WARRIORS IN DISGUISE
On the evening of the 1st of June, the day preceding that on which Louis
of France rode into London to receive the homage of the chief citizens
and barons, two persons--one of them a tall, strong man, riding a big,
high horse, and the other a stripling, mounted on a white
“haquenée”--reached Southwark. They reined up before the sign of the
White Hart, an hostelry afterwards celebrated as the headquarters of
Jack Cade during his memorable insurrection.
“Who may you be, and whence come ye?” asked the landlord, who, seeing
that the times were troubled, was cautious as to the persons he received
under his roof.
“I am a yeoman of Kent,” answered the elder of the horsemen, frankly,
“and this youngling is my nephew, and we have this day ridden from my
homestead near Foot’s Cray.”
The explanation proved satisfactory--at all events, it sufficed for the
occasion--and the travellers stabled their steeds, and, having entered
the White Hart, were soon doing justice to such good cheer as the
tenement afforded. The yeoman, meanwhile, talked freely enough with all
who addressed him. The stripling, however, sat silent and seemingly
abashed, as it was natural a young peasant should sit in a scene to
which he was unaccustomed, and among people who were strangers. Only
once, when his companion was holding forth on the subject of flocks and
herds, he opened his mouth to utter an enthusiastic exclamation in
praise of a brindled bull that had recently been baited in his native
village; and having done so, and, apparently, also satisfied his hunger
and thirst, he, in very rustic language, proposed a visit to the
“bear-gardens” hard by the hostelry.
And here the reader may as well be reminded that, in the days of King
John, and for centuries after--indeed, up to the time of Queen
Elizabeth--the Surrey side of the Thames was almost without houses, with
the exception of a part of Lambeth, where stood the primate’s palace;
and Bermondsey, a pastoral village with gardens and orchards; and
Southwark, which was a considerable place, relatively to the period, and
boasted of the public granary, and the city brewhouse, and the mansions
inhabited by prelates and abbots when they were in London, besides many
and various places of recreation to which the Londoners were wont to
repair. Here was Winchester House, the residence of the Bishop of
Winchester; there Rochester House, the residence of the Bishop of
Rochester; there the inn of the Prior of Lewes; there the inns of the
Abbots of Battle and of St. Augustine, in Canterbury; there St. Olave’s
Church; and there, standing hard by in strange contrast, as if to
illustrate the truth of the old proverb, “the nearer the church, the
farther from grace,” certain tenements with such signs as the Boar’s
Head, the Cross Keys, the Cardinal’s Head, etc., of which the reputation
was such that it was presumed the faces of the decorous were never seen
within their walls.
But, however that might have been, no discredit whatever attached to the
bear-gardens, “where were kept bears, bulls, and other beasts to be
baited, as also mastiffs in various kennels nourished to bait them, the
bears and other beasts being kept in plots of ground scaffolded about
for the beholders to stand safe.” Bear-baiting, in fact, ranked, like
festivities and tournaments, among the fashionable diversions of the
age; and the yeoman and his nephew went thither and enjoyed themselves
with clear consciences, as persons in similar circumstances would in our
day visit a theatre or a music-hall. Indeed, the first two individuals
who attracted their attention were persons no less respectable in their
day and generation than Joseph Basing the citizen, who had a lurking
reverence for the monarchy of England, and Constantine Fitzarnulph, who
was all eagerness to overthrow it, no matter what the consequences.
Eager was the conversation which they held as they walked along, and
such as proved that Basing still cherished the doubts and fears which he
had in vain expressed at Clerkenwell.
“I wish all this may end well,” said he bluntly, in reply to a long
narrative of the preparations made to receive the French prince and his
lords.
“My worthy fellow-citizen,” said Constantine Fitzarnulph, “content
yourself, I pray you, and credit me that this is all as it ought to be,
and that it will all work for the welfare and prosperity of England and
our city.”
“I would fain hope so if I could,” replied Basing, shaking his head
incredulously; “but, by St. Thomas, I wish you may not all live to
repent your handiwork, and to find, when too late, that you are like the
countryman who brought up a young wolf, which no sooner grew strong
enough than it began to tear his sheep to pieces.”
The two citizens passed on, and the yeoman of Kent and his nephew,
having passed some time in the bear-gardens, strolled leisurely towards
London Bridge, which was crowded with passengers, and enlivened by
ballad-singers and minstrels bawling out the newest verses in praise of
Prince Louis, and Robert Fitzwalter, and Constantine Fitzarnulph, and
looked and listened till warned by the curfew bell to return to their
hostelry and betake themselves to repose.
“Beshrew me,” said the stripling in a low but ardently earnest tone, as,
having looked to their horses, they parted for the night--“beshrew me if
the heads of the Londoners are not turned with all this babble and noise
about Prince Louis, and Robert Fitzwalter, and Constantine Fitzarnulph.
My patience begins to give way.”
“Heed them not,” replied the yeoman in a similar tone; “it is because
Louis and his friends are the stronger party, and for no other reason.
It is ever the way of the vulgar to follow those, no matter what their
worth, whom Fortune favours, and despise those on whom she frowns, as I
have learned to my bitter experience. See you, when the royal cause
flourishes again they will shout as lustily for the king. Mayhap even
we may yet be the heroes of popular song. Marry, less likely things have
come to pass in changeful times.”
“May the saints forefend!” exclaimed the stripling, smiling; “for,
certes, I should then conclude that we were in the wrong. I remember me
of the story which tells that when the Greek orator was loudly applauded
by the multitude, the philosopher chid him. ‘Sir,’ added the
philosopher, ‘if you had spoken wisely, these men would have showed no
signs of approbation.’”
Next morning, the yeoman and the stripling rose betimes, broke their
fast, crossed London Bridge, and mingled with the crowd--pressing,
surging, and swaying--that cheered and welcomed Louis, who that day
charmed all hearts by his great affability and his very gracious
condescension. Nothing, indeed, could have exceeded the enthusiasm of
the citizens and populace of London when the French prince, crossing
London Bridge, entered the city; “for,” says the chronicler, “there was
nothing wanting in the salutations of the flattering people, not even
that barbarous Chaire Basileus, which is, ‘Hail, dear lord.’”
The yeoman of Kent and his young comrade did not add their voices to the
music of the hour. Perhaps they were too stupid to comprehend fully what
was taking place. However, they certainly did seem to make the best use
of their eyes. They entered the church of St. Paul’s while the citizens
were doing homage and swearing allegiance, and they followed the long
and brilliant cavalcade of prelates, and nobles, and knights,
conspicuous among whom were Hugh de Moreville and Sir Anthony Waledger,
when they conducted the French prince to Westminster; for here a similar
ceremony was to be performed in the Abbey, which then stood very much as
it had been left by Edward the Confessor--to wit, in the form of a
cross, with a high central tower, and as it had been consecrated on the
Christmas of 1065, when the saint-king lay dying in the Painted Chamber.
Both the stripling and the yeoman looked on the Abbey with peculiar
reverence, and the sight of it seemed to recall to them the memory of
the pious founder, but of whom few else in London or Westminster thought
that day.
“Holy Edward be our aid, and the aid of England!” said the younger,
uncovering his head; “for never, certes, have we and England been more
in need of the protection of our tutelary saint.”
“Amen,” added the yeoman; and, separating themselves from the crowd,
they proceeded to an ale-house right opposite the gate of the palace,
exchanged salutations with the landlord in a confidential tone, and
ascended a stair to a chamber, the window of which looked into the
palace-yard. Finding themselves alone, they turned to each other with a
glance of peculiar significance.
“Sir William de Collingham,” said the stripling, much agitated, “we are
discovered. That drunken maniac of a knight saw through our disguise.”
“Be calm, Master Icingla,” replied the other, like a man long habituated
to danger; “you may be in error. Anyhow, we gain nothing by taking
fright; for, if it be as you say, he may even now have taken such
measures that we must fall into the toils. Wherefore I say, be calm.”
And, in truth, their situation was perilous; for since the exploit of
Collingham at Chas-Chateil, and Oliver’s escape from that castle, had
become matters of notoriety in London, both had been marked men. And not
only had Hugh de Moreville sworn vengeance in case of having the power
to inflict it, but Sir Anthony Waledger, exasperated by the loss of his
post as governor of Chas-Chateil, which he ascribed to the trick put
upon him and its results, vowed never to taste joy again till he had put
both the knight and the squire into his patron’s power. What was their
real object in being in London under the circumstances, chroniclers have
not pretended to state; but certainly they would have been safer
elsewhere. Perhaps the very danger they incurred had its influence in
making them venture into the midst of foes; but, however that may have
been, there they were in that ale-house at Westminster, and below was
Sir Anthony Waledger conversing with the woman of the hostelry.
“Dame,” said the knight, in his grandest way, “tell me, on your troth,
who are they drinking above? Are they alone, or in company?”
“On my troth, sir,” answered the landlady, “I cannot tell you their
names; they have come here but now.”
On hearing this, Sir Anthony Waledger, wishing to judge with his own
eyes, went up-stairs to ascertain the truth, and, not doubting that he
was right in the conjecture he had formed, called for a quart of
ale--for the Norman knight was never neglectful of opportunities of
getting liquor--and, having ordered the quart of ale, he saluted
Collingham.
“God preserve you, master!” said he, dissembling; “I hope you will not
take my coming amiss; for, seeing you at the window, I thought you might
be one of my farmers from Berks, as you are very like him.”
“By no means,” replied Collingham, as if much honoured by being spoken
to by so great a man. “I am from Kent, and hold lands from the Lord
Hubert de Burgh; and the Lord Hubert being somewhat neglectful of my
interests, I wish to lay my complaints before Prince Louis and the
barons against the tenants of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who encroach
much on my farm.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Sir Anthony, “then I may be your friend. If you will
come into the hall I will have way made for you to lay your grievances
before the prince and the lords.”
“Many thanks, sir, but I will not trouble you at this moment, albeit, I
do not renounce your aid in the matter. Sir, may I know your name?”
“My name,” answered the knight, “is Sir Anthony Waledger;” and, after
having paid for the quart of ale, and drank it hurriedly, but with
evident relish, he added, “God be with you, master!” and descended the
stair and left the ale-house, and hastily crossed to the palace and made
for the council-chamber, whither the barons had gone, and, requesting
the usher to open the door, called the Lord Hugh de Moreville.
“My lord,” said he, as De Moreville appeared, “I bring you good news.”
“By St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, amazed at having been trespassed
on at such a moment, “why not at once tell me what it is?”
“By the head of St. Anthony!” answered the knight very boldly, as he
advanced, “it concerns not only you, but Prince Louis, and all the lords
present. I have seen Sir William de Collingham and Master Icingla
disguised as yeomen in an ale-house close by the palace-gate.”
“Collingham and Icingla?” said De Moreville, much surprised.
“By the head of St. Anthony, my lord, it is even so--it is true,”
replied the knight, greatly elated at the thought of being the bearer
of such intelligence; “it is as true as that I live by bread, and you
may have them to dine with you if you please.”
De Moreville, in spite of his bad humour, laughed grimly.
“In truth,” said he, “I should like it much. Wherefore hasten to secure
them; but take power enough with you to be in no danger of failing, for
they are dangerous desperadoes, as their actions and words prove.”
“Trust me,” said Sir Anthony, with evident confidence in himself that he
would be prudent in action. “May I never again taste joy if I fail in
the enterprise!”
“Wherefore not say ale and wine at once?” replied Moreville, jocularly;
“I should then feel assured of your doing your very utmost.”
Sir Anthony did not answer, but, having selected a dozen stalwart men
from De Moreville’s train, the knight made for the ale-house.
“Follow me at a distance,” said he to the men, “and as soon as you
perceive me make a sign to arrest the persons I am in search of, lay
hands on them, and take care they do not, on any account, escape.”
So saying, Sir Anthony again entered the ale-house, ascended the stairs,
and, followed by his myrmidons, entered the chamber where he had left
Collingham and Oliver Icingla. He was prepared to give the sign which
was to make them prisoners, and was already anticipating the success of
the enterprise which, according to his calculations, was to redeem him
from the disgrace which he had incurred by allowing Chas-Chateil to be
entered by a band of outlaws, when his countenance fell and he tossed
his arms on high.
“By the head of St. Anthony,” said he, wildly, and with mortification in
his countenance, “the birds have flown!”
“_Yes_,” answered a sepulchral voice, which seemed to come from the
midst of the band, “_they are flown; for in vain is the net spread in
the sight of any bird_.”
Sir Anthony Waledger started, shivered, and looked round and round in
great alarm, and several of his followers crossed themselves; and as
they did so, the voice repeated in still more mysterious accents--
“_In vain is the net spread in the sight of any bird._”
Sir Anthony called on his favourite saints to protect him; and his men
began to back confusedly out of the chamber, every one of them with a
heart beating faster and louder than his neighbour’s.
As they passed out and questioned the landlady, the good dame laughed in
her sleeve.
“On my troth,” said she, complacently, as she looked after them, “they
will be more clever than I take them to be if they can lay hands on
Forest Will without his own leave.”
“As well,” added mine host, who now descended from the upper regions,
rejoicing in having successfully executed his mission--“as well try to
catch the blazing star which, some years since, was like to have carried
the world away on its tail.”
“Forest Will is man enough for them all,” added the landlady with a
smile.
Mine host gave a start which indicated slight jealousy.