A RIDE FOR LIFE
When Sir Anthony Waledger drank his ale with such evident relish, and
left the chamber from the window of which Collingham and Oliver Icingla
were looking out on the excited populace, the knight and the squire
turned on each other countenances which expressed a very considerable
degree of consternation.
“By the rood!” exclaimed Collingham, “our necks are in peril. I feel
it.”
“But our hands can guard them, with the aid of God and good St. Edward,”
replied Oliver, drawing a dagger from under the rustic garments he wore
as disguise.
“Impossible!” said Collingham, rising and shaking his head. “We must
escape, and that forthwith. Put up your dagger and follow me.”
“Lead on, then,” said Oliver, calmly, and both descended the stair,
Collingham as he passed out exchanging a whisper with the landlord, who
thereupon betook himself to a hiding-place that looked through an almost
invisible crevice into the chamber which the knight and squire had just
left.
Meanwhile, Collingham and Oliver, more and more aware of their danger,
but at the same time proof against anything like craven fear, contrived
so to mingle with the crowd as to escape observation, and, feeling their
way cautiously, made for the side of the Thames, which was gay with
barges and pleasure boats crowded with the wives and daughters of barons
and citizens eager to view the procession at a distance, and to catch a
glance, if possible, of the foreign prince under whose rule they
anticipated so much liberty and so much happiness. Hailing a little
boat, as if anxious, in his character of a yeoman of Kent, to see all
that was to be seen, Collingham coolly stepped on board, making a sign
to Oliver to follow, and soon they were rowing leisurely in the middle
of what was then “the great highway” of London. Barge after barge
floated past them as they proceeded towards the Surrey shore, and in one
of these Oliver, with a start, recognised De Moreville’s daughter,
attended by Dame Waledger and her maidens. They were so close that
Beatrix’s dog, with the remarkable instinct of his race, appeared to
know Oliver in spite of his disguise, and barked and wagged its tail in
sign of recognition, which had the effect of drawing the sharp eyes of
Dame Waledger on the little boat and its passengers. The youth, however,
forgetful of his danger, had only eyes for Beatrix, and gazed wistfully
on the barge.
“I marvel much,” soliloquised he, pensively, “whether the fair
demoiselle has forgotten me;” and he sighed audibly.
“By the rood!” exclaimed Collingham, anxiously, “I fear me that ancient
shrew guesses who you are. She has eyes like a hawk, and this encounter
may be our death.”
But it was too late to remedy the mischief, if mischief had been done,
and having urged on the boatman they were soon set ashore on the Surrey
side, at a little wharf hard by London Bridge, and without loss of time
took their way to the White Hart, where Collingham, having given mine
host some excuse for so sudden a departure, paid their reckoning, while
Oliver saddled and bridled their horses, and brought them from the
stable.
“Now horse and away,” said Collingham, as he sprang into his saddle. “I
hardly deem they can track us, even if they try, and anyhow we have the
start.”
“True,” said Oliver, as he mounted, not without directing a glance at an
ancient-looking battle-axe that hung at his saddle-bow; “and yet I
cannot but mutter a malison on the luck that makes me dependent on the
speed of such a haquenée at such a moment. Had I but my gallant Ayoub
beneath me, small danger would there be of my impeding your progress;”
and as he spoke they rode on, turning their faces southward.
“Fear not,” replied Collingham, dauntlessly; “if the old hack has not
speed he hath endurance, and I doubt not will carry you fast enough to
sup and sleep this night in the Sussex forest;” and they pursued their
way, frequently turning aside, however, to avoid the habitations of men,
and confining themselves as much as possible to the woods and woodlands.
Such, indeed, was the course they took, that the idea of being traced
was one which it seemed unreasonable to entertain. But a craving for
revenge sharpens mortal invention, and Sir Anthony Waledger was in no
mood to be baffled. Besides, other keen eyes besides those of Dame
Waledger had been on them. As they mounted in haste at the White Hart,
Clem the Bold Rider, who had accompanied De Moreville to London, and
gone on a visit to the hostler, was hanging about the stables of the
inn, and patting the head of a russet bloodhound, which he seemed to
have taken under his especial charge, and which he addressed as Canmore.
No sooner did they ride away than Clem, committing the dog to the care
of the hostler, left the White Hart, and hurried away to Westminster
with intelligence of what he had seen.
“Ho, ho!” cried Sir Anthony Waledger, joyfully, “the saints have
delivered them into our hands;” and without even waiting to consult De
Moreville, the knight mounted, with Clem the Bold Rider and ten other
men at his back, and hastily as the crowded streets would permit of
their doing, made for London Bridge, crossed to Southwark, and rode
forward to the White Hart, to set the bloodhound on the track of the
fugitives.
“It is parlous strange,” mused Sir Anthony, as Clem brought out the
bloodhound; “this dog belongs to a breed which Edric Icingla brought
from the borders of Scotland to Chas-Chateil, and he was wont to boast
of their sagacity and unerring instinct. Little did the braggart Saxon
foresee that one of them was one day to be used to bring his son to
justice.”
Meanwhile, guided by the dog, the knight was speeding on, and so were
Collingham and Oliver. At first they rode at a rapid rate, but,
believing that all danger was over, and having a long journey before
them, they gradually slackened their pace, and even ventured to halt for
half an hour at a mill that whirled on a branch of the River Mole, to
rest their horses and drink a cup of home-brewed ale. Had they been
aware of their danger, they might have found refuge in Earl Warren’s
castle of Reigate, which still held out for the king. But having now
little or no apprehension of pursuit, they, on remounting, pursued their
way leisurely towards Sussex, and entered the forest country with a
feeling of such thorough security that they began to laugh at their
recent peril.
“Now let De Moreville and his drunken knight do their worst,” said
Collingham, gaily. “If they follow us to our retreat they will have
reason to wish they had rather fallen into the hands of the Tartars.”
“Ay, let them do their worst,” repeated Oliver, sternly. “By the Holy
Cross, when we next meet, mayhap they will have less relish for our
company.”
“However,” observed Collingham, gravely, “let us not forget the homely
proverb which tells us not to halloo too loud till we are out of the
wood, and profit so far by the lesson we have received as not again, on
light grounds, to thrust ourselves needlessly into manifest peril.”
“It is a lesson which men of adventurous spirit are ever slow to learn,”
observed Oliver, thoughtfully, and again they rode on in silence.
But ere long this silence was destined to be rudely disturbed. While
their horses were pacing along a beautiful glade, and over turf as
smooth as that of a modern racecourse, a sound like the baying of a dog
suddenly broke on their ears. It was, indeed, at some distance.
Nevertheless, Collingham, a man not easily frightened, reined up his
steed, and listened in great alarm.
“By the rood!” exclaimed he, after listening for a minute, during which
the bay of the dog sounded again and again through the forest, “I could
scarce have believed any man wearing the spurs of knighthood capable of
taking such an advantage over warriors in adversity. Nevertheless, I
suspect it is not the less true that they have bloodhounds on our track.
If so, we have nothing to trust to but the speed of our horses. So
Master Icingla, ride on, and spare not the spur, for in cases such as
this, it is the safety of man, and not the convenience of the beast that
must be consulted.”
“O for an hour of Ayoub!” groaned Oliver Icingla as he applied the spur.
“My malison upon the false Normans who have separated me from my good
steed at a time when I most need his aid. But on, on, Sir William de
Collingham. St. Edward forfend that I should be in your way.”
And on they rode through the forest, pausing not at marsh, or hedge, or
dyke, disdaining obstacles and defying dangers. But Collingham was under
the necessity of ever and anon reining in his good steed to keep pace
with the white haquenée, and Oliver, albeit his horse made every effort,
felt that it would be better to face a dozen foes singlehanded than
continue to urge the already exhausted animal beyond its speed, and gave
expression to his sentiments on the point in very earnest language,
especially when the baying of the hound indicated that the pursuers were
drawing nearer, and still more so when, after emerging from the forest
glade into open meadowland, they looked hurriedly behind, and perceived
that their pursuers, headed by the bloodhound, and Sir Anthony Waledger
cheering the dog on, were gradually, and indeed rapidly, gaining upon
them.
Oliver uttered a shout expressive of rage and despair.
“Be patient,” said Collingham, “and droop not. Remember that, albeit
their steeds are swifter, and their numbers greater, yet the race is not
always to the swift, nor the battle always to the strong.”
Oliver Icingla answered only with a groan, and as he did so the white
haquenée groaned in chorus. In fact, every hope of escape was vanishing
from the English squire’s mind, and the horse he bestrode was fast
becoming exhausted. But still Collingham spoke words of hope, and
laughed in spite of the baying of the bloodhound and the yell of the
pursuers. Indeed, the chase now became most exciting, and Sir Anthony
and his men, who felt quite sure of their game, enjoyed it in spite of
their exertions, and shouted mockingly at the efforts of Oliver Icingla
to make the white haquenée keep up with Collingham’s charger. Of course,
this state of affairs could not long continue, and it was brought to a
very sudden termination.
Both the fugitives and their pursuers were already in Sussex, when they
reached a wooded valley, intersected by a running stream, not wide, but
deep, and difficult to cross. Collingham, however, dashed through, and,
thanks to his strong steed, reached the sward opposite without accident;
but Oliver Icingla was not so fortunate. In attempting to ascend the
opposite bank his white steed gave way, rolled back, and, wholly
incapable of making another struggle, fell utterly exhausted into the
water, bearing its rider with it. To extricate his limbs from the fallen
haquenée and gain the grassy bank was no easy process under the
circumstances. But, agile and dexterous, Oliver Icingla succeeded, and
with the water running from his clothes, he stood there grasping his
battle-axe with the attitude and expression of a person who had lost all
hopes of escaping death, but who was determined to sell his life at the
dearest rate. Collingham gazed on the youth with the admiration which
the physically brave ever feel for high moral courage.
By this time the pursuers were approaching close to that bank of the
stream that the fugitives had left.
“Ride on, Sir William de Collingham,” said Oliver, with a gesture which
sufficiently proved that he was thinking more of the knight’s safety
than his own. “Ride on, I pray you. I grieve that I have too long
impeded you on your way. I now perceive plainly that my doom is to die
here, and I may as well resign myself to my fate.”
“And die by their hands in this wilderness?” asked Collingham in horror.
“Yes, by their hands, and in this wilderness,” answered Oliver with
resignation. “But,” added he, grimly, “carry comfort with thee, Sir
William de Collingham. I die not till I have sent at least three of mine
enemies to their account. Now away and save thyself, and as thou ridest
pray that St. Edward may aid the last of the Icinglas to write his
epitaph in legible characters on the crests of his foes. Farewell!”
But William de Collingham was not the man to desert a comrade in such a
strait as this.
“By my faith, lad,” said he, “I like thy spirit, and doubt not but thou
wouldst make good thy promise ere they overpowered thee; but it shall
never be said that thou wert left to deal alone with such odds while
William de Collingham can wield his sword. So, as thy haquenée is
clearly unable to carry thee further, we must even turn to bay. If we
could but check this drunken knight and his knaves, my horse might yet
carry us both to the refuge we wot of, which, as thou knowest, is not
far off. But we must first get quit of that pestilent hound. Would that
I had but a yew-tree bough! A shaft should speedily put a stop to his
baying.”
“Stay,” replied Oliver, who had been closely eyeing the dog while
Collingham was speaking. “I think I can manage the hound without the
help of thy shaft. By the bones of St. Edward, the brute is mine own!
Canmore! Canmore! hi, boy, hi!” cried he, addressing the hound, which
had now reached the opposite side of the stream.
The animal no sooner heard his voice than, recognising tones familiar to
it, its previously fierce aspect changed, and, plunging into the water,
it swam across and commenced fawning upon the squire instead of tearing
him to pieces, as Sir Anthony and his followers had anticipated.
“Come,” said Collingham, “that is one foe converted into a friend. We
may now manage so to deal with the rest as to indispose them for further
pursuit. Have thine axe ready; they cannot all cross at once; strike no
blow that does not tell, and I warrant me if we can disable the knight
and two or three of the foremost of his fellows the rest will not
trouble us further. Strike thou at the knaves, and leave me to deal with
the knight.”
“Have with you, then!” answered Icingla. “St. Edward for the right! But
down, Canmore, down!” added he, again addressing the hound, which
continued to express its joy at meeting him by leaping upon him and
licking his hand. “Thou hast helped to get us into a scrape, boy, and
must also help us out of it. Seize yonder knave and see that ye hold him
fast,” said he, pointing to one of two horsemen who had now, at the
heels of Sir Anthony, plunged into the stream.
The sagacious animal at once comprehended his master’s wish, and
hesitated not to obey. Crouching upon its haunches in readiness for a
spring, its bloodshot eyes glaring fiercely, and every hair upon its
shaggy back quivering with rage and eagerness, the hound waited till the
foremost horseman had gained the bank, and then sprang upon the horse’s
neck, into which the dog’s long and sharp claws were plunged while his
teeth were at the rider’s throat. Maddened with pain, the steed plunged,
reared, and finally slipping upon the slimy margin of the stream, fell
backwards into the water, carrying man and dog with him. The hound,
however, did not quit his hold till the struggles of the man having
ceased showed that he was harmless. The animal then regained the bank
and prepared to take a further part in the fray, which had meanwhile
been fiercely waged there. One blow of Oliver’s battle-axe had been
sufficient to put Sir Anthony’s second supporter _hors-de-combat_, while
Collingham was engaged in a desperate hand-to-hand encounter with
Waledger and a third of his men-at-arms. Others continued to cross the
brook, and Oliver was now hard pressed by three assailants at once, and,
fighting at the disadvantage of being on foot while his opponents were
on horseback, had received more than one hurt, though not seriously
injured. Collingham, perceiving that his friend could not long maintain
so unequal a contest, disregarding his less formidable antagonist, first
pressed Sir Anthony so closely as to force him back to the very verge of
the stream, and then, backing his own steed suddenly a few paces, gave
him the spur and dashed against Waledger with so much force as to upset
man and horse into the water in even worse plight than his follower had
been before, as, from the weight of his armour, he was in danger of
drowning at once. Meanwhile, Oliver had disposed of one of his three
assailants, a swinging blow from Collingham’s sword settled a second,
and the third, hearing the shout of “Save Sir Anthony! save Sir
Anthony!” raised by the rest of his fellows, turned his horse and
plunged again into the stream, followed by the yeoman who had attacked
Collingham.
“By the mass, Icingla, thou hast plied thine axe well,” shouted
Collingham. “But it were folly to risk further fighting. Thou art
wounded, I see, and I myself am not scathless, so, while the knaves are
fishing their drunken leader out of the water, get up behind me and let
us make the best of our way for the refuge in the marshes.”
“I am loth to part with the knaves even thus,” said Oliver; “but thou
art right, Sir William. We have a chance to escape now, and can reckon
with the rascals another time.”
So saying, he mounted behind his friend, and the two, followed by the
hound, dashed off towards a clump of forest not far off, leaving the
haquenée to its fate, and the followers of Sir Anthony Waledger to
rescue their master how they could.