Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

by John G. Edgar

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAS-CHATEIL

  On the summit of a hill looking over the vale of the Kennet stood thecastle of Chas-Chateil, surrounded by a park well wooded, and stockedwith deer and beasts of game. It had been built in the reign of Stephenby Henry de Moreville, a great baron who flourished in the twelfthcentury and bore an eagle on his shield, after his return from the HolyLand; and as the Morevilles were favourites with the second Henry, itescaped destruction during the time when the politic king razed so manyfeudal fortresses to the ground. Originally it was an ordinary Normancastle, consisting of a basecourt, the sides of the walls beingfortified with angles, towers, buttresses, battlements, and hornworks.But it was now a far prouder and more magnificent edifice--a placewhich, if well garrisoned and provisioned, might, before the inventionof cannon, have held out long against a besieging army.

  In fact, few men in England had a more thorough perception of the utterinsecurity of national affairs at that time than Hugh de Moreville.Having long foreseen the crisis, he had not neglected to set his housein order; and Chas-Chateil had, consequently, been much enlarged andstrengthened, and much improved both as regarded the appearance which itpresented in its exterior and as regarded the comfort which it affordedto the inmates. At morning, indeed, when seen at sunrise it had quite agay and laughing aspect; and in the interior everything was arrangedwith a view of rendering feudal life as tolerable and pleasant aspossible. The outer galleries glittered with the armour of thesentinels, and the towers were all bright with their new gratings, andthe roofs bordered with machicolations, parapets, guard-walks, andsentry-boxes; and on passing the chapel, dedicated to St. Moden--thepatron saint of the Morevilles--and entering the court, with itsfountain and its cisterns, you found the kitchens, with their mightyfireplaces on one side, and stables and hen-houses and pigeons on theother side, and in the middle, strongly defended, the donjon, where werekept the archives and the treasure of the house. Below were the cellars,the vaults, and, what were sometimes as well filled as either, theprisons, in which unhappy captives pined and groaned; and above, andonly to be reached by one spacious stone stair, the apartments occupiedby the family and dependants of the lord of the castle--the great hall,the lady’s bower, the guest-room, the bed-chambers, and the numerouscribs necessary for the accommodation of the multitudinous domestics,who, arrayed in the picturesque costume and speaking the quaint languageof the period, and wearing the Moreville eagle, under the names ofdemoiselles, waiting-women, squires, pages, grooms, yeomen, henchmen,minstrels, and jesters, formed the household of a feudal magnate.

  But when Oliver Icingla entered the castle of his maternal ancestors,the hour was so late that everything was quiet, most of the householdhaving betaken themselves to repose. Nor, in truth, had he anyopportunity of making observations. With very little ceremony he wastold to dismount from his horse; and having, not without a sigh, partedfrom Ayoub, he was conducted, manacled as he was, up the great stonestair, and into the interior of the castle, and that with such hastethat he had scarcely time to take breath, far less to collect histhoughts, till, after passing through several galleries, he foundhimself in a somewhat dimly lighted room. There, covered with a mantleof minever, Hugh de Moreville was stretched on a couch, his favouritehound by his side.

  The Norman baron was occupied with his last meal for the day--that coldcollation, generally taken at nine o’clock, and known as “liverie.” Butit was evident he was merely going through a form, and that he could nottaste the viands. In fact, De Moreville was suffering severely fromgout--the result of indulgence in good cheer during his brief stay inthe capital--and his temper, never celestial, was so severely tried bypain and twitches, that, at times, he was inclined to mutterimprecations the reverse of complimentary on king, barons, citizens, thelaws of Edward the Confessor, even the Great Charter itself.

  “What ho, young kinsman!” said he, recovering himself after a moment,and speaking in a bantering tone; “I hardly deemed myself such afavourite of Fortune as that she should send you under the roof ofChas-Chateil; but I rejoice to see you. Our last meeting was unlucky inthis, that we parted without your fully understanding me. By St. Moden,you shall now comprehend my meaning!”

  “My lord,” replied Oliver, speaking calmly, though his blood boiled withindignation at the tone in which he was addressed, “I thank you forwelcoming me to the castle which is the inheritance of my mother; albeitI cannot help confessing that it would have been more pleasing to comeunder different circumstances. However, of that anon. Meantime,vouchsafe to inform me for what reason I have been hunted like a robberby your men-at-arms, and dragged here forcibly against my will. I demandto know.”

  De Moreville laughed mockingly, and raised his eyes to the roof of thechamber, whereupon were carved some grotesque figures, each of whichmight be intended to represent that important bird the Moreville eagle.

  “On my faith!” answered he at length, “I marvel much that any youth withthe Moreville blood in his veins can be such a dullard as to ask such aquestion. But an answer you shall have. You were seized and broughthither because you were engaged in attempts at variance with the laws ofthe land and the authority of the barons, the conservators of thecharter signed at Runnymede.”

  “Answer me two questions,” said Oliver, sternly. “Am I a prisoner? andif so, is my life aimed at?”

  “Everything depends on yourself. Meanwhile, you have letters from QueenIsabel to King John. Hand them to me.”

  “You do me great injustice,” said Oliver, “in supposing it possiblethat, if intrusted with letters, I should render them to any but theperson for whose hand they were intended.”

  “Is that your answer?” fiercely demanded De Moreville.

  “It is my answer,” retorted Oliver, with equal heat; “and it is ananswer more courteous than you deserve.”

  “By the bones of St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, with a frowningbrow, “I can no longer brook such obstinacy! May I become an Englishmanif I bend or break not your proud spirit ere the year is much nearermidsummer!” and he blew a silver whistle that lay at his side, the soundof which instantly brought Ralph Hornmouth and another man-at-arms intothe chamber.

  “Ho, there! Ralph Hornmouth,” said De Moreville, fiercely, “give me theletters which this varlet has about him. Methinks, from the directionhis eye took when I mentioned them, he has them in his boots.”

  Hornmouth and his comrade obeyed; and Oliver, notwithstanding a bravestruggle, had the bitter mortification, while prostrated on his back andheld down, of seeing the queen’s letter taken from his boot and handedto the Norman baron; but no second letter could be found, for the veryexcellent reason that no such letter had ever been in existence.

  Meanwhile, De Moreville perused the epistle slowly, and as he read, hiscountenance evinced disappointment. It seemed, indeed, that the letterdid not contain the kind of information he expected; and he turned toOliver, who was again on his feet, almost weeping from rage, andregarding his kinsman with angry glances.

  “You will now inform me,” said he, like a man determined on having ananswer by fair or foul means, “whither William de Collingham has gone,and with what intent.”

  “Dog of a Norman!” exclaimed Oliver, giving way to his fury, “I wouldnot answer such a question to save my body from the bernicles. Villainand oppressor, do your worst; I defy you and your myrmidons.”

  “I can waste no more time in bandying words,” said De Moreville,significantly. “Conduct this varlet to the blind chamber of theprison-house,” continued he, addressing Hornmouth, “and give him a tasteof the brake. The blind chamber has, in its day, brought still worsemadmen than he is to their senses, and the brake has proved too much forthe endurance of hardier limbs.”

  Oliver Icingla shuddered. He rapidly recalled to memory the stories hehad often heard from men of English race of the atrocious crueltiesperpetrated by Norman barons in earlier reigns on their unfortunateprisoners; how one victim was starved to death; how a second was flungin
to a cellar full of reptiles; how a third was hung up by the thumbs;how a fourth was crippled in a frame which was so constructed that hecould not move an inch in any direction; and how a fifth was suspendedfrom a sharp collar round his neck, with his toes just resting on theground. It was natural enough that Oliver should shudder as therecollection of such things flashed through his brain; and as they didso his blood ran cold, and his heart beat fast and loud. But he was gameto the backbone; and De Moreville, who watched him narrowly, could notbut marvel that there was not, even for a moment, any appearance of theslightest inclination to show the white feather.

  “I am in your power,” said he, in a firm voice, as he threw back hishead proudly. “You can do with me as you please; but bear in mind thatwhatever you do will be at your peril.”

  “Away with him!” cried De Moreville, with an impatient gesture; andOliver was led from the chamber.