Loe raamatut: «Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter», lehekülg 8

CHAPTER XVI
TAKEN BY SURPRISE

IT was neither the duty nor the inclination of William de Collingham and Oliver Icingla to linger in Gloucester. The city, indeed, was not without its attractions; and, with its castle and cathedral, and picturesque houses, from the balconies of which dames and demoiselles, the wives and daughters of the citizens, gazed with curiosity, and criticised the procession as Queen Isabel rode along the streets to the castle which had once been her prison, the place was sufficiently interesting and lively to have been agreeable under ordinary circumstances to such warriors as the knight and the squire. But both had orders to enact their parts elsewhere in the drama that was being played by the king and barons, and were animated, as was natural with persons of adventurous spirits, by a strong desire to hasten where their services were most likely to be appreciated. So, without losing a day, they mounted and rode out of the gate of Gloucester to go in different directions – Collingham to Lincoln, to join the garrison which, under Nicola de Camville, a noble dame of surpassing courage, held that city for the king; Icingla to make for Windsor, with a letter of importance which Isabel had intrusted to him, and intelligence that the queen and the prince had reached their destination, and that they were in safety behind the walls of Gloucester. For a short distance, however, their road lay in the same direction; and, riding side by side, they beguiled the way with conversation on the topics of the day, mingled with digressions on adventures in war and love.

At length they reached the point where their roads separated; and Collingham, as the elder and more experienced of the two, seemed to consider it his duty to favour his comrade with some wholesome advice for his guidance.

“Farewell, boy,” said the knight, in kindly accents; “I would that you were to accompany me northward. But I know that you share not my regret, and mayhap it is better as it is, and the king’s court will be more to your liking than the northern city, where Dame Nicola lords it so bravely over fighting men; for I perceive clearly that you have not only a keen eye and a ready tongue, but that, under your gay and light demeanour, you have a scheming brain, and ambitious resolves which you would fain gratify at all hazards.”

“And wherefore not, sir knight?” asked Oliver, looking in Collingham’s face with a smile which indicated considerable confidence in his destiny, if not in himself.

“Oh, by the mass!” replied Collingham, quickly, “I see no cause why you should not aspire as well as another; only bear this in mind, that Fortune, like other dames, often disdains the suit of those who are too ardent in wooing her; and be not in too much haste to climb the ladder of life; I, for one, have, in that endeavour, realised the truth of the homely proverb, ‘The more hurry the less speed.’”

“On my faith,” observed Oliver, thoughtfully, “I believe that most men do, in this life, learn the truth of that proverb when it is too late.”

“Marry, that they do, sir squire,” said Collingham, sadly. “But forewarned is forearmed. Fall not you into the common error, nor dream that you can scale lofty walls without long ladders; nor despise that discretion without which you will never sit, as lord, in the halls of the castles of which Hugh de Moreville has taken so firm a grip; nor what I have told you of yore of a certain fair demoiselle who stands to him in the relation of daughter and heiress.”

Oliver smiled and shook his head, and played with the rein of his bridle.

“But farewell,” continued Collingham, now speaking in a half-jocular tone. “May you prosper in war and love, and so act as never to merit the reproaches of the valiant, and as you grow in years may you grow in wisdom; for, as Solomon, that wise king of Israel, has told us, ‘the merchandise thereof is better than the merchandise of silver, and the gain thereof than fine gold.’”

“And yet,” remarked Oliver, “beshrew me if wisdom is not ever less lightly regarded than wealth in this world we inhabit.”

“Not by all men,” exclaimed Collingham. “For my part, I often envy the wise, but I never covet wealth save when I feel the pressure of poverty.”

Oliver laughed.

“But as regards yourself, Master Icingla,” added the knight, tightening his rein, and preparing to give his horse the spur, “again I say, be not over-ardent in your pursuits, and bear in mind that, in the struggle of life, battle is not to the strong, nor the race always to the swift. Marry, he was a wise old fellow who stood on the bridge built by Queen Maude at Stratford-le-Bow, and told the youngster who asked him about the way to a certain place that he would get there in time if he did not ride too fast. So now farewell.”

And they parted; and Oliver Icingla rode on, and summoned all his intelligence to aid him in reaching Windsor, and bearing the queen’s letter to her lord with as little hazard of interruption as possible.

Now Oliver had very little doubt of accomplishing his object with success; and for hours he rode on, availing himself of the trees to shade himself and his steed from the heat of the sun, and musing over the conversation he had held with Collingham at parting, not without visions of the kinswoman on whose charms the knight had taken several opportunities to expatiate. In fact, the youth became so absorbed in his own reminiscences and reflections, that he thought only vaguely of the circumstances under which his black steed Ayoub was carrying him from Gloucester, and even neglected to keep that strict watch around him which was so necessary, considering the state of the country – not even paying attention to the wild animals which ever and anon sprang up from the brushwood that bounded his path, and scampered away into the thicket, nor the maiden who filled her pitcher at the brook, nor the old woman who looked out from the solitary cottage as he rode past.

Suddenly, however, Ayoub pricked up his ears, and Oliver roused himself from his reverie, and, looking back, he perceived a small band of horsemen – they might be half a dozen in number – riding at a rapid pace, and, as he shrewdly conjectured, in eager pursuit of some object, and that object he instinctively felt was himself. Of course he could not divine their motive, but, whatsoever it might be, he expected it was not friendly; and, feeling still more certain on a second inspection that he was the game of which they were in pursuit, he resolved to lose no time in giving them the slip. Not hesitating longer, for the distance between himself and the horsemen was now trifling, and their manœuvres and gestures threatening, he turned suddenly into a by-path, plunged into the forest, rode cautiously on, making the best use of his eyes and ears, and succeeded so well that, ere long, he flattered himself that he had evaded pursuit; and, after halting for a brief period at the hut of a forester to refresh his horse, he resumed his journey, and pursued his way in the firm belief that he had, at least, baffled one danger.

It was necessary, however, to think of rest and repose for the night; and, as evening fell, Oliver reined up at a substantial and flourishing wayside inn, which had three cranes for its sign, and was frequented by chapmen and other travellers between London and the West, and which was favourably known among wayfarers as an hostelry where good entertainment was furnished by Robert Goodwin to men with money, and wholesome provender to beasts of burden. Having secured quarters for the night, and having carefully looked to the comfort of his black steed, which was weary with its day’s work, Oliver proceeded to the kitchen of the inn, and, while a fowl was being roasted for his supper, listened to the conversation of the chapmen who lounged about. At first, their conversation was merely about markets and the price of wool and wares, and had little interest for the boy-squire; but he had scarcely seated himself at supper, and begun to satisfy the cravings of hunger, which after his long day’s ride were pretty keen, when the landlord entered with portly dignity, and the chapmen, who appeared to regard mine host as a political oracle, put some questions on public affairs which made Oliver prick up his ears.

“And so, Robin, lad,” said one chapman, with curiosity, “thou deemest that England is not done with these broils, of which her heart is already so sick?”

“Ay, ay, Robin,” chimed in the other, “thou hast a long head; are we not to have peace now, thinkest thou?”

“In truth, my masters,” replied the host, shaking his head sapiently, “I see no more chance of peace for the present than I do of being Soldan of Babylon; and if I saw any chance I should value it but lightly. Appearances are nought when the passions of the great men are roused and their hands on the hilt of their swords. No later than Friday the barons deemed everything settled fair and square, and beguiled themselves with the notion that henceforth the king would comport himself in accord with their wishes. But mark, my masters, what happens: King John goes back to Windsor, takes a second thought, and leaves under night, doubtless to take thought as to the means to get the upper hand. ‘Where has he gone?’ askest thou. As well ask where the flaming star that threatened to burn the world up last year. When the news was carried to London, Constantine Fitzarnulph says, ‘Let him go!’ ‘By Our Lady the Virgin!’ exclaims the Lord Fitzwalter, ‘he has gone for our destruction.’ ‘If we take not the better heed,’ says the Lord de Vesci, ‘we are dead men; but let us seize the queen and the prince and keep them as hostages.’ So the Lord Hugh de Moreville, just returned from the North, and, albeit, somewhat ailing, hastens with a band of armed men to Savernake. But it was too late; the ladybird had flown off to Gloucester, and the Lord de Moreville rode by here, on his way home, no later than noon, with a frowning brow and an angry countenance. Credit me, my masters, they will never make up this quarrel till they have torn the land to pieces between them.”

And, having hazarded this political prophecy, mine host, with a shrug of his shoulders, lounged leisurely from the apartment.

“I fear me, neighbour, that Robin Goodman speaks nothing but the truth,” said one of the chapmen, gravely.

“In good sooth,” said the other, “his words are but too like to come true. It is known full well that of late things have happened which portend calamities to the country. In some parts there have been showers of hail, with hailstones as big as goose-eggs; and at the mouth of the Thames they have caught fishes of strange shape, armed with helmet and shield like knights. If such be not signs of woe and war, I want to know, neighbour, what kind of signs this generation would have?”

The chapmen now sank into silence, and Oliver continued to sup, and to muse over the gossip he had just heard, when his ear caught the tread of horses and the ringing of bridles. Presently voices were heard, and an armed man presented himself at the door of the apartment, and, as the chapmen rose to make way – for, being men of peace, they cared not for too close a contact with those who were in the habit of carrying matters with the strong hand – Oliver, much to his dismay, recognised Ralph Hornmouth, a rough Northern squire who had accompanied Hugh de Moreville on the occasion of his visit to Oakmede on Christmas Eve. Events soon proved that the recognition was mutual.

“Sir squire,” said Hornmouth, advancing to the place which Oliver occupied, “methinks you can call to mind my having seen your face before.”

“It is possible,” replied Oliver, coldly; “I have been much among fighting men, and many of them have seen my face.”

“And I think I could even tell the name you bear and the errand on which you are riding,” said Hornmouth, significantly.

“Mayhap,” replied Oliver, haughtily; “but I have yet to learn what business you have either with my name or mine errand.”

“So much,” said the other, quickly, “that, knowing you to be Master Icingla, on your way with messages from Queen Isabel to the king, I am empowered by the Lord de Moreville to conduct you, in the first place, to his presence.”

“To Hugh de Moreville’s presence!” exclaimed Oliver, starting up. “I will be cut to pieces first.”

“Resistance is vain,” said Hornmouth, persuasively, “and it is better for all concerned that you yield to fate. You have already given us trouble sufficient in tracking you through field and forest this day since you gave us the slip so cunningly. By the Holy Rood, no man balks me twice in one day, either by cunning or force of arms!”

And as he spoke he stepped backward and made a signal, at which five others rushed in.

Oliver drew his sword, placed his back to the wall, and stood on his defence, while the chapmen hurried out, to avoid the risk of being mixed up in the fray or wounded by accident, and Oliver’s adversaries advanced on him in a body. A brief struggle ensued, and the English squire’s sword struck fire from more than one steel cap. But the odds against him were too unequal to be contended with, and the conflict lasted but a few moments. When it was over, Oliver, wounded, but still breathing defiance, lay prostrate on the floor, while two of the men bound his hands with cords; and within half an hour he was placed on his own horse, and, in bitter mood, found himself riding with a soldier on either hand, who had orders to despatch him on the spot in case he made any desperate effort to escape.

For hours Oliver did not deign to mutter a word; but at length, as the moon emerged from behind a cloud, and shone brightly, he perceived that they were within a park, such as generally in that day lay around the castle of a Norman baron.

“Whither are you conducting me?” asked he, eagerly.

“To Chas-Chateil,” was Hornmouth’s brief reply.

“I guessed as much,” replied Oliver. “And for what purpose?”

“You will learn when you arrive and enter,” was the reply.

As Hornmouth spoke, the dogs in the forester’s lodge barked at the tramp of horses, and the deer, which lay asleep on knolls in groups of some half-dozen, started and glided swiftly through the glades; and, as the horsemen moved on, a feudal castle, reared on the crest of an eminence and defended by rampart and moat, appeared in sight, the pale moonbeams resting on the walls.

“And this is Chas-Chateil?” said Oliver, as lights glanced from casement and loophole.

“Assuredly,” was Hornmouth’s answer. “Didst thou take it for Windsor?”

“No, by my faith,” replied Oliver; “only I was thinking it somewhat strange that I should come in such an unseemly plight to the place where I was cradled with such feudal pride.”

Ralph Hornmouth uttered an audible “Humph!” and in a few moments more the drawbridge was lowered, and Oliver rode in with his captors to the courtyard; and the great gate closed heavily behind, and he found himself where, a few hours earlier, he had, of all other places, least expected to be for the night – in one of the castles which were his mother’s inheritance, and under the same roof with, and in the power of, the person who, of all others on earth, he most disliked – Hugh de Moreville.

CHAPTER XVII
THE WINDSOR OF KING JOHN

“Whether,” says an old writer, speaking of Windsor, “you regard the wholesomeness of the air, the natural beauty and strength of the situation of the place, the pleasant pastime ministered out of the forest, chases, and parks that are annexed unto it, the good neighbourhood of that noble river which runneth by it, or the respective commodity of that most flourishing city, that is not past half-a-day’s journey removed from it, you will find it comparable to any prince’s palace that is abroad, and far surmounting any that we have at home.” But this was written long after Windsor was rebuilt and extended by William of Wykeham, at the command of the third Edward, when it stood regal in situation and aspect, with the standard of England waving from its battlements – a monument – and no unworthy monument – of the pride of the Plantagenets in peace, and of their prowess in war.

It was a very much less splendid edifice, however – as the reader may suppose – which, at the opening of the thirteenth century, stood on the brow of the hill looking over twelve fair counties, and with the Thames flowing at its feet; and it lacked even such means and appliances for rendering mediæval life comfortable and convenient as had come into fashion when, some sixty years later, Eleanor of Castile kept house almost constantly within its walls, and when the conqueror, of Evesham and Kakhow, in the midst of his grand projects of policy and war, was in the habit, on festive occasions, of making merry in the hall, and, as his people liked well to hear, playing “blindman’s-buff” with his children more readily and as heartily as he played a deeper, but somewhat similar, game with Boniface VIII. and Philip the Fair.

No doubt, even in the time of Edward and Eleanor, Windsor was rather a gloomy building for a palace, according to modern ideas, and utterly unlike the regal pile which now occupies the ground – recalling the shadowy past, with a host of memories gratifying to the national pride. For it carries the mind, through five eventful centuries, to that era of English chivalry which could boast of the Black Prince, and which was marked by the institution of the Order of the Garter, and rendered glorious not only by Cressy, and Poictiers, and Navaretta, but by great naval victories over France and Spain, which, even at that early period, made England mistress of the sea. Still, before the reign of John, Windsor, originally founded by the Conqueror as a hunting seat, had witnessed right royal marriages and high feudal ceremonies – especially the marriage of Henry Beauclerc to his second wife, Adelicia of Louvaine, and the homage of the King of Scots and of the Norman barons to the Empress Maude – and had been so enlarged by succeeding kings, that, among the royal fortresses, it was regarded as second in importance only to the Tower of London when the Plantagenets began to rule England, and was determinedly fought for by the various personages – whether prelates or princes – whose quarrels disturbed England during the crusade and captivity of Cœur-de-Lion – Prince John among the number. Imagine an old Norman stronghold on the brow of the hill, with towers, and turrets, and battlements, grey walls, penetrated by loopholes to admit the light, gloomy halls, with huge chimneys and oaken rafters, long, straggling chambers, a garden and a vineyard, a chapel dedicated to Edward the Confessor, and parks stretching away into the forest abounding with wild cattle and beasts of game, and you will have a notion of what Windsor was when King John removed thither from the great metropolitan stronghold before meeting the Anglo-Norman barons at Runnymede, with the intention of granting their demands.

It was not on this occasion John’s fortune to be very magnificently attended. In fact, he was every day becoming more unpopular; and many men who might otherwise have been inclined to arm in his behalf were awed into neutrality by the hostile bearing and the menacing attitude which the confederate barons assumed towards all who would not support their cause. Several men of consideration, however, were sufficiently under the influence of loyal memories to adhere steadfastly to the regal standard, though not much enamoured of a king who had brought his crown into such jeopardy; and the royal party, besides the Earls of Pembroke and Salisbury, and Warren, and Lord Hugh Neville, included eight bishops and about seventy knights. Besides, the papal legate accompanied John, and gave him the whole benefit of his influence, which, in spite of the counteracting influence of the primate, was not slight, nor to be lightly regarded, as both the primate and the barons well knew. Nevertheless, in spite of the presence of the legate and bishops, even the most steadfast of his partisans looked grave; and on the evening of Thursday, the 14th of June, John sat at supper in the gloomy great hall of Windsor with the expression of a man who saw the handwriting on the wall, and whose crown and sceptre were about to pass away.

At a late hour, when the Earl of Pembroke, and the legate, and the eight bishops had quaffed the “poculum charitatis,” and been ceremoniously conducted to the apartments appropriated to their use, Hugh Neville, who was Keeper of the Great Seal, and one of the staunchest of the king’s adherents, reached Windsor and was admitted to the presence of the king, whom he found pacing his chamber restlessly. Many a time, in seasons of depression, John had drawn consolation for the present and hope for the future from Neville’s counsels; but now the Norman baron had a weight of care on his brow, and looked liker a man to need than to administer consolation and hope.

“Welcome, Hugh Neville,” exclaimed John, endeavouring to be gay, “I am right glad to see your face, though it is somewhat longer than I could wish – as glad as if you had brought the philosopher’s stone in your pocket.”

Hugh Neville bowed in acknowledgment of the royal courtesy, and remained silent, that John might pursue the subject without interruption.

“I mean the stone which is said to turn everything into gold,” continued John, “and beshrew me if gold would now come amiss. Had I but treasure, methinks I could not fail speedily to better my position.”

“Sire,” said Neville, gravely, “the best treasures of a king are the hearts of his people.”

John looked angrily, supposing that the words conveyed some reproach; but seeing that none was intended he calmed himself, smoothed his ruffled brow, and answered —

“By my faith, Neville, it is too late to speak in such a strain now, when everything, almost even hope, is lost. Beshrew me if I feel not strongly at times that I would rather be laid to-morrow by the side of my father and mother in the abbey of Fontevraud than endure the humiliation of submitting to the triumph of my foes.”

“Sire,” replied Neville, “in this life we must take the thorn with the rose, the sweet with the bitter. But life is life after all; and a live dog is better than a dead lion.”

“And yet,” said John, sorrowfully, “you know full well that if Fitzwalter and his confederates are henceforth to have their own way, and to do what they list in England, I am like to lead a life compared to which that of a dog is comfort and dignity. By St. Wulstan! I am like to be no better than a slave in mine own realm; and no being on earth is so contemptible as a despised king.”

Hugh Neville was silent.

“Why speak you not?” asked John, sternly. “I want to hear what you would counsel me to do.”

“Sire,” replied Neville, frankly, “I was thinking that, if any quality would stand you in good stead in the present situation of affairs, it would be that which the Arabs say is the price of all felicity – I mean patience.”

John’s brow darkened, and his lip curled. It was not the advice which he wished his minister to give, and, being against the grain, was not well taken.