Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

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.

“My lord,” said he, as De Moreville appeared, “I bring you good news.”

“By St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, amazed at having been trespassed on at such a moment, “why not at once tell me what it is?”

“By the head of St. Anthony!” answered the knight very boldly, as he advanced, “it concerns not only you, but Prince Louis, and all the lords present. I have seen Sir William de Collingham and Master Icingla disguised as yeomen in an ale-house close by the palace-gate.”

“Collingham and Icingla?” said De Moreville, much surprised.

“By the head of St. Anthony, my lord, it is even so – it is true,” replied the knight, greatly elated at the thought of being the bearer of such intelligence; “it is as true as that I live by bread, and you may have them to dine with you if you please.”

De Moreville, in spite of his bad humour, laughed grimly.

“In truth,” said he, “I should like it much. Wherefore hasten to secure them; but take power enough with you to be in no danger of failing, for they are dangerous desperadoes, as their actions and words prove.”

“Trust me,” said Sir Anthony, with evident confidence in himself that he would be prudent in action. “May I never again taste joy if I fail in the enterprise!”

“Wherefore not say ale and wine at once?” replied Moreville, jocularly; “I should then feel assured of your doing your very utmost.”

Sir Anthony did not answer, but, having selected a dozen stalwart men from De Moreville’s train, the knight made for the ale-house.

“Follow me at a distance,” said he to the men, “and as soon as you perceive me make a sign to arrest the persons I am in search of, lay hands on them, and take care they do not, on any account, escape.”

So saying, Sir Anthony again entered the ale-house, ascended the stairs, and, followed by his myrmidons, entered the chamber where he had left Collingham and Oliver Icingla. He was prepared to give the sign which was to make them prisoners, and was already anticipating the success of the enterprise which, according to his calculations, was to redeem him from the disgrace which he had incurred by allowing Chas-Chateil to be entered by a band of outlaws, when his countenance fell and he tossed his arms on high.

“By the head of St. Anthony,” said he, wildly, and with mortification in his countenance, “the birds have flown!”

“Yes,” answered a sepulchral voice, which seemed to come from the midst of the band, “they are flown; for in vain is the net spread in the sight of any bird.”

Sir Anthony Waledger started, shivered, and looked round and round in great alarm, and several of his followers crossed themselves; and as they did so, the voice repeated in still more mysterious accents —

“In vain is the net spread in the sight of any bird.”

Sir Anthony called on his favourite saints to protect him; and his men began to back confusedly out of the chamber, every one of them with a heart beating faster and louder than his neighbour’s.

As they passed out and questioned the landlady, the good dame laughed in her sleeve.

“On my troth,” said she, complacently, as she looked after them, “they will be more clever than I take them to be if they can lay hands on Forest Will without his own leave.”

“As well,” added mine host, who now descended from the upper regions, rejoicing in having successfully executed his mission – “as well try to catch the blazing star which, some years since, was like to have carried the world away on its tail.”

“Forest Will is man enough for them all,” added the landlady with a smile.

Mine host gave a start which indicated slight jealousy.

CHAPTER XXXIV
A RIDE FOR LIFE

WHEN Sir Anthony Waledger drank his ale with such evident relish, and left the chamber from the window of which Collingham and Oliver Icingla were looking out on the excited populace, the knight and the squire turned on each other countenances which expressed a very considerable degree of consternation.

“By the rood!” exclaimed Collingham, “our necks are in peril. I feel it.”

“But our hands can guard them, with the aid of God and good St. Edward,” replied Oliver, drawing a dagger from under the rustic garments he wore as disguise.

“Impossible!” said Collingham, rising and shaking his head. “We must escape, and that forthwith. Put up your dagger and follow me.”

“Lead on, then,” said Oliver, calmly, and both descended the stair, Collingham as he passed out exchanging a whisper with the landlord, who thereupon betook himself to a hiding-place that looked through an almost invisible crevice into the chamber which the knight and squire had just left.

Meanwhile, Collingham and Oliver, more and more aware of their danger, but at the same time proof against anything like craven fear, contrived so to mingle with the crowd as to escape observation, and, feeling their way cautiously, made for the side of the Thames, which was gay with barges and pleasure boats crowded with the wives and daughters of barons and citizens eager to view the procession at a distance, and to catch a glance, if possible, of the foreign prince under whose rule they anticipated so much liberty and so much happiness. Hailing a little boat, as if anxious, in his character of a yeoman of Kent, to see all that was to be seen, Collingham coolly stepped on board, making a sign to Oliver to follow, and soon they were rowing leisurely in the middle of what was then “the great highway” of London. Barge after barge floated past them as they proceeded towards the Surrey shore, and in one of these Oliver, with a start, recognised De Moreville’s daughter, attended by Dame Waledger and her maidens. They were so close that Beatrix’s dog, with the remarkable instinct of his race, appeared to know Oliver in spite of his disguise, and barked and wagged its tail in sign of recognition, which had the effect of drawing the sharp eyes of Dame Waledger on the little boat and its passengers. The youth, however, forgetful of his danger, had only eyes for Beatrix, and gazed wistfully on the barge.

“I marvel much,” soliloquised he, pensively, “whether the fair demoiselle has forgotten me;” and he sighed audibly.

“By the rood!” exclaimed Collingham, anxiously, “I fear me that ancient shrew guesses who you are. She has eyes like a hawk, and this encounter may be our death.”

But it was too late to remedy the mischief, if mischief had been done, and having urged on the boatman they were soon set ashore on the Surrey side, at a little wharf hard by London Bridge, and without loss of time took their way to the White Hart, where Collingham, having given mine host some excuse for so sudden a departure, paid their reckoning, while Oliver saddled and bridled their horses, and brought them from the stable.

“Now horse and away,” said Collingham, as he sprang into his saddle. “I hardly deem they can track us, even if they try, and anyhow we have the start.”

“True,” said Oliver, as he mounted, not without directing a glance at an ancient-looking battle-axe that hung at his saddle-bow; “and yet I cannot but mutter a malison on the luck that makes me dependent on the speed of such a haquenée at such a moment. Had I but my gallant Ayoub beneath me, small danger would there be of my impeding your progress;” and as he spoke they rode on, turning their faces southward.

“Fear not,” replied Collingham, dauntlessly; “if the old hack has not speed he hath endurance, and I doubt not will carry you fast enough to sup and sleep this night in the Sussex forest;” and they pursued their way, frequently turning aside, however, to avoid the habitations of men, and confining themselves as much as possible to the woods and woodlands. Such, indeed, was the course they took, that the idea of being traced was one which it seemed unreasonable to entertain. But a craving for revenge sharpens mortal invention, and Sir Anthony Waledger was in no mood to be baffled. Besides, other keen eyes besides those of Dame Waledger had been on them. As they mounted in haste at the White Hart, Clem the Bold Rider, who had accompanied De Moreville to London, and gone on a visit to the hostler, was hanging about the stables of the inn, and patting the head of a russet bloodhound, which he seemed to have taken under his especial charge, and which he addressed as Canmore. No sooner did they ride away than Clem, committing the dog to the care of the hostler, left the White Hart, and hurried away to Westminster with intelligence of what he had seen.

“Ho, ho!” cried Sir Anthony Waledger, joyfully, “the saints have delivered them into our hands;” and without even waiting to consult De Moreville, the knight mounted, with Clem the Bold Rider and ten other men at his back, and hastily as the crowded streets would permit of their doing, made for London Bridge, crossed to Southwark, and rode forward to the White Hart, to set the bloodhound on the track of the fugitives.

“It is parlous strange,” mused Sir Anthony, as Clem brought out the bloodhound; “this dog belongs to a breed which Edric Icingla brought from the borders of Scotland to Chas-Chateil, and he was wont to boast of their sagacity and unerring instinct. Little did the braggart Saxon foresee that one of them was one day to be used to bring his son to justice.”

Meanwhile, guided by the dog, the knight was speeding on, and so were Collingham and Oliver. At first they rode at a rapid rate, but, believing that all danger was over, and having a long journey before them, they gradually slackened their pace, and even ventured to halt for half an hour at a mill that whirled on a branch of the River Mole, to rest their horses and drink a cup of home-brewed ale. Had they been aware of their danger, they might have found refuge in Earl Warren’s castle of Reigate, which still held out for the king. But having now little or no apprehension of pursuit, they, on remounting, pursued their way leisurely towards Sussex, and entered the forest country with a feeling of such thorough security that they began to laugh at their recent peril.

“Now let De Moreville and his drunken knight do their worst,” said Collingham, gaily. “If they follow us to our retreat they will have reason to wish they had rather fallen into the hands of the Tartars.”

“Ay, let them do their worst,” repeated Oliver, sternly. “By the Holy Cross, when we next meet, mayhap they will have less relish for our company.”

“However,” observed Collingham, gravely, “let us not forget the homely proverb which tells us not to halloo too loud till we are out of the wood, and profit so far by the lesson we have received as not again, on light grounds, to thrust ourselves needlessly into manifest peril.”

“It is a lesson which men of adventurous spirit are ever slow to learn,” observed Oliver, thoughtfully, and again they rode on in silence.

But ere long this silence was destined to be rudely disturbed. While their horses were pacing along a beautiful glade, and over turf as smooth as that of a modern racecourse, a sound like the baying of a dog suddenly broke on their ears. It was, indeed, at some distance. Nevertheless, Collingham, a man not easily frightened, reined up his steed, and listened in great alarm.

“By the rood!” exclaimed he, after listening for a minute, during which the bay of the dog sounded again and again through the forest, “I could scarce have believed any man wearing the spurs of knighthood capable of taking such an advantage over warriors in adversity. Nevertheless, I suspect it is not the less true that they have bloodhounds on our track. If so, we have nothing to trust to but the speed of our horses. So Master Icingla, ride on, and spare not the spur, for in cases such as this, it is the safety of man, and not the convenience of the beast that must be consulted.”

“O for an hour of Ayoub!” groaned Oliver Icingla as he applied the spur. “My malison upon the false Normans who have separated me from my good steed at a time when I most need his aid. But on, on, Sir William de Collingham. St. Edward forfend that I should be in your way.”

And on they rode through the forest, pausing not at marsh, or hedge, or dyke, disdaining obstacles and defying dangers. But Collingham was under the necessity of ever and anon reining in his good steed to keep pace with the white haquenée, and Oliver, albeit his horse made every effort, felt that it would be better to face a dozen foes singlehanded than continue to urge the already exhausted animal beyond its speed, and gave expression to his sentiments on the point in very earnest language, especially when the baying of the hound indicated that the pursuers were drawing nearer, and still more so when, after emerging from the forest glade into open meadowland, they looked hurriedly behind, and perceived that their pursuers, headed by the bloodhound, and Sir Anthony Waledger cheering the dog on, were gradually, and indeed rapidly, gaining upon them.

Oliver uttered a shout expressive of rage and despair.

“Be patient,” said Collingham, “and droop not. Remember that, albeit their steeds are swifter, and their numbers greater, yet the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle always to the strong.”

Oliver Icingla answered only with a groan, and as he did so the white haquenée groaned in chorus. In fact, every hope of escape was vanishing from the English squire’s mind, and the horse he bestrode was fast becoming exhausted. But still Collingham spoke words of hope, and laughed in spite of the baying of the bloodhound and the yell of the pursuers. Indeed, the chase now became most exciting, and Sir Anthony and his men, who felt quite sure of their game, enjoyed it in spite of their exertions, and shouted mockingly at the efforts of Oliver Icingla to make the white haquenée keep up with Collingham’s charger. Of course, this state of affairs could not long continue, and it was brought to a very sudden termination.

Both the fugitives and their pursuers were already in Sussex, when they reached a wooded valley, intersected by a running stream, not wide, but deep, and difficult to cross. Collingham, however, dashed through, and, thanks to his strong steed, reached the sward opposite without accident; but Oliver Icingla was not so fortunate. In attempting to ascend the opposite bank his white steed gave way, rolled back, and, wholly incapable of making another struggle, fell utterly exhausted into the water, bearing its rider with it. To extricate his limbs from the fallen haquenée and gain the grassy bank was no easy process under the circumstances. But, agile and dexterous, Oliver Icingla succeeded, and with the water running from his clothes, he stood there grasping his battle-axe with the attitude and expression of a person who had lost all hopes of escaping death, but who was determined to sell his life at the dearest rate. Collingham gazed on the youth with the admiration which the physically brave ever feel for high moral courage.

By this time the pursuers were approaching close to that bank of the stream that the fugitives had left.

“Ride on, Sir William de Collingham,” said Oliver, with a gesture which sufficiently proved that he was thinking more of the knight’s safety than his own. “Ride on, I pray you. I grieve that I have too long impeded you on your way. I now perceive plainly that my doom is to die here, and I may as well resign myself to my fate.”

“And die by their hands in this wilderness?” asked Collingham in horror.

“Yes, by their hands, and in this wilderness,” answered Oliver with resignation. “But,” added he, grimly, “carry comfort with thee, Sir William de Collingham. I die not till I have sent at least three of mine enemies to their account. Now away and save thyself, and as thou ridest pray that St. Edward may aid the last of the Icinglas to write his epitaph in legible characters on the crests of his foes. Farewell!”

But William de Collingham was not the man to desert a comrade in such a strait as this.

“By my faith, lad,” said he, “I like thy spirit, and doubt not but thou wouldst make good thy promise ere they overpowered thee; but it shall never be said that thou wert left to deal alone with such odds while William de Collingham can wield his sword. So, as thy haquenée is clearly unable to carry thee further, we must even turn to bay. If we could but check this drunken knight and his knaves, my horse might yet carry us both to the refuge we wot of, which, as thou knowest, is not far off. But we must first get quit of that pestilent hound. Would that I had but a yew-tree bough! A shaft should speedily put a stop to his baying.”

“Stay,” replied Oliver, who had been closely eyeing the dog while Collingham was speaking. “I think I can manage the hound without the help of thy shaft. By the bones of St. Edward, the brute is mine own! Canmore! Canmore! hi, boy, hi!” cried he, addressing the hound, which had now reached the opposite side of the stream.

The animal no sooner heard his voice than, recognising tones familiar to it, its previously fierce aspect changed, and, plunging into the water, it swam across and commenced fawning upon the squire instead of tearing him to pieces, as Sir Anthony and his followers had anticipated.

“Come,” said Collingham, “that is one foe converted into a friend. We may now manage so to deal with the rest as to indispose them for further pursuit. Have thine axe ready; they cannot all cross at once; strike no blow that does not tell, and I warrant me if we can disable the knight and two or three of the foremost of his fellows the rest will not trouble us further. Strike thou at the knaves, and leave me to deal with the knight.”

“Have with you, then!” answered Icingla. “St. Edward for the right! But down, Canmore, down!” added he, again addressing the hound, which continued to express its joy at meeting him by leaping upon him and licking his hand. “Thou hast helped to get us into a scrape, boy, and must also help us out of it. Seize yonder knave and see that ye hold him fast,” said he, pointing to one of two horsemen who had now, at the heels of Sir Anthony, plunged into the stream.