HOW THE KING BIDED HIS TIME
Robin Goodman, mine host of The Three Cranes, did not speak without good
information when he gave the chapmen of Bristol intelligence as to the
attitude which public affairs had unexpectedly assumed in the
metropolis. In fact, the position of the baron was, for the time being,
almost ludicrous.
Great was the exultation, high the excitement, of Robert Fitzwalter and
his confederates as they left Runnymede and marched towards London. On
the way they were met by the mayor, with the sheriffs and aldermen in
scarlet robes, and many citizens, all dressed in violet and gallantly
mounted, who, headed by Constantine Fitzarnulph, escorted the heroes of
Runnymede along the bush-grown Strand, and over the Fleet Bridge, and
through Ludgate to St. Paul’s, where the assembled multitude hailed
their return with cheers that rent the sky.
It was a stirring spectacle as the procession moved along the narrow
streets, with banners waving and trumpets sounding, and everybody was
too much interested to ask what the morrow might bring forth. It was
enough that they had won a great victory over the king, who had been in
the habit not only of treating them with hauteur, but of making them pay
their scutages; and they resolved to celebrate their victory by holding
a grand tournament, on the 2nd of July, at Stamford, where so recently
they had, at all hazards, set up the standard of revolt, and vowed to
dare all and risk all in vindication of their feudal pretensions.
And so closed Friday, the 15th of June, 1215, every man well satisfied
with himself and with his neighbour; and on the morning of Saturday Hugh
de Moreville entered London by Bishopsgate, bringing full assurance of
aid from Alexander, King of Scots, in case of need. The royal Scot,
however, stipulated that he was to have a large reward in the shape of
Northumberland, Cumberland, and Westmoreland--a noble addition to his
kingdom, it must be admitted, if the Northern counties had been the
barons’ to give. But even at this price they seemed to consider his
alliance cheaply purchased, and luxuriated for the time in the success
of their revolt. But ere Saturday’s sun set, messengers, breathless with
haste, came to tell Fitzwalter that King John had secretly departed from
Windsor under cover of night, no one knew whither; and when the barons
immediately afterwards met in council, every countenance was elongated
and every brow heavy with thought, and the boldest quailed as he
reflected what a king, goaded and rendered desperate, might have it in
his power to do if he turned savagely to bay. De Moreville shared the
apprehension of his friends, but gave vent to no nervous ejaculations.
“I deny not,” said he calmly, “that this is an awkward circumstance, and
one against which precautions ought to have been taken. But John is no
Arthur or Richard, nor even such a man as his father Henry, that we
should much fear the utmost he can do, if he is mad enough to challenge
us to the game of carnage. St. Moden and all the saints forbid that I
should ever blanch at the thought of battle with a man who, even his own
friends would confess, is so much fitter for the wars of Venus, than
those of Bellona, and whose wont it has ever been, even while blustering
and threatening the powerful, to strike at none but the weak! Come,
noble sirs, take heart. By my faith, the game is still ours if we play
it with courage, and imitate not the cowardly heron, which flies at the
sight of its own shadow.”
“But think of the pope,” said a dozen voices. “How are we to contend
with the thunders of the Church, before which the Kings of France and
England have both of late been forced to bend their heads in humble
submission?”
“By St. Moden,” replied De Moreville, “I fear not, if the worst comes to
the worst, to trust to stone walls, and the arm of flesh, and gold. We
have strong castles, and fighting men, and the wealth of London at our
backs. Nevertheless, I freely own that a king’s name is a tower of
strength in the opinion of the unreflecting multitude, and, since such
is the case, I opine that it becomes us to counteract the influence of
the king’s name and fortify our cause by taking possession of the queen
and prince, who are now at the palace of Savernake. It is a bold
measure, but this is no time to be squeamish. Speak the word, and I
myself will forthwith summon my men and mount my horse, and ride to make
the seizure. Falcons fear not falcons; and beshrew me if any but liars
shall ever have it in their power to tell that Hugh de Moreville shrank
cravenly from a contest for life and death with such a kite as John of
Anjou!”
At first the proposal of De Moreville met with little support; but his
eloquence ultimately prevailed, and he lost no time in setting out to
execute his mission. But the scheme of seizing the queen and the prince
was, as the reader already knows, baffled by the king’s precaution; and
when the barons who were in London became aware that De Moreville had
failed, their alarm became greater than ever, and they resolved to take
measures for ascertaining in what danger they really stood, and what
chance there was of the king playing them false.
It was now about the close of June, and intelligence reached London that
John was at Winchester, and the barons determined to have some
satisfactory understanding. Accordingly they sent a deputation to
Winchester to inform him of their doubts, and to demand whether or not
he really intended to keep the promises he had made at Runnymede. The
king received the deputation with apparent frankness, ridiculed their
suspicions as being utterly without foundation, and appointed a meeting
with them in July, at Oxford, to which city he was on the point of
removing.
The barons were neither deceived by the king’s manner nor deluded by his
words. They had lost the last lingering respect for his good faith; and
they felt instinctively that he was exercising all his duplicity and all
his ingenuity to free himself from their wardship and bring about their
destruction, and vague rumours that mercenaries were being levied on the
Continent added to their alarm. It was even said that John intended to
take advantage of their absence at the tournament at Stamford to seize
London; and, though he was without any army capable of taking a city,
this report influenced them so far that they postponed the tournament,
and named a distant day for its taking place at Hounslow.
Ere long affairs reached a new stage, and caused more perplexity. It
suddenly became known in London that John, regardless of his promise to
hold a conference with the barons at Oxford, had left that city
suddenly, ridden to the coast, and embarked in a ship belonging to one
of the Cinque Ports, but with what object could not be divined; and
though from that time the wildest stories were told on the subject, his
movements were shrouded in such mystery that nothing certain was known.
Even in the month of September, when the barons met in London and held a
council at the house of the Templars, they were utterly at a loss to
imagine what had become of the sovereign whom two months earlier they
had browbeaten at Runnymede, and bound in chains which they then
believed could never be broken.
“He is drowned,” said one.
“He has turned fisherman,” said a second.
“No,” said a third; “he is roaming the narrow seas as a pirate.”
“Doubtless he is living on the water,” said a fourth, “but it is in the
company of the mariners of the Cinque Ports, whom he is, by an
affectation of frankness and familiarity, alluring to his side in case
of a struggle.”
“Such fables are wholly unworthy of credit,” said a fifth. “For my part,
I doubt not the truth of what is bruited as to his being weary of
royalty and the troubles it has brought with it, and that he has abjured
Christianity and taken refuge among the Moors of Granada, whose alliance
he formerly sought.”
“Noble sirs,” said Hugh de Moreville, who had recovered from his attack
of gout and returned to London, “suffer me to speak. You are all wrong.
Pardon me for saying so in plain words. King John is not drowned; nor
has he turned fisherman; nor pirate; nor gone to Granada; albeit he may
have been more familiar with the mariners of the Cinque Ports than
consists with our interest and safety. I had sure intelligence brought
me, when I was on the point of coming hither, that he is now in the
castle of Dover.”
“The castle of Dover!” exclaimed twenty voices, while a thrill of
surprise pervaded the assembly, each man looking at his neighbour.
“Yes, in the castle of Dover,” continued De Moreville, raising his
voice; “and he is in daily expectation of the arrival of mercenary
troops from the Continent, under the command of Falco, and Manlem, and
Soltim, and Godeschal, and Walter Buch, men of such cruel and ruthless
natures, that I can scarce even mention their names without the thought
of their being let loose in this country scaring the blood out of my
body.”
A simultaneous exclamation of horror rose from the assembled barons, and
several prayed audibly to God and the saints to shield them and theirs
from the terrible dangers with which their homes and hearths were
threatened. And when the news became public and spread through the city,
the terror proved contagious, and the citizens began to quake for the
safety of their wares and their women. Joseph Basing cursed the hour in
which he had, even by his presence, sanctioned the entry of the barons
into London; and even the countenance of Constantine Fitzarnulph was
overcast, and his voice husky. Meanwhile, however, Hugh de Moreville
rather rejoiced than otherwise at the danger; and Robert Fitzwalter
maintained his dignity, and stood calmly contemplating the peril which
he had defied.
“One word more,” said De Moreville. “It is the king’s intention, so far
as can be learned, to commence operations by an attempt to take the
castle of Rochester.”
“William of Albini is already in command of the garrison, and will do
all that a brave man can to defend the castle,” said Fitzwalter. “But
forewarned is forearmed; and it were well instantly to despatch a
messenger to tell him of the danger that approaches. Where is Walter
Merley?”
“Here, my good lord,” answered the young Norman noble, who had figured
among the guests of Constantine Fitzarnulph when the chief citizens
decided on inviting the “army of God and the Church” to take possession
of London.
“Mount without delay, and carry to the Earl of Arundel the intelligence
my Lord de Moreville has just brought us.”
“Willingly, my good lord,” replied the stripling; “but ere going I make
bold to offer this suggestion, that, since we have been restoring the
ancient laws of this land, it would be politic to restore a
time-honoured custom which was wont to do good service in the days of
the Confessor--I mean, publish the ancient proclamation of war, which
used to arouse every Englishman capable of bearing arms--‘Let each man,
whether in town or country, leave his house and come.’”
Few listened; nobody answered; and the youth withdrew to ride on his
errand, too ardently enthusiastic for the baronial cause even to feel
galled that his suggestion had not been deemed worthy of notice, or to
perceive the absurdity of asking the grandsons of the conquerors of
Hastings to appeal to the vanquished and down-trodden race. But De
Moreville both heard and understood it; and laying his hand on
Fitzwalter’s arm, he said in a low tone--
“My noble friend, I wish we had among us more of the enthusiasm that
glows at that stripling’s heart. By St. Moden, my young friend--albeit
of Norman lineage--has strange notions, being English on the spindle
side; for his mother, Dame Juliana, is sister of Edgar Unnithing. She
has inspired him with a dangerous sympathy for the English race, and
would have had him and his elder brother take the king’s side if her
counsel had availed. _Mort Dieu!_ I hold it lucky that John has not by
his side our young Walter, with his keen eye and scheming brain,
whispering such suggestions in his ear as that which was hazarded but
now. The false king might, with wit enough, in such a case, have saved
himself the trouble of sending for warriors from beyond sea; for he
might have found them at his door. But, trust me, resolution, and the
determination to act with a strong hand, are much wanted in this
emergency. And hearken. The king brings foreigners into this country to
fight his battles, forgetting that both parties can play at that game if
needs be. Nay, start not; you will ere long come to view this matter in
the same light that I do; and I swear by my faith, that rather than be
beaten by that anointed, craven, and perjured king, I would not only
consent to bringing a foreign army into the kingdom, but to placing a
foreign prince on the throne. Tush! what matters it who is the puppet,
so long as we, the barons of England, pull the strings?”
“By my halidame, De Moreville,” said Fitzwalter, gravely, “I much marvel
that a man so skilled in statecraft, and accounted so sage in camp and
council as you are, can indulge in talk so perilous to our enterprise,
encompassed as it is with dangers. Credit me that when the cession of
the three northern counties to the King of Scots is bruited about, and
the condition of his friendship becomes matter of public notoriety, that
of itself will be sufficiently difficult to vindicate. Make not the
aspect of affairs more repulsive to our best and most leal friends, the
citizens of London, by defying their prejudices. Credit me, such a
course, if persisted in, will ruin all, and leave us at the mercy of an
adversary whose tender mercies are cruel. No more of it, I pray you, as
you value all our lives and fortunes, and the welfare of the army of
God and the Church.”
“Fitzwalter,” replied De Moreville, earnestly, “be not deceived. Much
less easy is it than you think to startle the citizens of London, who
care nothing for traditions or love of country. Behind that old Roman
wall which you see to the east are men from every clime and of every
race, mongrels almost to a man, who have no feeling, no motive in this
quarrel, save their aversion to the monarchy and their dislike of the
king. Be not deceived. Besides, as I am a Norman gentleman, I swear to
you, on my faith, that I do not value their opinion or their support at
the worth of a bezant.”
Fitzwalter started, and looked round as if fearing that any one might be
within earshot.
“For the rest,” continued De Moreville, conclusively, “I have well
considered what I have spoken, and am prepared to abide by it, let
William Longsword or the Nevilles do their worst. We are Normans, and
not Englishmen, as you well know--none better. You start. Yet a little
while, and others will cry out loudly enough in the market-place what
now I hardly dare to whisper; for clearly do I see, and confidently do I
predict as if I had read it in the book of fate, that matters must be
worse before they can be better. I have for some time only thought so;
but I have known it ever since I learned that this cowardly yet
bloodthirsty king has turned to bay.”
“May the saints in heaven shield this afflicted land,” said Fitzwalter,
with a sigh, “and grant us a happy issue out of all our troubles!”
And they parted: Fitzwalter, in no enviable frame of mind, to enter his
gilded barge, and go by water to Baynard’s Castle; De Moreville, his
brain peopled with conflicting projects, to walk eastward to his hotel
outside of Ludgate.