TAKEN BY SURPRISE
It was neither the duty nor the inclination of William de Collingham and
Oliver Icingla to linger in Gloucester. The city, indeed, was not
without its attractions; and, with its castle and cathedral, and
picturesque houses, from the balconies of which dames and demoiselles,
the wives and daughters of the citizens, gazed with curiosity, and
criticised the procession as Queen Isabel rode along the streets to the
castle which had once been her prison, the place was sufficiently
interesting and lively to have been agreeable under ordinary
circumstances to such warriors as the knight and the squire. But both
had orders to enact their parts elsewhere in the drama that was being
played by the king and barons, and were animated, as was natural with
persons of adventurous spirits, by a strong desire to hasten where their
services were most likely to be appreciated. So, without losing a day,
they mounted and rode out of the gate of Gloucester to go in different
directions--Collingham to Lincoln, to join the garrison which, under
Nicola de Camville, a noble dame of surpassing courage, held that city
for the king; Icingla to make for Windsor, with a letter of importance
which Isabel had intrusted to him, and intelligence that the queen and
the prince had reached their destination, and that they were in safety
behind the walls of Gloucester. For a short distance, however, their
road lay in the same direction; and, riding side by side, they beguiled
the way with conversation on the topics of the day, mingled with
digressions on adventures in war and love.
At length they reached the point where their roads separated; and
Collingham, as the elder and more experienced of the two, seemed to
consider it his duty to favour his comrade with some wholesome advice
for his guidance.
“Farewell, boy,” said the knight, in kindly accents; “I would that you
were to accompany me northward. But I know that you share not my regret,
and mayhap it is better as it is, and the king’s court will be more to
your liking than the northern city, where Dame Nicola lords it so
bravely over fighting men; for I perceive clearly that you have not only
a keen eye and a ready tongue, but that, under your gay and light
demeanour, you have a scheming brain, and ambitious resolves which you
would fain gratify at all hazards.”
“And wherefore not, sir knight?” asked Oliver, looking in Collingham’s
face with a smile which indicated considerable confidence in his
destiny, if not in himself.
“Oh, by the mass!” replied Collingham, quickly, “I see no cause why you
should not aspire as well as another; only bear this in mind, that
Fortune, like other dames, often disdains the suit of those who are too
ardent in wooing her; and be not in too much haste to climb the ladder
of life; I, for one, have, in that endeavour, realised the truth of the
homely proverb, ‘The more hurry the less speed.’”
“On my faith,” observed Oliver, thoughtfully, “I believe that most men
do, in this life, learn the truth of that proverb when it is too late.”
“Marry, that they do, sir squire,” said Collingham, sadly. “But
forewarned is forearmed. Fall not you into the common error, nor dream
that you can scale lofty walls without long ladders; nor despise that
discretion without which you will never sit, as lord, in the halls of
the castles of which Hugh de Moreville has taken so firm a grip; nor
what I have told you of yore of a certain fair demoiselle who stands to
him in the relation of daughter and heiress.”
Oliver smiled and shook his head, and played with the rein of his
bridle.
“But farewell,” continued Collingham, now speaking in a half-jocular
tone. “May you prosper in war and love, and so act as never to merit the
reproaches of the valiant, and as you grow in years may you grow in
wisdom; for, as Solomon, that wise king of Israel, has told us, ‘the
merchandise thereof is better than the merchandise of silver, and the
gain thereof than fine gold.’”
“And yet,” remarked Oliver, “beshrew me if wisdom is not ever less
lightly regarded than wealth in this world we inhabit.”
“Not by all men,” exclaimed Collingham. “For my part, I often envy the
wise, but I never covet wealth save when I feel the pressure of
poverty.”
Oliver laughed.
“But as regards yourself, Master Icingla,” added the knight, tightening
his rein, and preparing to give his horse the spur, “again I say, be not
over-ardent in your pursuits, and bear in mind that, in the struggle of
life, battle is not to the strong, nor the race always to the swift.
Marry, he was a wise old fellow who stood on the bridge built by Queen
Maude at Stratford-le-Bow, and told the youngster who asked him about
the way to a certain place that he would get there in time if he did not
ride too fast. So now farewell.”
And they parted; and Oliver Icingla rode on, and summoned all his
intelligence to aid him in reaching Windsor, and bearing the queen’s
letter to her lord with as little hazard of interruption as possible.
Now Oliver had very little doubt of accomplishing his object with
success; and for hours he rode on, availing himself of the trees to
shade himself and his steed from the heat of the sun, and musing over
the conversation he had held with Collingham at parting, not without
visions of the kinswoman on whose charms the knight had taken several
opportunities to expatiate. In fact, the youth became so absorbed in his
own reminiscences and reflections, that he thought only vaguely of the
circumstances under which his black steed Ayoub was carrying him from
Gloucester, and even neglected to keep that strict watch around him
which was so necessary, considering the state of the country--not even
paying attention to the wild animals which ever and anon sprang up from
the brushwood that bounded his path, and scampered away into the
thicket, nor the maiden who filled her pitcher at the brook, nor the old
woman who looked out from the solitary cottage as he rode past.
Suddenly, however, Ayoub pricked up his ears, and Oliver roused himself
from his reverie, and, looking back, he perceived a small band of
horsemen--they might be half a dozen in number--riding at a rapid pace,
and, as he shrewdly conjectured, in eager pursuit of some object, and
that object he instinctively felt was himself. Of course he could not
divine their motive, but, whatsoever it might be, he expected it was not
friendly; and, feeling still more certain on a second inspection that he
was the game of which they were in pursuit, he resolved to lose no time
in giving them the slip. Not hesitating longer, for the distance between
himself and the horsemen was now trifling, and their manœuvres and
gestures threatening, he turned suddenly into a by-path, plunged into
the forest, rode cautiously on, making the best use of his eyes and
ears, and succeeded so well that, ere long, he flattered himself that he
had evaded pursuit; and, after halting for a brief period at the hut of
a forester to refresh his horse, he resumed his journey, and pursued his
way in the firm belief that he had, at least, baffled one danger.
It was necessary, however, to think of rest and repose for the night;
and, as evening fell, Oliver reined up at a substantial and flourishing
wayside inn, which had three cranes for its sign, and was frequented by
chapmen and other travellers between London and the West, and which was
favourably known among wayfarers as an hostelry where good entertainment
was furnished by Robert Goodwin to men with money, and wholesome
provender to beasts of burden. Having secured quarters for the night,
and having carefully looked to the comfort of his black steed, which was
weary with its day’s work, Oliver proceeded to the kitchen of the inn,
and, while a fowl was being roasted for his supper, listened to the
conversation of the chapmen who lounged about. At first, their
conversation was merely about markets and the price of wool and wares,
and had little interest for the boy-squire; but he had scarcely seated
himself at supper, and begun to satisfy the cravings of hunger, which
after his long day’s ride were pretty keen, when the landlord entered
with portly dignity, and the chapmen, who appeared to regard mine host
as a political oracle, put some questions on public affairs which made
Oliver prick up his ears.
“And so, Robin, lad,” said one chapman, with curiosity, “thou deemest
that England is not done with these broils, of which her heart is
already so sick?”
“Ay, ay, Robin,” chimed in the other, “thou hast a long head; are we not
to have peace now, thinkest thou?”
“In truth, my masters,” replied the host, shaking his head sapiently, “I
see no more chance of peace for the present than I do of being Soldan of
Babylon; and if I saw any chance I should value it but lightly.
Appearances are nought when the passions of the great men are roused and
their hands on the hilt of their swords. No later than Friday the barons
deemed everything settled fair and square, and beguiled themselves with
the notion that henceforth the king would comport himself in accord with
their wishes. But mark, my masters, what happens: King John goes back to
Windsor, takes a second thought, and leaves under night, doubtless to
take thought as to the means to get the upper hand. ‘Where has he gone?’
askest thou. As well ask where the flaming star that threatened to burn
the world up last year. When the news was carried to London, Constantine
Fitzarnulph says, ‘Let him go!’ ‘By Our Lady the Virgin!’ exclaims the
Lord Fitzwalter, ‘he has gone for our destruction.’ ‘If we take not the
better heed,’ says the Lord de Vesci, ‘we are dead men; but let us seize
the queen and the prince and keep them as hostages.’ So the Lord Hugh de
Moreville, just returned from the North, and, albeit, somewhat ailing,
hastens with a band of armed men to Savernake. But it was too late; the
ladybird had flown off to Gloucester, and the Lord de Moreville rode by
here, on his way home, no later than noon, with a frowning brow and an
angry countenance. Credit me, my masters, they will never make up this
quarrel till they have torn the land to pieces between them.”
And, having hazarded this political prophecy, mine host, with a shrug of
his shoulders, lounged leisurely from the apartment.
“I fear me, neighbour, that Robin Goodman speaks nothing but the truth,”
said one of the chapmen, gravely.
“In good sooth,” said the other, “his words are but too like to come
true. It is known full well that of late things have happened which
portend calamities to the country. In some parts there have been
showers of hail, with hailstones as big as goose-eggs; and at the mouth
of the Thames they have caught fishes of strange shape, armed with
helmet and shield like knights. If such be not signs of woe and war, I
want to know, neighbour, what kind of signs this generation would have?”
The chapmen now sank into silence, and Oliver continued to sup, and to
muse over the gossip he had just heard, when his ear caught the tread of
horses and the ringing of bridles. Presently voices were heard, and an
armed man presented himself at the door of the apartment, and, as the
chapmen rose to make way--for, being men of peace, they cared not for
too close a contact with those who were in the habit of carrying matters
with the strong hand--Oliver, much to his dismay, recognised Ralph
Hornmouth, a rough Northern squire who had accompanied Hugh de Moreville
on the occasion of his visit to Oakmede on Christmas Eve. Events soon
proved that the recognition was mutual.
“Sir squire,” said Hornmouth, advancing to the place which Oliver
occupied, “methinks you can call to mind my having seen your face
before.”
“It is possible,” replied Oliver, coldly; “I have been much among
fighting men, and many of them have seen my face.”
“And I think I could even tell the name you bear and the errand on which
you are riding,” said Hornmouth, significantly.
“Mayhap,” replied Oliver, haughtily; “but I have yet to learn what
business you have either with my name or mine errand.”
“So much,” said the other, quickly, “that, knowing you to be Master
Icingla, on your way with messages from Queen Isabel to the king, I am
empowered by the Lord de Moreville to conduct you, in the first place,
to his presence.”
“To Hugh de Moreville’s presence!” exclaimed Oliver, starting up. “I
will be cut to pieces first.”
“Resistance is vain,” said Hornmouth, persuasively, “and it is better
for all concerned that you yield to fate. You have already given us
trouble sufficient in tracking you through field and forest this day
since you gave us the slip so cunningly. By the Holy Rood, no man balks
me twice in one day, either by cunning or force of arms!”
And as he spoke he stepped backward and made a signal, at which five
others rushed in.
Oliver drew his sword, placed his back to the wall, and stood on his
defence, while the chapmen hurried out, to avoid the risk of being mixed
up in the fray or wounded by accident, and Oliver’s adversaries advanced
on him in a body. A brief struggle ensued, and the English squire’s
sword struck fire from more than one steel cap. But the odds against him
were too unequal to be contended with, and the conflict lasted but a few
moments. When it was over, Oliver, wounded, but still breathing
defiance, lay prostrate on the floor, while two of the men bound his
hands with cords; and within half an hour he was placed on his own
horse, and, in bitter mood, found himself riding with a soldier on
either hand, who had orders to despatch him on the spot in case he made
any desperate effort to escape.
For hours Oliver did not deign to mutter a word; but at length, as the
moon emerged from behind a cloud, and shone brightly, he perceived that
they were within a park, such as generally in that day lay around the
castle of a Norman baron.
“Whither are you conducting me?” asked he, eagerly.
“To Chas-Chateil,” was Hornmouth’s brief reply.
“I guessed as much,” replied Oliver. “And for what purpose?”
“You will learn when you arrive and enter,” was the reply.
As Hornmouth spoke, the dogs in the forester’s lodge barked at the tramp
of horses, and the deer, which lay asleep on knolls in groups of some
half-dozen, started and glided swiftly through the glades; and, as the
horsemen moved on, a feudal castle, reared on the crest of an eminence
and defended by rampart and moat, appeared in sight, the pale moonbeams
resting on the walls.
“And this is Chas-Chateil?” said Oliver, as lights glanced from casement
and loophole.
“Assuredly,” was Hornmouth’s answer. “Didst thou take it for Windsor?”
“No, by my faith,” replied Oliver; “only I was thinking it somewhat
strange that I should come in such an unseemly plight to the place where
I was cradled with such feudal pride.”
Ralph Hornmouth uttered an audible “Humph!” and in a few moments more
the drawbridge was lowered, and Oliver rode in with his captors to the
courtyard; and the great gate closed heavily behind, and he found
himself where, a few hours earlier, he had, of all other places, least
expected to be for the night--in one of the castles which were his
mother’s inheritance, and under the same roof with, and in the power of,
the person who, of all others on earth, he most disliked--Hugh de
Moreville.