AN OFFERING TO THE WINDS
The sudden appearance of Oliver Icingla changed the aspect of affairs so
completely that Constantine Fitzarnulph could not but curse the folly
which had placed him in a position so thoroughly perplexing as that in
which he found himself. He would have felt relieved if Oliver had burst
into one of the brief but violent rages in which, like most men of
Anglo-Saxon race, the Icingla frequently indulged. But Oliver was
perfectly calm, treated Fitzarnulph as a madman not responsible for his
actions, and with cool contempt showed the citizen the door, and
expressed a hope that his kinsfolk would take better care of him in
future.
Fretting with mortification, boiling with rage, and uttering bitter
threats, Fitzarnulph departed to join the mob; but he discovered that
they were fast dispersing, owing to intelligence that Falco, having
mustered his men, was mounting to put them to the sword; and, making for
the Thames, he entered his barge, for which a fairer freight had been
intended, and was rowed rapidly down the river to his house in the city.
Fitzarnulph, wearied with the fatigues of the day, retired to rest, but
for many hours sleep did not visit his pillow. He was of all men the
most wretched. Not only were his reflections bitter, but he had a vague
presentiment of coming danger which he in vain endeavoured to banish. At
last, as day was breaking, he fell asleep; but his repose was disturbed
by feverish dreams, in which the Abbot of Westminster, and the abbot’s
steward, and Oliver Icingla, and Beatrix de Moreville figured
prominently; and when he was roused by one of his domestics about ten
o’clock, it was to inform him that the mayor had summoned him to the
Tower on urgent business.
Fitzarnulph was brave, but could not feel otherwise than alarmed at this
summons, and he even thought of flight as he recalled the mayor’s
ominous warning as to the fate of William Fitzosbert. But, he rose,
dressed hastily, and, confident in his powers of browbeating and in his
influence with the commonalty and desperadoes of London, he manned
himself with dauntless air, and was soon in the great hall of the
Tower--that great hall in which Oliver Icingla was presented as a
hostage to King John, at that monarch’s Christmas feast of 1214. Here
Fitzarnulph found not only the mayor, and aldermen, and many of the
chief citizens, but no less important a personage than Hubert de Burgh,
Justiciary of England, with Falco in his company. Fitzarnulph had great
difficulty in bearing himself with his wonted dignity, but when he
observed that his fellow-citizens were inclined to shun him, his spirit
of defiance rose, and he resolved to brave the business out and take the
consequences, let them be what they might. It was a resolution of which
he was to repent, but to repent when too late.
Hubert de Burgh gravely opened the business which had brought him to the
city, that business being neither more nor less than to inquire into the
origin of the riot that had taken place on the previous day, and to
bring its authors to condign punishment. The mayor thereupon justified
his own conduct as the highest municipal functionary, and added that “he
had earnestly entreated the people to be quiet, but that Constantine
Fitzarnulph had so inflamed their minds by his seditious speeches that
there was no hope of appeasing them;” while the aldermen and citizens
all disclaimed any connexion with the disturbance, and to a man charged
the said Constantine as its author.
“Constantine Fitzarnulph,” said Hubert de Burgh, gravely, “you hear of
what you are accused. What have you to say for yourself?”
By this time Fitzarnulph had thrown prudence to the winds and banished
every thought of discretion, and reckless for the moment of the danger
to which he was exposing himself, he first eyed his fellow-citizens with
scorn, and then turned fiercely on the justiciary.
“Sir,” said he in a loud tone, as he knitted his dark brow and clinched
his hand, “I do hear of what I am accused, and I am ready to answer on
my own behalf. I avow myself the author of the disturbance that has
taken place, and I glory in the thought of so being. Nay, more, I tell
you to your beard, Lord Hubert de Burgh, that I therein did no more than
I ought; and, by the blood of St. Thomas! I add, I did not do half as
much as I intended.”
Having thus expressed himself, with a tone and manner before which
every listener quailed, save Falco, who smiled a little grimly at the
citizen’s vehemence, Fitzarnulph strode from the hall, and, wrapping his
gabardine closely round him, was about to leave the Tower by the great
gate. But he was wholly mistaken as to the degree of terror he had
inspired. As he reached the gate, and was about to step forth, the hand
of Falco was laid meaningly on his shoulder, and two of Falco’s
men-at-arms arrested him in the king’s name. Fitzarnulph was amazed at
this summary proceeding, but he knew that resistance would be vain. He
was placed in a boat, rowed up the river to Westminster, and confined in
the gate-house till the king’s pleasure was known. But it soon appeared
that there was no hope of pardon, and ere sunrise next morning he was
carried to the Nine Elms and handed over to the hangman, Falco and his
armed men being present to witness the execution.
So far Fitzarnulph had shown no sign of shrinking from the fate he had
defied. But at sight of the gibbet his heart failed him, and as the
hangman put the halter round his neck he lost all his self-possession,
wrung his hands and beat his breast, bewailed his sad plight, and
offered Falco fifteen thousand merks to save his life. The sum sounded
enormous, and the eyes of the foreign warrior sparkled with avarice. But
it was too late, and he shook his head. The sentence had gone forth, the
hangman did his office, and just as the bells of the neighbouring
convent were ringing the hour of prime, and as the monks were rising to
sing the morning hymn in Latin, Falco gave the signal, and in the
twinkling of an eye Constantine Fitzarnulph was dangling between heaven
and earth; or, in the language of his contemporaries, he was hung up “an
offering to the winds.”
And so ended the last feeble effort to disturb King Henry’s government
in the name of Prince Louis, and with Fitzarnulph expired the faction
that had survived Pembroke’s wise and vigorous protectorate. From that
time no man, save in ridicule of French claims, ventured to shout
“Montjoie, St. Denis! God aid us and our Lord Louis!” Whatever the
troubles of Henry’s long reign--and they were many--no faction devoted
to the French interfered to rouse hostilities between the two
antagonistic parties, one of which had been represented by the great
barons who forced John to sign the Great Charter under the oak of
RUNNYMEDE; and the other by the patriot warriors who, to save their
country from thraldom to France, fought so valiantly on the memorable
day of LINCOLN FAIR.
* * * * *
A few words will suffice to satisfy any curiosity the reader may feel as
to the further career of the personages who have figured in the
foregoing history. In due time Oliver Icingla led Beatrix de Moreville
to the hymeneal altar, and in due time, also, goodly sons and daughters
grew up around them to perpetuate the ancient lines of Icingla and De
Moreville, both of which names, however, were soon veiled under the
title of one of England’s proudest earldoms. Years afterwards, Icinglas
were in the train of Prince Edward when he so rashly chased the London
militia from the field of Lewes; and, later still, they followed him in
the battle of Evesham, when the life and the faction of Simon de
Montfort were both extinguished; when, again, that great prince went
upon his crusade, there were scions of the old Anglo-Saxon lords of
Oakmede by his side; and, indeed, throughout the whole of the long and
wise reign of the first Edward, Moreville-Icinglas were his faithful and
cherished friends. As for Oliver himself, he and his friend William de
Collingham occupied a foremost place in the field and in the council
under King Henry, who, had he paid more heed to their advice, and less
to that of the foreign favourites by whom he surrounded himself, might
have been saved many of those troubles which distracted his reign. To
Ralph Hornmouth was committed the task of teaching the young Icinglas
how to govern their steeds and to handle their weapons, and of this
business he was as proud as if he had been made Lord High Marshal of
England. Wolf, the son of Styr, succeeded to his post. Sir Anthony
Waledger, in one of the paroxysms of madness brought on by his deep
potations, leaped from the battlements of his castle while in fancied
combat with a wild boar, and was dashed to pieces on the stones of the
courtyard. Hugh de Moreville, as Abbot of Dryburgh, found a field in
which to gratify his love of power and rule, which he exercised so
sternly as to be called and be long remembered as “The Hard Abbot.” The
other personages who have strutted their little hour upon our mimic
stage need not be further noticed.
LETCHWORTH
THE TEMPLE PRESS
PRINTERS
* * * * *
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
the blood of Cerdic in my viens=> the blood of Cerdic in my veins {pg 5}
resolve to hesitate no longer=> resolved to hesitate no longer {pg 51}
elate at the prospect=> elated at the prospect {pg 64}
Philip de Ullcotes=> Philip de Ullecotes {pg 118}
When Berkhamstead was taken by the French=> When Berkhampstead was taken
by the French {pg 188}
exclaimed Evielle-chiens=> exclaimed Eveille-chiens {pg 213}
End of Project Gutenberg's Runnymede and Lincoln Fair, by J.G. Edgar