THE ICINGLAS
For a century after the Norman Conquest, continental visitors, in
journeying through England as it then was, were surprised, ever and
anon, after passing the strong fortresses--heavy, massive, and
frowning--with which the Norman conquerors had crowned every height, to
come upon lonely two-storied houses, quite unfortified, standing in
parks of ancient oaks, amidst which swine fed and kine grazed. These
were the dwellings of such of the Anglo-Saxons of rank as had escaped
the Norman sword or the exile which to many of them was worse than
death; not mighty chiefs like Edwin, and Morcar, and Cospatrick, but
thanes who had been too proud to march under the banner of the son of
Godwin, and who, pluming themselves on the purity of their lineage and
adherence to the customs of their forefathers, refrained from moving for
years out of the shadow of their ancestral oaks, or taking any part in
the new England which the Conquest had brought into existence. Rendered
irritable by jealousy, irascible by oppression, and eccentric by
isolation, these men were still grumbling against Norman tyranny, and
indulging their souls with vague projects for the emancipation of their
race, when the second Henry, son of the Empress Maude, and the first
Plantagenet who reigned in England, took possession of the throne.
The accession of Henry was hailed with delight by the English nation.
The people, long trodden down and oppressed, remembering that he was
descended, through his grandmother “the good Queen Maude,” from the old
Saxon kings, regarded him as one of themselves in blood, called him “the
English king,” and, deeming him the natural enemy of the Norman barons,
looked upon him as the man to redress all their grievances and avenge
all their wrongs. Naturally enough, the Saxon chiefs sympathised with
the sentiments of their countrymen on the occasion; and among those who
emerged from obscurity to do homage to the young Plantagenet was the
heir of the once rich and grand house of Icingla.
In the great Anglo-Saxon days the Icinglas had been powerful princes,
and had mingled their blood by marriage with the royal race of Cerdic;
but fortune had not smiled on their house, and as their wealth
diminished so did their influence and importance. It was a
characteristic of Anglo-Saxon society that good blood counted for little
or nothing save when its possessor retained the means to support high
rank and indulge in lavish hospitality. Gold and land were everything. A
man born a ceorl might rise to be an earl, and lead armies; while men
whose fathers had been princes, if they became poor, sank into contempt,
and sometimes descended to the rank of ceorl. The downfall of the
Icinglas had not been so humiliating; and at the time of the Conquest
they found themselves possessed of a small estate and an unpretending
house on the borders of the great forest of Middlesex, where for
generations they vegetated, taking no part in political movements or
conspiracies, but brooding over their wrongs, real or imaginary,
consoling themselves with their hereditary traditions, sneering at the
new men by whose lands their little domain was encompassed, and looking
very contemptuously from among their trees on that world in which they
were precluded from acting a part.
But once attracted from obscurity by King Henry, the Icinglas underwent
a marvellous change. Steady of heart, strong of hand, and with a natural
sagacity which contact with the world soon brightened into political
intelligence, they were just the men whom the Plantagenet kings
delighted to honour, and in all their struggles they served Henry and
his son, Richard Cœur de Lion, with courage and fidelity. Nor did
their services go unrewarded. On returning from his crusade and his
captivity, Richard gave Edric Icingla the hand of Isabel de Moreville,
an heiress of that great Norman family which in the twelfth century held
baronies on both sides of the Tweed; and the Anglo-Saxon warrior, having
fought well for the lion-hearted king on many a field, died bravely
under his banner in the last battle in which he encountered Philip
Augustus.
Four sons had blessed the union of Edric Icingla and Isabel de
Moreville, and it seemed that fortune was at length inclined to favour
that ancient Saxon line. Death, however, claimed three of the sons as
its prey while they were yet in childhood, and when Isabel found herself
a widow, only the youngest--Oliver by name--survived to cheer her hopes
and demand her vigilance. And it soon looked as if the boy had not been
born under a lucky star. Early in the reign of King John, when the
strong hand was the most convincing argument, Hugh de Moreville, his
maternal kinsman, claimed him as a ward, and contrived, as the lad’s
guardian, to possess himself of the castles of Chas-Chateil and Mount
Moreville, and the many rich manors which his mother had inherited; and
so weak was the law in enforcing the claims of the unprotected against
barons who recognised no law but the length of their swords, and no
other rule of conduct save when under the influence of remorse, that the
idea of Hugh de Moreville ever restoring them to the rightful heir was
one hardly to be entertained. It was not, however, impossible; and Dame
Isabel Icingla, without ceasing to cherish hope of one day seeing
justice done to her son, passed her life--solitary and somewhat sad--in
the queer old house under whose roof the Icinglas had for generations
sat secure while dynasties were changing and political storms were
raging around them.
Very soon after the death of her husband, Dame Isabel took the vow of
perpetual widowhood, and assumed the russet gown to indicate to the
world that her resolution not to venture again on matrimony was fixed.
Her whole interest therefore centred in her son, and her whole attention
was given to render him worthy of his name and birth. Not that this lady
sympathised strongly with the traditions and sentiments of the family
into which she had married. Far from it. She was Norman in everything
but the name. Her features, her heart, her prejudices, and her opinions
were all such as distinguished the conquering race; and if Oliver
Icingla had--to use the homely phrase--“taken after his mother,” he
would have presented a very different appearance from that which he did
present when introduced to the reader in the streets of ancient London,
and he would have expressed very different sentiments from those which
he did express in his brief, but not unimportant, conversation with
Constantine Fitzarnulph.
But Oliver was an Icingla in look, and thought, and word, and
enthusiastic for the race to which he belonged; but, given to reflection
and contemplation, he well knew, young though he was, that all violent
attempts to better the condition of the English could only end in
failure and ruin, and that the rise of the Anglo-Saxons--if they were
to rise--could only be accomplished by patience and by gradual degrees.
In the struggle which was impending between a Plantagenet king and the
Norman barons, he would never, if free to act on his own impulses and
reason, have hesitated to adhere to the crown; and the only
mortification which he felt was that he was to be conducted to the Tower
as a hostage--perhaps to become a prisoner, and even a victim--when he
would have gone thither voluntarily to offer his sword to fight for the
crown which had been worn by Alfred the Great and Edward the Holy. Dame
Isabel did not, however, take the same view of the question; and when
informed that Oliver, so lately freed from captivity, was required as a
hostage, she wrung her hands and looked the picture of woe.
“Alas, alas!” she exclaimed, raising her eyes towards heaven, “what sin
have my ancestors committed, that I am required to surrender mine only
son into the keeping of a man whose hands are red with the blood of his
own nephew?”
“Fear not for me, lady and mother,” exclaimed Oliver, touched with her
grief. “I shall be as secure in the king’s palace as in our own ancient
hall, and I doubt not as kindly treated; for, doubtless, King John knows
better what a stout warrior is worth than to do aught to forfeit his
claim to the service of the sword with which Edric Icingla cut his way
to fame and fortune.”