Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

by John G. Edgar

  CHAPTER LVIII

  WRESTLING FOR THE RAM

  On Lammas day the Londoners flocked towards Westminster to witness thegreat wrestling match which was to decide the comparative superiority ofthe athletes of the city and the suburbs. Long ere noon the level turfwhich had been railed off for the encounter was surrounded by a crowdimpatient for the commencement of the combat--so impatient, indeed, thatthey would not deign to be diverted by the gleemen, and jongleurs, andmountebanks, and merry-andrews, and tymberteres, who nevertheless madeevery effort to attract attention. Curiosity as to the champion who wasto encounter Martin Girder had reached a high pitch, and was all thekeener that even his name had not transpired.

  At length, just before noon, Constantine Fitzarnulph, coming fromLondon, and the abbot’s steward, coming from Westminster, reached theground, where tents had been erected for the champions; and while themen of Westminster loudly cheered the steward, the Londoners raisedtheir voices not less loudly in praise of Fitzarnulph, some of themadding, “Hail, Constantine, King of the People!”

  At the appointed hour, and while yet this storm of cheers was raging, asignal was given for the champions to come into the arena, and forthwithMartin Girder presented himself, looking so big and strong and in suchexcellent order that the Londoners signified their enthusiasm bycheering him to the skies. Ere the din had subsided, Martin’s adversary,a young man of twenty-one, came from his tent, and his appearance somuch disappointed the spectators who wished him well as the steward’schampion, that hardly a voice was raised in his encouragement, and theLondoners laughed loudly in scorn of his audacity. Only one person--thelandlord of the Walnut-tree, out of which William de Collingham andOliver Icingla had been hunted by Sir Anthony Waledger on the day whenPrince Louis entered London--expressed confidence in the champion, andspoke favourably of his chance.

  “Cog’s wounds!” exclaimed mine host, “I know the younker well. It isWolf, the son of Styr, my wife’s kinsman; and, albeit he does notinherit the height or bulk of his father, yet he has enough of oldStyr’s pluck and devilry to make the London loons laugh on the wrongside of their mouths ere he is done with their champion. As the Scotssay, ‘muckleness is no’ manliness, or a cow could catch a hare.’”

  “Right, mine host,” said a tall archer who stood by, and who was one ofthe heroes of the camp of refuge; “the son of Styr is game to thebackbone like his father before him, and the Icingla spoiled a stoutsoldier when he made Wolf the forester he is.”

  In truth, Wolf, though now a man and a handsome one, was neither tallnor largely proportioned, and in both respects his adversary had anoverwhelming advantage. Nevertheless he was a model of manly strengthand beauty--his body compactly formed, his limbs well knit and hardenedby constant exercise, and his sunburnt face comely and calm in itsexpression of fearless courage and resolute will.

  And now, all preliminaries having been settled, the combatants advancedupon each other and closed in stern encounter. Nor had anythingwitnessed on St. James’s Day equalled its ferocity. They seized eachother by the arms, drew backwards, pushed forwards, locked their limbsinto each other, seized and pressed furiously, dashed their headsagainst each other like rams, and did all they could to lift each otherfrom the ground. At length, however, the struggle ended. Wolf was on theground, and Martin Girder, who stood over him, was loudly applauded fora victory which it had cost him all his heart and all his energy toobtain.

  After a brief interval the champions came forth for the secondencounter, and this time the struggle was not prolonged. Scarcely hadthey closed when Wolf made himself master of his adversary’s legs, and afall was the immediate consequence. The Londoners this time had not aword to say. Fitzarnulph looked very black, and the archer remarked witha knowing glance--

  “All right, mine host; the son of Styr is too much accustomed to brutesnot to understand the nature of the animal he has to deal with. St.Hubert! but it was well and resolutely done.”

  Between the second and the third trial of strength and skill there was aconsiderable interval, that the champions might rest and refreshthemselves ere engaging in the struggle which was to decide the victory;and the interest of the crowd in the result being as intense as ever wasfelt when two knights rode into the lists to combat with lance andbattle-axe for life and death, they awaited their reappearance withimpatience, and shouted repeatedly for them to come forth. A loud murmurere long announced that the combat was about to be renewed, and all eyeswere fixed on the wrestlers, each party praying for the triumph of theirfavourite. And fierce indeed was the struggle which ensued, as, afterfacing each other for a few moments, Wolf and Martin Girder sprangforward and closed to prove decisively which was the better man. For atime neither seemed to gain any advantage over his adversary, and thecrowd looked on in breathless silence. At length Wolf, by a skilfuleffort, threw his antagonist to the ground. But Martin Girder,remembering even at that moment that his own fame and the credit of thecity were at stake, drew down his adversary with him, and the contestwas continued on the ground, the combatants tumbling and twining witheach other in a hundred different ways. But who can resist his fate?Martin’s breath was gone, his hopes of success with it; and theAnglo-Saxon, getting uppermost, forced the Londoner to confess himselfvanquished, and rose to his feet a conqueror.

  So far, matters had been conducted decently and in order. But at themoment when Wolf’s victory was secured, the scene suddenly changed, andall was uproar and confusion. Blows were exchanged, swords were drawn,blood was shed--in fact, a fierce fray was going on between theLondoners and the men of Westminster. It soon appeared that theLondoners were getting the worst of the encounter, and they were fain tofly eastward, fighting as they fled, not, however, without threateningvengeance on their pursuers.

  Fitzarnulph was among the fugitives, and, having rallied them withinLudgate, and led them up to St. Paul’s Churchyard, he did all he couldto exasperate them to fury by his violent speeches; and the commotionwas such that the mayor and several influential citizens came hastily toprevent mischief, and commanded them to go to their homes. The crowdslowly and sullenly dispersed, only, however, to meet again, andFitzarnulph did not conceal his determination to have a speedy revenge.

  “Master Fitzarnulph,” said the mayor, solemnly, “I grieve to see acitizen such as you egging on the commonalty to do what is not lawfuland right, and I warn you that you will rue it. Remember WilliamFitzosbert, who, in Richard’s time, was called King of the Poor, and forleading the commonalty into lawless courses was hanged at the Nine Elms.Think of him, I say, and let his fate be your warning.”

  But the mayor might as well have talked to the waves of the sea.Fitzarnulph treated his admonition with lofty scorn.

  “Gramercy for your warning, Mr. Mayor,” said he; “but let me tell youthat your neck is not safer than mine own. Hang a Fitzarnulph! Did everLondoner dream of such a thing before? By St. Thomas! hang me on themorrow at sunrise, and ere sunset you would look round England in vainfor a throne.”