CHAPTER LX
A DEMAGOGUE AND HIS DESPERADOES
The crowd driven so unceremoniously from Westminster did not separatebefore agreeing to assemble again at a given signal; and no sooner didBow bell toll the hour of curfew, than, like bees swarming from theirhives, all the desperadoes and riff-raff of London assembled from lanes,and alleys, and slums, and the purlieus of the Thames, and, joined bymany hundreds who were neither desperadoes nor riff-raff, but honest menled away by the excitement of the hour, filled the narrow streets, and,jostling each other as they went, made for St. Paul’s Churchyard. HereConstantine Fitzarnulph, accompanied by two or three other persons whomhe had allured into his enterprise, was ready to receive them and placehimself at their head.
And then Fitzarnulph mounted a temporary platform, and harangued the mobin such inflammatory language, that their excitement was rapidlyconverted into frenzy, and they raved like maniacs. No longercondescending, as in former days, to treat the Anglo-Norman barons asfriends, he denounced them as tyrants and oppressors who ground thefaces of the poor, and lived in luxury by the sweat of their neighbours’brows. Proceeding, he attacked the young king and his ministers, andtraced suffering and sorrow to the misgovernment that prevailed, andasked whether there was not something radically wrong in a system underwhich such oppression could exist. He concluded with a fierce invectiveagainst the Abbot of Westminster and his steward, and called on theLondoners to wipe out the disgrace they had that day suffered in theperson of their champion, Martin Girder, who, he asserted, had beenfoiled by foul means; finally, either by premeditated design, or ledaway by his own enthusiasm and the cheers with which he was greeted, heboldly stated that there was only one remedy for their woes, and thatwas to invite Prince Louis to return to England, and deliver them fromthe evils under which they were groaning. “Montjoie, St. Denis!”exclaimed he, in conclusion, as he waved his hat. “God help us and ourgood Lord Louis!”
The desperadoes loudly applauded the proposal to recall the Frenchprince, just as they would have applauded if Fitzarnulph had proposed toinvoke the aid of the prince of darkness. But some of the crowdmurmured, and the oration, especially towards its close, seemed to givegreat offence to a young warrior who stood by Fitzarnulph’s side.Several times while the harangue was drawing to a close he started as ifto interrupt, but on each occasion checked the impulse. But no soonerdid Fitzarnulph, waving his hat, shout “Montjoie, St. Denis!” than heraised a very noble countenance towards the demagogue, and eyed him witha glance of fiery scorn. It was Walter Merley.
“Citizen,” said he, after forcing himself to be calm, “your speech tothis multitude has belied all your professions to me, and I despise youas one whom the truth is not in. You have basely deceived me, and shameupon me that I have been fooled by such as you are! and, but that I deemyou all unworthy of my steel, you should have three inches of my daggerto punish your presumptuous perfidy, and silence your lying tongue.Come, Rufus, let us begone!”
A shout of indignation arose from the mob on hearing their hero thusbearded, and several of the desperadoes moved as if to lay hands on thebold speaker, but he paid no attention to their cries and gestures.Calling one of his companions to follow, he strode right through themidst, and that with an air so fearless and fierce, that they openedtheir ranks and made way for him to pass, and carried their hostility nofurther than uttering a yell and indulging in a little banter as hedisappeared.
“Now,” said he, as he took a boat and was rowed towards the Surrey side,“farewell to home and country; and, since fortune so wills, let my lotbe among strangers and in a strange land. All over Europe and in Syriaswords are flashing bravely, and it will go hard with me if I carve notout a principality with my sword, which has never failed me. Shame uponme that I allowed myself to be fooled by that citizen! and a malison onhis presumption in fancying that, after deceiving me, he could use mefor his purposes!”
Meanwhile, Fitzarnulph did not allow the excitement of the mob toevaporate. Finding that they were quite in the humour in which hewished them to be, he proposed to go forthwith to Westminster.
“Our first duty,” said he, “is to avenge ourselves on the abbot and hissteward; and the best way to avenge ourselves on them is to pull downtheir houses, whereby they will be made sensible that the citizens ofLondon are not to be affronted with impunity. So let us on. Montjoie,St. Denis! God for us and Lord Louis!”
“To Westminster!” shouted the desperadoes; and, led by Fitzarnulph, themob descended Ludgate-hill, and pushed through the gates like so manyfuries.
It was already sunset when Fitzarnulph led the mob from St. Paul’sChurchyard, and darkness was descending ere they reached Westminster.Many of the desperadoes, however, had furnished themselves with torches,and what with the glare of the torches, and the fierce faces of thedesperadoes, and the brandishing of weapons and bludgeons, and theshouts, the screeches, the bellowing, and the confusion, the inhabitantsmight, even had they been less superstitious than they were, haveimagined that a host of fiends was upon them.
Great was the alarm, loud the shouts for aid, each man calling on hisneighbour, as the startled indwellers suddenly found their houses andhearths exposed to such danger, and at the mercy of such a multitude.But it soon appeared that the mob were, in the first place, intent onvengeance, and went direct to destroy the houses of the abbot and hissteward. Warned in time, the abbot fled, trembling for his life, and,getting into his barge, escaped to Lambeth. Determined to defend himselfand his property, the steward drew bolt and bar, and armed hishousehold. But a few minutes’ experience told him that resistance wasvain, and, escaping with his household by the rear, he left his home toits fate. The riot and uproar then became more terrible every moment;house after house was torn down or given to the flames; and the mob,whooping, and yelling, and braying, as their appetite for destructionwas whetted, rushed into outrage after outrage, and enacted such a sceneas Westminster had seldom or never witnessed.
And what was Constantine Fitzarnulph doing all this time?
Fitzarnulph, in truth, had other game, as his movements speedilyindicated, than the abbot and his steward, and, leaving the mob todestroy and plunder without restraint, he proceeded with a chosen bandof twenty desperadoes towards Scotland-yard, and on to a house thatstood in a garden on the margin of the river. At first he endeavoured togain access by gentle means, and loudly knocked at the gate. No answerwas returned, and he ordered the desperadoes to break it open. Hiscommand was immediately obeyed, and he passed into a courtyard, andknocked vehemently at the door; but, seeing that his knock at the doorwas as little regarded as his knock at the gate had been, thedesperadoes broke it open, and Fitzarnulph, making a signal to the bandto remain where they were till summoned by him, entered alone, foundseveral domestics, who fled at his approach, ascended a stair, and,advancing along a corridor, opened a door and entered.
It was a large chamber, furnished after the fashion of the period,brilliantly lighted, and occupied by four women, who, alarmed at theriot and the uproar, and the breaking in of the gate and door, weregiving themselves up for lost. One was Beatrix de Moreville, anotherDame Waledger, and the other two were Beatrix’s waiting-women. AsFitzarnulph entered, a simultaneous cry of horror and despair burst fromtheir lips, and three of them fell on their knees. De Moreville’sdaughter, however, rose to her feet, and stood facing the intruder withan air of haughty defiance which showed that, gentle as was her usualmanner she inherited some portion of her sire’s spirit.
“What seek you here, sir citizen?” asked she, with a gesture and in atone before which most men, under the circumstances, would have quailed.
“Demoiselle,” answered Fitzarnulph with equal pride, “it is vain toassume such airs at the stage at which matters have arrived; vainerstill to deem that I, Constantine Fitzarnulph, am likely to be dauntedby a haughty tone and a frowning brow. I therefore answer frankly--it isyou I seek. You have treated me with a scorn to which I am but littleaccustomed; however, of that anon. You are a
t length in my power, onceand for ever, so prepare to go hence. My barge awaits you at the stairsto convey you to a place of safety. Nay, frown not; I say it is vain;for, come what may, by the blood of St. Thomas! ere to-morrow’s sun ishigh in the heavens, you shall stand at the altar as Fitzarnulph’sbride, and women neither less fair nor less exalted in rank thanyourself will envy your lot. I have said.”
Scorn, amazement, terror, succeeded each other rapidly in the face ofBeatrix de Moreville as Fitzarnulph spoke, and she was nerving herselfto reply when he advanced and seized her arm, as if to bear her off ashis prey; but she clung so tenaciously to Dame Waledger, who wasliterally speechless with affright, that he found all his efforts toseparate them in vain. Suddenly he relaxed his grasp.
“Maiden,” said he, looking earnestly into her face, “you are fightingagainst fate, and against a destiny you can no more avoid than you canthe death which comes to all flesh. You struggle in vain. It is not mywont to be baffled, as the world well knows, and will yet know better.Loath am I to use force, but, since you make it necessary, I needs must.Below are twenty men, who, if I said the word, would bring me the headof the pope or the caliph. One sound of this, and they come to my aid;”and he pointed to a silver whistle that hung at his belt.
De Moreville’s daughter, retreating behind Dame Waledger, gazed withalarm at the citizen, but did not venture to speak. It seemed that herstock of courage was exhausted. Fitzarnulph appeared to hesitate. Aftera moment’s pause, however, he took the whistle and sounded it loudly. Ashe did so, voices were heard as if in altercation below; steps as ofpersons ascending, and the ring of steel on the stone stairs, succeeded;and then there entered, not the twenty desperadoes, but Oliver Icingla,with his spurs of gold on his heels and his trusty sword in his hand,just as he had jumped from his good steed Ayoub.
De Moreville’s daughter uttered an exclamation of rapturous surprise,and darted forward to throw herself on the young knight’s protection.Fitzarnulph stood as much like an image of stone as if the heir of theIcinglas had brought the Gorgon’s head in his hand.
CHAPTER LXI
AN OFFERING TO THE WINDS
The sudden appearance of Oliver Icingla changed the aspect of affairs socompletely that Constantine Fitzarnulph could not but curse the follywhich had placed him in a position so thoroughly perplexing as that inwhich he found himself. He would have felt relieved if Oliver had burstinto one of the brief but violent rages in which, like most men ofAnglo-Saxon race, the Icingla frequently indulged. But Oliver wasperfectly calm, treated Fitzarnulph as a madman not responsible for hisactions, and with cool contempt showed the citizen the door, andexpressed a hope that his kinsfolk would take better care of him infuture.
Fretting with mortification, boiling with rage, and uttering bitterthreats, Fitzarnulph departed to join the mob; but he discovered thatthey were fast dispersing, owing to intelligence that Falco, havingmustered his men, was mounting to put them to the sword; and, making forthe Thames, he entered his barge, for which a fairer freight had beenintended, and was rowed rapidly down the river to his house in the city.Fitzarnulph, wearied with the fatigues of the day, retired to rest, butfor many hours sleep did not visit his pillow. He was of all men themost wretched. Not only were his reflections bitter, but he had a vaguepresentiment of coming danger which he in vain endeavoured to banish. Atlast, as day was breaking, he fell asleep; but his repose was disturbedby feverish dreams, in which the Abbot of Westminster, and the abbot’ssteward, and Oliver Icingla, and Beatrix de Moreville figuredprominently; and when he was roused by one of his domestics about teno’clock, it was to inform him that the mayor had summoned him to theTower on urgent business.
Fitzarnulph was brave, but could not feel otherwise than alarmed at thissummons, and he even thought of flight as he recalled the mayor’sominous warning as to the fate of William Fitzosbert. But, he rose,dressed hastily, and, confident in his powers of browbeating and in hisinfluence with the commonalty and desperadoes of London, he mannedhimself with dauntless air, and was soon in the great hall of theTower--that great hall in which Oliver Icingla was presented as ahostage to King John, at that monarch’s Christmas feast of 1214. HereFitzarnulph found not only the mayor, and aldermen, and many of thechief citizens, but no less important a personage than Hubert de Burgh,Justiciary of England, with Falco in his company. Fitzarnulph had greatdifficulty in bearing himself with his wonted dignity, but when heobserved that his fellow-citizens were inclined to shun him, his spiritof defiance rose, and he resolved to brave the business out and take theconsequences, let them be what they might. It was a resolution of whichhe was to repent, but to repent when too late.
Hubert de Burgh gravely opened the business which had brought him to thecity, that business being neither more nor less than to inquire into theorigin of the riot that had taken place on the previous day, and tobring its authors to condign punishment. The mayor thereupon justifiedhis own conduct as the highest municipal functionary, and added that “hehad earnestly entreated the people to be quiet, but that ConstantineFitzarnulph had so inflamed their minds by his seditious speeches thatthere was no hope of appeasing them;” while the aldermen and citizensall disclaimed any connexion with the disturbance, and to a man chargedthe said Constantine as its author.
“Constantine Fitzarnulph,” said Hubert de Burgh, gravely, “you hear ofwhat you are accused. What have you to say for yourself?”
By this time Fitzarnulph had thrown prudence to the winds and banishedevery thought of discretion, and reckless for the moment of the dangerto which he was exposing himself, he first eyed his fellow-citizens withscorn, and then turned fiercely on the justiciary.
“Sir,” said he in a loud tone, as he knitted his dark brow and clinchedhis hand, “I do hear of what I am accused, and I am ready to answer onmy own behalf. I avow myself the author of the disturbance that hastaken place, and I glory in the thought of so being. Nay, more, I tellyou to your beard, Lord Hubert de Burgh, that I therein did no more thanI ought; and, by the blood of St. Thomas! I add, I did not do half asmuch as I intended.”
Having thus expressed himself, with a tone and manner before whichevery listener quailed, save Falco, who smiled a little grimly at thecitizen’s vehemence, Fitzarnulph strode from the hall, and, wrapping hisgabardine closely round him, was about to leave the Tower by the greatgate. But he was wholly mistaken as to the degree of terror he hadinspired. As he reached the gate, and was about to step forth, the handof Falco was laid meaningly on his shoulder, and two of Falco’smen-at-arms arrested him in the king’s name. Fitzarnulph was amazed atthis summary proceeding, but he knew that resistance would be vain. Hewas placed in a boat, rowed up the river to Westminster, and confined inthe gate-house till the king’s pleasure was known. But it soon appearedthat there was no hope of pardon, and ere sunrise next morning he wascarried to the Nine Elms and handed over to the hangman, Falco and hisarmed men being present to witness the execution.
So far Fitzarnulph had shown no sign of shrinking from the fate he haddefied. But at sight of the gibbet his heart failed him, and as thehangman put the halter round his neck he lost all his self-possession,wrung his hands and beat his breast, bewailed his sad plight, andoffered Falco fifteen thousand merks to save his life. The sum soundedenormous, and the eyes of the foreign warrior sparkled with avarice. Butit was too late, and he shook his head. The sentence had gone forth, thehangman did his office, and just as the bells of the neighbouringconvent were ringing the hour of prime, and as the monks were rising tosing the morning hymn in Latin, Falco gave the signal, and in thetwinkling of an eye Constantine Fitzarnulph was dangling between heavenand earth; or, in the language of his contemporaries, he was hung up “anoffering to the winds.”
And so ended the last feeble effort to disturb King Henry’s governmentin the name of Prince Louis, and with Fitzarnulph expired the factionthat had survived Pembroke’s wise and vigorous protectorate. From thattime no man, save in ridicule of French claims, ventured to shout“Montjoie, St. Denis! God ai
d us and our Lord Louis!” Whatever thetroubles of Henry’s long reign--and they were many--no faction devotedto the French interfered to rouse hostilities between the twoantagonistic parties, one of which had been represented by the greatbarons who forced John to sign the Great Charter under the oak ofRUNNYMEDE; and the other by the patriot warriors who, to save theircountry from thraldom to France, fought so valiantly on the memorableday of LINCOLN FAIR.
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A few words will suffice to satisfy any curiosity the reader may feel asto the further career of the personages who have figured in theforegoing history. In due time Oliver Icingla led Beatrix de Morevilleto the hymeneal altar, and in due time, also, goodly sons and daughtersgrew up around them to perpetuate the ancient lines of Icingla and DeMoreville, both of which names, however, were soon veiled under thetitle of one of England’s proudest earldoms. Years afterwards, Icinglaswere in the train of Prince Edward when he so rashly chased the Londonmilitia from the field of Lewes; and, later still, they followed him inthe battle of Evesham, when the life and the faction of Simon deMontfort were both extinguished; when, again, that great prince wentupon his crusade, there were scions of the old Anglo-Saxon lords ofOakmede by his side; and, indeed, throughout the whole of the long andwise reign of the first Edward, Moreville-Icinglas were his faithful andcherished friends. As for Oliver himself, he and his friend William deCollingham occupied a foremost place in the field and in the councilunder King Henry, who, had he paid more heed to their advice, and lessto that of the foreign favourites by whom he surrounded himself, mighthave been saved many of those troubles which distracted his reign. ToRalph Hornmouth was committed the task of teaching the young Icinglashow to govern their steeds and to handle their weapons, and of thisbusiness he was as proud as if he had been made Lord High Marshal ofEngland. Wolf, the son of Styr, succeeded to his post. Sir AnthonyWaledger, in one of the paroxysms of madness brought on by his deeppotations, leaped from the battlements of his castle while in fanciedcombat with a wild boar, and was dashed to pieces on the stones of thecourtyard. Hugh de Moreville, as Abbot of Dryburgh, found a field inwhich to gratify his love of power and rule, which he exercised sosternly as to be called and be long remembered as “The Hard Abbot.” Theother personages who have strutted their little hour upon our mimicstage need not be further noticed.
LETCHWORTH THE TEMPLE PRESS PRINTERS
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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 takenby the French {pg 188}
exclaimed Evielle-chiens=> exclaimed Eveille-chiens {pg 213}
Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter Page 62