THE TOWER OF LONDON
Associated in 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 was spoken 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 crowded with 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 stood staring 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.