Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter
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CHAPTER XLI
OLIVER’S DREAM
In spite of the truce agreed to by Louis and Pembroke, both of whomexpected to profit by the delay, much fighting went on in Sussex in theearly spring of 1217, during the absence of the French prince fromEngland, and while the Lord de Coucy was acting as his lieutenant.Philip de Albini and John Marshal, Pembroke’s nephew, having undertakenof their own free will to guard the coasts in the neighbourhood of theCinque Ports to prevent any more of the French from landing, alluredmany English yeomen to their standard, and were ever on the alert with abody of armed men under their command. William de Collingham, instead ofrelaxing his efforts, became more and more determined in his hostilityto the invaders; and Oliver Icingla, whom, on account of his dress theFrench called “White Jacket,” made such unlooked-for sallies, andpresented himself to the foreigners under circumstances so unexpected,that his name inspired something resembling terror even in the boldheart of Eveille-chiens, who began seriously to wish himself safe backon continental soil and under his native sky.
Nor was Oliver satisfied with displaying his courage against the enemyin the fierce skirmishes that almost daily took place in the vicinity ofthe camp of refuge. Nothing less, indeed, than taking the town andcastle of Lewes from the French garrison would content him, andsometimes, accompanied by bands of ten or twenty, sometimes only byCanmore, the bloodhound, he roamed the country on foot to watch hisopportunity and gain intelligence likely to aid him in his project.Nobody, however, sympathised very particularly with his aspiration, andCollingham especially, it was clear, thought that the wood and themorass and the intrenched camp were fitter strongholds for people intheir circumstances than the walled town, and the fortified castle.Oliver, however, very slow to embrace this conviction, in spite ofremonstrances, pursued his enterprise with ardour and zeal, and, in thecourse of his adventures, found himself in a situation of such perilthat he well-nigh gave himself up for lost.
One spring evening, after having been for hours prowling within sight ofLewes, unattended save by the bloodhound, he retreated to thesurrounding forest, and, feeling much more fatigued with the exertionsof the day than was his wont, he was fain to seek rest under a gianttree which spread its branches over a wide space of ground. Within a fewpaces the sward was smeared with blood, and at first Oliver supposedthat some fray had just taken place there between the French and a partyof his comrades. A closer examination, however, convinced him that oneor more of the wild bulls which in that age ran free in the oakenforests of England had that day been slaughtered on the spot, possiblyto supply food to the garrison, who, being in a hostile country and in adistrict which they had early exhausted by their rapacity, were known tobe pressed for provisions. Not deeming the matter worthy of prolongedconsideration, the boy-warrior returned to the root of the tree and laiddown his axe with the expectation of enjoying some repose undisturbed.
Resting himself on the lowest bough, and settling himself securely withhis feet on the grass and the faithful hound by his side, Oliver Icinglaendeavoured to snatch a brief sleep in the twilight. But sleep would notcome, and, as twilight faded into darkness and evening deepened intonight, and the moon rose and shone through the trees on the grass, hethought of Beatrix de Moreville and of Oakmede and Dame Isabel, and fromhis home and his mother Oliver’s thoughts wandered to the Icinglas andthe days when they had been great in England and marched to battle undera gonfalon as stately as a king’s.
But no matter what subject presented itself, all his reflections weretinged with gloom, and several times he rose to his feet and walkedabout with the uneasy feeling of one who has, he knows not why, apresentiment of coming woe. At length, worn out with bodily fatigue andmelancholy musing, he fell into a feverish sleep, and dreamt dreamswhich made his breath come by gasps, and caused his brow to darken, andhis teeth to clench, and his frame to quiver.
It seemed to him at first that a sweet voice was singing the popularballad, “I go to the verdure, for love invites me;” that he was, infact, in the woodlands around Oakmede, walking hand in hand with DeMoreville’s daughter, and that suddenly as they moved through thegreenwood and reached a spot familiar to him from childhood, they cameupon his mother stretched lifeless and rigid under a leafless treegrowing on a hillock where there still remained a circle of roughstones, which seemed to indicate that the place had in ancient days beendedicated to the rites of the Druids. Oliver started in great horror,and rapidly his imagination associated the death of his mother with theenmity which had been shown towards himself by Hugh de Moreville. But hedid not awake. Suddenly, as if by magic, other figures appeared on thescene, and before him, as he imagined, were all the departed chiefs ofthe house of Icingla urging him to execute a terrible vengeance, whileone of them, arrayed in the long cloak and wearing the long beard invogue among the Anglo-Saxons up to the time of the Conquest, raised hishand and exclaimed--
“Dally not with the Norman’s daughter, O heir of the Icinglas! nor deemthat aught but evil can come of her love. Beware of her wiles, and avoidher presence, and wed her not, for harder thou wouldst find the couch ofthe foreign woman than the bare ground on which thou sleepest whilekeeping faith with thy country and thy race.”
And then Oliver dreamt that, as he uttered something like a defiance ofthis warning, which, awake or asleep, could be little to his liking, thescene changed, and the Anglo-Saxon chiefs, after frowning menacingly ontheir heir, suddenly became horned cattle, and they rushed upon himbellowing furiously, as if bent on his instant destruction. Fortunatelyawaking at that moment, in great terror Oliver sprang to his feet,agitated and trembling, and as he did so the sight which met his eyeswas not such as to allay his trepidation. Before him, close upon him,bellowing savagely, he beheld a herd of forest bulls tearing up theground at the spot where he had observed the traces of slaughter, theirmilk-white skins, and curling manes, and black muzzles, horns, and hoofsdistinct in the pale moonlight. Attracted by the barking of thebloodhound, several were advancing furiously on Oliver, nothing, indeed,intervening between him and their black, sharp horns but the faithfuldog, which, with a sullen growl, was springing desperately on theforemost of the herd in a brave endeavour to save its master from theterrible peril with which he was threatened. Oliver Icingla, with hishair standing on end, gazed in consternation on the spectacle beforehim, and involuntarily uttering an exclamation of horror, grasped hisbattle axe with some vague intention of defending himself against theferocious herd by which he was assailed.