A STARTLING SPECTACLE
A few minutes before sunset on the evening of the day on which the
wrestling match had taken place at Westminster, a body of horsemen,
about a dozen in number, were seen passing through the little town of
Barnet, and riding in the direction of London. Both men and horses
looked as if their journey had been long, and as if they were weary of
the road.
At the head of this small cavalcade rode two horsemen. One was a young
knight, so juvenile-looking, indeed, that but for the gold spurs unworn
by squires, he would have been thought too lately out of his teens to be
girded with the belt of knighthood. The other was a squire, tall and
strong, over whose head many a winter had passed, and on whose face and
rough-hewn features the conflicts in which he had taken part had left
their marks in the form of scars. One was Oliver Icingla, the other
Ralph Hornmouth; and as Oliver now and then made remarks to Hornmouth,
and now talked caressingly to a tall greyhound that trotted by his
horse’s side, he did so with the tone of one who held no vague
pretensions, but possessed very substantial realities in the way of rank
and wealth, and whose presence even in the palace which was his ultimate
destination that night could not be treated as a matter of indifference.
In fact, his position had very much changed in a worldly point of view.
Now the heir of the Icinglas was not only a belted knight, who had
rendered important services to England during the great Pembroke’s
Protectorate, but Lord of Chas-Chateil and Mount Moreville, with ample
manors, and the power, in the event of any civil war, of bringing into
the field a formidable band of feudal warriors. At this time especially
his importance was fully recognised, for both the Bishop of Winchester
and Hubert de Burgh were naturally eager to secure him as an ally, and
all the more so that the young king was understood to listen with a
ready ear to the Icingla’s counsels.
A few words will suffice to explain how this came to pass.
Hugh de Moreville had for years ceased to give Oliver the slightest
uneasiness. The active career, indeed, of that Norman of Anglo-Normans
had closed with his escape from Lincoln. For months after his arrival at
Mount Moreville he had remained shut up in that stronghold, fretting and
fuming, giving way to wild bursts of rage, and devising every kind of
wild scheme for redeeming the disasters of the baronial party. But all
his schemes ended in air, and meantime want of food, want of sleep, and
constant worry did the wear and tear of years. His hair became grey, his
countenance haggard, and his form, lately so erect and so strong, began
to bend under the load of regret, of remorse, and mortification, and
disappointed ambition. At forty-five he had the appearance of an old
man, and he gave way to fancies which made the faithful Hornmouth
apprehensive that his lord’s reason was departing.
De Moreville’s habits, indeed, became most eccentric; and when he
sauntered broodingly from the castle from which in other days he had
been wont to ride forth with the air of a man who claimed an immense
superiority over his kind, he made a point of saluting any children whom
he met, “to the end,” as he humbly expressed it, “that he might have a
return of the benediction of the Innocents.” Gradually the inclination
he had expressed to seek consolation in the cloister became stronger,
and at length the world, in which he had played so conspicuous a part,
learned that De Moreville, the haughty and iron-handed, was a monk in
the abbey of Dryburgh. But it ought to be mentioned that in a feudal
age, when life presented such violent contrasts, this created no
surprise, for many warriors as haughty and stern as De Moreville took
the cowl, and endeavoured to make their peace with Heaven by ending
their days in penance and prayer.
When, therefore, Oliver Icingla reached years of legal discretion, he
did homage for his mother’s inheritance, and took possession of
Chas-Chateil without an obstacle being interposed; and he was even now
returning from the court of the King of Scots, at the castle of
Roxburgh, whither he had repaired to go through the feudal ceremony
which was to constitute him lord of Mount Moreville.
Ralph Hornmouth stuck steadily to De Moreville till the Norman baron
turned monk; and when De Moreville hid his head in a cowl, and his body
in a cloister, Hornmouth made a complete transfer of his fidelity to
Oliver Icingla, and pursued life as if unconscious that he had made a
change of masters. Ever ready to ride at half an hour’s notice from
Chas-Chateil to Mount Moreville, and from Mount Moreville to Oakmede,
where the hall of the Icinglas had again risen in stately proportion
from its ashes and ruins, he was worth his weight in gold during
troublous times; and as for political creed, Hornmouth was content to
leave that to the warrior whose banner he followed. He had ridden
willingly with De Moreville to fight for Prince Louis and the Norman
barons, and he was prepared to ride as cheerfully with the Icingla to
fight for King Henry to the cry of “St. Edward!” It was, as he thought,
for the Anglo-Norman baron or the Anglo-Saxon Hlaford to take the
responsibility of choosing a side; it was his duty to fight his best on
whatever side they drew their swords.
And De Moreville’s daughter no longer inhabited the great mansion in
Ludgate, from the balcony of which she looked forth on the cavalcade
that escorted the boy-king through the city of London, but a much
humbler dwelling on the banks of the Thames, near Scotland-yard, where
stood the palace with which, in an earlier age, Edgar had gifted
Kenneth, and in which the King of Scots still resided when he came to
Westminster to enact his part at a coronation. Dame Waledger was still
her guardian and companion, an arrangement most convenient to both; for
Beatrix had no kinswoman to whom she could cling for protection, and Sir
Anthony, living at his manor in Berkshire, was in the habit of carousing
so freely in the day and contending with so many imaginary antagonists
at night, that the dame, not indifferent to her own safety in life and
limb, dreaded nothing so much as living under the same roof with a
husband who might any night slay her, under the delusion that he was
engaged in mortal combat with the wild boar which he had encountered
under the oak at Donnington.
But one circumstance had much changed the colour of Beatrix’s life:
Oliver Icingla had not persisted in avoiding her company and praying to
be delivered from the temptation of seeing her. On the contrary, as time
wore off the impression that had been left by his frightful dream, the
memory of the romantic interview at Chas-Chateil had returned upon him
with an effect before which other considerations rapidly gave way. In
short, while the Icingla was returning from the North, Beatrix had the
prospect of being his bride ere Christmas; and as he passed the village
of Charing, riding side by side with Hornmouth, and talking to the tall
greyhound, De Moreville’s daughter was uppermost in his thoughts, and
her hand seemed to beckon him on as his journey southward drew to an
end.
It was ten o’clock, however, and the night had fallen, but the rising
moon afforded a pale light, when Oliver, having skirted London, reached
the village of Charing, from which then, and for centuries afterwards,
cross roads branched out in various directions away to rural regions;
and on reaching Charing he directed his course towards Westminster, at
the palace of which King Henry was keeping his court and watching over
architectural additions to the abbey. Oliver, however, was bound, in the
first place, to visit the fair Beatrix, and with a lover’s ardour he
spurred on Ayoub, to shorten by half a minute the time that must elapse
ere he could be in her presence.
But at that instant a sight met the eye of Oliver Icingla which made him
start with alarm and vague terror. Before him gleamed hundreds of
torches in the moonlight, and enabled him dimly to descry a countless
mob, swaying and surging in masses, and uttering shouts of triumph as
they rushed on to havoc and spoliation. It was a terrible spectacle, and
as Oliver checked his steed he uttered an exclamation of horror.
“By the Holy Cross!” exclaimed he, on finding breath to speak, “I would
fain hope my eyes deceive me; but, certes, nothing less than the agency
of the devil and a rising of the Londoners can have brought about such a
tumult as this.”
“And, credit me, Fitzarnulph the citizen is at the bottom of it,” said
Hornmouth, quickly, “and the Lady Beatrix may be in danger. By salt and
bread!” added the rough squire, “we must look forthwith to the
demoiselle’s safety.”
As Hornmouth spoke he turned round to call upon the armed men to follow
apace; and, ere he did so, Oliver Icingla had drawn his sword, set spurs
to his steed, and darted in the direction of Scotland-yard.