Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

CHAPTER XLIX
COLLINGHAM’S RAVENS

IT has been before stated that William de Collingham had a very strong reason for forming his camp of refuge where he did form it – on the islet in the heart of a forest in Sussex, and near the sea-coast. His adventure at Chas-Chateil had very forcibly reminded the stout knight that connected with the ruins tenanted by the anchorite at the islet was a secret passage formed by the hand of man in the earlier days of England’s history, and leading to a precipitous little vale in the wood, at the distance of half-a-mile. This passage was not, indeed, in the best condition, the ground having in some places fallen in, so as almost to block it up; but the knight, on examining it carefully, saw that with a little labour it might be rendered passable without inconvenience, and not only give his followers a great advantage over their foes in the partisan warfare which he intended to carry on, but afford them the means of a secret retreat in case of being threatened by any overwhelming force.

In both respects the subterranean passage served his purpose admirably. By means of it, even when the islet was invested, Oliver Icingla was enabled to sally forth on such nocturnal expeditions as that during which he entered the tent of Eveille-chiens, and seized that leader’s banner, the display of which gave the foreigners an idea that preternatural influences were at work against them; and by means of it, when the islet was invested by Eveille-chiens and Ralph Hornmouth with such a body of troops that resistance would have been hopeless, Collingham, while his enemies were occupied with the construction of the causeway, gradually withdrew his whole force, and left his camp the solitude which, to their amazement, the French captain and the English squire found it when they entered.

Nor, in truth, did Collingham very much regret the necessity under which he was of leaving the place associated with so many daring deeds. By the time, indeed, that he was menaced by Eveille-chiens and Hornmouth in company, he had received intelligence that Pembroke was preparing to renew the war in the heart of England, and he had resolved that his raven banner should flutter in the conflicts likely to ensue. The knight was eager, indeed, to take part in the opening war, and to give his aid to the royal cause where it was likely to be of most value.

However, Collingham resolved not to stake all upon the cast which was about to be made. He therefore divided his force into two bodies. One of them he left to harass the French garrisons in Sussex; at the head of the other he marched right northward, and, keeping to the woods and unfrequented places, so as to avoid coming in contact with the foreign and Anglo-Norman soldiers who held towns and castles for Prince Louis, he contrived, after many days’ journey, to reach the neighbourhood of Lincoln in the very nick of time – in fact, on the evening of Friday in Whitsuntide, when Pembroke and the king reached Stowe; and, learning that the protector intended on the morrow, without fail, to march upon the foe, Collingham halted and encamped on the verge of a wood to the north of the city, that his men might rest from their fatigue, and be in readiness and the best condition to join the royalist army on its march from Stowe. All were in strong health and spirits. None of the brave band were very magnificently arrayed; many of them, in truth, were almost in rags. But most of them were armed with bows or crossbows and short swords, and a few, like Oliver Icingla, had axes and shields. As for Collingham, he had a long sword, and that terrible iron club which had often served him well in times of need, and which on the morrow was likely to do its work thoroughly.

All went well with the bold yeomen and foresters, and with their leaders, who well-nigh twelve months earlier had vowed never to sleep under a roof till England was cleared of the invaders, and who rigidly kept their word. Under the May moon they reposed tranquilly till daybreak, and, having then risen and refreshed themselves with food, they awaited the approach of Pembroke and the army that was about to do battle for England.

And right glad at that crisis was the great Protector to have such an addition to his force, and infinite was the curiosity of nobles and knights and fighting men to see the rough and ragged warriors who, as “Collingham’s ravens,” had been celebrated in town and hamlet as the terror of the invaders. But none were more curious on the subject than the knights and squires of the Earl of Salisbury, who gasped and stared at the sight of Oliver Icingla – in other days, when at Salisbury, and in Spain and Flanders, the pink of youthful chivalry in his dress and equipments – with his shaggy beard, his tattered white jacket, and his battle-axe, so antique in appearance that one of Salisbury’s knights asked laughingly if it had been wielded by some of the Icinglas who were comrades of Hengist or of Cerdic.

However, the warriors who excited so much curiosity, and, it must be added, some ridicule, had a pride of their own, and felt a kind of satisfaction which few even in Pembroke’s army could know. When loyal earls and barons were submitting to the invaders, they had treated the invaders with defiance; they had attacked Prince Louis himself, and forced him to make an undignified flight to his ships – the first rough treatment he experienced in England – and, through good and evil reports, they had adhered to the cause of England and England’s king, enduring all hardships and despising all odds.

Verily such things might well make Collingham’s band a little proud under the circumstances; and proud they felt of their fidelity and their exploits as they marched towards Lincoln, their raven banner fluttering and their stalwart chief towering in front like some giant Dane of the days of Canute. Nor was Oliver Icingla idle. He was still much under the influence of his strange dream in the Sussex forest, for, like most of his race, he had the element of superstition largely in his composition, and considered dreams and omens too serious to be disregarded. This made him all the more joyous to go into battle, if only for change and excitement, moving from front to rear, talking pithily to all the men, stimulating their enthusiasm, and firing their courage and patriotism.

“Englishmen and freemen,” so ran the words of the heir of the Icinglas, “remember your vows as the hour of battle approaches; for a battle there will be, strong and obstinate, albeit not so bloody as some that have been fought on English soil; and that the men whom you are going to encounter are aliens and oppressors. So strike and spare not! Spare neither French count nor Norman baron! This is no day for dainty chivalry, as when a feudal sovereign takes the field against a refractory vassal about some petty dispute, to exchange a few blows, without inflicting a wound, and then feast together in the hall of the nearest castle or abbey, as if nothing had happened. This is, in truth, a very different kind of war. It is a war of Englishmen against foreign invaders – a war of true and loyal men against false men and traitors – a war for our homes which they have burned, and our hearths which they have rendered desolate. Wherefore I say to you, smite and spare not! Down with every ruffian Frank who crosses your path, and down, down with the traitors who invited the ruffian Franks hither! I myself will not fail, if opportunity serve me, to show you in this an example such as an Icingla should show to Englishmen fighting for their country, and may God and good St. Edward aid us in doing battle for our young king and our ancient rights!”

And as the boy-warrior thus spoke, on with Pembroke’s army Collingham’s band moved steadily and courageously till they reached the north gate of Lincoln, and stood, straining impatiently, like greyhounds in the leash, in their anxiety to enter and close, foot to foot and hand to hand, with foreign invaders and Anglo-Norman oppressors.

Meanwhile, under the auspices of Falco, a movement was taking place which caused within the walls of the city that yell which announced that the carnage had begun.

CHAPTER L
THE BATTLE

WHILE Pembroke was approaching Lincoln with his army, marching in the admirable order already described, with banners waving in the sunshine, a messenger, instructed by Dame Nichola de Camville, having left the castle by the postern door, took his way northward, and escaping the observation of the Count de Perche and his riders, who, having gone forth to reconnoitre, were then returning to the city, came to the protector, and doffing his cap with much deference, bent low to the great warrior-statesman.

“All hail, my lord earl!” said he, gaily. “My lady greets thee by me, and bids me say that never was young lover more welcome to lady’s bower than is thy coming to her in this hour of peril; likewise, if such be your good pleasure, you can enter the castle by the postern gate, which has been opened on tidings of your approach, and thence make your way into the city. But be that as you will, lord earl.”

Pembroke acknowledged in courteous phrase the greeting of Nichola de Camville, and mused for a moment over the message. However, he declined the invitation to enter by the postern, deeming a bolder course the more expedient. But he nevertheless resolved to profit by the postern, and instructed Falco to enter with his whole division and the crossbowmen, with the object of distracting the enemy, and, if possible, making a sortie and forcing open one of the gates. Without delay the necessary arrangements were made, and while the protector led his forces to the north gate, and caused his trumpets to sound an onset, Falco, with practised skill and characteristic promptitude, threw his mercenaries and the crossbowmen – mostly English yeomen – into the castle by means of the postern, and conveying them to the roofs and ramparts with a rapidity that seemed magical, gave the signal to shoot.

The order was obeyed to some purpose. Instantly a murderous discharge of bolts from the crossbows answered the signal and did terrible execution both among the cavalry and infantry of the French count and Anglo-Norman barons, and caused such a yell of agony from the wounded as intimated unmistakably to the protector that the foreign warrior was doing his work with zeal and determination.

In fact, the effect was terrific. Horses and their riders rolled on the ground, and while yet men were struggling to rise, and chargers were kicking, mad with the pain from their wounds, and all was confusion, Falco boldly threw open the castle gate, pushed into the city, and throwing himself into the midst of the enemy, endeavoured to clear a space around the north gate, at which Pembroke’s trumpets were sounding and his men thundering for admittance.

But Falco found that here he had terrible obstacles to encounter. Recovering from their surprise, the French and Anglo-Normans came rushing to the spot like eagles to the carnage, and answered Falco’s Poictevin war-cry of “St. George for the puissant duke!” with loud shouts of “Montjoie, St. Denis!” “God aid us and our Lord Louis!” A hand-to-hand conflict then took place, and Falco and his band were surrounded by a host of foes, and while this was going on a charge of Norman cavalry rendered their predicament quite the reverse of enviable. In vain they struggled and battled valiantly against the numerous assailants who swarmed to the spot. It was of no avail. Numbers embarrassed their movements and impeded their action. Reginald, surnamed Crocus, a brave knight of Falco’s, was killed by his leader’s side; Falco himself was carried away by the crowd of foes and made prisoner; and for a brief period it seemed that the mercenaries and crossbowmen were doomed either to yield or to perish to a man.

But, meanwhile, this scuffle had been so exciting that the French had thought less than they ought in prudence to have done of the formidable host outside the walls, and the knights and barons appointed to guard the north gate had been allured from their post. The consequence was fatal to their leader and their cause. Making a great effort as the din of the conflict within the walls reached his ears, Pembroke succeeded in forcing the gate, and no sooner was it opened than his infantry rushed in, carrying all before them, and shouting, “Down with the foreigners! Down with the outlandish men!” and Falco’s division, availing themselves of the confusion caused by the entrance of the English, charged once and again upon the enemy with such right good will that they rescued their leader, and enabled him to renew the combat which he had so bravely begun.

And now the Count de Perche had reason to discover and to repent the error of which he had been guilty when he rejected the advice of Robert Fitzwalter, and refused to march out of Lincoln and give his enemies battle in the open country. Engaged in a desperate struggle in narrow streets where cavalry could not charge, the French from the beginning had so decidedly the worst of the encounter that they fought almost without hope of victory. Horses and riders alike suffered in the conflict, and while the chargers were “mown down like pigs” by the crossbowmen, the French knights, dismounted and at the mercy of their assailants, surrendered almost in a mass. Nor did the Anglo-Norman barons display any of that high spirit with which, in later civil wars, such nobles as Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, faced the danger that they had provoked and defied. On the contrary, they gave up their swords almost to a man, and resigned themselves sheepishly to their fate. Robert Fitzwalter yielded himself prisoner, so did the Earl of Winchester, so did the Earl of Hereford, and William de Roos, and William Beauchamp, and William Moubray, and Gilbert de Gant, who must have felt crestfallen indeed as he thought of the earldom which had been given to him by a man not entitled to grant it, and for a victory that was never to be won. All these magnates, who had talked so boastfully a year earlier, when they brought Prince Louis into England and did homage to him at Westminster, now stood with mortification in their faces, and perhaps remorse at their hearts, baffled, conquered, and captive, after having failed in their criminal endeavour to reduce the country, for whose laws and liberties they had professed such respect, under the rule of a French prince, who, they well knew, could only rule as a conqueror.

But the love of life, or the fear of death, which prompted Fitzwalter, and De Quency, and Bohun to surrender rather than fall bravely was not so contagious as to reach the heart of the Count de Perche. Never even for a moment did he show the white feather, or any abatement of the defiant courage that had characterised his career in England. Not, indeed, that there remained even a chance of redeeming the fortunes of the day. Roland and Oliver, and all the Paladins of Charlemagne, could they have come out of their graves, would have struggled in vain to rally the broken ranks of the army that had, a few hours earlier, been so confident, and which was now flying in terror through the south gate. On all sides the count was deserted. His Anglo-Norman allies were yielding before his eyes, his French comrades were endeavouring to save themselves by flight, forgetting in their haste that in order to do so they must pass through the country whose inhabitants they had recently exasperated by their outrages, and who were panting for an opportunity of avenging the wrongs that had been done to them and to theirs.

Still, so daunted were the French with the more immediate dangers that beset them, that they no sooner saw how the day was going than they bethought them of escaping, and began to move towards the south gate of Lincoln, with the idea of making for London, the Marshal of France and the Castellan of Arras heading the flight.

It was no easy matter, however, for the French to get out of the city which they had entered as conquerors, for the flail of the south gate had been placed transversely across, and greatly impeded their egress, especially that of the cavalry. In fact, when they rode up to escape, they were fain to dismount to open the gate; and when they passed out it immediately closed, and the flail again fell across it, so that the process of dismounting had to be gone through by every party of fugitive horsemen, and almost by every individual horseman. It was well for them that the English were that day in no sanguinary mood, for had there been any strong inclination in Pembroke’s ranks to deal summarily with the foe, few, if any, of the vanquished would have left Lincoln alive.

As it was, their position was not enviable. All over the country through which they had to pass on their way to London the yeomen and peasantry were abroad, armed with swords and bludgeons, and did terrible execution among the fugitives, both horse and foot, smiting them hip and thigh, and giving them no quarter. Nevertheless, two hundred knights reached the capital, and carried intelligence to the citizens that all was lost, that the grand army, which had on the last day of April marched out of their gates with such high hopes of triumph, was utterly destroyed, and that Pembroke was in a fair way of putting all King Henry’s enemies, whether barons or citizens, under King Henry’s feet.

Moreover, the news was speedily carried by the French fugitives to Dover, where Louis was making his third attempt to take the castle, which held out so bravely under Hubert de Burgh.

“By St. Denis!” said the prince with a sneer, “it is all owing to your flight that your comrades have been taken captive. Had you acted the part of brave men you might have saved all.”

CHAPTER LI
DE MOREVILLE IN BATTLE HARNESS

AS Pembroke was marching on Lincoln from the North, and the French and Anglo-Normans were arraying themselves for the combat, a very important arrival took place. In fact, Hugh de Moreville – attended by Sir Anthony Waledger, Ralph Hornmouth, and his young kinsman Richard – with a strong body of horse at his back, entered the city by the south gate. De Moreville’s arrival was hailed with cheers; for, however unpopular generally, his fame as a warrior made him welcome in the hour of danger; and the Count de Perche could not conceal his satisfaction as the haughty Norman presented himself.

Now it may as well be mentioned at once that De Moreville had not been attracted to Lincoln by any enthusiasm for Prince Louis, of whom he was weary, nor by any love of the French warriors, of whose arrogance he was heartily sick, and of whose affectations of superiority he was very much more impatient than others of his class. But since the night when Collingham so suddenly found his way into Chas-Chateil, De Moreville had been much more nervous on all points than of yore, and reflecting seriously on the past and speculating keenly on the future, he saw that his interests were bound up with the cause of Prince Louis, and that a decisive triumph of young Henry’s adherents would lead to his utter ruin. All would go that made him the great personage he was – castles, and manors, and feudal power; and he would have to hide his head in a cloister or fare forth to foreign lands and fight as a soldier of fortune.

No man was therefore more interested in the issue of the struggle going on; and having left his daughter at his house in Ludgate, under the charge of Dame Waledger, he hastened to Lincoln, which he knew was likely to be the place where the crisis of the war would come. But he did not dream of giving any hint of the motives by which he was animated; and even De Perche was so convinced of the Norman’s hearty good-will towards Louis and himself, that he ascribed the arrival to pure enthusiasm, and the count gave him so flattering a reception that De Moreville was fain to be more hypocritical than was his wont.

“Ha! my good Lord De Moreville,” exclaimed De Perche, joyfully, “welcome in the hour of danger. Our enemies are even now at the gates, and are coming in greater force than I anticipated.”

“Let them come,” said De Moreville, smiling grimly; “we have no reason to grow alarmed at their approach. William Marshal and William Albini are Norman nobles, like myself, and falcons fear not falcons.”

De Perche started and looked suspicious in De Moreville’s face; but the Norman smiled so frankly that the count blushed at the suspicion that had crossed his mind, and said, carelessly —

“O, mort Dieu! they are doubtless puissant foes.”

“However,” replied De Moreville, “I have in my day fought with braver men than they are, albeit no braggart, and I say by St. Moden I am ready to do so again, and ever shall be, while I breathe the breath of life and have strength enough to mount a steed and shake a spear.”

“Who could dream of the Lord De Moreville knowing fear?” said De Perche between jest and earnest.

“Anyhow,” said De Moreville, earnestly, “I have sworn allegiance to Lord Louis, and I shrink not from any sacrifices which that allegiance involves. For one’s lord we are bound to suffer any distress, whether heat or cold, and lose both hair and leather, and flesh and blood; and, sir count, I am not the man to shirk a duty. True it is that duty sometimes marches between rocks, and that the path of duty is often the path of danger. Nevertheless – ”

“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!”