you, youth,” added John, speaking in a low tone, “you, as I learn, know something of the country through which you are to pass, and have, likewise, as I hear, seen something of war in Spain and Flanders, and can guess by appearances what is going on – as regards preparations – in a country which war threatens with battles and sieges. Make the best use of your eyes wherever you pass, or wherever you halt, or wherever you lodge, and come not to me as if you had ridden blindfold through the land. Now away. Bear in mind what I have told you for your guidance, and, moreover, that a silent tongue makes a wise head.”

Much relieved by the information that his life was no longer in danger, and elated at the prospect of such an adventure as escorting a queen, even as the companion of a man who, a few weeks earlier, had been a forest outlaw, Oliver Icingla hastened to array himself for the journey, and to mount his black steed, Ayoub; and when the king, and his knights, and squires, and standard-bearers, and multitudinous attendants, rode from the Tower and emerged from the gates of London, which John was not destined again to enter, William de Collingham, mounted and armed as became a knight, but still carrying with him the iron club which had distinguished him as a man of the forest, with the young English squire riding at his right hand and a band of stout horsemen at his back, preceded the royal array and took the nearest way to Wiltshire, with the object of reaching Savernake.

“By the mass!” exclaimed Collingham, suddenly breaking the silence he had hitherto maintained since leaving London; “I much marvel that the king, old and experienced as he is, and so much accustomed to deal with men – both priests and laymen – can credit the possibility of Stephen Langton restoring the Tower.”

“And wherefore not?” asked Oliver, but with less surprise than might have been expected under the circumstances. “Is not my lord archbishop a man of honour and probity?”

“Tush!” replied Collingham, impatiently. “Stephen Langton is, no doubt, a good and honest man, as times go, and eager enough for the public weal. But he is heart and soul with Fitzwalter and De Vesci, and is either dictating their measures or doing their bidding. In neither case, credit me, will he ever again admit the king to London, save as the slave or tool of the confederates; and I see clearly that John has pride enough left never to come on such terms. By the mass, we are only at the beginning of this struggle; for I know that the king – albeit he seems now in their toils – will yet lead the confederates a dance on which they are far from counting; and, frankly, so far as they are concerned, I should not grieve on that account; for I sadly doubt their sincerity, albeit they bawl so loudly upon justice and righteousness.”

“What, sir knight,” asked Oliver, “deem you so lightly of their sincerity?”

“By my faith, I do,” replied Collingham, bluntly; “and only give them credit for having a very sharp eye after their own interest. Never a word should we have heard from them of old charters and ancient laws but for the question of the scutages, with which the king was, doubtless, inclined to deal more severely than was prudent or politic.”

“Explain more fully,” said Oliver, who was interested in such conversation, and anxious to comprehend the merits of the controversy.

“By my faith, it is simple enough,” resumed Collingham, who, however, it ought to be remembered, regarded several of the oligarchy as personal enemies, and was by no means likely to do full justice to their motives. “In the reign of King Henry the barons commuted their personal services for money, and, as they at first relished the system, and the scutages were moderate, they paid without trouble. But when John came to the throne the barons found that the scutages were vastly enhanced, and, what was still more, they had either to pay them, or found their estates seized in default thereof; and so now they want so to manage matters as neither to render the personal services nor to pay the scutages, and every one of them to be king in his own territory. Hence all this cry about righteousness and freedom, with which they have bribed the clergy and fooled the citizens.”

“But you hardly deem the struggle likely to end to their advantage?”

“No, by rood and mass! but, nevertheless, it may end to the advantage of the country, as many such contests have done before. But here, as my memory recalls to me, is the path which we have to pursue; and, as we part from the king for the time being, I take leave to thank the saints that you are safe and at liberty, and neither on gallows nor in dungeon; for, by the bones of Becket, you, Master Icingla, have had a narrow escape.”

“And so hath King John,” observed Oliver, quietly.