A HEROINE IN DANGER
It must not be supposed that the England of King John bore much more
resemblance to the England of Queen Victoria than the London of
Constantine Fitzarnulph to the London of our own day. It was a country
with much waste land, immense and widely-extending forests, chiefly of
beech and oak trees, in whose branches the hawk built, and from whose
branches dropped acorns, on which herds of swine daily fed; and the
forests were frequented by the bear, the wild boar, the wolf, and the
wild bull, and not seldom tenanted by men without the pale of the law,
and at war with society. Of course the aspect of the country was
picturesque. Here was a Norman castle, there a Saxon hall; here a
flourishing walled town, there a poor hamlet; here a rich monastery,
there the cell of some hermit--the entire population not exceeding two
millions. In fact, the eastern counties, from Lincoln to Sussex, were
dreary swamps, almost undrained: and the whole of that once wealthy and
great province beyond the Humber, known as “Northumbria,” though
gradually recovering, still bore terrible traces of the devastation
wrought by the Conqueror.
It was, however, through the more fertile and less rugged part of
England that William de Collingham and Oliver Icingla took their way,
and for days rode on through bridle-roads which are now railways, and
through forests which are now corn-fields, and past castle-protected
hamlets which are now considerable towns. Nor were there many signs
either in the appearance of the country or in the manner of the
inhabitants to indicate that national affairs had reached a crisis which
made civil war too probable. The herdsman drove out his cattle, the
shepherd his sheep, and the swineherd his grunting herd; the
charcoal-burner his cart, the waggoner his team of oxen; and the
peasantry, in their smock-frocks, girt round the loins, and barely
reaching to the knee, and their heads covered with a kind of hood--some
of them with shoes and stockings, others with bare feet--went about
their usual occupations as if peace had smiled on the land. Once the
knight and squire met a pilgrim from the Holy Land carrying a
palm-branch to deposit on the altar of his parish church, and other
wayfarers whose errands, to judge by their looks, were equally peaceful.
“Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad;
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad.”
But it seemed as if the mandate sent throughout the land to lords and
warriors to join the baronial standard had not been readily responded
to, for hardly one band of armed men crossed their path. In fact, most
people, except those who were very nearly concerned with the dispute
between the king and the barons, were little disposed to involve
themselves in a contest which was so problematical in its issue, and
were rather inclined, so long as the contending parties left them at
peace, to look quietly on, and await the result of a struggle which,
they felt strongly, was too serious for them to take part in unless as a
matter of necessity.
It was a warm day in the month of June, and the sun shone bright on
woodland and plain, when Collingham and Oliver approached the royal
palace in the forest of Savernake, where the wife of King John was then
residing, and suddenly found themselves in the vicinity of a merry party
of ladies, with hounds and hawks, and attended by falconers, huntsmen,
and pages, and several men-at-arms to guard them from any danger that
might present itself. The knight and the squire halted to survey the
party and watch the sport; and, in truth, the temptation was well-nigh
irresistible; for what with their rich dresses, their mettled palfreys,
and their equestrian grace, the dames and demoiselles, whoever they
might be, were somewhat fascinating to the eye of chevaliers. But one
among them arrested Collingham’s whole attention, and also, though a
moment later, that of Oliver. She was a woman of thirty or thereabouts,
with a fair and delicate complexion, an oval face, features of singular
regularity and majesty, and a figure which, for grace and symmetry,
might have compared to advantage with the finest creations of the
sculptor. She wore a green habit which much became her, and a bonnet
decked with plumes; and she rode, not a palfrey but a steed which, so
far as spirit was concerned, seemed much fitter to have carried a
warrior to battle-field than to amble with the fair being who was now
restraining its fiery ardour with some difficulty, though evidently
without trepidation.
“By the mass!” exclaimed Collingham, gazing very intently on this
interesting personage, “I should know that face and figure. What if she
were Queen Isabel?” asked he, laughing.
“On my faith!” exclaimed Oliver with enthusiasm, “she is fair and
fascinating enough to be the Queen of Elfland. What if we approach
nearer?”
“Nay, by no means,” replied Collingham in a jocular tone; “now that you
take her for a being of another world, I have no heart to intrude into
her presence, lest the fate of Young Tamlane or of Actæon should befall
me for a lighter fault.”
“Actæon?” said Oliver, inquiringly. “I remember the story of Young
Tamlane being carried away by the Queen of Faerie and her ladies into
Elfland, and of his having a narrow escape of being devoured when the
foul fiend visited that region to claim his tithe of the inhabitants.
But,” continued Oliver, musingly, “the name of the other dwells not in
my memory. I pray you, sir knight, to inform me what manner of man he
was, and what wondrous adventure befell him as you hint. Name you him
Actæon?” added he, inquiringly.
“Yes. Heard you never of Actæon, of whom ancient writers tell a
marvellous adventure, which I lately heard my Lord Neville relate when
at the Tower? Well, be it known to you that this Actæon was a brave and
accomplished knight, who loved dogs and the chase above all things; and
one day, being eager in pursuing a stag, he came to a large meadow,
surrounded, like this before us, with high trees, in which was a
fountain where the goddess of chastity, whom they call Diana, was
bathing with her nymphs, and that so suddenly that he was too far to
retreat ere they were aware of his approach; and the goddess, to punish
him for what was his misfortune and not his fault, cried out, ‘Actæon,
whoever sent thee here has no great love for thee; and for the outrage
thou hast committed I will make thee perform a penance. I therefore
change thee into the form of the stag thou hast this day hunted.’ And,”
added Collingham, “he was instantly transformed into a stag.”
“Ah,” said Oliver, gravely, “I now remember me of having, in the days
when I was being taught grammar and letters in the company of
Constantine Fitzarnulph, heard or read something of this Actæon of whom
you speak, and also how other goddesses besides Diana were wont to
change men whom they disliked into beasts, and women into birds; and I
know full well that many believe that such things may have taken place
when the world was full of pagans and idolaters; but, for my part, I
hold such stories as mere fables, and such as ought not to weigh with a
brave man who holds the Christian faith; and as touching the dame before
us--be she goddess or Queen of Elfland--I must own she is parlous
handsome, and bewitching to look upon.”
“I gainsay not that,” said Collingham, gazing at the person alluded to;
“but,” added he, “methinks that anyhow the fair lady has mistaken her
strength of wrist and hand when she mounted a steed which peradventure
Cœur de Lion had found less uneasy under him than he relished.”
“In good faith,” observed Oliver, gravely, “I cannot but deem that she
is in more peril than she fancies.”
At that moment, however, the hounds gave tongue, and the eyes both of
knight and squire were attracted by a heron which arose from a sedgy
pool. Immediately the lady whom they had been so attentively observing
let loose her falcon, and, followed by the party, went off in pursuit,
every eye directed towards the soaring heron and the wheeling falcon.
Sharing the excitement, Collingham and Oliver Icingla set spurs to their
horses and followed, but at such a distance as not to attract the
observation of the party; and, while the ladies slackened their pace and
reined in their steeds in a broad, grassy plain to watch the sport, the
knight and squire halted at a spot where the plain was bounded by a
rivulet, with steep and precipitous banks, haunted by the eagle, and the
beaver, and the otter. And exciting was the spectacle which met their
eye. Ascending in circles till they became mere specks, and almost
disappeared in the sky, the heron and falcon excited the interest of the
spectators to the highest degree, till, locked in a death struggle, they
dropped screaming, leaving a track of plumes in the sky, and came down
struggling almost on the head of the fair horsewoman, the falcon
striking his claws into the heron’s neck, almost under the feet of her
horse. It was enough. The steed instantly became more refractory than
before, bounded, plunged, and, wheeling round, broke away in spite of
her efforts, and rushed wildly, with outstretched neck and tail erect,
towards the most precipitous part of the bank on which Collingham and
Oliver had taken their station. Both uttered a cry of horror. But the
idea of rendering aid appeared so hopeless that Oliver could only mutter
a prayer for Heaven to interpose. Collingham’s presence of mind,
however, did not desert him. Leaping from his charger at a bound, he
placed himself at the root of a tree that grew near the verge of the
precipice, and the steed came on, snorting fire. One chance only
intervened between the lady and destruction. It was an awful moment for
all concerned. But, even in this emergency, such was Collingham’s nerve
that his heart was steady and his hand firm. One bound, one grasp, one
tremendous effort such as might have torn an oak-tree from the ground,
and the steed, arrested in its headlong and terrible course, was thrown
back on its haunches, and next moment the lady, saved from the danger
which threatened her, was lifted by Oliver Icingla from its struggling
limbs and laid gently on the grass, unhurt, but fainting from agitation
and terror.
At this moment the pages, falconers, and demoiselles who formed the
hunting party came gradually up; and, as means were taken to restore the
fainting fair one to consciousness, Oliver, with much curiosity, asked a
falconer--
“Who may she be?”
“Why, young gentleman,” replied the falconer, looking rather
suspiciously at his questioner, “I could have sworn that was a question
which thou hadst no occasion to ask. Marry, I’ll scarce credit but that
thy comrade knew better when he put his life so freely in peril to save
hers. Would he have done as much to save a milkmaid, thinkest thou?”
“Mayhap the knight would, and mayhap he does know somewhat of the lady
he has rescued,” remarked Oliver, not without exhibiting impatience that
he, albeit a young warrior who had fought in Castile and Flanders,
should thus be played with. “I can answer only for myself and my own
knowledge, sir falconer; and I tell thee, on my faith, that I, on my
part, am ignorant who the lady is.”
“Why, then, I will tell thee, sir squire,” said the falconer, eyeing
Oliver with an air of good-humoured superiority; “she is no less a
person than our Lady the Queen.”