WRESTLING FOR THE RAM
On Lammas day the Londoners flocked towards Westminster to witness the
great wrestling match which was to decide the comparative superiority of
the athletes of the city and the suburbs. Long ere noon the level turf
which had been railed off for the encounter was surrounded by a crowd
impatient for the commencement of the combat--so impatient, indeed, that
they would not deign to be diverted by the gleemen, and jongleurs, and
mountebanks, and merry-andrews, and tymberteres, who nevertheless made
every effort to attract attention. Curiosity as to the champion who was
to encounter Martin Girder had reached a high pitch, and was all the
keener that even his name had not transpired.
At length, just before noon, Constantine Fitzarnulph, coming from
London, and the abbot’s steward, coming from Westminster, reached the
ground, where tents had been erected for the champions; and while the
men of Westminster loudly cheered the steward, the Londoners raised
their voices not less loudly in praise of Fitzarnulph, some of them
adding, “Hail, Constantine, King of the People!”
At the appointed hour, and while yet this storm of cheers was raging, a
signal was given for the champions to come into the arena, and forthwith
Martin Girder presented himself, looking so big and strong and in such
excellent order that the Londoners signified their enthusiasm by
cheering him to the skies. Ere the din had subsided, Martin’s adversary,
a young man of twenty-one, came from his tent, and his appearance so
much disappointed the spectators who wished him well as the steward’s
champion, that hardly a voice was raised in his encouragement, and the
Londoners laughed loudly in scorn of his audacity. Only one person--the
landlord of the Walnut-tree, out of which William de Collingham and
Oliver Icingla had been hunted by Sir Anthony Waledger on the day when
Prince Louis entered London--expressed confidence in the champion, and
spoke favourably of his chance.
“Cog’s wounds!” exclaimed mine host, “I know the younker well. It is
Wolf, the son of Styr, my wife’s kinsman; and, albeit he does not
inherit the height or bulk of his father, yet he has enough of old
Styr’s pluck and devilry to make the London loons laugh on the wrong
side of their mouths ere he is done with their champion. As the Scots
say, ‘muckleness is no’ manliness, or a cow could catch a hare.’”
“Right, mine host,” said a tall archer who stood by, and who was one of
the heroes of the camp of refuge; “the son of Styr is game to the
backbone like his father before him, and the Icingla spoiled a stout
soldier when he made Wolf the forester he is.”
In truth, Wolf, though now a man and a handsome one, was neither tall
nor largely proportioned, and in both respects his adversary had an
overwhelming advantage. Nevertheless he was a model of manly strength
and beauty--his body compactly formed, his limbs well knit and hardened
by constant exercise, and his sunburnt face comely and calm in its
expression of fearless courage and resolute will.
And now, all preliminaries having been settled, the combatants advanced
upon each other and closed in stern encounter. Nor had anything
witnessed on St. James’s Day equalled its ferocity. They seized each
other by the arms, drew backwards, pushed forwards, locked their limbs
into each other, seized and pressed furiously, dashed their heads
against each other like rams, and did all they could to lift each other
from the ground. At length, however, the struggle ended. Wolf was on the
ground, and Martin Girder, who stood over him, was loudly applauded for
a victory which it had cost him all his heart and all his energy to
obtain.
After a brief interval the champions came forth for the second
encounter, and this time the struggle was not prolonged. Scarcely had
they closed when Wolf made himself master of his adversary’s legs, and a
fall was the immediate consequence. The Londoners this time had not a
word to say. Fitzarnulph looked very black, and the archer remarked with
a knowing glance--
“All right, mine host; the son of Styr is too much accustomed to brutes
not to understand the nature of the animal he has to deal with. St.
Hubert! but it was well and resolutely done.”
Between the second and the third trial of strength and skill there was a
considerable interval, that the champions might rest and refresh
themselves ere engaging in the struggle which was to decide the victory;
and the interest of the crowd in the result being as intense as ever was
felt when two knights rode into the lists to combat with lance and
battle-axe for life and death, they awaited their reappearance with
impatience, and shouted repeatedly for them to come forth. A loud murmur
ere long announced that the combat was about to be renewed, and all eyes
were fixed on the wrestlers, each party praying for the triumph of their
favourite. And fierce indeed was the struggle which ensued, as, after
facing each other for a few moments, Wolf and Martin Girder sprang
forward and closed to prove decisively which was the better man. For a
time neither seemed to gain any advantage over his adversary, and the
crowd looked on in breathless silence. At length Wolf, by a skilful
effort, threw his antagonist to the ground. But Martin Girder,
remembering even at that moment that his own fame and the credit of the
city were at stake, drew down his adversary with him, and the contest
was continued on the ground, the combatants tumbling and twining with
each other in a hundred different ways. But who can resist his fate?
Martin’s breath was gone, his hopes of success with it; and the
Anglo-Saxon, getting uppermost, forced the Londoner to confess himself
vanquished, and rose to his feet a conqueror.
So far, matters had been conducted decently and in order. But at the
moment when Wolf’s victory was secured, the scene suddenly changed, and
all was uproar and confusion. Blows were exchanged, swords were drawn,
blood was shed--in fact, a fierce fray was going on between the
Londoners and the men of Westminster. It soon appeared that the
Londoners were getting the worst of the encounter, and they were fain to
fly eastward, fighting as they fled, not, however, without threatening
vengeance on their pursuers.
Fitzarnulph was among the fugitives, and, having rallied them within
Ludgate, and led them up to St. Paul’s Churchyard, he did all he could
to exasperate them to fury by his violent speeches; and the commotion
was such that the mayor and several influential citizens came hastily to
prevent mischief, and commanded them to go to their homes. The crowd
slowly and sullenly dispersed, only, however, to meet again, and
Fitzarnulph did not conceal his determination to have a speedy revenge.
“Master Fitzarnulph,” said the mayor, solemnly, “I grieve to see a
citizen such as you egging on the commonalty to do what is not lawful
and right, and I warn you that you will rue it. Remember William
Fitzosbert, who, in Richard’s time, was called King of the Poor, and for
leading the commonalty into lawless courses was hanged at the Nine Elms.
Think of him, I say, and let his fate be your warning.”
But the mayor might as well have talked to the waves of the sea.
Fitzarnulph treated his admonition with lofty scorn.
“Gramercy for your warning, Mr. Mayor,” said he; “but let me tell you
that your neck is not safer than mine own. Hang a Fitzarnulph! Did ever
Londoner dream of such a thing before? By St. Thomas! hang me on the
morrow at sunrise, and ere sunset you would look round England in vain
for a throne.”