DE MOREVILLE IN BATTLE HARNESS
As Pembroke was marching on Lincoln from the North, and the French and
Anglo-Normans were arraying themselves for the combat, a very important
arrival took place. In fact, Hugh de Moreville--attended by Sir Anthony
Waledger, Ralph Hornmouth, and his young kinsman Richard--with a strong
body of horse at his back, entered the city by the south gate. De
Moreville’s arrival was hailed with cheers; for, however unpopular
generally, his fame as a warrior made him welcome in the hour of danger;
and the Count de Perche could not conceal his satisfaction as the
haughty Norman presented himself.
Now it may as well be mentioned at once that De Moreville had not been
attracted to Lincoln by any enthusiasm for Prince Louis, of whom he was
weary, nor by any love of the French warriors, of whose arrogance he was
heartily sick, and of whose affectations of superiority he was very much
more impatient than others of his class. But since the night when
Collingham so suddenly found his way into Chas-Chateil, De Moreville had
been much more nervous on all points than of yore, and reflecting
seriously on the past and speculating keenly on the future, he saw that
his interests were bound up with the cause of Prince Louis, and that a
decisive triumph of young Henry’s adherents would lead to his utter
ruin. All would go that made him the great personage he was--castles,
and manors, and feudal power; and he would have to hide his head in a
cloister or fare forth to foreign lands and fight as a soldier of
fortune.
No man was therefore more interested in the issue of the struggle going
on; and having left his daughter at his house in Ludgate, under the
charge of Dame Waledger, he hastened to Lincoln, which he knew was
likely to be the place where the crisis of the war would come. But he
did not dream of giving any hint of the motives by which he was
animated; and even De Perche was so convinced of the Norman’s hearty
good-will towards Louis and himself, that he ascribed the arrival to
pure enthusiasm, and the count gave him so flattering a reception that
De Moreville was fain to be more hypocritical than was his wont.
“Ha! my good Lord De Moreville,” exclaimed De Perche, joyfully, “welcome
in the hour of danger. Our enemies are even now at the gates, and are
coming in greater force than I anticipated.”
“Let them come,” said De Moreville, smiling grimly; “we have no reason
to grow alarmed at their approach. William Marshal and William Albini
are Norman nobles, like myself, and falcons fear not falcons.”
De Perche started and looked suspicious in De Moreville’s face; but the
Norman smiled so frankly that the count blushed at the suspicion that
had crossed his mind, and said, carelessly--
“O, mort Dieu! they are doubtless puissant foes.”
“However,” replied De Moreville, “I have in my day fought with braver
men than they are, albeit no braggart, and I say by St. Moden I am ready
to do so again, and ever shall be, while I breathe the breath of life
and have strength enough to mount a steed and shake a spear.”
“Who could dream of the Lord De Moreville knowing fear?” said De Perche
between jest and earnest.
“Anyhow,” said De Moreville, earnestly, “I have sworn allegiance to Lord
Louis, and I shrink not from any sacrifices which that allegiance
involves. For one’s lord we are bound to suffer any distress, whether
heat or cold, and lose both hair and leather, and flesh and blood; and,
sir count, I am not the man to shirk a duty. True it is that duty
sometimes marches between rocks, and that the path of duty is often the
path of danger. Nevertheless----”
“Nevertheless,” said De Perche, interrupting, “it is not less true that
the path of duty is often the road to honour and glory; that is what you
have found it, as you were about to say; so,” added the count, gaily,
“let us forth and meet our foes, and upon them with the lance, in the
name of St. Denis and our good Lord Louis.”
Accordingly, De Perche and De Moreville mounted and sallied into the
streets, to take each his part in the conflict that was even then
beginning. And while the count joined his knights and headed the
resistance well, the Norman baron that day maintained the reputation
which he enjoyed in England and on the continent as a bold knight and a
terrible man-at-arms. In the midst of the confusion and the panic which
prevailed throughout the baronial forces, De Moreville fought with
energy and courage not exceeded by any man in either army. It was he who
made the charge during which Falco was taken; it was he whose lance
threw Richard, surnamed Crocus, to the ground from which he was to be
raised a corpse; it was he who, when his lance was broken, drew his
mace, and, sweeping all before him, cleared the causeway of Falco’s
mercenaries when they were pushing on to open the north gate in order to
allow Pembroke’s army to rush into the city. Moreover, even after the
struggle became close, and Collingham’s band were proving how well they
merited the fame they had won, and the French and Anglo-Normans, huddled
together and terror-stricken, were yielding themselves like sheep to the
shearer, De Moreville and his riders were still bearing themselves
valiantly in the _mêlée_, and still breaking into the ranks of the
conquering foe and riding triumphantly through Collingham’s men with the
well-known battle-cry of “St. Moden for De Moreville! Strike! strike!
and spare not!”
In the midst of one of his fiery courses, however, the Norman baron
reined up at a short distance from the north gate, on a spot which was
literally surrounded by the carcases of the horses that had been slain;
and he ground his teeth in bitter wrath as he surveyed the scene before
him, and listened to the shouts of the victors as they pressed on in a
mass towards the spot where, around De Perche, fighting bravely against
odds, the war still centred.
“All is lost!” exclaimed De Moreville, in the tone of a man vexed to the
heart’s core. “By St. Moden, methinks the heirs of the heroes of
Hastings have lost their very manhood while feasting and bull-baiting in
the company of citizens. Beshrew me if children with willow wands could
not have made a better fight than the Anglo-Norman warriors have this
day done.”
“My lord,” said Sir Anthony Waledger, nervously, “it seems to me that we
had better save ourselves.”
De Moreville, in spite of the serious position in which he was, laughed
at the drunken knight’s suggestion.
“On my faith, Sir Anthony,” replied he, as he exchanged a smile with his
young nephew Richard at the knight’s expense, “methinks, for once, you
are in the right in thinking rather of safety than renown, for, if we
escape not, we either yield or die. But whither are we to go?”
“To Chas-Chateil,” suggested Hornmouth, in a significant tone. “No safer
stronghold in all England, if matters come to the worst.”
“True,” said De Moreville, thoughtfully. “But,” added he, slowly, “after
this day’s work, no fortress in England, however strong, will long hold
out against King Henry. Therefore it is expedient to hold our course
northward, and take refuge at Mount Moreville. But my daughter, left to
her fate in London, and London certain to be surrendered!”
“She will be safe under the wing of Dame Waledger,” replied Hornmouth,
“and all the more for your absence, seeing that she is a kinswoman of my
Lord of Salisbury, and can easily, therefore, secure protection. Come,
my good lord, time flies; let us ride. This day fortune is against you,
but you may live to conquer again. Our enemies have broken near the
north gate as they entered; let us charge towards it, and fly while
there is yet time.”
“Ay,” said De Moreville, fiercely, “let us charge, but slaughtering the
rascally rabble as we go. See how they swarm. On! on! St. Moden for De
Moreville! Strike! strike! and spare not!”
And, setting spurs to his steed, the Norman baron, at the head of his
riders, charged towards the north gate.
But this charge proved no such child’s play as De Moreville had
expected. The rascal rabble of which he had spoken so contemptuously was
Collingham’s band of patriots, who, after doing good service to their
king and country in the deadly struggle, had rallied to their
celebrated standard, bringing their prisoners with them, ere dispersing
to secure their share of the booty, which they did not despise. No
further thought of fighting that day had they; for, save on the spot
where De Perche still struggled, all resistance had ceased, and the
royalists, not interested in the count’s fate, were striding through the
streets without finding a foe to encounter, or spreading themselves over
the city to begin the work of plunder. But when Collingham suddenly
descried De Moreville’s banner, and observed that the Norman baron was
about to charge, he formed his men with marvellous rapidity into a
phalanx resembling a wedge, and there, with their captives in the midst,
they stood, presenting a wall of shields, every man grasping his axe or
bending his bow, and their dauntless chief still towering in front, with
his heavy club in his hand, and his attitude that of good-humoured
defiance.
It was not without an unwonted thrill that De Moreville beheld that
brave phalanx as he spurred forward; but he was not a man to be easily
daunted. Bravely and resolutely he charged on that wall of shields; as
bravely and resolutely his charge was resisted. He might as well have
ridden lance in rest against the ramparts of the castle. De Moreville’s
rage knew no bounds. His heart beat wildly; his eyes rolled in flames;
his nostrils snorted fire; violent exclamations burst from his lips; his
whole frame quivered with his angry passions. Furious at his own
repulse, he again, and this time more fiercely, led on his riders to the
assault, and with a charge so vehement that he all but penetrated into
the midst. But as he came face to face and hand to hand with Collingham,
he was hurled back with such force that his horse was thrown on its
haunches, and his band of cavalry was broken on the rampart of shields
as a hammer on the anvil, young Richard de Moreville falling, bruised
and senseless, by the axe of the Icingla, and Sir Anthony remaining
Collingham’s prisoner.
“By the bones of St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, as, having drawn
back, he surveyed the wreck of what had been a gallant feudal following,
“this passes all patience. Why do I live to be baffled by such a rabble
rout? Why am I man in mail, and not monk in minster? Let us charge once
more; for rather would I die by their hands, rather would I forfeit all
chance of tasting the joys of Paradise, than live to remember that they
had foiled me.”
And laying his lance at rest, and spurring his horse, De Moreville
loudly shouted his battle-cry, and led on his riders with such ferocity
that Collingham’s phalanx gave way, and the men went whirling hither and
thither, like leaves blown about by the November blasts. At that moment
Philip de Albini and John Marshal, attracted by the fray, rode hastily
up to take part in it, and De Moreville, dashing side by side with Ralph
Hornmouth to the north gate, darted rapidly through it, and spurred fast
away on the first stage of his long journey.
And now Collingham hasted to where Oliver stood, and said, “The Count de
Perche has retreated to the churchyard of the cathedral.”
Immediately the Icingla threw his battle-axe over his shoulder, and
rushed off with the speed of the wind, muttering the word “Revenge!”