Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mine host gave a start which indicated slight jealousy.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A RIDE FOR LIFE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oliver uttered a shout expressive of rage and despair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sagacious animal at once comprehended his master’s wish, and hesitated not to obey. Crouching upon its haunches in readiness for a spring, its bloodshot eyes glaring fiercely, and every hair upon its shaggy back quivering with rage and eagerness, the hound waited till the foremost horseman had gained the bank, and then sprang upon the horse’s neck, into which the dog’s long and sharp claws were plunged while his teeth were at the rider’s throat. Maddened with pain, the steed plunged, reared, and finally slipping upon the slimy margin of the stream, fell backwards into the water, carrying man and dog with him. The hound, however, did not quit his hold till the struggles of the man having ceased showed that he was harmless. The animal then regained the bank and prepared to take a further part in the fray, which had meanwhile been fiercely waged there. One blow of Oliver’s battle-axe had been sufficient to put Sir Anthony’s second supporter hors-de-combat, while Collingham was engaged in a desperate hand-to-hand encounter with Waledger and a third of his men-at-arms. Others continued to cross the brook, and Oliver was now hard pressed by three assailants at once, and, fighting at the disadvantage of being on foot while his opponents were on horseback, had received more than one hurt, though not seriously injured. Collingham, perceiving that his friend could not long maintain so unequal a contest, disregarding his less formidable antagonist, first pressed Sir Anthony so closely as to force him back to the very verge of the stream, and then, backing his own steed suddenly a few paces, gave him the spur and dashed against Waledger with so much force as to upset man and horse into the water in even worse plight than his follower had been before, as, from the weight of his armour, he was in danger of drowning at once. Meanwhile, Oliver had disposed of one of his three assailants, a swinging blow from Collingham’s sword settled a second, and the third, hearing the shout of “Save Sir Anthony! save Sir Anthony!” raised by the rest of his fellows, turned his horse and plunged again into the stream, followed by the yeoman who had attacked Collingham.

“By the mass, Icingla, thou hast plied thine axe well,” shouted Collingham. “But it were folly to risk further fighting. Thou art wounded, I see, and I myself am not scathless, so, while the knaves are fishing their drunken leader out of the water, get up behind me and let us make the best of our way for the refuge in the marshes.”

“I am loth to part with the knaves even thus,” said Oliver; “but thou art right, Sir William. We have a chance to escape now, and can reckon with the rascals another time.”

So saying, he mounted behind his friend, and the two, followed by the hound, dashed off towards a clump of forest not far off, leaving the haquenée to its fate, and the followers of Sir Anthony Waledger to rescue their master how they could.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE RUDDY LION RAMPANT

ON the 3rd of March, 1213, a great feudal ceremony was performed at Clerkenwell. On that day, at the Priory of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, the King of England knighted twenty-one young men of noble name, the heirs of the great vassals of the crown. Foremost among them was a boy of fourteen, with a thoughtful countenance and handsome, albeit the hair was somewhat too red, and attracted much attention; for he was heir to the crown of Scotland, and, his father being old, he had the prospect of early coming to his kingdom.

Moreover, the alliance of this red-haired lad was contended for by the rival Kings of England and France. John, probably with his young daughter Joan in view, offered to provide the Scottish prince with a suitable bride. Philip Augustus, hoping to make him useful in the struggle so constantly maintained with the Plantagenets, pressed on him a daughter whom Agnes Méranie had borne ere the pope forced her husband to repudiate her. The Scot, who was sagacious and intelligent for his years, perfectly comprehended the game of his royal contemporaries; and while they played he looked on watchfully, and with a keen eye to his own interests.

Alexander – such was the name of the Scottish prince – was the only son of William the Lion and Ermengarde de Beaumont, a kinswoman of the Plantagenets, a lady celebrated for “a soft and insinuating address,” which more than once saved her husband from the consequences of his imprudence when he provoked the wrath of his powerful neighbours in the South, as he did rather too frequently for his comfort. On the 4th of December, 1214, however, William the Lion expired of age and infirmity, and Alexander was ceremoniously crowned King of Scotland in the Abbey of Scone; and scarcely was he seated on the throne of Malcolm Canmore and St. David, when the Anglo-Norman barons of the North of England sent to offer him their homage and to crave his protection.

Alexander, then about sixteen, was, naturally enough, rather flattered, and more readily listened to their proposals than he would had he been older and wiser. Accordingly, the barons of Northumberland did homage to him at Felton; the barons of Yorkshire, somewhat later, did homage to him at Melrose. Moreover, Alexander immediately raised the standard on which, in a field or, ramped the red lion from which his father William derived the surname by which he is known in history, crossed the Tweed early in October, and laid siege to the castle built at Norham by Ralph Falmbard, “the fighting Bishop of Durham.” But his efforts to take the stronghold proved unsuccessful, and, after remaining before it for forty days, he raised the siege, and consoled himself for his disappointment by ravaging North Northumberland. Suddenly, however, he learned that he was not to be permitted to slay and plunder with impunity. In fact, news that John, with a host of mercenaries, was marching northward in hot haste, reached the royal Scot’s ears; and he made a timely retreat towards Edinburgh, to the very gate of which he was pursued by the hirelings of the foe whom he had provoked.

It soon appeared, however, that Alexander was not so daunted by the storm he brought on his kingdom as to leave the king and the barons of England to fight out their battle without his interference. Far from it. No sooner was John’s back turned than Alexander, bent on retaliation, again mustered an army, buckled on his mail, mounted his steed, and led his wild forces, many of whom were Highlanders, across the border.

It was the spring of 1216; and Alexander, having entered England by the East March, penetrated through the bishopric of Durham, marking his way with carnage and devastation. But, probably alarmed by the attitude of Hugh Baliol and Philip de Ullecotes, whom John had intrusted with the government of the country between Tees and Tweed, the King of Scots, after reaching Richmond, wheeled round, and, carrying his booty with him, bent his way homewards through Westmoreland and Cumberland, halting, however, to attack and pillage the Abbey of Holmecultram, where the Highlanders of his army were guilty of such sacrilege and atrocities as utterly threw into the shade the outrages perpetrated by John’s mercenaries at Coldingham, in the Merse. Much indignation on the part of the monks was the consequence; and the monkish chronicler goes the length of saying that, as a judgment for their wickedness, about two thousand of them were drowned in the Eden while attempting to cross with the spoil. But, however that may have been, this raid was not, in any point of view, very beneficial to the cause of the confederate barons; and Alexander remained quiet till he was summoned by Louis of France to leave his home and appear at Dover, and render his homage as one of the vassals of the English crown.