The early days of December found Earl Simon lodged at Southwark, while
the King and his men prowled to and fro in Kent, coveting England’s sea
gate, Dover, that the barons had taken in the summer. Earl Simon had no
great gathering with him in Southwark, for he had London at his back, an
ant’s nest into which the King would not venture to thrust his spear.
There had been much bloodshed and violence in the land, and it was De
Montfort’s hope that Henry would show some wisdom now that he had seen
many of his great lords in arms against him. A truce had been mooted,
with Louis of France to judge between the two parties. Yet no man
trusted Henry, because of his fickleness and his foolish cunning, and
because of the favourites who had his ear.
Henry had hated the Londoners with exceeding bitterness since they had
pelted his Queen from London Bridge when she had sought to escape to
Windsor in the summer. They had thrown stones and offal at her barge,
and the King, and Edward his son, talked of the blood of the city as
though it were the blood of swine. It was even said that they had sworn
upon relics to make a slaughter there that should be remembered for many
years. Yet a number of the wealthier merchants were for the King, partly
because they hated the lesser men and the mob, and partly because they
had taken bribes. There was treachery afoot of which Earl Simon knew
nothing, nor had he any foreshadowings of the peril that was near.
Early in December Henry had attempted to win his way into Dover. The
attempt had failed miserably; and the news was that he and his men were
still lingering on the coast. No one thought of him as within ten
leagues of London; the traitors in the city were alone wise as to his
plans. Earl Simon remained in Southwark, debating the future with the
barons who were with him, and with the Londoners who would hear of
nothing but that the King should swallow the Great Charter, and that the
Provisions of Oxford should hold. They had not forgotten Richard of
Cornwall’s corn ships, and the way Henry had attempted to play the Jew
at the expense of the starving poor.
It so happened that Aymery was in the saddle one December evening as the
darkness came down over the land like a rolling fog. Rain had begun to
fall, a fine drizzle that made the fading horizon in the west a dim grey
streak. Infinite mournfulness breathed in the gust of a wet winter wind.
Tired horses plodded past Aymery as he sat motionless by the roadside,
the hood of his cloak turned over his helmet. A party had been out to
bring in forage, and Aymery had had the handling of the escort, a few
archers and men-at-arms.
The last tired horse had gone splashing by, and the creaking of the
saddles and the breathing of the beasts were dropping into the darkness
before Aymery turned to follow his men. He was about to push his horse
to a trot when he heard the sound of a man running along the wet,
wind-swept road. Aymery drew up across the road, and saw a figure come
out of the darkness, head down, hands paddling the air.
The man seemed to see neither horse nor rider till he was almost into
them. He stumbled, recovered himself, and drew back out of the possible
reach of a possible sword.
“Montfort—Montfort?”
Aymery reassured him, and he staggered forward and leant against
Aymery’s horse, panting out his news, for he had run two miles or more.
“Lording, there is an army on the march down yonder. I was carrying
faggots from a wood, when I saw them riding out of the dusk. Their
vanguard halted under the wood, and I hid myself, and listened, and then
crept away and ran like a rabbit.”
He panted, pressing his ribs with his two hands, as though his heart was
gorged with blood. Aymery bent down, and looked into the hind’s
mud-stained face.
“Quick, good lad——”
“It was the van of the King’s host, lording, they are riding on
Southwark out of the night.”
“How near are they?”
“The wood is a mile beyond the cross where the roads branch. They were
resting their horses, the beasts had been hard ridden, and their bellies
were all mud.”
Aymery straightened in the saddle, and sat motionless. The night gave no
sound for the moment save the soughing of the wind through some poplars
that grew near. Half a furlong away the darkness thickened into a black
curtain, hiding the world, tantalising those who watched with the
wraiths of a thousand chances.
Yet, as they waited there on the wet road, a confused sense of movement
came to them from somewhere out of the darkness, like the sound of the
sea galloping in the distance over a mile of midnight sand. Aymery swept
round, pulled off his glove with his teeth, and threw it at the man’s
feet.
“Look to yourself, my friend,” he said. “They are coming through the
night yonder. Bring that glove to the Earl, and you shall have your
due.”
Aymery clapped in the spurs, and went away at a gallop. He did not doubt
that it was the King’s arms behind him, pouring upon Southwark to
surprise De Montfort’s weak force there, and take him or slay him before
the Londoners could gather to his aid.
As Aymery galloped through the night, the lights of Southwark and of the
city beyond the river came to him in a blur through the mist of rain. He
did not slacken even when he came to the outskirts of the place, but
rode straight for the Earl’s lodging, shouting to those whom he passed
in the street.
“Arm, arm,” was his cry as he galloped through. “The King’s men are on
us.”
And so he brought the news to Simon the Earl.
De Montfort and his knights and gentlemen were at supper, but they left
the wine cups unemptied, and made haste to arm. The Earl sent his son
Simon to ride across the bridge and rouse the train-bands in the city.
The narrow streets and alleys of Southwark were soon in a great uproar
with the running to and fro of men, the tossing of torches, and all the
tumult of a hurried call to arms. A bell began to clash somewhere up in
the darkness. The narrow ways were full of movement, of an infinite
confusion that struggled and chafed like waters meeting and beating
against one another. Trumpets blared. Leaders sought their men, men
their leaders. From beyond the river also bells began to peal, the city
was bestirring itself, and humming like a hive of bees.
Aymery, rushing out from the Earl’s presence, ran against a man with a
fiery tangle of bright-red hair. It was Waleran de Monceaux, that rebel
of rebels, driven by Gaillard out of Sussex. He caught Aymery by the
shoulder, and blessed God fiercely because the Sussex men were the first
to show their shields.
“Brother,” he shouted, “I have thirty spears for a charge home. I heard
you were here. Come. We shall have the van.”
They went out together into the street where some of the Earl’s men were
already under arms. None the less there was a dire tangle everywhere,
the place choked with disorder that promised well for the King’s men if
they lost no time. Aymery and Waleran found their bunch of Sussex spears
standing steady and stiff for the night’s need. They were soon joined by
other knights and their men who gathered out of the wet gloom. De
Montfort himself came out, and ordered his archers forward into the
outskirts of the suburb, to scout and discover what was happening in the
darkness yonder.
A shout rose suddenly, and went from mouth to mouth. Young Simon came
out of the darkness with torches, riding his white horse, and a mob of
half-armed men with him.
“Sire, treachery, the gates at the bridge are locked.”
Such in truth was the case, for the King had planned the trick, and
those of the wealthier citizens who were in his pay had locked the gates
and thrown the keys into the river.
Simon saw his imminent hazard, but his sword was out to hearten his men.
“Break down the gates.”
And then, standing in his stirrups:
“Sirs,” said he, “let the King’s men come to us. They will find it hot
here, despite the rain.”
A number of archers came running back out of the night, shouting that
masses of men were pouring along the dark streets at their heels. A
blare of trumpets tore the darkness. The narrow main street began to
roar with the rush of mounted men. The Earl’s trumpets gave tongue in
answer. In an instant a black torrent poured forward as though a dam had
broken, and fell with fury upon the flood that lapped from wall to wall.
A man has no time to remember what happens in such a fight when he is
caught by a whirlwind of human fury, and driven this way and that.
Horses reared, fell, and crushed their riders. The narrow street rang
like a hundred smithies. Blows were given and taken in the darkness, men
grappled together in the saddle, for there was no room often for the
swing of a sword. Aymery found himself and his horse driven against the
wall, and pinned there by the mass that filled the street. He struck
out, with cries of “Montfort, Montfort,” and was struck at in turn by
those who bawled for the King.
Aymery found himself being forced along the wall his horse, scared and
maddened, backing along the street. The tide had turned in the King’s
favour. The Earl’s men were being driven by sheer weight of numbers. The
night had a black look for Earl Simon and his party.
Of what followed Aymery could have given no clear account, all that he
knew was that he went on striking at those who struck at him, and that
he remembered wondering that he had not been wounded or beaten out of
the saddle. His brain seemed to become dulled by the din and clangour,
and by the tumult in the darkness and the rain. A roar of voices rose
suddenly, flowing from somewhere out of the night. “Montfort, Montfort!”
A great rallying cry came up like the sound of the sea, for the
Londoners had broken the gates, and were pouring over the bridge into
Southwark to rescue the Earl.
For a while the fight stood still, and then slowly, and with a sense of
infinite effort it began to roll towards the fields. New men seemed to
come from nowhere, streaming up alleys and side streets to break in on
the flanks of the King’s party. Aymery found himself with space to
breathe; his sword arm ached as though he had been swinging a hatchet
for an hour. Comrades came up on either side of him, they gathered and
pushed on, shouting for Earl Simon, and fighting shoulder to shoulder,
Aymery found the street opening suddenly upon a small square before a
church. In one corner a torch had been thrust into an iron bracket on
the wall of a house, and still burning brightly, despite the rain, it
seemed to serve as a rallying point for those whose stomachs were not
sick of the fight.
It was becoming a hole and corner business now, a question of group
fighting against group, man against man. Each party had been tossed into
so many angry embers, like a fire scattered by a kick of the foot. The
Londoners were still streaming over the bridge. Their shouts of
“Montfort, Montfort,” held the night. The surprise had failed, thanks to
the hind who had run two miles in the mud.
Aymery was pushing his horse across the square, battered shield forward,
right hand balancing his sword, when his eyes were drawn towards a
skirmish that was going on where the torch burnt in the bracket on the
wall. A big man in green surcoat, and mounted on a black horse was
keeping some of the Londoners at bay. And behind the green knight, just
under the torch, Aymery saw a knight in a blue surcoat on a grey horse,
a contrast in colours that struck him as familiar. The blue knight was
taking no part in the tussle. His comrade seemed to be defending him,
backed up by a few men-at-arms whose harness gleamed in the light of the
torch.
Aymery spurred forward, and came to blows with the man in green. Nor had
he had much to boast of when a mob of Londoners came up at a run and
broke into the thick of the scrimmage. Aymery found himself driven close
to the knight in blue. He struck at him, but the other seemed to have
lost his sword, for he did nothing but cover his head with his shield.
Aymery caught the blue knight’s bridle, and urged both the horses out of
the press. He had a glimpse of the man on the black horse trying to
plunge through the Londoners towards him. But he was beaten back, and
disappeared, still fighting, into the night.
Aymery got a grip of the blue knight’s belt. The man appeared to have
little heart left in him, for he dropped his shield, and surrendered at
discretion.
“Quarter, messire, quarter.”
The voice that came through the grid of the great battle helmet seemed
more the voice of a boy.
Aymery kept a firm hold of the gentleman, and rode back with him into
the main street. The grey horse went quietly as though thoroughly tired
of the night’s adventure. Aymery had no trouble with either beast or
man.
A great crowd had gathered at the bridge head. Earl Simon was there,
guarded by an exultant and shouting mob of Londoners who were carrying
him across the bridge into the city. The crowd was so great that Aymery
had to halt with his prisoner, and bide his time. Torches had been lit
and their glare and smoke filled the street where a thousand grotesque
faces were shouting “Montfort, Montfort.”
Aymery felt a hand touch his arm, for he still had hold of the blue
knight’s sword belt.
“Ah, messire, see what manner of prisoner you have taken.”
The blue knight had lifted the great helmet and let it fall with a clash
upon the stones. Aymery saw masses of dark hair flowing, and a white
face looking into his.
“Mother of God,” said he, “what have we here?”
“A woman, lording,” and she laughed a little, and then said again, more
softly: “A woman.”
Aymery scanned her by the light of the torches, and it seemed to him
that he had seen her face before. Her hair was dark as night, her skin
the colour of a white rose, and she looked at him with eyes that seemed
full of an amused yet watchful glitter.
For the moment Aymery thought of letting her go free, but the lady
herself appeared to have no such ambition.
“I am in your hands, messire,” she said. “Keep me from the mud and the
mob, and I will thank you.”
Aymery asked her name, being puzzled to know what to do with such a
prisoner.
“My name?” and she laughed, and gave him a look that was meant to
challenge a possible homage. “I dropped my name with my shield. Nor
would you know it if I told it you.”
Aymery was asking himself what had best be done with this lady in man’s
guise. To many men the answer would have been gallant and none too
difficult. But Aymery coveted neither the responsibility nor the
possible romance. Nor was he sorry when a happy chance intervened
between him and the dilemma.
A number of knights came riding out of Southwark with Simon the Younger
on his white horse at their head. And Simon who was an adventurous and
hot headed gentleman with the eyes of a hawk when a woman was concerned,
caught sight of Aymery and his prisoner, and swooped down instantly
towards the lure.
“Hallo, my friend, who are you, and what have you here?”
Aymery showed his shield, but the Earl’s son recognised his face.
“Sir Aymery, out of Sussex! And what is this treasure, messire, that we
have taken?”
At the sound of Aymery’s name the woman’s eyes had darted a look at him,
like the momentary gleam of a knife hidden under a cloak. Then she moved
nearer to young De Montfort, and was soon speaking on her own behalf.
He bowed gallantly to her when she had done.
“Since you offer us no name, madam,” he said. “Let us call you Isoult of
the Black Hair. I am Simon, the earl’s son. Also, I am your servant,
unless our friend here stands between us.”
Aymery renounced all prestige, not having Simon’s capacity for instant
infatuations.
“It is no concern of mine, sire,” he said, with a bluntness that was
hardly courteous to the lady.
A laugh hailed this frankness. De Montfort’s son was looking at Etoile.
“Will it please you to command my courtesy?” he asked.
Etoile smiled at him. He took her bridle, and they went riding together
over London Bridge into London City. Nor did Simon guess that this was
the first ride along a tortuous road that would lead him to bring death
upon the great earl, his father.