THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE
It was about ten o’clock on the night of the 17th of May, 1216, that a
man and a boy--the one mounted on a strong Flemish charger, the other on
one of those common riding horses then known as a “haquenée”--made their
way up the banks of the Kennet, and halted by the spot from which so
recently Pedro the page had emerged from subterranean darkness into the
light of day.
There need be no mystery, so far as the reader is concerned, as to who
the riders were. One was William de Collingham, the other was Wolf, the
son of Styr, and it was clear from the caution with which they moved,
that they were bent on some enterprise to the success of which secrecy
was essential.
“Sir knight,” said the boy, in a low tone, “this is the spot.”
“Art thou certain?” asked the knight, looking round.
“As certain as that I serve the Icinglas, and that I played the part of
a goblin page in Chas-Chateil.”
“Good,” said the knight, pulling up his steed, and taking his bugle-horn
from his belt as to sound a blast. However, he did not blow the round
notes, but gave a low, peculiar whistle, which brought a man from among
the trees. It was one of those obscure nights common in the month of
May, and the moon affording but a dim light, the knight could not make
out the figure of the person who approached.
“Friend or foe?” cried Collingham.
“The Black Raven,” was the reply; and as the man drew near the knight
and Wolf recognised Styr the Saxon.
“All right?” said Collingham.
“All is right,” replied the Saxon. “We have nothing to do but commend
ourselves to the saints and proceed to the work before us.”
“In God’s name, then, let it so be,” said the knight. “Summon the men
who are assembled, and let us to the business. By this hour, I doubt
not,” added he, “that the drunken governor is going through his
nocturnal exercises.”
Collingham, as he spoke, dismounted, gave his horse into the care of
Wolf, and getting under the shadow of the trees, kept humming the song
of “I go to the Greenwood, for Love invites me,” till Styr returned with
a hundred men at his back, all armed, and prepared to attack or resist
foes just as occasion should arise. Some of them were simply peasants,
others fighting men in the knight’s pay; but most of them were neither
more nor less than forest outlaws. Each of them was dressed in a short
green kirtle, hose of the same colour, a leathern cap or head-piece, and
armed with a short sword, a horn slung over his shoulder, a long bow in
his hand, and a bunch of arrows in his belt. A formidable band it was,
though not numerous, and destined ere long, when increased tenfold, to
be celebrated by minstrels as holding out bravely against the invader,
when all others fled before his sword or crouched at his feet. At the
time of which I write the existence of Collingham’s band was not even
known to the French. Ere twelve months passed over, the cry of the Black
Raven was more terrible to Louis and his captains than an army with
banners.
“All is ready,” was the reply.
“Then let us proceed, in the name of God and good St. Edward,” said the
knight, and he moved towards the entrance of the subterranean passage by
which Pedro the page--or, rather, Wolf the varlet--had escaped.
Taking Wolf with him to act as a guide, and leaving a band of six picked
men to keep guard at the mouth, Collingham, having ordered all the
briars and stones to be cleared away from the entrance, caused a number
of torches to be lighted.
“Now, my merry men,” said he, “let us enter this passage, which will
conduct us to the hall of the castle. When we arrive there, if need be,
we must break the door forcibly open, and combat all who oppose us. But
I would fain hope that we may enter noiselessly, overpower the garrison,
and do what is needful, without shedding blood. However,” added he, “if
it prove necessary, be not squeamish, but strike boldly, and spare
neither the oppressor nor such as serve him. What better standard do
Englishmen want than the gory head of a Norman tyrant?”
“We will! we will! we will most cheerfully obey you,” answered the men,
whose excitement had reached a high pitch. “Neither Hugh de Moreville
nor Anthony Waledger can look for much mercy at our hands; neither for
mercy nor justice have our race ever been beholden to them.”
“But shed not a drop of blood unnecessarily,” added Collingham, as,
stooping down, he entered the cavern, and told Wolf to lead the way, his
men following, and Styr the Saxon bringing up the rear, with his sword
drawn, and firmly resolved to slay any man who attempted to turn back.
Marching noiselessly along the passage, they at length reached the stair
that led to the door into the private chamber, and this both Collingham
and Wolf exerted all their ingenuity to open, but in vain. The spring
could only be acted on from within; and, after repeatedly making
fruitless attempts, the knight gave up in despair.
“My hopes were vain,” said he, at length, “and we only waste time. Bring
forward the hammers to break the door, and let every man draw his blade
and be ready to follow me.”
One of the peasants, a Dane, who, as far as strength and stature were
concerned, might have compared to advantage with Siward, the old Earl of
Northumbria, advanced with a sledge-hammer, and with one blow smashed
the door to pieces.
“Forward!” said Collingham; and the peasant, passing into the secret
chamber, followed by the knight, with another blow smashed the door that
led from the chamber into the great hall. Still the garrison gave no
indications of having taken alarm; and Collingham, guided by Wolf, went
straight to the apartment where Sir Anthony Waledger was engaged in
combat with imaginary foes, took the governor prisoner, and shut him up
till the work was complete.
But by this time the alarm had been given, and caught the ears of a man
whose presence at Chas-Chateil Collingham did not even suspect. It was
Ralph Hornmouth, who had arrived that very morning, and who, owing to
recent fatigue, luckily for the assailants, slept sounder than was his
wont. Springing from his bed, Hornmouth hastily armed himself, rushed
from his dormitory, roused and called the garrison, and, with his sword
drawn, and the soldiers at his back, made for the great hall, to which
Collingham had just returned, and, with shouts of “St. Moden! St. Moden!
Down with the robber herd!” rushed upon the intruders. But Collingham
faced Hornmouth with a courage that equalled his ferocity, and the
outlaws answered the cry of “St. Moden!” with loud shouts of “Ho, ho,
for the Black Raven! Out! out!”
And now the great hall was filled with combatants, and a bloody conflict
took place, both parties fighting furiously. Collingham and Hornmouth
singled each other out, and between the gigantic knight and the huge
squire was fought a desperate hand-to-hand fight, no man interfering
with them. For a time neither had the advantage, and the rafters rang
with the echoes of their blows. At length Collingham’s sword broke, and
his fate seemed sealed, but he drew back, grasped his terrible club, and
renewed the combat, which grew fiercer and fiercer. What might have been
the issue it is difficult to guess; but Hornmouth’s foot slipped just as
a terrible blow alighted on his crest, and he lay senseless on the
floor. In vain the garrison attempted to rescue him. The outlaws, if not
the better men, had a mighty advantage over soldiers taken by surprise,
roused out of their first sleep, and hastily armed; and ere long they
yielded to their fate, ceased to struggle, and sullenly laid down their
arms.
And now Collingham lost no time in completing the business which had
brought him there. Guided by Wolf, he proceeded to the chamber in which
Oliver Icingla was a prisoner, and knocked.
“Who knocks?” cried a stern voice.
It was Oliver’s, and very bold in tone; though what the young Englishman
intended to do if there had been danger it is difficult to guess,
inasmuch as he had not even a weapon.
“It is I, William de Collingham,” was the reply; and forthwith the door
opened and revealed Oliver standing in the dim moonlight as guard over
the women who had appealed to him for protection. It is needless to
relate what followed. Suffice it to say that in half an hour the castle
was left to its mortified and wounded garrison; the outlaws had
dispersed through the woods; and Collingham and Oliver Icingla, with
Wolf perched behind Oliver on the white “haquenée,” were riding
leisurely in the direction of London.
But Oliver Icingla, eager as he might be for liberty and action, did not
leave Chas-Chateil without a sigh.
“Noble demoiselle,” said he, as he took leave of De Moreville’s
daughter, “I once said that when I left the castle I should carry with
me one pleasant memory; and now that I have the prospect of freedom
before me, beshrew me if I do not deem it dearly purchased at the cost
of a departure from the place which your presence consecrates in my
heart. But, farewell! May the saints watch over you, and may we meet in
more peaceful days and on a happier occasion!”
“Amen!” said the Norman maiden, in a soft whisper, as Oliver
chivalrously carried her soft hand to his lips, and the tear from her
eye alighted on his hand. “May God so order it.”
Alas! alas! for the vanity of human wishes! It was neither on a peaceful
day nor a happy occasion that Oliver Icingla and Beatrix de Moreville
were to meet again.