At early morn Oliver was aroused from a pleasant dream of gay and sunny Castille by a knock at the door of his chamber, and Wolf, the varlet, entered.
“My young master,” said the boy, “the Norman lord is already astir and impatient for thy coming; and since it seems that go to the king’s court thou must—be thou willing or unwilling—I would that I could be permitted to go in thy company.”
“Nay, Wolf, boy,” replied Oliver sadly, “that cannot be. Besides, I know not into what dangers you might be led. For myself, I would ten times rather take my chance again face to face with the Moors and the French than risk all I dread. I know not what snare I may fall into, and your presence would but encumber me in case of the worst.”
Wolf smiled. “Heardest thou never,” asked he, “of the mouse that gnawed the toils of the lion, and set the lion free?”
“I know the fable,” answered Oliver, “and I comprehend your meaning. But I fear me that if I am caught in the toils they will be too tough for thy teeth. So no more of this. Whatever danger may await me I must face alone. But be of good cheer. Should fortune befriend me, as she may chance to do, I will forthwith send for you. Meanwhile, see to my good steed Ayoub, that he be fitly caparisoned to take the road when it pleases my Norman kinsman to place his foot in the stirrup. Begone!”
IHAVEmentioned that, long before Oliver Icingla retired to rest on Christmas Eve, the “Yule log” was placed on the hearth in the old hall of Oakmede. It was an important ceremony with the English of that generation—a ceremony the consequences of which they did not lightly regard. If the log continued to burn during the whole night and through all the ensuing day, the fact of its burning was deemed a happy prognostic for the family; if it was consumed or extinguished, the circumstance of its consumption or extinction was regarded as ominous of evil. Great, therefore, was the consternation in the home of the Icinglas when it was discovered, on the morning of Christmas Day, that the “Yule log” lay on the hearth half consumed, but burning no longer; and the intelligence on being conveyed to Dame Isabel filled her mind with the most gloomy forebodings as to the fate of her son; for the Norman lady, after living long among Saxons, had caught all their superstitions, and she had brooded so long in solitude over her sorrows that she had grown more superstitious than the Saxons themselves.
Oliver Icingla was not much influenced by omens. Still his mind was ill at ease, and he did not think of his journey and its destination without considerable apprehension of suffering for the sake of a kinsman for whom, after the conversation of the previous evening, he had less liking than ever, and on whose conduct he looked with grave suspicion. No sign of apprehension, however, did he allow to escape him; but, having made the necessary preparations for his departure, and instructed Wolf, the varlet, to have the black steed saddled and bridled, he indicated his readiness to take the road as soon as it was De Moreville’s will and pleasure to set forth for London. Grim, haughty, and evincing no inclination to renew the irritating discussion that had been so unpleasantly interrupted, the Norman baron only replied by a nod, but immediately issued such orders as speedily brought his men-at-arms, mounted, into the courtyard, one of them leading the baron’s charger, harnessed and caparisoned.
Before Oliver Icingla departed under De Moreville’s auspices, Dame Isabel, having taken leave of her son, summoned her kinsman to her presence in language which made the haughty Norman soliloquise in a strain much less complimentary to womankind than quite became a man who wore golden spurs and had taken the vows of chivalry.
“Kinsman,” began the lady, taking his hand and keenly scrutinising his countenance as she spoke, “you are about to conduct my son to a place where I cannot but think that he will be much exposed to peril. Bear in mind that I do hold you answerable should evil in consequence befall him.”
“Madame,” replied De Moreville, averting his face with an impatient gesture, “your fears master your judgment.”
“I place my chief affiance in God,” continued the lady, “and my next in you as my kinsman; so deceive me not.”
“Fear nothing, madam,” replied De Moreville, his heart slightly touched; “your son will be as safe as in your own hall.”
“Answer me this question, then,” said Dame Isabel in an earnest and excited tone. “Is it true, or is it not true, that when Llewellyn of Wales gave twenty-eight sons of Welsh chiefs to King John as surety for his good faith, and when Llewellyn afterwards broke into rebellion, King John caused the hostages to be hanged at Nottingham?”
De Moreville was perplexed in the extreme. He felt that he was in a dilemma. If he answered “Yes,” what would that woman think but that he was leading her son away as a sheep is led to the slaughter? If he answered “No,” how pitiful and contemptible would seem the policy of himself and the confederate barons, who had industriously propagated a rumour so damaging to the king’s character for humanity! In his embarrassment De Moreville remained silent.
“My lord, why answer you not?” exclaimed the lady in peremptory accents. “I ask again, is it true, or is it not true, that the Welsh hostages were hanged by command of the king?”
“Madam,” replied De Moreville, when thus pressed, “I know not. I have heard, indeed, that they were hanged, but I cannot speak with certainty as to the truth of the rumour.”
Dame Isabel raised her eyes imploringly to heaven, changed colour, and fell swooning into the arms of her women. Ereshe recovered, De Moreville had gained the courtyard, mounted his charger, and, with Oliver riding mutely by his side, taken his way slowly up the glade and over the frost-bound sward towards the great northern road.
And Oliver’s heart was sad; and as he turned his head to look once more at the home of his fathers he could not help contrasting his departure with that which had taken place when, full of life, and hope, and ambition, he left Oakmede, after a brief visit, to embark for Spain. But as the horsemen set their faces towards London his spirits began to rise, for everywhere that day the signs and sounds of joy and rejoicing met the eye and ear, and the faces of the populace of every village and hamlet through which they passed wore an expression of contentment and jollity.
In the reign of King John, indeed, as in modern days, no national holiday nor any festival of the Christian Church was the occasion of so much merriment and festivity in England as Christmas. Even May Day, when the inhabitants of every town and village “brought the summer home,” and lads and lasses danced with jocund glee around the maypole, and even Midsummer Eve, or the vigil of St. John the Baptist, when great fires were kindled to typify the saint of the day, who has been described as “a burning and shining light,” were held to be of quite inferior importance by the people over whom the Plantagenets reigned. Nowhere throughout Europe was Christmas so joyously and so thoroughly celebrated. Other nations in Christendom did, indeed, show their respect for the anniversary of their Redeemer’s birth with sincere and praiseworthy enthusiasm. But between England and other countries there was this remarkable distinction, that while foreigners commemorated the annually returning season chiefly with devotional exercises, Englishmen of all ranks gave themselves up to jollity, and good fellowship, and good cheer.
No sooner, indeed, did the Christmas holidays, after being long wearied for, arrive, than, from Cornwall to the borders of the Tweed, labour ceased and care was thrown to the winds, and from end to end the land rang with gladness and song. On St. Thomas’s Day began the nocturnal music called “waits,” which continued till Christmas, and everywhere carols were trolled and masquerades performed. The towns assumed a sylvan aspect, and the churches were convertedinto leafy tabernacles, and in the streets standards were set up and decked with evergreens, and around them young and old danced joyously to music.
Nor was it only in streets and public places that mirth and joviality prevailed. Far otherwise was the case. The houses were decked with branches of holly and ivy for the occasion, and in the abodes of the wealthy, at least, there was no lack of good cheer. Amid frolic and jest large and luxurious dishes were not forgotten or neglected, especially the boar’s head, which was brought to the board and placed thereon in a large silver platter to the sound of musical instruments. But the good cheer was by no means confined to the wealthy. Even the poorest did not on such a day lack the opportunity of being blithe and merry.
Nevertheless Christmas did not pass without its terrors to the superstitious—in that, as in every age, a large proportion of the population. It was believed that at night demons were abroad and on the watch for their prey, and that men were suddenly metamorphosed into wolves, who were called “were-wolves,” and who raged more fiercely against the human race and all creatures not fierce by nature than even the ferocious animals whose shape they were made to assume, attacking houses, tearing down the doors, destroying the inmates, descending into the cellars, drinking mead and beer, and leaving the empty casks heaped one upon another.
In broad daylight, however, and especially where men assembled in crowds to celebrate Christmas, neither the bold nor the timid, who were superstitious, cared much for preternatural terrors; and as Hugh de Moreville and Oliver Icingla entered Ludgate and ascended the hill, and passed the spot where the grand church since known as Old St. Paul’s was about to rise from the ruins of the Temple of Diana, no thought of demons or of were-wolves damped the enjoyment of the Londoners. And loud was the mirth and high the excitement of the populace as through the crowded streets, where standards pierced the sky and evergreens waved and rustled in the frosty atmosphere, slowly and with stately tread rode the Norman baron and the English squire till they reached the Tower, and reined up their steeds, and halted before the great fortress of the metropolis.
ASSOCIATEDin the minds of Englishmen with traditions of the Roman conquest of Britain, and with the history of the Norman conquest of England, the Tower of London frowned gloomily, and almost menacingly, on the capital which it had been reared to protect against possible invaders. Indeed, by the Londoners the Tower was regarded with a suspicious eye as a stronghold which might, when occasion served, be used by the rulers of England against their subjects, and especially against the city, which was in the habit of assuming the airs of a free republic in the very face of a monarchy, too proud even to submit, without manifest impatience, to the feudal and ecclesiastical trammels in which it had been involved since the Conquest. But never had the feeling of jealousy been stronger, or more likely to find expression in words, and lead to consequences dangerous to the throne, than at the period when King John kept his Christmas in the Tower, and when Hugh de Moreville, accompanied by Oliver Icingla, presented himself at the great gate to the west of the building, and demanded to be admitted.
It was at this moment that De Moreville, turning on his saddle, and looking Oliver full in the face, took occasion to refer to the subject which, on the previous evening, had kindled the Saxon’s ire, and brought the conversation to a sudden close, and on which they had not once touched, even distantly, during their journey.
“Young man,” said the Norman baron grimly, and with frowning brow, “I would fain have so instructed you to act your part within these walls that your residence at the king’s court might have proved to your own advantage, and for the welfare of others; but my friendly intent has been baffled by your heat and unreasonable pride. One question, however, on the subject ere we part. You have rejected my counsel. May I ask if, under the influence of temptation or threats, you are capable of betraying it?”
“My lord, may God and the saints forbid!” answered Oliver hastily. “Whatever was spoken on the subject wasspoken in confidence, and the brave man does not betray the guest seated at his board, and under the rose on his own roof-tree. I pledge my word—I swear to you. But it needs not. You have the honour of an Icingla on which to rely, and the honour of an Icingla is of more worth, in such a case, than assurances or oaths. I have said.”
“It is well,” said De Moreville, who, in spite of his efforts to appear calmly indifferent, could not conceal the relief which he experienced as he listened. “But deem not,” added he, “that I fear aught for myself, or that any breach of confidence on your part could pass unpunished. Breathe within these walls but one word of what I spake with your welfare in view, and, by St. Moden, your doom is fixed!”
As De Moreville spoke the massive gates were thrown open, and the baron and the squire rode into the courtyard, and, dismounting, surrendered their steeds to the attendants.
“Follow me,” said De Moreville, somewhat contemptuously, “and I will conduct you to the king’s presence. I trust,” added he, with a smile of peculiar significance, “that you will find his company more to your taste than mine. Nay, blanch not. Arthur of Brittany found him a kind uncle, and Arthur’s sister, Eleanor the Fair, who pines as a captive in Bristol Castle, has reason to bless his name.”
Oliver shuddered at De Moreville’s tone and manner; and, as the baron’s words sank instantly and deeply into his heart, visions of the dungeon and the gallows rose before his imagination. Not more gloomy could have been his presentiments had some magician, supposed capable of foretelling the future, whispered in his ear the warning inscribed by the Florentine poet over the portals of the infernal regions, “Leave all hope behind.”
But he had now gone too far either to draw back or hesitate; and with a heart as sad as if he had been entering the fabled hall of Eblis, he followed his Norman kinsman till he found himself within the walls which were subsequently so richly adorned by the artists who flourished under the patronage of Henry of Winchester and Eleanor of Provence with the story of Antiochus, but which, in the days of John, were less tastefully decorated.
It was near the hour of dinner, and the king and his courtiers were about to feast in a way worthy of the season and the day; and the great hall of the Tower was crowdedwith lords of high rank and ladies of rare beauty. Rich and splendid were the dresses which they wore. Indeed, accustomed as Oliver had been for a brief period to the court of Castile, the scene now presented would, under ordinary circumstances, have dazzled his eye and raised his wonder. Courtiers with long hair artificially curled and bound with ribbons, and wearing jewelled gloves and gay mantles, and full flowing robes, girded at the waist with richly-ornamented belts, talked affectedly to ladies not less gaily, but more gracefully, dressed than the other sex, and wearing round the waist girdles sparkling with gold and gems.
But all this display made little impression on Oliver as De Moreville led him to the upper end of the hall; for there, occupying an elevated chair of oak, carved and ornamented, sat a person who eclipsed all present in the magnificence of his attire, and awed all present by an air of superiority which long years of power and authority had made part of himself. He was about fifty years of age, and his hair was grey, almost white; and his countenance was that of a man who had suffered much from care and regret—perhaps something also from remorse. But he was still vigorous, and his form, which, though not tall, was strong and compact, appeared still capable of enduring fatigue in case of necessity. His raiment was gorgeous, and literally glistened and shone with precious stones. He wore a red satin mantle embroidered with sapphires and pearls, a tunic of white damask, with a girdle set with garnets and sapphires; while the baldric, that crossed from the left shoulder to sustain his sword, was set with diamonds and emeralds, and his white gloves were ornamented, one with a ruby, the other with a sapphire. Such were the aspect and dress of him who, surrounded by courtiers and jesters, lorded it over the gay and somewhat gaudy company which kept the Christmas of 1214 in the Tower of London.
As Hugh de Moreville and Oliver Icingla, guided by a gentleman attached to the royal household, walked up the hall and approached the elevation of the daïs, this personage, whose array was so magnificent, and whose air was so imperious, turned round and directed, first at one and then at the other, a glance which indicated so clearly that his sentiments towards them were the very reverse of favourable, that Oliver halted in alarm, and for a moment or two stoodstaring wildly before him with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Before him, and regarding him with a scowl which would have made even nobler and more refined features unpleasant to look upon, and with an eye that glared on him as the tiger glares when about to spring on its victim, was the prince for the sake of whose crown he had scorned the friendship of Fitzarnulph and defied the enmity of De Moreville. It was the man to whose tender mercies he was now to be intrusted. It was King John.
ONthe 27th of May, 1199, the Abbey of Westminster was the scene of an impressive ceremony. On that day, and in that edifice, a man of thirty-two years of age was solemnly crowned King of England, and took the oaths to govern justly. He had seen much of life, enjoyed considerable experience in affairs of state, and was not deficient in intellectual culture. Moreover, he had the advantage of a healthy and vigorous frame, and of a countenance sufficiently well formed to be thought handsome. But on his face there appeared an expression, now of dissolute audacity, now of sullen temper, which might have made an intelligent spectator presage that, ere long, the cry of “Long live the king!” would give way to the stern shout of “Death to the tyrant!”
The personage who had the distinction of being on that memorable occasion “the observed of all observers” was John of Anjou, the youngest of the five sons who sprang from the marriage of the second Henry and Eleanor of Guienne. Of the five sons, four had gone the way of all flesh. William died in childhood; Henry died of fever while in rebellion against his father; Geoffrey was trampled to death while taking part in a tournament at Paris; Richard expired of a mortal wound inflicted by the arrow of Bertrand de Gordon, while he was besieging the castle of Chalus; and John, as the survivor, claimed not only the kingdom of England, but that vast Continental empire which the first of ourPlantagenet kings had extended from the Channel to the Pyrenees.
Matters, however, did not go quite smoothly; nor was John without a rival. Some months after his elder brother, Geoffrey, was killed in the tournament at Paris, Geoffrey’s widow, Constance of Brittany, gave birth to a son, to whom the Bretons, in honour of the memory of their mythical hero, gave the name of Arthur. King Richard was well inclined towards his nephew, and anxious to educate the boy to succeed him. But Constance, a weak and somewhat vicious woman, refused to place her son in the custody of Cœur de Lion, who, in consequence, recognised John as his heir. Nevertheless, on Richard’s death, the people of Anjou and Brittany proclaimed young Arthur as their sovereign; and Constance, carrying him to the court of Paris, placed him under the protection of Philip Augustus. But Philip, after making great professions, and promising to give Arthur one of his daughters in marriage, concluded a treaty with John in 1200, and, without scruple, sacrificed all the boy’s interests.
And now John’s throne seemed secure; and both the crown of England and the coronal of golden roses—the diadem of Normandy—sat easily on his brow; but at this juncture his indiscretion hurried him into a matrimonial project which cost him dear.
It was the summer of 1200, and John made a progress through Guienne to receive the homage of that province. In Angoulême, at a great festival given in his honour, his eye was attracted and his imagination captivated by Isabel, daughter of the count of that beautiful district—a lovely nymph not more than sixteen. John became passionately enamoured; and as “maidens, like moths, are caught by glare,” Isabel to be “a crowned queen” was “nothing coy.” It is true that there were serious obstacles in the way of a matrimonial union. John had previously been married to a daughter of the Earl of Gloucester, and Isabel affianced to Count Hugh de la Marche. But the obstacles were not deemed insuperable; for the Church had forbidden John to take home his bride, on account of their nearness of kin; and he, as sovereign of Angoulême, had power to break the link which bound the fair heiress to the man to whom she had been betrothed. Moreover, the parents of the young lady encouraged John’s passion; and, all difficulties having been gotover for the time being, John and Isabel were united at Bordeaux, and sailed for England. On their arrival a grand council was held at Westminster; and Isabel of Angoulême, having been acknowledged as queen, was formally crowned by the Archbishop of Canterbury.
So far all went smoothly. But, ere a year elapsed, the royal pair were alarmed with rumours of a formidable confederacy. Hugh de la Marche, who had, not without indignation, learned that his affianced bride was handed over to another, first challenged John to mortal combat, and, on the challenge being declined, took up arms to avenge the wrong he had sustained. Accompanied by his tender spouse, John repaired to the Continent to defend his dominions, and visited the court of Paris. Philip Augustus received and entertained the King and Queen of England with royal magnificence, and professed the strongest friendship. But no sooner had they turned their backs than Philip, who was a master of kingcraft, resolved on John’s ruin, and allied himself closely with John’s foes.
It would seem that the darling object of Philip Augustus was to make France the great monarchy of Europe; and he was bent, therefore, on humbling the pride and appropriating the Continental territory of the Plantagenets. In the days of Henry and of Richard, Philip’s efforts had been almost barren of results. But against an adversary like John he had little doubt of achieving substantial successes, and of being able to seize the territory which had gone from the kings of France with Eleanor of Guienne. While John, under the impression that Philip was his stanch friend, was parading, with indiscreet bravado, before the eyes of his Continental subjects, Philip recalled Arthur of Brittany, now fifteen years of age, to the French court, and again espoused his cause.
“You know your rights,” said Philip, “and you would like to be a king?”
“Assuredly I would,” answered the boy.
“Well,” said Philip, “I place two hundred knights under your command. Lead them into the provinces which are your birthright, and I will aid you by invading Normandy.”
At the head of a little army Arthur raised his banner, and, marching into Guienne, boldly attacked Mirabeau, where his grandmother, Queen Eleanor, was then residing, andsucceeded in taking the town. But Eleanor, retreating to the citadel, defied the besiegers, and sent to inform John of her peril.
At that time John was in Normandy, and, without loss of a day, he marched to his mother’s rescue, entered Mirabeau in the night, totally routed his enemies, and, having taken Arthur prisoner, conveyed him to Falaise. From Falaise he was removed to Rouen, and soon after the body of a youth was seen by some fishermen of the Seine, ever and anon rising, as it seemed, out of the water, as if supplicating Christian burial. On being brought ashore the body was recognised to be that of Arthur of Brittany, and it was secretly interred in the Abbey of Bec.
Whether Arthur had been killed by King John and flung into the Seine, or whether he had fallen into the river and been drowned while attempting to escape from the castle of Rouen, remains an historic mystery. But neither the Bretons nor Philip Augustus expressed any doubt on the subject. Within a week after the tragical event the Bretons demanded justice on the head of the murderer; and Philip summoned John, as one of his vassals, to appear before the Twelve Peers of France, and answer to the charge. Without denying the jurisdiction of the court, John declined to appear unless granted a safe conduct; and, the Twelve Peers having pronounced sentence of death and confiscation, Philip took up arms to execute the sentence, and seized cities and castles in such numbers, that, ere long, John retained little or nothing of the Continental empire of the Plantagenets, save Bordeaux, and a nominal authority in Guienne. One effort he did make to redeem his fortunes. But, losing heart and hope, he abandoned the struggle, and, returning to England, entered on that contest with the Church which was destined to involve him in ruin.
In the year 1205, Hubert, Archbishop of Canterbury, departed this life, and in his place the monks of Canterbury elected Reginald, their prior, to the vacant see. The king, however, far from sanctioning their choice, insisted on elevating John Grey, Bishop of Norfolk, to the primacy; and the dispute between the monks and the crown was referred to Innocent III., one of those popes who, like Hildebrand and Boniface VIII., deemed it their mission “to pull down the pride of kings.” In order at once to show his impartialityand his power, Innocent set aside the man nominated by the monks and the man nominated by the king, and gave the archbishopric to Stephen Langton, a cardinal of English birth, who was then at Rome. The monks, in consequence, found themselves in an awkward predicament. However, they were under the necessity of doing as the Pope ordered. In vain they talked of their scruples and fears, and protested that they could do nothing without the royal sanction. When urged, only one monk stood firm; all the others, out of deference to the head of the Church, confirmed the nomination of Stephen Langton.
When John learned what steps had been taken in contravention to his authority, his rage knew no bounds; and, in his excitement, he bethought him of punishing the monks for their servility to the Pope. Accordingly he sent two knights to seize the convent and drive the monks out of their cloisters; and the unfortunate men were expelled at the point of the sword. But the king soon discovered that this had been rashly done. Indeed, the Pope no sooner became aware of his wishes being treated with such disrespect than he sent three bishops to threaten John and his kingdom with an interdict if he did not yield; and all the other bishops coming to the king, implored him on their bended knees to save himself from the evil that was threatened by accepting Stephen Langton as primate, and allowing their monks to return to their convent and take possession of their property. John stood upon his dignity, and refused to bend an inch. In vain Innocent demanded redress, and indulged in threats of bringing spiritual artillery into play. The king, who believed he had justice and law on his side, and who believed also that, if supported by his subjects, he had little to fear in a contest with the court of Rome, boldly answered with defiance; and at length, in 1208, Innocent laid the kingdom under interdict, preparatory to excommunicating the king, in the event of his continuing refractory.
The papal interdict plunged England in gloom, and caused the utmost consternation. The churches were closed; no bell was tolled in their steeples; no services were performed within their walls; and the sacraments were administered to none but infants and the dying. Marriages and churchings took place in the porches of churches; sermons were preached on Sundays in the churchyards; and the bodies of the deadwere interred silently and in unconsecrated ground. No bells summoned the living to their religious devotions, and no mass or prayer was offered for the souls of the departed. After this had continued for some time, Innocent finding that John gave no indications of a desire to yield, formally excommunicated the king, absolved his subjects from their allegiance, and exhorted all Christian princes to aid in dethroning him. Philip Augustus did not require much prompting. Willingly and readily he assembled a fleet at the mouth of the Seine, and mustered an army to invade England. John was exceedingly nervous about the future. Indeed, it is said that, in his alarm, he sent ambassadors to ask the aid of the Moorish King of Granada. If so, the mission came to nought. However, an English fleet crossed the Channel, and, after destroying the French squadrons in the Seine, burned the town of Dieppe, and swept the coast of Normandy. Even at that early period of our history, the naval power of England was not to be resisted.
It was, no doubt, regarded as a great triumph over the Pope and the King of France. Nevertheless, John was in no enviable frame of mind; for Innocent was bent on vengeance, and Philip Augustus showed the utmost eagerness to be the instrument of inflicting it. At the same time an enthusiast, known as Peter the Hermit, who fancied he had the gift of prophecy, predicted that, ere the Feast of Ascension, John should cease to reign; and the king, menaced by his barons, gave way to doubt and dread, and began to entertain the idea of saving himself by submitting. A way of reconciliation was soon opened.
It was the month of May, 1213, and John, then suffering from anxiety and ill health, was residing at Ewell, near Dover, when Pandolph, the papal legate, arrived in England, and sent two Knights of the Temple to ask a private interview with the king. “Let him come,” replied John; and Pandolph, coming accordingly, made such representations that the king promised to obey the Pope in all things, to receive Stephen Langton as primate, and to give complete satisfaction for the past. Of course, Pandolph expressed his gratification at the turn affairs were taking; and, after John had, in the Temple Church, at Dover, surrendered his kingdom to the Pope, and agreed to hold it as a fief of the Holy See, the legate passed over to France, and intimatedto Philip Augustus that the King of England was under the special protection of the Church, and that he was not to be meddled with. In fact, it now appeared that John had, by yielding to the papal power, freed himself from his troubles; and perhaps he flattered himself that he should henceforth govern in peace, and have everything his own way. If so, he was very much mistaken. Between the Plantagenet kings and the Anglo-Norman barons there had never existed much good feeling; and between John and the barons, in particular, there existed a strong feeling of hostility. Even when he was engaged in his contest with the Pope, the great feudal magnates of England gave indications of their determination to set the royal authority at defiance; and, ere the inglorious close of that contest, they had made up their minds either to rule England as they liked, or to plunge the country into a civil war. Affairs were rapidly approaching a crisis at the Christmas of 1214—that Christmas when Hugh de Moreville conducted Oliver Icingla as a hostage to the Tower of London.
FEWdays were merrier in ancient England than the first day of the year. Not so fatigued with the celebration of Christmas as to be incapable of continuing the festivity, the inhabitants—especially the young—welcomed the new year with uproarious mirth.
Even before the Saxon, or Dane, or Norman had set foot in Britain—even before the apostles of Christianity had found their way to our shores—the season had been the occasion of religious rites and observances. It is well known that, on the last night of the year, the Druids were in the habit of going into the woods, cutting the mistletoe off the oak with golden bills, bringing it next morning into the towns, distributing it among the people, who wore it as an amulet to preserve them from danger, and performing certain pagan rites, which were gradually turned by the early Church intosuch exhibitions as the “Fête des Fous,” performed by companies of both sexes, dressed in fantastic garments, who ran about on New Year’s Day, asking for gifts, rushing into churches during the services of the vigils, and disturbing the devout by their gestures and cries.
In England, on New Year’s Day, it was customary for every one who had it in his power to wear new clothes; and unfortunate was deemed the wight who had not the means that day of indulging in some luxury of the kind. Now, on the 1st of January in the year 1215—a year destined to be memorable in the annals of England—Wolf, the varlet, had been provided with garments more befitting the sobriety observed in the house of Dame Isabel Icingla than the scarlet striped with yellow, in which he had strutted at the court of Castile; and, prompted by the vanity natural to youth, he resolved on displaying his finery at the cottage inhabited by his father, Styr, the Anglo-Saxon.
And the cottage of Styr, which stood about a mile from Oakmede, was not without its pretensions. Indeed, it was a palace compared with the squalid huts in which most of the labouring peasantry of England then herded; for Styr, in his youth, had served the Icinglas with fidelity in peace and war, and they had not proved forgetful of his services. Moreover, it was rumoured that Styr had dealings with outlaws, and that, at times, he so far forgot himself as to take out his crossbow on moonlight nights with an eye to the king’s deer. But, however that may have been, food in abundance, and, on such occasions as holidays, good cheer in plenty, and tankards of foaming ale, were found under Styr’s roof; and he could tell of war and of battles, especially of that last battle in which Richard Cœur de Lion defeated Philip Augustus, and in which Edric Icingla fell with his back to the ground and his feet to the foe. Listening to stories of the past, and singing some songs he had learned in Spain, Wolf found the hours glide away rather swiftly, and the day was far spent when he rose to leave.
“And so, Wolf,” said Styr for the fifth or sixth time, “it is not, after all, to the wars to which the young Hlaford has gone?”
“No, in truth,” replied Wolf, quickly, “or, credit me, he would not have left me behind. Little better than a prisoner is he, mewed up in the gloomy Tower, like bird in cage.”
“But hark thee, Wolf,” said the old man, “and I will tell thee a secret. Forest Will, or Will with the Club, as they call him, passed this way not later than yesterday.”
“And who is this Forest Will—knowest thou, father?” asked Wolf, interrupting.
“Nay, lad, that is more than I can tell. Some say he is a great man whose life is forfeit to the law; others that he is a captain of forest outlaws. For my part, I know little more of him than do my neighbours; but this little I do know, that he is wondrous familiar with all that is doing, alike at the king’s court and the castles of the barons—ay, even in foreign parts—and he foretells that, ere the harvest is ready for the sickle, there will be war.”
“War in England?” said Wolf.
“Ay, war in England—and a bloody war to boot; and when swords are being drawn, King John will know better than to keep an Icingla from drawing his sword. Even mine must be scoured up if blows are to be going, and if King Harry’s son has to defend himself against the men who have done all but crush our race to the dust.”
And Styr bent his brows and clenched his hands as if eager for the battle, which, with the instinct of an old warrior, he scented from afar.
“Well, father,” said Wolf, “I hope it will all turn out for the best; but what if my master took into his head to fight on the other side?”
“What if an Icingla took into his head to fight for Norman oppressors against an English king, the heir of the Athelings!” cried Styr, repeating his son’s words. “Why, just this, that he might expect his ancestors to come out of their graves and cry ‘shame’ upon him.”
“May the saints forefend!” exclaimed Wolf, almost as much terrified as if the Saxon chiefs alluded to had appeared before him in their shrouds. “But, come what may, I must even take my departure, for the hour grows late, and Dame Isabel is somewhat strict in her rules.”
“The better for thee and others that live under the Hleafdian’s roof,” observed Styr.
It was about the fall of evening when Wolf left his father’s tenement to return to Oakmede, and he hurried through the woodland and over the crisp ground that he might reach the hall of the Icinglas before the hour of supper, then an importantmeal under the roof of vanquished Saxon as well as victorious Norman, and especially in seasons of festivity. Notwithstanding the anxiety he felt about Oliver Icingla, and the disappointment he had experienced in not being allowed to accompany the young squire to the court or into captivity—just as might turn out—Wolf’s heart was not heavy, and as he neared the old house of brick and timber, and anticipated the good cheer that awaited him, he began to believe that all would come right in the end, and whistled almost joyously as his spirits rose and he thought of the good time that was coming. Suddenly a hare crossed his path. “A bad omen,” said Wolf, who had all the superstitious feelings of his race and country; and scarcely had he thus briefly soliloquised when his steps were arrested by a huge white bulldog which growled menacingly in his face, and by the voice of a man who leant against the trunk of a leafless oak.
“Wolf, boy, where is thy master?” said the man. “I have not seen him once of late, albeit he was wont to seek my company often enough.”
Wolf turned to the speaker, and, as he found his sleeve grasped, appeared somewhat more awed than was reasonable at finding himself alone with such a person and in such a place, and he would have been still more so had it been an hour after dark.
He was, so far as could be judged from his appearance, not more than thirty-five—that age which has been called “the second prime of man”—and had nothing about him to daunt or terrify a youth who, like Wolf, had been in Spain, and watched eagerly while grim warriors engaged in mortal combat. Indeed, the expression of his countenance was frank, and even kindly, and to the ordinary eye would have been prepossessing, while his figure was tall and of herculean strength, with mighty limbs, the arms long and muscular. His dress was that which might have been worn by any forester or forest outlaw, and he had a bugle-horn at his girdle, to which also was attached a heavy club of iron, which was likely, in his hands, to do terrible execution whenever necessity or inclination made him use it. But, as I have said, there was nothing in his appearance to excite alarm. Nevertheless, Wolf gazed on him with an awe that every moment increased, for he had often seen this person before, and knewhim as Forest Will, or Will with the Club, whose existence was enveloped in mystery, but who was suspected of being a chief of outlaws, and by most people, particularly by Dame Isabel Icingla, deemed a dangerous man, with whom it was as impossible to hold converse without being led into mischief as to touch pitch without being defiled. Such being the case, Wolf felt almost as much alarmed as if Satan had suddenly started up in his path, and with difficulty mustered voice to say in a tremulous tone—
“I am in haste; I pray thee permit me to pass on my way.”
“Have patience and fear nothing,” said the man of the forest. “I asked thee what had become of thy master. I fain would see him.”
“May it please thee,” replied Wolf, after a pause, “my master has gone to the king’s court.”
“Gone to the king’s court! Oliver Icingla gone to the king’s court!” exclaimed the man of the forest, wonderingly. “What in the fiend’s name took him there?”
“In truth,” answered Wolf, slowly but gradually recovering his self-possession, “it was not of his own will that he went thither; but ‘needs must when the devil drives.’ He was conducted to the Tower of London as a hostage by his mother’s kinsman, the Lord Hugh de Moreville.”
“Ho, ho, ho!” cried the man of the forest, stamping his foot with anger and vexation; “I see it all. He is destined to feed the crows, if not saved by a miracle. I marvel much that a youth of his wit could be so blind as to be led by his false kinsman into such a snare. Hugh de Moreville,” he continued, speaking to himself, but still loud enough to be heard by Wolf, whose hearing was acute—“Hugh de Moreville gives Oliver Icingla to King John as a hostage for his good faith. Hugh breaks faith with the king and rises with the barons, and Oliver is hung up to punish Hugh’s perfidy, which is just what Hugh wants; and when peace is patched up between the king and the barons, and the past forgiven and forgotten, Hugh remains in undisputed possession of the castles and baronies, which otherwise he might one day have to surrender to the rightful heir at the bidding of the law. By the rood, this lord is wise in his own generation, and, doubtless, knows it; yet, had he asked my counsel, I could have shown him a less hazardous way to accomplish hiswishes; for Hugh has but one daughter, who is marvellous fair to look upon; and the Icinglas, whatever their pride and prejudices as to race, are as wax in the presence of Norman women of beauty and blood. What thinkest thou the life of Master Oliver Icingla may be worth,” asked he, again addressing Wolf, “now that he is securely mewed in the Tower?”
“I know not,” said Wolf, mournfully. “I would fain hope my lady’s son is in no real danger.”
“Your lady,” continued the man of the forest, with an air of careless indifference, “relished not the thought of her son holding so much discourse as he was wont to do with one like me. Was it not so?”
Wolf hesitated.
“Nay, boy, speak, and fear not. Knowest thou not it is good to tell truth and shame the devil?”
“In good sooth, then,” replied Wolf, at length yielding to the pressure of his questioner, “I know right well that my lady did much fear that her son might be tempted into some enterprise perilous to his life.”
“Even so,” said the man of the forest; “and it is ever in this way that women err as to the quarter where danger lies; and now her noble kinsman has led her son into far greater peril than he was ever like to be exposed to in my company.”
“I grieve to hear thee speak of his danger in such terms,” said Wolf, gloomily.
“Matters may yet be remedied,” continued the man of the forest, “and I own I would do much for thy master. Would that this false step of his could have been prevented! Better far that he had taken to the greenwood or to the caves in the rocks, or roamed the sea as a pirate, than gone to the Tower as hostage for a kinsman who to treachery adds the cunning of a fox and the cruelty of a tiger.”
And, releasing Wolf’s sleeve, Forest Will,aliasWill with the Club, turned on his heel, and, whistling on his dog, made for the forest, and disappeared.
Wolf, not much pleased with the interview, nor with himself for having been so confidential in his communications, pursued his way to Oakmede.
“On my faith,” said he to himself, as he came in sight of the house and breathed more freely, “that terrible man haswell-nigh scared all the blood out of my body. May the saints so order it that I see his face no more!”
Wolf’s prayer, however, was not to be granted. It was not the last time that his eyes were to alight on the man of the forest; in fact, that person was to cut rather a prominent figure in the exciting scenes which were about to be enacted in England.
IHAVEstated that between the Plantagenet kings of England and the Anglo-Norman barons there existed no particular sympathy; and considering who the Plantagenet kings were, and what was their origin, it need not be matter of surprise that they cherished something like an antipathy towards the feudal magnates whose ancestors fought at Hastings, and had their names blazoned on the grand roll of Battle Abbey.
It was in the ninth century, when Charles the Bald, one of the heirs of Charlemagne, reigned over France, that a brave and good man, named Torquatus, lived within the limits of the French empire, and passed his time chiefly in cultivating his lands and hunting in his woods. Torquatus had every prospect of living and dying in obscurity, without making his name known to fame. Happening, however, to be summoned to serve his sovereign in war, he gave proofs of such courage and ability that he rose high in the king’s favour, and was for his valuable services rewarded with a forest known as the “Blackbird’s Nest,” and continued to serve Charles the Bald so stoutly and faithfully in the wars with the sea kings, that, when living, he won much renown among his contemporaries, and, when dead, was distinguished by the monkish chroniclers as “another Cincinnatus.”
Tertullus, the son of Torquatus, inherited his father’s talent and prowess, and did such good work in his day that he was rewarded for his signal services to Charles the Bald with the hand of Petronella, the king’s kinswoman; and the heirs of Tertullus, ennobled by worthy exploits and by theirCarlovingian blood, became Counts of Anjou and hereditary High Stewards of France. In fact, they had risen to a very high position among the princes of Continental Europe when, in 1130, Fulke, Count of Anjou, mourning the loss of a wife whom he had dearly loved, went on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, wedded the heiress of one of the Baldwins, and ascended the throne which the early crusaders, under Godfrey of Bouillon, had set up in the holy city. But it was in England that the heirs of Torquatus and Tertullus were to figure most prominently, and it was with English history that their name was to be associated even as that of the Pope was with the Church.
Before setting out for the Holy Land, Fulke of Anjou bestowed his hereditary dominions on his son Geoffrey, a bold warrior and an accomplished gentleman, who, from wearing a sprig of flowering broom in his hat, instead of a feather, acquired the surname of Plantagenet. Fortune favoured Geoffrey of Anjou, and enabled him to form an alliance which made his descendants the greatest sovereigns in Christendom. Having attracted the attention and secured the friendship of Henry Beauclerc, King of England, he espoused Henry’s daughter, Maude, the young widow of an Emperor of Germany. Naturally it was supposed that Maude, as her father’s only surviving child, would succeed to England and Normandy on his death. But in that age the laws of succession were ill understood, and when Henry expired, his sister’s son, Stephen, Count of Bouillon, seized the English throne, and, notwithstanding a terrible civil war, contrived to keep it during his life. All Maude’s efforts to unseat him proved unavailing; and, weary of the struggle, she, about 1147, retired to the Continent, and endeavoured to console herself with sovereignty over Normandy.
But meanwhile Maude had become the mother of a son, who, as years passed over, proved a very formidable adversary. Henry Plantagenet was a native of Mantz, in Normandy, where he drew his first breath in 1133; but at an early age he was brought to England to be educated, and while passing his boyhood at Bristol, was made familiar with the country whose destinies he was one day to control. It was not, however, till, on the death of his father, he had become Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy, and, by his marriage with Eleanor of Guienne, Duke of Aquitaine andPoitou, that, in 1153, he landed in England with the determination of asserting his rights. At first a sanguinary struggle appeared imminent; but Stephen consented to a compromise, and, excluding his own son, acknowledged Henry as heir to the crown, stipulating, however, that he should wear it during his lifetime. Next year Stephen breathed his last, and Henry was crowned in the Cathedral of Winchester, which up to that date was regarded as the proper constitutional capital of England. A terrible task was before him.
At the time of Henry’s coronation the condition of England was wretched in the extreme. Never, even in the worst days of the Norman Conquest, had life and property been so insecure. The laws were utterly impotent to protect the weak against the strong, and the barons set truth, honesty, and humanity at defiance; and, unless history lies, nothing could have been more outrageous than the conduct of the men whose sons afterwards, when they perceived that it was expedient to get the nation over to their side, found it convenient to affect so high a regard for “justice and righteousness.”
“All was dissension, and evil, and rapine,” says the Saxon chronicle, speaking of the reign of Stephen. “The great men rose against him. They had sworn oaths, but they maintained no truth. They built castles which they held out against him. They cruelly oppressed the wretched people of the land with his castle work. They filled their castles with devils and evil men. They seized those whom they supposed to have any goods, and threw them into prison for their gold and silver, and inflicted on them unutterable tortures. Some they hanged up by the feet. They threw them into dungeons with adders, and snakes, and toads. They made many thousands perish with hunger. They laid tribute upon tribute on towns and cities.... The land remained untilled, and the poor starved. To till the land was to plough the sea.”
Such was the state of affairs with which the early Plantagenets had to deal, and such the men who, after having been cowed by the energy and genius of Henry and the vigour and courage of Richard, prepared to raise their banners and head their feudal array with the object of crushing John, whose imprudence and indolence made him amuch less formidable adversary than either his father or his brother would have been. Moreover, he stood charged with crimes and follies which made the most loyal Englishman half ashamed of the royal cause.
It was in the midst of his struggles with Philip Augustus that John was first involved in disputes with the barons, on account of their positive refusal to accompany him to the Continent. On this point the barons appear to have been somewhat unreasonable; and John treated them with such hauteur that they announced his bearing quite intolerable. Gradually matters grew worse; and when John was in the midst of his quarrel with the Pope, the barons, believing that the time for retaliation had arrived, espoused the papal cause, and formed a conspiracy for seizing the king, and giving the crown to Simon de Montfort, a French nobleman who afterwards gained an unenviable notoriety as leader of the crusade against the unfortunate Albigenses. Moreover, the barons took great credit with the Pope for having forced John to surrender his crown to the legate. But no sooner did Innocent signify his intention of supporting the king on his throne than the barons changed their tone, and made what political capital they could out of the humiliation which the king had brought upon England when he consented to become the vassal of Rome. Nor were other charges of a scandalous nature wanting to embitter the dispute and add to the exasperation. Almost every baron, in fact, had some complaint to make, and in particular the chiefs of the house of Braose, Fitzwalter, and De Vesci.
William de Braose was an Angevin noble of high rank, and Lord of Bramber, who unfortunately involved himself in a dispute with the crown about a debt which he would not or could not pay. At first De Braose was exiled to Ireland; but, having obtained the king’s sanction to travel through the country to make up the sum, which was forty thousand marks, he availed himself of his liberty to escape to the Continent. His wife and children, however, were not so fortunate. While at Galway, endeavouring to embark for Scotland, they were arrested, brought as prisoners to Windsor, and confined in the castle. While in captivity the whole family died, and it was generally rumoured that they had been inhumanly starved to death.
Robert Fitzwalter was one of the proudest nobles in England,and Lord of Baynard’s Castle, in London; and he had a daughter so celebrated for her beauty that she was called Maude the Fair. On this damsel John cast his eyes with evil intent. His advances were repelled. Maude the Fair died soon after, and the king was accused of having caused poison to be given to her in a poached egg.
Among Anglo-Norman barons, hardly one was more powerful than Eustace de Vesci, Lord of Alnwick, where he maintained great feudal state. Eustace had wedded Margery, daughter of William the Lion, King of Scots, and the Lady de Vesci was famous for her grace and beauty. Hearing of her perfections, the king contrived to get possession of her husband’s ring and sent it with a message that she was immediately to repair to court if she wished to see her lord alive. Not having the slightest suspicion, the lady at once set out in haste; but, when on her journey, she accidentally met her husband, and, with the utmost surprise on her countenance, told him of the ring and the message she had received. Comprehending the whole, De Vesci sent his lady home, and took such measures that the king in a violent rage vowed vengeance, and the Northern baron, fearing for his life, fled from London.
Naturally enough, such scandals tended to deepen the resentment which the barons of England felt towards their king; and when affairs approached a crisis, the foremost and most resolute among John’s enemies were Robert Fitzwalter and Eustace de Vesci.
It was in the summer of 1213 that matters began to assume such an aspect that the wise and prudent shook their heads and predicted a civil war. At that time John, bent on retrieving his disasters on the Continent, embarked for Jersey, after summoning the barons to follow. Instead of obeying, they assembled in London, and held a meeting at St. Paul’s with the primate, who was devoted to their interests. On this occasion Stephen Langton produced the charter which Henry Beauclerc had promised to grant at his coronation, and which was understood to embody the laws popularly known as “The Laws of King Edward.”
“My lords,” said the primate, “I have found a charter of King Henry, by which, if you choose, you may recall the liberties of England to their former state.”
Langton then read the document, and the barons responded with acclamations.
“Never,” exclaimed they with one voice, “has there been a fitter time than this for restoring the ancient laws.”
“For my part,” said Langton, “I will aid you to the uttermost of my power.”
And the primate having administered an oath by which they bound themselves to conquer or die, they dispersed.
Meanwhile John, having learnt what had taken place, landed from Jersey, and, with characteristic imprudence, began to ravage the lands of the malcontents with fire and sword. On reaching Northampton, however, he was overtaken by Langton, who protested loudly against the king’s conduct, and threatened him with retaliation.
“Archbishop, begone!” said John, sternly. “Rule you the Church, and leave me to govern the State.”
And, heedless of the warning, he carried the work of destruction as far as Nottingham.
But ere long events occurred which made John somewhat less confident. The defeat of his ally, the Emperor of Germany, at Bovines, ruined all his projects for recovering the ground he had lost on the Continent; and he was fain to conclude a peace with Philip Augustus on terms the reverse of flattering to his vanity, and return to England, where his enemies were every day becoming more determined to bring all disputes to a decisive issue.
No sooner, indeed, had the Christmas of 1214 passed, and the year 1215 begun its course, than the barons came to London with a strong military force, and demanded an interview with the king. At first John was inclined to ride the high horse, and refuse them an audience; but, learning that they were strongly attended, he deemed it politic to temporise, and met them at the house of the Knights of the Temple. On finding himself face to face with his adversaries, and on being handed a petition embodying their demands, which were by no means trifling in extent, John attempted to intimidate them; but finding that his attempts were ineffectual, he asked them to allow the business on which they had come to lie over till Easter, that he might have time to give it his deliberate consideration. The barons hesitated. At length, however, they consented to the delay on condition that Archbishop Langton and theEarl of Pembroke were sureties for the king’s good faith. The primate and the earl pledged themselves as was wished; and the king and the barons parted, each party distrusting the other, and vowing in their inmost souls never, while they had life and breath, to bate one jot or tittle of their pretensions.
OLIVERICINGLAdid not particularly relish his quarters in the Tower of London. At first, indeed, the sullen scowl with which he had been received by John, and the evident antipathy with which the king was disposed to regard him as a kinsman of Hugh de Moreville, rendered his residence in the great fortress of the metropolis the very reverse of agreeable. Even after he had made friends among the squires and gentlemen of the royal household, and began to feel more at home, he still found it impossible to think of himself otherwise than as a captive whom any outbreak on De Moreville’s part might have the effect of consigning to the jailer or the hangman.
At length public affairs, which every day assumed a more menacing aspect, and everywhere excited the utmost interest and speculation, brought William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, to the court; and Oliver Icingla, encouraged by the patronage of the great earl, who told him to “fear nothing, for no evil should befal him,” took heart, and learned to bear his lot with more patience. His position, however, was irksome; and, while all around were talking of the great events that were on the gale, and of the part which they expected to play therein, he durst not even calculate what the future might bring to him. Nevertheless he kept up his spirits, and indulged in the hope of fortune proving favourable; and he was coming to the conclusion that life in the Tower was not on the whole absolutely insupportable, when one morning, when winter had gone and spring had come, while walking in the gardens within the walls of the fortresshe was met by Robert, Lord Neville, a young nobleman of great possessions in the North, and a strong adherent of the royal cause.
“Master Icingla,” said Neville, kindly, “I grieve to see that you are more gloomy in your present position than your friends could desire, and I would fain do something, if I could, to make your life more cheerful. Now the king is about to ride forth to recreate himself with such sport as can be got in the forest of Middlesex; and, if it would pleasure you to be of the company, I doubt not my power to take you as my comrade.”
“My lord,” replied Oliver, to whom the invitation was a very pleasant surprise, “I thank you with all my heart. Nothing, in truth, would please me better than to have my foot once more in the stirrup, and to taste the pure air of the forest on whose verge I was reared.”
Neville smiled, as if pleased with the gratitude which his offer had excited; and the young lord, whose pride was so proverbial that he was nicknamed “The peacock of the North,” so managed matters, that, when he mounted in the courtyard of the Tower, where huntsmen and hounds were ready to accompany King John to the chase, Oliver Icingla had the satisfaction of vaulting on his black steed, Ayoub, to ride by his side.
At the same time John came forth with a hawk on his wrist, and amidst much ceremony mounted a white palfrey magnificently caparisoned. The king wore a splendid dress, and over it a scarlet mantle fastened with gems; for, from Geoffrey of Anjou to Richard III., every Plantagenet, with the exception of the first Edward, had a weakness for magnificence in the way of raiment; and John, like his son Henry, had the reputation of being the greatest dandy in his dominions. But, in spite of his royal state and his gorgeous attire, the king had the look of a man whose mind was ill at ease. The thoughtful German has said that the past or the future is written on every man’s countenance; and perhaps, as John that day rode away from the Tower, and through the narrow streets of London, and out of the gate that led to the great forest, tenanted by deer and haunted by the bear, and the boar, and the wild bull, an acute observer might have read on his face, as in a book, signs of the working of a mind clouded with presentiments of the fate which, in spiteof all his efforts and all his stratagems, was one day to overwhelm him in gloom and humiliation. But, if so, the melancholy was not contagious; and Lord Neville, at least, was gay as the lark at morn.
“Now, Master Icingla,” said the young noble, turning to his companion as they entered the forest, “you feel the better for this change of scene, and begin to think, after all, that life is life, and has its sweets?”
“On my faith, my lord, I do,” replied Oliver, with frank sincerity, “and beshrew me if I know how sufficiently to express my thanks to you, to whom I am indebted for a change so grateful to the heart and refreshing to the spirits.”
“Nay, no thanks,” said Neville, whose pride was great, but whose frankness was fully equal to his pride. “I am right well pleased to be of any service to you, and should look for as much at your hands were our positions reversed. I repeat,” continued he, more earnestly, “that I cannot but grieve to see you so gloomy, after what my Lord of Salisbury said of your deservings, and I sympathise in some measure with your melancholy; for I, like yourself, albeit bearing the surname of my Norman grandmother, am genuine English in the male line. But, after all, your captivity, if captivity it can be called, is by no means severe, or such as ought to break the spirit; not to mention that, like everything in this world, it will come to an end. In truth,” added the young lord, half laughing, “your kinsman, Hugh de Moreville, would seem to concern himself little how it ends with you, since it is rumoured—and I believe truly—that he has, under pretext of visiting the Castle of Mount Moreville, on the north of the Tweed, gone to the Scottish court at Scone, to tempt or bribe or bully Alexander, the young King of Scots, into an alliance with the confederate barons. So much for his good faith, for which you are a hostage!”
“Well, my lord,” replied Oliver, not without a change of colour and a thrill of blood to his heart, “I never flattered myself with the notion that De Moreville would have any scruples about sacrificing me if I stood in the way of his own interests. However, my kinsman may even do his worst, since fate has brought me to this pass. A man can die but once, and the time is in the will of God. Had I, indeed, my own will, my death should neither take place in a dungeon nor on the gallows-tree, but on field of fight.”
“Master Icingla,” said Neville, smiling kindly as he spoke, “take comfort, and be guided by me. You will doubtless live to see, and survive, many foughten fields if you are discreet. But a truce to this talk for the nonce, for I perceive by the movements of the huntsmen that the dogs have scented game.”
And Neville’s instincts did not deceive him. Almost as he spoke, a buck, breaking from the thicket, dashed nimbly up a glade of the forest, closely pursued by the hounds, and instantly the attention of the king and his company was concentrated in the exciting chase. It was not of long duration, however; and ere noon the buck was pulled down by the hounds, and cut up with all the forms customary on such occasions, the king and his courtiers standing round, and the horses breathing after their hard run.
“A fat buck, by my Halidame!” exclaimed the Lord Neville.
“Ay, a fat buck, if ever there was one,” responded King John. “You see,” added he, merrily, as he glanced round the circle—“you see how this buck has prospered, and yet I’ll warrant he never heard a mass.”
Now, ever since the time when John quarrelled with the Pope and sent ambassadors to the Moorish King of Granada, his respect for the faith of his fathers had been gravely doubted; and this speech, even if nothing were meant, was imprudent under the circumstances, and shocked the religious sentiments of many present. Some of the courtiers, indeed, accustomed to smile at every merry speech of their sovereign, smiled on this occasion also. But the majority looked serious, and Lord Neville, whose countenance became not only serious but sad, turned to Oliver Icingla.
“Far from discreet it is of our lord the king to speak in this fashion,” whispered he, “and enough, in the opinion of many, to bring a malison on the royal cause, which, certes, at this crisis needs all the aid which the saints are like to render it.”
Oliver bowed his head, as if in assent, but remained silent. Perhaps he did not think that a hostage was in duty bound to utter any criticisms on the expressions of a man in whose power he was; and the hunters turned their horses’ heads, and rode up the forest in the direction of London.
King John had not been inattentive to the effect which hisremark as to the buck had produced, nor even to the low murmur of disapprobation it drew forth. On the contrary, he had been awake to all that passed, and could not but repent of having rashly uttered words which were so likely to be repeated to his disadvantage; and, as he reflected, his memory recalled a long array of similar imprudences, for almost every one of which he had been under the necessity of atoning. Haunted by such recollections, he rode forward as if to avoid conversation with his courtiers and comrades; and his desire to be alone was so manifest that they gradually fell behind, and allowed him to precede them at such a distance that he might indulge undisturbed in his reflections, whatever the colour of these might be.
And thus silently the hunting party made its way up the glades of the forest, the king riding in front on his white palfrey, with a hawk on his wrist and his mantle waving in the spring breeze. Suddenly, as the palfrey paced along, one of the forest bulls, with his eyes glaring fire, and mane and tail erect, excited by John’s scarlet mantle, rushed from among the trees, and almost ere he was aware of his danger, charged the king so furiously that the palfrey and he were instantly overthrown and rolled on the ground. Loud cries of astonishment and horror broke from the hunting party, but nobody was near enough to render the slightest assistance. Pausing for a moment and bellowing furiously, the bull made a rush to complete its work, and it seemed that John’s fate was to die on the spot. At that instant, however, from the other side of the glade sprang a man of mighty proportions, dressed as a forester, and attended by a huge dog barking fiercely, and without hesitation, apparently without fear, seized the bull by the horns. Terrible then was the struggle, and such as not one man in ten thousand could have maintained for a moment. But not even an inch of ground did the forester yield to his ferocious antagonist. Pressing back the bull’s head with an arm of iron, he grasped an iron club that was suspended from his belt, and dealt with all his might a blow on the animal’s vital part which brought it heavily to the ground, while a loud shout of relief and of admiration burst from the spectators. Next moment the forester’s dagger was plunged into the bull’s neck; the fierce animal was writhing convulsively in the agonies of death; and the king, unwounded but trembling with wonder, leantcalmly with his back to a tree, as if he had merely been a spectator of the exploit that had been performed.
“Now, by my Halidame!” exclaimed Lord Neville, eyeing him with admiration, “the man who could do such a deed must have the courage of ten heroes in his heart, and the strength of ten gladiators in his arm.”
“My lord, you say truly,” replied Oliver Icingla, excitedly. “I know something of him, and if there is in broad England a man whose single hand could stay the rush of a hundred foes, it is Forest Will, or Will with the Club.”
It was at this moment that John, having risen to his feet, and assured himself that he was not seriously hurt, looked his preserver keenly in the face.
“By God’s teeth!” exclaimed the king, taken somewhat aback, “I surely dream. Is it William de Collingham that I see before me?”
“In truth, king,” answered the forester with a dauntless air, and something like a sneer on his handsome features, “I once bore the name which you have mentioned; but when you were pleased, in the plenitude of your power, to outlaw me and send me into exile, I dropped the Collingham, not caring to burden myself with the duties which bearing it involved, and I have since gone by whatever name my neighbours have thought fit to bestow on me.”
“William,” said the king, “I owe you a life, for you have saved mine this day.”
“Well, sire,” replied the outlaw, “I dare be sworn that it is more than those would have cared to do this day by whose counsel I was brought to ruin, and forced to herd with broken men.”
“By God’s teeth! you speak no more than the truth,” exclaimed John, before whose mind’s eye the outlaw’s word conjured up several of the barons, once in his favour, but now leagued for his destruction. “But let bygones be bygones. I now know you better, and will more value your services in time to come.”
The outlaw bent his strong knee to the king, and John’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction; for he knew that he had secured one ally who, in the approaching struggle, would serve him with a fidelity proof against trials and temptations.
But the good-humour which this consideration created in John’s breast was destined to be short-lived. Scarcely hadhe returned to the Tower of London when news of evil import reached him. It was to the effect that Alexander, King of Scots, had yielded to the persuasion of Hugh de Moreville, and formed an alliance, offensive and defensive, with the barons of England. John was vexed in the extreme; but the intelligence was so depressing that he was not violent, only vindictive.
“Alexander of Scotland, and the people whom he rules, shall have reason to rue his rashness. As for Hugh de Moreville, I will without delay show the world how I punish such treachery as his. Let his kinsman, Icingla, be forthwith seized and secured, lest he attempt to escape; for, by the light of Our Lady’s brow, he shall hang ere sunset!”
“Sire!” exclaimed Lord Neville in horror, “you would not hang Oliver Icingla? I will answer for his loyalty.”
“Answer for yourself, my Lord Neville,” said John, frowning sternly, for he was in that temper in which a man cannot distinguish friends from enemies, if they are unfortunate enough to cross his humour.