"Read but the records aright, and you'll see,When the students in Oxford do once disagree,'Twill be but of months, at the most two or three,Ere the conflict in England rage furiously."
"Read but the records aright, and you'll see,When the students in Oxford do once disagree,'Twill be but of months, at the most two or three,Ere the conflict in England rage furiously."
This was the common saying of the time, and although not always perhaps borne out by facts, since Oxford was often in a ferment, it was certainly thought advisable to check the possibility of a miniature civil war within the walls of the city; and both Constable and Chancellor sent messengers to the Prince, to request him not to attempt to enter the city walls.
Prince Edward was always reasonable and courteous. He received the messengers with great good temper, and refrained from carrying out his purpose. He could not, however, change his line of march, and he passed close to Oxford on his way, lodging himself for a few nights outside the walls, in the palace of Beaumont, though keeping his army at some greater distance from the city.
The authorities, of course, could not expect more in reply to their request; but they were still uneasy at the thought of the presence of an army so near to their town, although the students appeared to be unaware of or indifferent to its proximity. To make assurance doubly sure, the city gates were all locked, and the fiat went forth that none should enter or leave the city without special permission from the authorities.
Some amusement and some indignation were felt by the students at this infringement of their liberties. However, for three days they submitted with tolerable grace to the restriction imposed. On the fourth day Prince Edward and his forces resumed their march, and the students saw no reason why they should not resume their pleasures. Beaumont meadows, being beyond the walls, had been closed to them for this period, and now a great band sallied forth to resume interrupted amusements there.
But when they reached Smith Gate, by which they expected to make their exit from the city, they found it still locked and barred, and the watchman told them that he had had orders to keep it shut all day and only open it on the morrow.
"Shame! shame! shame!" cried the crowd, surging round it like a swarm of angry bees, those from behind pushing upon those in front, and adding their voices to the clamour.
It was perhaps rather unwise of the authorities to have been so slow in restoring the liberty of the turbulent clerks. They had behaved better than had been looked for during the time of detention, and it would have been more politic had this detention been ended at the first possible moment. But perhaps they reckoned too much on the temperate spirit showed so far, and thought it more prudent not to be in haste.
Leofric and Jack, coming homewards after morning lecture, were stopped in their approach to their lodging by the presence of this surging crowd, who were all armed, ready for their military pastimes, and who seemed now actuated by an exceedingly warlike spirit.
Jack quickly learned the cause of the commotion, and Leofric exclaimed eagerly,—
"I will to the Chancellor, and get leave from him for the gate to be opened; but I pray you, brother students, make not a disturbance in the city. Wait only one short half-hour, and I will be back with an answer."
Some heard the appeal, and gave a half-hearted assent; but those struggling round the gate neither heard nor heeded.
"Run upon thine errand, good Leofric!" cried Jack, "for they will not have long patience. I will seek to stay them from violence, but methinks they look like storming the city walls!"
Leofric sped away, and Jack remained—sturdy Jack, who must ever be in the heart of the fray. Soon he was more in its heart than he altogether desired; for more and more clerks came flocking up, the birds of the air seemingly having carried the news that mischief was afloat.
"Shall we be pent up in the city, like rats in a trap?"
"Shall we be treated like children, and not suffered abroad save at the pleasure of nurses?"
"Who dares to hem us in like this? Let us show them what free men can do! Let us teach them a lesson! Shall we submit to tyranny, when all the land is astir against it? Never, never, never! Oxford scholars never shall be slaves!"
It needed but words like these to set the whole crowd in a fury. Many of the number had axes in their hands, and all were armed. Flinging themselves upon the gate, they hewed it down with fierce strokes, scoffing at the resistance and remonstrances of the sentries. The woodwork could not long withstand their determined blows. The gate crashed outwards; a fierce yell of triumph arose from the crowd. The victors poured out into the fields beyond, carrying with them the splintered fragments of the strong wooden door.
The spirit of devilry had now got into them. They insisted that the remains must be interred with due formality. They chanted over their burden the office for the dead, and digging a huge trench in Beaumont meadows, they performed mock obsequies in a very irreverent fashion.
But hardly had this been accomplished before the cry was raised,—
"The Provosts! the Provosts! and the worshipful Mayor himself!"
It was true. The city authorities had heard of this outbreak, and the Provosts, or Bailiffs, had gathered together a body of bold citizens, and were marching out to quell the disturbance and punish the rioters. Indeed, it was said that they had already made some arrests amongst the clerks, and this news ran like wildfire through the crowd.
In another moment the bell of St. Martin's rang out in the city, and more clerks came flying out to learn what had happened, and where help was needed. Thus the luckless Mayor and Provosts were hemmed in between two furious bodies of clerks, who inflicted grievous wounds upon many of them, tore their banner, and put them to speedy and ignominious flight.
Now the blood of the students was up. They had gone too far to stop without doing worse.
"We will teach the town varlets to interfere with our liberties!" roared the excited and incensed youths, as they rushed back once more into the city, filled with the desire for mischief and destruction which is characteristic of a mob.
"Teach the Bailiffs to mind their manners!" roared the excited students, and dashed upon the houses of their foes. A bowyer's shop was plundered, the house of one Bailiff was set on fire, those of the others were plundered after being broken open, and a store of spicery was scattered in all directions.
"Now for the Mayor! now for the Mayor!" shouted the hot and panting depredators, flushed with victory and carrying all before them.
The Mayor was a vintner by trade, and had a fine cellar stocked with goodly wine. This cellar was on the street level, but was strongly barricaded. Nothing, however, could withstand the fury of the attack made upon it. The mob of unruly clerks rushed in, drew all the taps, drank their fill of intoxicating beverages, and let the rest flow out into the street.
When the Chancellor and the Proctors, who had in the first instance proceeded towards Beaumont meadows through the Bocardo Gate, returned to the city to seek to quell the unseemly riot, it was to find one house in flames in the south part of the city, whilst the drunken mob was clamouring around the vintners store, singing wild bacchanalian songs, and disporting themselves like veritable demons. The street ran red with good wine, and the Mayor, white-faced and terrified, watched helplessly from an upper window the destruction of his property and the wanton waste of his stock in trade.
The appearance of the Chancellor, however, produced an immediate and extraordinary effect. Clerks upon the outskirts of the crowd took to their heels, flying hither and thither in all directions, uttering cries of warning to their fellows. Of these, some were too drunk and some too wildly possessed with the spirit of devilry to move even for this warning; but most of the men fled as for dear life, the authorities taking note of as many as possible, who felt, as they scudded away under those cold, clear eyes, that they would have to answer for this day's proceedings, probably in a fashion they little liked.
The Chancellor strode up to the nucleus of ringleaders, who alone stood their ground.
"The King shall hear of this!" he said, in calm, cold accents. "It is a case for his Majesty to decide. Go back to your Halls and lodgings, every one of you. You are a disgrace to the city and to the kingdom!"
The abashed clerks obeyed that voice, and retired to their various domiciles; but before three days had passed, Oxford had lost hundreds of her scholars and a considerable number of masters also. An exodus like this not unfrequently followed upon an outbreak of ill-will betwixt "town and gown."
Afraid of what the King's verdict might be, and perhaps with a view to greater liberty upon the outbreak of war, scholars and masters alike vacated their quarters, and made their way to Northampton, where fugitives both from Oxford and Cambridge often assembled, and where there was talk of establishing a third University.
And so ended the "great riot of 1264."
Oxford was all in a ferment. The ordinary life of the University was suspended. Lecture-rooms were deserted alike by masters and scholars, and these were to be seen standing in knots about the streets, talking, gesticulating, arguing—excitement written on every face, and generally wrath and scorn as well. In other quarters clerks were to be seen issuing forth from their lodgings with their worldly goods strapped upon their backs, calling out farewells to their friends, and marching away towards the city gates, generally in parties of six or eight, and singing songs in praise of De Montfort or in despite of the King, but betraying beneath their jauntiness of outward mien an inward secret wrath.
The citizens, too, looked anxious and perturbed, and there was a prevailing unrest throughout the town. The wealthier scholars might be seen talking earnestly together, looking to their arms and accoutrements, and comparing notes as to their horses. It was plain that something very unusual was afoot, and that, too, of a nature disquieting to all.
In point of fact, the King had sent a decree ordering all the students of Oxford to depart to their own homes. The Chancellor had reported to his Majesty on the subject of the recent riot, and it was supposed by a great number of the students that this decree was made as a sort of punishment for their unruly behaviour. But there was another and more personal motive as well.
The King had just summoned a Parliament to Oxford, and it was generally shrewdly supposed that this Parliament would practically annul those famous Provisions of Oxford which had, during the past six years, been the war-cry of the Barons' party. Now the temper of the city was known to be easily aroused, and Oxford was almost unanimous in its support of the cause of the Barons. It would be a bold act on the part of the King to trust himself within the city walls had he come as the confessed foe of De Montfort—at least if the members of the University were assembled there in force; so to get rid of them by some plausible expedient was a wily and politic move.
"He fears us! he fears us!" was a constantly-heard cry as bands of clerks took their way out from the city, some in high dudgeon, others rejoicing in the liberty thus accorded them of openly throwing themselves into the civil war if it should chance to break out, as all men knew must quickly be the case.
The young nobles did not for a moment disguise what they were about to do. Many of them had fathers or friends in the opposing ranks, and they, if expelled from Oxford, intended joining them. Most were on the Barons' side, but a few leaned towards Prince Edward. Personally he was beloved by many more than hastened to join him; for the unpopularity of the King's cause, to which the son was pledged, held back many a youthful admirer. It was to De Montfort's banner that the warlike spirits of Oxford desired to flock, and Amalric was daily besieged with eager offers from ardent lads to follow him to his father's camp, if he would only accept their services.
"My father will not fight unless forced to do so," was the reply he returned to many. "He is not in haste to plunge the land into the horrors of war. But if the King will persist in his evil ways, and will refuse all counsel save from those who advise him to the nation's hurt, then must swords be drawn, though not till all else has been tried."
And in fact, as the King drew near to Oxford, the Barons sent representatives to Brackley, with powers to seek for a reconciliation and agreement before recourse was had to extreme measures.
Within the Castle was great excitement as the days passed by. The Constable, by virtue of his office, must needs stand aloof from any open expression of loyalty towards the enemies of the King; and the Chancellor observed an attitude of grave neutrality. And yet it was well known that both these functionaries had the cause of the people at heart, and that they were beloved of De Montfort and loved him well.
Alys was working a beautiful banner for Amalric; and many were the visits he paid to the upper chamber where she and Linda were to be found plying their skilful needles. Linda's heart was ofttimes rather heavy within her just now; for Hugh had left Oxford immediately after the Kings decree had become known, and she believed that he had departed home, intending, with his father's approval, to join Prince Edward in Wales, or wherever he might have now marched. In times of peril, such as seemed approaching, it was hard to lose sight of a loved one, not knowing when or how the next meeting might be. Sometimes Linda's tears would fall as she worked, and Alys would say gently,—
"Do not grieve so, sweet Linda; the war will not last long, and then he will come back. We shall not love him less—even Lord Amalric says that—because he follows with the Prince. If the Prince were the only leader in the land, we would all follow him too, and this war would be averted."
"War is so terrible, so cruel!" Linda replied. "It goes to my heart to think what may happen when army meets army in the bloody field."
"And yet there is glory in war as well as pain!" cried Alys, with a light in her eyes. "I would think of that were I in thy place, dear Linda."
Linda raised her glance to Alys's face, and asked softly,—
"Thinkest thou that thou wilt be able thus to speak when my Lord Amalric goes forth to fight?"
"Why not?" asked Alys innocently; and then seeming to divine something of her companion's meaning, she added, "The Lord Amalric is a very proper gentleman, but he is no lover of mine."
"And yet methinks he has no eyes for any but thee, sweet Alys; and has he not said many times that this banner will be his talisman in times of danger and heaviness? Methinks he worships the very ground upon which thou dost tread."
"Oh no, no," said Alys, with a look of trouble in her eyes. "Lord Amalric has been a kind friend to us all, and we all love him. But it is not so with us—nay, Linda, say, have I ever said or done aught that might seem to speak of this?"
"Nay; it is he who has looked this long time at thee as a man looks at his heart's beloved," answered Linda. "And he is such a proper gentleman and such a gallant spirit that I had thought perchance—"
She did not complete her sentence; but Alys understood, and shook her head. Her cheek glowed, and there was a light in her eyes which looked strangely like that of love. Linda's needle went in and out rapidly, and she bent her head over her task; but bending towards her companion, she asked in a low whisper,—
"Dearest, tell me, is it Leofric?"
Alys started, and the crimson flooded her face. She made no reply, only bending lower over her frame, so that even Linda could not see her expression. But somehow from that moment a new bond seemed to establish itself between the two girls; and when Linda ventured to ask presently, "But what would thy parents say? He is but a poor clerk, though a bachelor and like to become a doctor in time," Alys made low-toned answer,—
"I ofttimes think that the lot of the great ones of the earth is far less happy than that of those less lofty in the eyes of the world. I have even heard my father say the same, and methinks he would deny me nothing that was for my happiness, were his heart but once convinced."
"And truly," added Linda, with a sigh, "these be dangerous and troublous days in which to live. The victor of to-day may be the vanquished of the morrow. In very sooth, a humbler lot is sweeter than one where the cup of prosperity may be dashed from the lips, and adversity follow swiftly on the heels of triumph. All who know him love Leofric, and speak well of him."
Again the cheek of Alys glowed; her voice faltered as she spoke the next words,—
"Thou hast read mine heart, sweet Linda, but thou must keep its secret locked within thine own. I scarce dare to think of it myself, for never by word or sign has he showed me aught of his heart; and yet methinks—methinks—"
"Ay, verily, love has a language of its own," said Linda, in sympathetic accents, "and souls may meet when words there be none. He would not dare to lift his eyes to thee, fair Alys, thinking, perchance, that thou art half plighted to my Lord Amalric—as, indeed, others think. Yet, should time pass and he become learned and famous, and shouldst thou remain unwed—ah, well, methinks he will find his tongue; and thy father will not say him nay when he knows how thine heart inclines."
Alys listened to these welcome words with glowing eyes and blushing cheeks. Never before had she dared, even to herself, so openly to admit how her childish friendship for Leofric Wyvill was ripening into something deeper and more earnest. Of late she had seen less of him, but he still came and went at the Castle, and was the friend of all. He was thought to be a youth of great promise; and in those days almost any man of learning, however humble his birth, who rose to academic distinction, might hope to win his way to affluence and influence before his beard was grey. There would be no presumption a few years hence in a Regent Master or young Doctor aspiring to the hand of a knight's daughter. The only bar likely to arise would be that imposed by the Church, were the student to desire orders; but Leofric had never showed a leaning towards the religious life, and was the less likely to think of it now—unless, indeed, he believed Alys lost to him as the affianced bride of Amalric, and entered upon the career of an ecclesiastic as a salve for a wounded spirit.
This danger did suggest itself for a moment to Linda, and she resolved to watch earnestly the turn of affairs. The conversation at that moment was interrupted by the entrance of Edmund and Leofric into the room where the girls were sitting. Alys bent over her frame to hide her momentary confusion, but it passed unobserved in the excitement of the moment.
"The King is on his way thither!" cried Edmund; "he is to enter the city to-morrow. The students are pouring out as though the plague were threatening. In a few hours' time, they say, there will be scarce three hundred left, and perhaps not so many. The townsfolks are all agape and disturbed; for many there be of the clerks who vow they will never return, but will set up their abode in Cambridge or Northampton, and establish a rival University there. The masters have followed their scholars, as is but wise; and the citizens are crying out that the King has ruined the town. It is but a sorry welcome he will have on the morrow when he makes his entry here."
"Methinks his Majesty will repent him of his mistake," said Alys. "Why did he drive forth the clerks? My father could surely have kept order in the city."
"Marry, he was afraid," answered Edmund; "and indeed he had some cause, for in his mandate to my father he speaks of his own lords who will attend him as being 'so untamed and fierce' that he dare not trust them so near to an army of turbulent clerks, famous for their unruly conduct."
Alys's lips curved to a smile of some contempt.
"Methinks our monarch is but a poor poltroon," she said. "Small wonder if the realm sink beneath his sway."
"Nevertheless he is about to do a bolder thing than any King has attempted since the days of the Saxons," answered Edmund, laughing; "for he declares that his first action will be, on entering Oxford, to pay a visit to the shrine of St. Frideswyde!"
"And wherefore should he not?" asked both girls in a breath; whereupon Leofric was called upon to tell the legend of St. Frideswyde—how she had taken the vow of chastity, but was pestered without ceasing by the King of Mercia, who desired her hand in marriage. She fled from him to Oxford, where he pursued her, laying siege to the town; but in answer to her prayers he was struck with blindness, and returned to his own country, leaving her in peace to found her nunnery and devote herself to the religious life. But since that date no King had ever ventured to intrude himself even to lay offerings upon her shrine, and the resolution of Henry the Third to brave the anger of the virgin saint was regarded as a proof of piety and courage, since he openly declared that he could not believe any ill would be suffered to follow an act of homage to one whom he revered and desired to honour.
Upon the morrow the city was bedecked with banners and costly cloths, and the Constable, together with the Chancellor and all men of importance in the city, went forth to meet the King and his nobles, to bid them welcome to the city, and to conduct them to the church of St. Frideswyde. Here a procession of Canons, with the Abbot at their head, would be waiting to receive the monarch, and to conduct him to the shrine, where miracles were still said to be worked.
Alys and Linda rode forth with the company from the Castle to see the sight, and Edmund, with Leofric and one or two other comrades, formed their body-guard. It was strange to see the streets of Oxford so empty of their crowds of eager students, who, upon an occasion like this, would naturally have been thronging out with songs and garlands, ready alike for a riot or a reception. But although there were still some scholars who had given no heed to the King's arbitrary decree, they had no intention of showing him any honour, and remained within their own quarters, save a few who, like Edmund and Leofric, had some cause to go forth in one of the processions.
Amalric, of course, would in no case have been one to offer personal reverence to the monarch. He was not, however, in Oxford at the moment, having left to gain news as to the attempt at negotiation which was still to be made, and quite a band of clerks who had arms and horses had accompanied him, eager beyond measure for the coming fray, and, if the truth were to be told, by no means anxious that peace should be restored before the appeal to arms had been made.
"I scarce know the city," said Alys to Leofric, as they rode through the streets, in which the citizens were grouped about, but which were so strangely bereft of their crowds of gowned scholars. "Methinks his Majesty will repent him when he sees what his decree hath done. And methinks he would repent him still more did he know how many stout-hearted soldiers he has dismissed to join his foes. I trow that if the rival armies meet face to face, there will be many an Oxford clerk in the ranks who will deal deadly blows to the King's cherished troops."
Leofric was of the same opinion. He had had some ado in restraining Jack from joining himself to one of the bands sallying forth in search of adventure and warlike pastime. Leofric was of opinion that sooner or later the rupture would come, and they would have to range themselves beside their champion, and perhaps strike a blow in defence of their cause; but he had no desire to anticipate this moment, and still hoped that some good might come of the impending negotiations, although the haughty bearing of King Henry's knights and nobles as they rode into Oxford went far to quench this lingering hope.
The King was haughty in his bearing towards both Constable and Chancellor, whom he knew to be friends of De Montfort. He chided them somewhat roundly in face of all his company for the recent riot, and even threw out a hint of displacing them from office if this sort of thing went on.
He was more gracious in his bearing towards the municipal authorities, but was still very much the triumphant monarch, visiting a turbulent city which had once caused him trouble, but where he meant for the future to be very much the master.
His demeanour did not inspire either respect or confidence in the hearts of those who saw him, and only when he approached the precincts of St. Frideswyde's shrine did he begin to comport himself differently.
When, however, he ceased to have men of the world to deal with, and found himself confronted by those ecclesiastics who had always been the supporters of the royal and papal power, he became another creature altogether. He dismounted from his horse, begged the blessing of the Prior, made costly gifts to the Priory, and finally presented himself at the shrine itself, prostrating himself with every token of outward reverence, and placing there his offerings, which were on a lavish and princely scale.
Only a few of his own followers accompanied him into the church, and the procession which had ridden forth to meet him did not attempt to enter so much as the precincts. It was plain to all that the King had come in no conciliatory mood, but that, puffed up by the award of France, he now intended to rule the realm with a rod of iron, and to listen to neither remonstrance nor condition.
"Pray Heaven the saint may send him a vision that shall change his heart," spoke some one from the crowd, "else the sword will be unsheathed ere many weeks have passed!"
Alys's eyes sought the face of Leofric, and she asked,—
"Does the saint in truth ever send warnings and visions to those who worship at her shrine?"
Leofric looked doubtful; he was not very clear as to the capacities of the saints in this respect.
"In truth, fair lady, I know not. It seems to me that visions and wonders are seldom vouchsafed to those who are puffed up with pride and self-esteem. It is the poor and humble in spirit to whom the Lord reveals His mind—so at least Father Angelus teaches. Yet they say that miracles are worked at the shrine, and I heard that the son of one of the burgesses of the city was raised from the dead not so very long since by being brought hither and laid before the shrine, whilst the monks offered prayers for him. He had died beneath the knife of the surgeons, they say, who had worked upon him some hoped-for cure, which had caused instead his death; but he was restored, they say, by the virgin saint. Would that she could restore to his Majesty that willingness of spirit towards our noble Earl which in times past he hath been known to show!"
But the saint seemed to have no message or warning for the King. No immediate hurt, however, followed upon his bold act in presenting himself at her shrine. He retired thence puffed up with pride and vainglory, reversed in his assembled Parliament every previous Provision of Oxford, and scornfully dismissed the representatives of the Barons who came to suggest a compromise.
"I will be King, and rule by mine own power!" was the motto he seemed now to have adopted. Men shook their heads and looked gravely at one another, echoing the words Brother Angelus had been heard to speak,—
"Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall."
"Fair Mistress Alys, we have come to say farewell." The Constable's daughter, with her banner in her hands, was waiting for this farewell visit from Amalric de Montfort. All knew now that the red flame of war was about to leap forth and devour the land. The King, having scornfully refused all overtures, was already marching upon Northampton, whither so many Oxford students had fled. The Earl of Leicester was in the neighbourhood of London, where Amalric was about to join him; and with him was to march an eager, gallant little band, which included a number of his comrades in this city, and in particular Leofric Wyvill, who for the nonce was acting as his esquire and personal attendant.
The thought of regular study had become impossible even to a studious mind like Leofric's. Confusion reigned at Oxford, and for the time being the students had dispersed in all directions. Masters and pupils had alike caught the infection of excitement. Doubtless the city would return to its normal conditions in time, and the scholars would flock back in great numbers during the course of the ensuing months; but for the immediate present nothing was talked of but the approaching appeal to arms, and books were laid aside for the sword, which was the weapon that must decide this next crisis of the country's history.
Since the King's scornful rejection of the Barons' moderate request, all thoughts of peace had been abandoned. Amalric had got together his eager little band, and now he had come, with a few picked comrades beside him, to say farewell to Mistress Alys, and to receive at her fair hands the silken banner that she and Linda had spent so many long hours in working for him, with his father's coat of arms.
By this time the friends and followers of Amalric had come to regard Alys as his plighted lady-love, albeit in reality no troth-plight had passed between them. It was scarce the right time for proffering love-suits, but yet the Constable and his wife could not be ignorant of the fact that young Lord Amalric had set his affections upon their daughter.
She stood now beside her parents, with the silken banner in her hands, her fair face flushed, her heart beating rather fast, for she had never before taken so public a part as she was to-day called upon to do in the presentation of the banner; and remembering some words spoken to her by Linda not many days before, she wondered whether indeed this act in any way committed her to a step which she had never seriously contemplated, and did not desire to contemplate.
But maidens in those days had little choice of action. She had been bidden by her parents to appear in the great hall and give the Lord Amalric the banner. Now she was holding it out towards him, a blush on her cheek, a bright light in her eyes; and perhaps it was only Linda, out of all those standing by, who noted how the timid glance of the girl's eyes went past the gay and gallant figure of Amalric and rested upon the graceful form of Leofric, who in his shining armour, and with his bared head from which the golden locks floated in a soft cloud, looked the very image of some pious knight going forth upon a sacred quest, not in search of gain to himself, but for love of the good cause.
And this was indeed the feeling which actuated Leofric. He had small expectation of any personal advantage from this war. Probably he would have gained more of that by remaining in Oxford and continuing his studies there, for he was more of the student than the soldier by nature. But he was convinced of the righteousness of the cause on which the Barons were embarked. He had imbibed the teachings of the Franciscans, and believed that duty and love of his country demanded this sacrifice and effort. True, he was sufficiently imbued with martial ardour at this moment to go forth proudly and eagerly; but the guiding motive was love for his fellows and for his country, as distinguished from personal ambition.
The same could not, perhaps, be said so entirely for Amalric. If this war ended in a victory for the Barons, his father would be the greatest man in the kingdom, and his sons must of necessity become men of importance, if not of wealth. Already he was treated with greater deference and respect than he had ever been. It was natural that his heart should swell with pride and joy at thought of the coming struggle; for with the country so entirely with them, how could they think of failure?
It was a pretty sight to see the gallant youth come forward and take the banner from the hands of Alys, kissing those fair hands at the same time, and vowing that the very sight and touch of that banner would act as a talisman and charm.
Alys spoke a few low-toned words of encouragement and hope which she had conned over beforehand; then the banner was laid before Brother Angelus, who was there for the purpose, and he was asked to bless it ere it went forth to do its appointed work.
The friar performed this office very reverently, and gave the banner once more into Amalric's hands, charging him to be a true and faithful servant to his heavenly as well as to his earthly father; to show mercy and kindness to his foes in the hour of triumph; to look for help to God, and not to man; to avoid all haughtiness of spirit in the time of prosperity, and lack of faith if adversity should come; always to remember the poor, and seek to mitigate by every means possible the inevitable horrors of war: this was the duty of the soldier who loved the Lord as well as the cause. The prayers of all good men would follow and aid those whose hearts were pure and their hands vowed to the righteous work.
Whilst this charge was being given in one part of the hall, taking up the attention of the spectators, Alys had watched her opportunity, and had drawn Leofric towards her by a little gesture of the hand. It was natural that she should wish to say farewell to her brother's friend, and one in whose company she herself had passed so many happy hours. None noted anything strange in the action, and few heeded it.
"Thou art going to the war, Leofric?" she asked, in a voice which faltered a little in spite of herself.
"Yes, truly am I, fair Mistress Alys. I love not war, and yet methinks I cannot keep away. The Lord Amalric is my friend, and he and his have shown me great kindness; besides this, I have at heart the cause of the people. Methinks I would fain strike a blow against the iniquitous pretensions of the Pope, and the tyranny of false sycophants, who turn his Majesty's heart from his own loyal subjects."
"But thou wilt come back?" said the maiden, with the sparkle of tears in her eyes.
"I trow yes," he answered earnestly. "I shall ever look upon this city as my home. If I come safe through what lies before us next, I will return when the sword is laid down, as pray Heaven it soon may be."
"I pray so indeed," answered Alys earnestly; "I shall pray for thy safety night and day."
For a moment their eyes met, and a flush arose in the cheek of both. They stood thus for several seconds, as though no words would come to either.
Alys first recovered herself, and unwinding a scarf of crimson silk which she wore about her waist, she lightly threw it over Leofric's shoulder, saying softly,—
"Wear it as thy sword-belt, and forget me not."
The moment was past. Like one awakening from a dream, Leofric followed the rest from the hall into the courtyard, where their horses were standing. He knotted the scarf across his shining breastplate, and gave one long look at Alys as he passed from the hall. But although she came out to see them all mount and ride away, he did not even seek to catch her eye or to exchange a word with her again. His heart was in a strange glow. He felt like a knight who has received a token from one almost too sacred and high above him to be dreamed of as lady-love; yet in the strength of that token he felt that he could work prodigies of valour. What could he not do for her sweet sake? And yet the idea of asking anything in return never entered his head. Was it not enough that she had shown to him, the poor student and bachelor, that she regarded him with interest, and thought of him as of a friend?
Away rode the cavalcade in the bright sunshine of the early spring, the citizens cheering them to the echo, the friars pausing to bless them and their crusade, their own hearts full of joy and the anticipation of coming triumph.
The King had marched to Northampton, as has already been said, therefore to take a northerly route would be unsafe for the little band. Amalric believed his father to be in or near London, and anyhow the metropolis was known to be favourable to the cause of the Barons. He had therefore made up his mind to proceed thither, and all through the hours of the daylight the little band of horsemen trotted briskly on their way, receiving warm greetings from the inhabitants of the towns and villages through which they passed, and becoming more and more confident as to the feeling of the nation, at least in these regions.
They avoided the road which would take them near Windsor, for there they feared the power of the King was still in the ascendant. They kept a more northerly course, and by the time the daylight waned found themselves close to Watford, where they resolved to encamp for the night. As they approached the place, they were aware of a considerable excitement going on; and when they rode into the streets with the banner of the De Montforts floating before them, the people crowded round them in great excitement, clamouring to know the news.
"They say the war has broken out! They say the people have attacked the King's brother's house at Isleworth, and devastated everything. The Temple is broken open, and the money carried off. The Jews have been pillaged, and their houses burnt. The bell of St. Paul's was ringing all yesterday. They say great things are being done in the city!"
Amalric knew nothing of this; but it sounded like the beginning of war, and he eagerly asked for news of his father.
At the moment none could tell him more than that the Earl was in London, and that this insurrection had been made in his favour. Amalric would fain have pushed on through the night to join him, but was restrained by the unfitness of their horses for a longer journey. The inhabitants of the little place received them most hospitably; and whilst they were yet at supper after their long day's travel, a messenger came bursting in full of exciting news.
"The Earl is at St. Albans! The news has just come! He is on his way to relieve Northampton, which has sent to him for help against the King. He rests there to-night, and on the morrow he resumes his march. God be with him in his undertakings; for we were sick to death of the exactions of foreigners and the taxes of the Pope. 'Let us break their bands asunder, and cast away their cords from us.'"
A great cheer went round, and was taken up by those without. Now indeed did it seem like the longed-for liberation, when an army was in pursuit of the tyrannical monarch to defeat him, and rescue a besieged city. Amalric could scarce sleep at night for excitement, and early next day he was astir, visiting his own charger himself, and assuring himself that a night's rest had put the gallant creature in trim for his day's work.
All the place was astir. Recruits had joined the little band. The spirit of enthusiasm and enterprise was working mightily; the consciousness of the near presence of the Earl acted like new wine on the spirits of the men.
The ride from Watford to St. Albans was but short, and soon after nine o'clock the little band approached the city Walls. The same air of excitement and animation pervaded that locality, and as soon as Amalric's banner was seen, the people rushed out and gave him eager and joyous welcome. Leaving the bulk of his followers drawn up in the street, and taking with him only Leofric and a couple of others, Amalric went straight to the quarters of his father. All the place was full of soldiers, the clang of arms was heard everywhere, and the tale of the uprising of the citizens of London in their hero's favour was passing from mouth to mouth in the crowd. Amalric was received with shouts of welcome when it was known that he was indeed a son of their chief and idol. The cheering brought De Montfort out from his house, and it was touching to see the eager greeting betwixt father and son.
Amalric was off his horse in a moment, and had bent his knee to his father; whilst the Earl's eagle face softened at sight of his youngest son, and he embraced him tenderly, with many tokens of welcome and greeting.
A few words served to explain the mutual position of father and son. The Earl was glad of any reinforcements of trained men at this juncture, and spoke very courteously to Amalric's gallant little Oxford contingent when he rode up at his son's side. Already preparations were afoot for the moving on towards Northampton, and De Montfort explained to Amalric that the younger Simon was there, conducting the defence, and had sent an urgent summons to his father to march quickly thither to his relief.
"Simon is rash," said the Earl gravely: "he has courage, but lacks discretion. I shall not rest till I am there myself. I would that I could be in a score of places at once!"
It would not be possible to reach Northampton till the morrow; but the army was being marshalled into array for the start, when suddenly there came dashing into the town a mud-bespattered messenger, riding a horse that looked ready to drop, and Amalric suddenly cried out in alarm,—
"My lord father—see! it is my brother Guy!"
Guy de Montfort it was. He had outstripped all his followers in his eagerness when he knew that his father was at hand. His horse reeled in his tracks, and fell panting and exhausted in the streets the moment his task was done; whilst the rider, weary and worn as he was, flung himself upon his father with an eager demonstration of joy, albeit he was the bearer of evil tidings.
"The city is lost to us! Northampton is in the King's hands! It is all the treachery of the foreign foe!" and there and then in the ears of the indignant people he poured out his tale—how the Prior of the monastery of St. Andrew, just outside the walls, had undermined the wall, and so let in a party of the King's soldiers, whilst an attack had been feigned at the opposite end of the town. It was no lack of gallantry on the part of the besieged; for so well had they defended the walls, and in particular so great had been the damage done to the assailants through the slings, the bows, and the catapults of the Oxford clerks, who fought under an independent banner of their own, that the King had vowed he would slay every man of them once he got into the city; so that these had had to fly helter-skelter when the news came that the town had been taken by strategy, and that the King's troops were already within.
"And thy brother Simon?" asked De Montfort, who listened silently to this tale, without breaking into the lamentations which filled the air from those who stood round.
"Alack, he is a prisoner in the King's hands!" answered Guy—"a fate I narrowly escaped myself. For we ordered a sortie as a last hope, and Simon's horse, terrified by the noise and confusion, became unmanageable, and carried him whether he would or no into the camp of our foes. I was riding after him to seek to aid him, when I was surrounded and carried off, not by enemies, but by friends. The Oxford clerks having got wind of the King's special wrath against them, were flying from the city ere they should be taken, and seeing me in peril, they dashed round and bore me away with them. I could scarce thank them at the time; but methinks it is little I could do for Simon, and liberty with the power to fight is sweet."
Great dismay and anger reigned in the ranks of De Montfort's soldiers at the news of this disastrous event; but the Earl himself reminded his followers that it was but the fortune of war. They could not look for unqualified success in any campaign, but must take the evil with the good, not being over-elated by the one, nor unduly cast down by the other.
But the news brought by his son changed the tactics of the Earl. To march upon Northampton would now be useless. He was in some ways glad to be spared that task, and to carry out his former plans of securing Rochester, which had fallen into the hands of the Earl of Warenne and some other nobles, and was now holding out for the King.
But before the army started forth on this counter-march, the heart of Leofric was gladdened and lightened by the sudden appearance of his comrades Jack Dugdale and Gilbert Barbeck, who had been amongst that band of Oxford clerks who had made their way to Northampton, and had narrowly escaped falling into the hands of the enraged monarch.
Now they came riding after Guy de Montfort in straggling fashion, weary and worn with their rapid flight, but full of hope and courage, and eager to join forces with the great Earl, to whose cause they were bound body and soul. It was a gladsome meeting between the comrades, and the Earl himself gave cordial welcome to the gallant little band, and even postponed his march for a few hours, to give them time to rest and refresh themselves, and to obtain fresh horses from the friendly citizens.
"Now, this is like adventure!" cried eager Jack, as they rode forth at last, a gallant company, he and Leofric side by side, to their own infinite content. "I tell thee, good comrade, I have tasted war, and I like the flavour of it mightily. I hewed down with my good sword three fellows who came spurring after us, and from the walls I slew a goodly number. Yes, the King himself stormed at the havoc we clerks of Oxford wrought amongst his followers. I tell thee, Leofric, if he did put slight upon us, we have revenged that slight in baths of blood!"
From his talk, merry Jack seemed almost to have turned into a bloodthirsty soldier; yet he was the good-natured, kindly comrade as of old to those who came across him. He became a favourite with all during that quick march, and even the grave Earl was seen to smile sometimes, either at some of the youth's sallies, or at the mirth they provoked. For Amalric would have him in his company, enlisting him as an esquire, second only to Leofric; so that De Montfort could not but notice him from time to time, and once he called upon him for his account of the fight on the walls of Northampton.
But Jack was destined to distinguish himself in another way ere many days had passed. He was burning with zeal in the cause of the Barons, and intensely eager to avenge the slight put upon that cause by the stratagem of Northampton.
"If they outwitted us once, surely we may outwit them here," he remarked, as he looked at the solid walls of the city of Rochester, and wondered how they were to be captured.
He took counsel with one or two bold spirits, Leofric amongst the number, and presently the vague idea which had suggested itself grew into a definite plan.
Amalric himself led the youth into the presence of his father to tell the thing he had conceived, and Jack spoke out boldly, being a stranger to fear.
"Sir," he said, "I have been used to the water all my days, and yestere'en I took a boat and dropped down with the tide into the city. There is a bridge in the heart of it, and I thought how that if, whilst we wait without the walls, we should send a fire-ship up the river's mouth with the tide, and fire it against the bridge, it would so affright and disturb the city, drawing all attention to the centre of the town, that our brave soldiers at the gates could soon force an entrance, even as at Northampton the false attack drew off the attention of us all from that spot where the false foreign Prior had undermined the wall. If a base foreign traitor can outwit honest Englishmen, surely it is a game we can pay them back!"
The Earl turned over the idea many times, and it found favour in his sight. A small fire-ship could be easily made ready, and the ruse might prove successful.
"And how shall we know that the ship will come to anchor by the bridge and fire there?" he asked thoughtfully.
"Sir," answered Jack boldly, "if you will accord your gracious permission, I will guide it thither myself, and having fired it will dive off, and secrete myself somewhere amongst the shipping until the tide turn and I can swim away. Or perchance my comrade, Leofric, will accompany me in a small boat, and take me aboard when my task is done."
The idea took hold upon the mind of De Montfort, and with great dispatch and secrecy the fire-ship was prepared. The strong walls of Rochester hardly invited assault unless there were some counter-distraction within the city to render such assault less perilous to those without.
The warlike Earl was daily weakening the walls by the resolute action of his engines. He had machines almost unknown as yet in England, and gave the besieged little rest night or day. But for all that the solid walls still defied him, and the idea of assault was too perilous even for the courage of the fearless De Montfort. He must not risk a second repulse, lest the spirit of his soldiers should give way. He must not attempt anything till success was assured.
But Jack's stratagem was destined to prove a complete success. Accompanied only by Leofric, in a light boat towed behind, the bold young soldier guided his phantom craft up the mouth of the river upon a dark, moonless night. By this time he had learned the river by heart, and had no difficulty in quietly grounding the vessel against the bridge. Then silently setting light to her fiery contents, he slipped overboard to Leofric, and the two cast off, and rowed with muffled oars to the appointed landing-place, where their friends awaited them.
Long before they reached it the whole sky was in a glow, and they even caught glimpses of hurrying throngs of people, all hastening to the scene of the conflagration. That the whole town was in an uproar of confusion they could tell even from a long distance. And Jack sang aloud and cheered lustily in the joy and triumph of his heart.
But a greater triumph was in store for the comrades when they finally reached shore, and were brought by their companions into the lines once more.
The stratagem had been completely successful; the people had all rushed down to the scene of the fire, even the soldiers quitting their posts to assist. De Montfort, with a picked body of men, had made a grand assault where the walls near to the gate had become greatly weakened. Wall and gate had alike given way with a crash, and the besieging army had streamed in in triumph. Rochester had fallen into the hands of the Barons!
They stood looking down upon the green plains and the venerable Priory of Lewes. The cup-like hollow presented a strange appearance, being dotted over with tents, and filled with armed men, moving hither and thither like human ants, intent upon some important task. Within the walls of the Priory the King was lodged, with his brother, his son, and his counsellors.
The little knot of youths, stationed upon the knoll that commanded a view of these things, had their eyes fixed upon a small party of riders who were moving forward towards the Priory, carrying a white flag before them.
A nearer view would have told an observer that two of this party were ecclesiastics in their robes of office, being in fact none other than the Bishops of London and Worcester; but those spectators on the knoll did not need the evidence of eyesight to tell them that. They were well aware of the embassy of the Bishops, and of the import of the message they bore.
"If that fails to bring his Majesty to his senses," said Amalric gravely, "nothing can avert a bloody battle."
"I would we might settle the matter by force of arms!" cried Jack, whose blood was up, and who was eager for the ordeal of battle. "Even if the King doth make promises, who knows if he will keep them? I am sick of parley. I want the sword to be loosed from the scabbard. The King has wrought desolation and ruin wherever he has gone. It is time that he tasted that which he has inflicted."
Jack spoke with eager impetuosity, which seemed suited to the martial aspect of his strong, well-knit figure. He had gone up in the world since his escapade with the fire-ship. He had now a fine charger of his own, and a suit of mail. He was ranked as one of Amalric's esquires, and was a favourite even with the Earl himself, who spoke kindly to him whenever they met.
London had of late been the headquarters of the Barons' army, whilst the royalists had been marching hither and thither over the country, "accompanied," as the chronicler of the time described it, "by three comrades—plunder, fire, and slaughter. There was no peace in the land; everything was destroyed by sword, fire, rapine, and robbery; everywhere was clamour and trembling and woe."
It was a state of things which could not continue, and the hearts of the nation turned to the Earl as to a deliverer who alone could save them from such misery. The men of London were with him heart and soul, and had furnished him with a contingent fifteen thousand strong, with which to meet and overcome the tyrant. But still De Montfort hesitated to draw the sword in open battle against his sovereign; and even now, at the eleventh hour, when the two armies had mustered about the field of Lewes, he had sent two Bishops of known probity and piety, to endeavour to bring the King to reason before the last appeal to arms was made.
"What said the letter of the Earls?" asked Jack eagerly of Leofric, who as a ready scribe was often employed in such matters as these. "Thou wert closeted long with them last night. What did they say that hath not been said a hundred times ere now?"
Leofric drew from his tunic certain fragments of parchment, closely written, which he scanned several times over, and then made reply to Jack's question.
"The Earls of Leicester and Gloucester did but repeat for themselves and their party what has been said a hundred times before—namely, that they desired peace, and to serve the King faithfully, and only to put down the enemies of the realm, who deceive both his Majesty and the Prince, and do despite to the realm. They offered to pay a large sum as compensation for hurt done to the King's property, if he would make peace and observe the Provisions of Oxford, and submit to the decision of 'certain chosen Churchmen' what statutes ought to be observed, and how far the oaths taken ought to be binding, saying that they wished to keep their faith as Christians, and avoid the stain of perjury."
Long and eagerly did the comrades upon the hillside talk together, wondering whether this embassy of the Bishops would succeed where other things had failed, or whether the King, blinded by pride and advised by evil counsellors, would press matters on to the bitter end. They could observe the signs of commotion below, round and about the Priory, and finally they watched the great gates being flung wide open to admit of the exit of the ambassadors.
"What news will they bring—what news?" cried Amalric breathlessly, and he turned and hastened towards his father's quarters, mounting his horse, which stood tethered a little way off, and galloping away without waiting for his companions.
Leofric had paused when about to follow, for his eye had been caught by an advancing figure that looked somehow familiar, and which seemed making straight for them upon the knoll. Just as Amalric rode off, Jack broke into a quick exclamation,—
"By my troth, here is our quondam companion Hugh!"
The next moment Hugh le Barbier stood beside them, grasping their hands and looking with eager affection into their faces.
Although he came from the hostile camp, there was no hostility in the hearts of the Oxford students as they stood together once more. Eagerly did Hugh ask of their welfare, eagerly did they question him as to his adventures during the past months, and, above all, most eagerly did they ask him if he knew what sort of answer the King had returned to the messengers just sent, and whether there was any chance of a cessation of hostilities.
Hugh gravely shook his head.
"His Majesty is greatly incensed against the Barons. He would scarce listen with patience whilst the letter was being read. Had it been brought by others than Bishops, I fear me he would not even have heard it. His brother sat beside him, and in scorn he declared that he alone claimed the full sum offered by the Barons, as indemnity against his own personal losses. He and the Prince were equally indignant with the King; and whilst his Majesty dictated the terms of a wrathful letter in which he defies the Earls, and throws back their allegiance and their oaths of fidelity in their teeth, the Prince and his uncle together wrote another letter even more haughty and insulting than the one composed by the King, calling the Earls of Leicester and Gloucester 'faithless traitors,' and I know not what besides, and hurling defiance at them in a fashion than can but lead to one end. There will be no avoiding a battle now!"
Jack's eyes lighted with triumph, but Hugh spoke sorrowfully. He loved the Prince, and he felt bound to the royal standard by his duty as a subject. But the cause was not dear to his heart. Henry was not a monarch to inspire either confidence or love, and his embracing the cause of his foreign favourites—against whom this movement was really directed—and telling his own English Barons that any opposition to them was opposition to him, and that their quarrel was his, rendered him but a pitiful creature in the eyes even of those who desired to serve him loyally and well. None could stand near the royal presence without being continually galled and chafed by seeing aliens and sycophants preferred to honest and noble subjects of the realm. Hugh had had a fair insight of late into the methods of the King, and his heart was somewhat heavy within him at the thought of what must lie before the kingdom if the issues of the day should be favourable to the royal cause.
"If only the Prince were King!" he breathed. "He is hot and rash now, stirred up to filial emulation in his father's cause; but his heart is true and his judgment sound. Were he to be at the head of the state, we should not have to groan as we are groaning now."
And then turning suddenly away to another subject, he asked news of Linda, where and how his comrades had seen her last, and if she were still safe in the care of the Constable.
"Yes, and like a sister to Mistress Alys," answered Leofric. "I trow she is safe from any threatened peril there. But we have heard and seen naught of her foes since they were driven forth from the city by the Chancellor. I misdoubt me if they will ever seek to return."
"And Lotta—is aught known of her?" asked Hugh.
"She dwells with her parents yet," answered Leofric. "I seldom see her; but Gilbert Barbeck tells me sometimes of her. She refused to visit Linda in the Castle, and spoke fierce words which show that her heart is yet bitter within her. But more than that I know not. She was always a strange creature. Her own mother knows not how to deal with her."
"Some say she hath a familiar spirit, and some that she is mad, which perhaps is one and the same thing," said Jack. "All I know is that she looks at you with eyes that burn like live coals. Methinks she has been dabbling with Tito's evil books. If she takes not care, she may be ducked or burnt as a witch yet!"
But this was scarce time or place to dwell on private topics. Little doubt could now exist that they were on the eve of a great battle. Hugh looked regretfully into Leofric's eyes as they clasped hands before parting.
"I would we could fight side by side, instead of in hostile camps," he said; "but when this cloud of evil and misery has swept by, I trust that we may be comrades once again, in Oxford or elsewhere."
"To be sure! to be sure!" cried cheery Jack. "Let once the King be brought to reason, and all those vile foreigners sent back to their own country, and our good Earl (foreigner though he be in race, yet not at heart) at the head of his Council, then we shall forget our troubles and feuds, and all will go merry as a marriage-bell."
Yet for the moment there was nothing of merriment in the hearts of men, but a stern nerving of themselves for coming strife.
Leofric and Jack were met by the news that the King had received the embassy with coldness and hostility, and had sent back an answer so insulting and uncompromising that nothing was now thought of but the appeal to arms.
Leofric, going in search of Amalric, found himself in the midst of an earnest gathering of knights and nobles, and heard the clarion voice of De Montfort raised in solemn protest.
"By the arm of St. James, I have done all that man can do to keep the peace of the realm and my oath of allegiance. Be the result of this day's work upon the head of his Majesty! He has brought all upon himself. I would have saved him from it if I could."
The Earl had had a presentiment, of which he had spoken before, that May was to be a fortunate month for him, and an unlucky one for the King. He went about amongst his people now with a look of serene courage upon his face; and whilst stimulating them to do their best in the coming fight, he urged them not to forget that their foes were also their brothers, and that they must show mercy to the vanquished in the day of victory.
A sense of great seriousness and earnestness prevailed in the ranks of the Barons. They trusted their cause to the God of battles, assured of its righteousness, and inspired by a religious as well as a patriotic zeal. Many friars were with them, encouraging them by their presence, and filling their hearts with fervent and pious thoughts. The soldiers regarded their cause as a holy crusade against tyranny and slavery, and in token of this feeling they fastened upon their arms a white cross, as an outward mark of their faith. In a battle with their own countrymen some such sign might be needed to distinguish friend from foe. A stern enthusiasm filled all hearts, and the confidence of the soldiers in their leader was unfaltering.
De Montfort had won great renown as a soldier in Gascony, and his troops had implicit faith in his powers. Moreover he set them an example even in faith and piety; for upon the eve of the battle he spent the night in prayer, whilst the Bishop of Worcester—one of the emissaries to the King, and himself a notable patriot, Walter de Cantilupe by name—rode through the ranks, and urged the men to confess their sins and receive absolution, that they might ride forth upon the morrow in the full assurance that the power of God was with them.
Early upon the morning of the fourteenth of May, before the sun had risen, the army of the Earl set itself in battle array, and prepared for the march. In sight of all his men De Montfort bestowed the honour of knighthood upon his brother-in-arms and brother Earl the young Earl Gilbert of Gloucester, and two others; after which, with brave hearts and cheery faces, the men marched in capital order towards that very crest of rising ground from which a few days before Leofric and Jack had looked down upon the town and Priory of Lewes, when the Bishops had gone forth with their embassy.
Since his accident in the winter, the Earl of Leicester had not been able to ride as much as formerly, and he had a litter in which he was carried. In that he travelled as far as this halting-place, although he was to mount his charger during the battle. His litter would, however, be kept in readiness upon the field, in the event of his requiring it; and it was to remain beside the standard upon which his arms waved proudly. For the nonce, instead of himself or any of his own followers occupying it, there were placed inside for security those four traitors of London who had once plotted his destruction, and who had been hostages in his hands ever since. These men, bound, were placed in the litter when it was vacated by De Montfort in favour of the charger now led up for him to mount.
But before doing so, the Earl turned to his soldiers, and addressed them in his clear, ringing tones,—
"Beloved comrades and followers, we are about to enter upon battle to-day in behalf of the Government of the kingdom, to the honour of God and of our mother Church, and moreover for the maintenance of our faith. Let us pray for grace and vigour, that we may overpower the malice of our enemy. Since we are His, to Him we commend our bodies and souls." With these words he fell upon the ground, stretching out his arms in the form of a cross, all his soldiers following his example, whilst the Bishops cried aloud,—
"Grant us, O Lord, our desire of a glorious victory, to the honour of Thy name."
Then the battle was set in order, and Leofric and Jack found themselves placed in the right wing, which was to be led by Henry de Montfort, with Guy and Amalric as his assistants. The centre was under the command of the newly-made knight, Gilbert of Gloucester, who was to show his valour to-day. The left wing was composed mainly of the Londoners, many of whom had never seen war. They were commanded by three young nobles of known courage. As for De Montfort himself, he took up a position where he could watch the progress of the fight, and give help to that portion of the army which seemed most to require it.
The situation was a good one, on rising ground; and the tents and baggage were piled on the crest of the hill, where the banner of De Montfort floated by the side of his vacated litter.
They had marched rapidly, in order to surprise the King's party; but warning had reached them, and already there was a great stirring in the hollow, which was alive with bands of soldiers being drafted into position.
Jack looked down with kindling eyes and flushed cheeks, and almost immediately a strange sort of roar began to run through the ranks. The cause of this excitement appeared to be the banner which had just been unfurled in the royalist ranks.
"The red dragon! the red dragon!"
Leofric and Jack looked wonderingly at each other.
"What mean they by that? What is the red dragon?" they asked. And Amalric, looking over his shoulder with a stern, set face, made reply,—
"When the ensign of the red dragon is unfurled in the ranks of the King, it is the sign that no quarter is to be given. We are to be slaughtered like sheep in the shambles if it pleases Heaven to give our foes the victory."
At the sound of those words a strange murmur ran through the ranks. Men gripped their sword-hilts hard, and set their teeth with a sense of iron resolution, and an indignation which would go far to win the day.
The field was in motion. The quick eyes of those posted upon the hillsides saw that the royalists had begun to move. Prince Edward on the right, was bearing vehemently upon their left wing, which consisted of the London levies. The Prince had been bitterly angry with the men of London ever since they had stoned and insulted his mothers barge, as she tried to escape by water from the Tower, but was driven ignominiously back by the citizens, who hated her for her many extortionate charges upon the city. Now he was rushing furiously against his foes, who wavered before the charge of trained horsemen. But no more of that could Leofric and Jack see, for at this moment their own ranks were called upon to move forward, and, behold, the battle had begun!
The King's brother, Richard of Cornwall, King of the Romans, was leading his forces against them. In another moment the rival armies had met with a crash of arms. There was a stifling sense of pressure, and then a recoil; whilst over the heads of their own men came hurtling showers of stones cast from above at their assailants, and soon the closely-serried ranks both of friends and foes were a little broken and scattered, whilst man met man and horse charged horse in the indescribablemêléeof a hand-to-hand battle.
Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, rode Amalric, Leofric, and Jack. They felt rather than saw the recoil of their foes, who at first had been pressing upon them with such fiery vehemence. Charging down the hill, they met the answering charge of mail-clad warriors; but the slope of the field was in their favour, and they hewed them down and routed them, despite the fiery resistance they met.
They were down upon the level now, and before them stood the serried ranks of the centre of their foes' army behind which floated the red dragon, marking the spot where the King himself was posted.
But from behind, the ranks of the young De Montforts had been reinforced by the contingent commanded by the Earl himself, and the knowledge that their great leader was with them and amongst them seemed to turn to steel the muscles of the soldiers, and with shouts and cries of fury and anticipated triumph they hurled themselves again and again against these opposing warriors, till at last they felt the solid wall give way before them, and with a yell that rent the firmament they dashed into the breach.
"For God and Earl Simon! for God and Earl Simon!" was the cry upon the lips and in the hearts of the soldiers as they felt the breaking up of their royalist foes.
Leofric had been fighting might and main, blindly sometimes, and breathlessly, yet with a skill and fury which surprised even himself. Suddenly he began to feel everything swimming around him. He had been conscious of no wound, but he saw that his blood was flowing fast. If he fell in the midst of thismêlée, he must surely be trodden to death in a moment. But he was becoming so faint that he scarce cared what became of him, when he suddenly felt an arm cast about him, and heard a voice say in his ear,—
"Hold up, good comrade, hold up! I will get thee out of this. The victory is won! The King is wounded and in full flight! We may quit the battlefield with glory now. The day is ours!"
An hour or two later Leofric opened his eyes to find himself lying in a tent, amid a number of other wounded men, the honest face of Jack bending over him with kindly solicitude and concern.
"How goes the day?" he asked, as soon as he could find voice; and Jack's face beamed all over as he replied,—
"Why, right gloriously! The King's forces are routed. He has taken shelter in the Priory. The King of the Romans has shut himself up in a windmill, whence he has been besieged by our men, who will shortly have him out—treacherous Richard, as all call him, who once called himself the Barons' friend. I trow there be no man in all the kingdom more hated than he!"
"And the Prince?" asked Leofric, striving to sit up in his excitement, but finding himself exceeding weak.
"Why, the Prince might have made things worse for us, had he been as wise as he is brave. He routed the London wing, but pursued them so furiously and so far that whilst he was slaying and hacking the fortunes of the day went against his father. Then on his return, ere he knew this, he set his men against the litter which stood beside the standard, and where he thought to find our great Earl seated. His men came furiously up the crest of the hill, and surrounding the litter began to cry out, 'Come forth, come forth, Simon, thou evil one; come forth from that litter, thou worst of traitors!' And at last, getting no response, they broke open the litter, and in the confusion which followed, all the four hostages, men of their own party, were hacked to death by their own friends!"
"Poor creatures!" said Leofric, with compassion; "that was a gruesome fate. But what did the Prince next?"
"He made a circuit to get to his own side of the plain once more, and only a while back was about to make a sally; but the Earl sent proposals for a truce, and these were accepted: for indeed what could even so brave a Prince do, with a band of men exhausted by fighting and marching, and dispirited to the verge of despair by the knowledge that the cause was lost?"