EVACUATION OF THE TOWER
It was agreed between the Earl of Pembroke and Robert Fitzwalter that
John should evacuate the Tower of London, without, however, handing it
over to the barons. In fact, it was to remain in the custody of Stephen
Langton till the king granted the demands of the confederate nobles;
and, seeing that the Archbishop of Canterbury was a personage in whose
good faith both parties might have confidence, no objections were openly
made to this arrangement, though some of the royalists shook their heads
and muttered discontent over their cups.
Without delay, however, John prepared to leave London for Windsor; and,
forthwith, the neighbourhood of the Tower was the scene of such
confusion as generally in that age prevailed when kings were about to
remove from one residence to another. “When the king sets out in the
morning,” says Peter of Blois, “you see multitudes of people running up
and down as if they were distracted--horses rushing against horses,
carriages overturning carriages, players, cooks, confectioners, mimics,
dancers, barbers, all making a great noise, and an intolerable jumble of
horse and foot.”
It was in the midst of this excitement and disorder that Oliver Icingla,
while making ready to mount and accompany the king to Windsor, was
summoned to the royal presence, and went in no joyous mood, being
uncertain whether or not he might be handed over, without ceremony, to
the executioner. The countenance of John, however, reassured him; and he
began to hope that at length the king had been convinced that the royal
cause was not likely to derive much benefit from the execution of a
squire capable of wielding his sword against foes with courage and
dexterity.
“Master Icingla,” began John, apparently forgetting that he had once
been on the point of sending the youth to the gallows, “you know,
doubtless, in what peril you have been placed by the treachery of your
kinsman, Hugh de Moreville?”
Oliver bent his head to indicate that he did, and, in spite of the
position in which he stood, refrained, with no small difficulty, from
denouncing De Moreville as the worst of humankind for having knowingly
led him into a snare.
“Nevertheless,” continued John, “I have, at the instance of the Lord
Neville and William de Collingham, resolved to overlook your kinsman’s
treachery, so far as you are concerned; and I expect that you will show
your sense of my clemency by your zeal and activity in my service. Nay,
answer not. I comprehend what you would say; but listen. William de
Collingham is about to ride for Savernake to conduct my lady the queen
thence to Gloucester, and you will accompany him. He has a safe-conduct,
and the errand is likely to entail no danger. But he does not return,
and I would fain be assured that the journey has been accomplished in
safety. Wherefore my command is this, that you hasten back without
delay, and bring thy report to me at Windsor. And hark you, youth,”
added John, speaking in a low tone, “you, as I learn, know something of
the country through which you are to pass, and have, likewise, as I
hear, seen something of war in Spain and Flanders, and can guess by
appearances what is going on--as regards preparations--in a country
which war threatens with battles and sieges. Make the best use of your
eyes wherever you pass, or wherever you halt, or wherever you lodge, and
come not to me as if you had ridden blindfold through the land. Now
away. Bear in mind what I have told you for your guidance, and,
moreover, that a silent tongue makes a wise head.”
Much relieved by the information that his life was no longer in danger,
and elated at the prospect of such an adventure as escorting a queen,
even as the companion of a man who, a few weeks earlier, had been a
forest outlaw, Oliver Icingla hastened to array himself for the journey,
and to mount his black steed, Ayoub; and when the king, and his knights,
and squires, and standard-bearers, and multitudinous attendants, rode
from the Tower and emerged from the gates of London, which John was not
destined again to enter, William de Collingham, mounted and armed as
became a knight, but still carrying with him the iron club which had
distinguished him as a man of the forest, with the young English squire
riding at his right hand and a band of stout horsemen at his back,
preceded the royal array and took the nearest way to Wiltshire, with the
object of reaching Savernake.
“By the mass!” exclaimed Collingham, suddenly breaking the silence he
had hitherto maintained since leaving London; “I much marvel that the
king, old and experienced as he is, and so much accustomed to deal with
men--both priests and laymen--can credit the possibility of Stephen
Langton restoring the Tower.”
“And wherefore not?” asked Oliver, but with less surprise than might
have been expected under the circumstances. “Is not my lord archbishop a
man of honour and probity?”
“Tush!” replied Collingham, impatiently. “Stephen Langton is, no doubt,
a good and honest man, as times go, and eager enough for the public
weal. But he is heart and soul with Fitzwalter and De Vesci, and is
either dictating their measures or doing their bidding. In neither case,
credit me, will he ever again admit the king to London, save as the
slave or tool of the confederates; and I see clearly that John has pride
enough left never to come on such terms. By the mass, we are only at the
beginning of this struggle; for I know that the king--albeit he seems
now in their toils--will yet lead the confederates a dance on which they
are far from counting; and, frankly, so far as they are concerned, I
should not grieve on that account; for I sadly doubt their sincerity,
albeit they bawl so loudly upon justice and righteousness.”
“What, sir knight,” asked Oliver, “deem you so lightly of their
sincerity?”
“By my faith, I do,” replied Collingham, bluntly; “and only give them
credit for having a very sharp eye after their own interest. Never a
word should we have heard from them of old charters and ancient laws but
for the question of the scutages, with which the king was, doubtless,
inclined to deal more severely than was prudent or politic.”
“Explain more fully,” said Oliver, who was interested in such
conversation, and anxious to comprehend the merits of the controversy.
“By my faith, it is simple enough,” resumed Collingham, who, however, it
ought to be remembered, regarded several of the oligarchy as personal
enemies, and was by no means likely to do full justice to their motives.
“In the reign of King Henry the barons commuted their personal services
for money, and, as they at first relished the system, and the scutages
were moderate, they paid without trouble. But when John came to the
throne the barons found that the scutages were vastly enhanced, and,
what was still more, they had either to pay them, or found their estates
seized in default thereof; and so now they want so to manage matters as
neither to render the personal services nor to pay the scutages, and
every one of them to be king in his own territory. Hence all this cry
about righteousness and freedom, with which they have bribed the clergy
and fooled the citizens.”
“But you hardly deem the struggle likely to end to their advantage?”
“No, by rood and mass! but, nevertheless, it may end to the advantage of
the country, as many such contests have done before. But here, as my
memory recalls to me, is the path which we have to pursue; and, as we
part from the king for the time being, I take leave to thank the saints
that you are safe and at liberty, and neither on gallows nor in dungeon;
for, by the bones of Becket, you, Master Icingla, have had a narrow
escape.”
“And so hath King John,” observed Oliver, quietly.
“The king!” exclaimed Collingham, starting with surprise. “How, sir
squire, has the king had a narrow escape?”
“Even in this wise,” answered Oliver, calmly. “If he had sent an Icingla
to the gallows for the treachery of a Norman lord, not ten men of
English race would have drawn their swords in defence of his crown.”
Collingham smiled as if amused; and they rode on.