A BLOW IN SEASON
Oliver Icingla did 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 fortress he 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 spite of 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 his remark 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, leant calmly 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 had he 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.