Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

CHAPTER XXV
THE VOWS OF THE HERON

A WEEK before May Day Hugh de Moreville reached Paris, and did all that he could, on the part of the Anglo-Norman barons, to hasten the preparations, and hurry the departure of Prince Louis. Matters, however, did not go so satisfactorily as he could have wished. Philip Augustus was grave and reluctant; Louis, like his paternal grandfather, was pompous, slow, and somewhat sluggish; and the only person whose ideas on the subject moved as rapidly as those of De Moreville was Blanche of Castile, who inherited energy and intellect that would have made her, if of the other sex, quite equal to the occasion. As it was, however, De Moreville found much difficulty in persuading Louis to take the ultimate step which might expose him to the censures of the Church; and, on the eve of a great banquet, he conceived the project of surprising the prince into one of the vows of chivalry considered too serious to be broken or treated with indifference.

Now among the vows of chivalry in fashion at that period the most solemn were known as “the vow of the peacock,” “the vow of the pheasant,” “the vow of the swans,” and “the vow of the cranes.” All these birds were esteemed noble; and the peacock was, in a particular manner, accounted proper food for the valiant and the amorous; and, when the vow was about to be made the bird was roasted, decked in its most beautiful feathers, and made its appearance on a basin of gold and silver, and was carried by ladies, magnificently dressed, to the assembled knights, who with all formality, made their vows over the bird in the presence of the company. But it was neither the vow of the peacock, nor the pheasant, nor the swans, nor the cranes, with which Hugh de Moreville was about to surprise the heir of France.

On the morning before the royal banquet was to be given on May Day in the palace which Philip Augustus, while embellishing and paving Paris, had built beside the great tower of the Louvre, Hugh de Moreville rode out of the city with a little falcon on his wrist, and a spaniel running at his horse’s feet, as if to recreate himself with sport, and went fowling along the banks of the Seine till he caught a heron, which was the bird of which he was in search. Returning to Paris with the heron, he ordered it to be cooked, and placed between two dishes of silver; and, having pressed into his service two fiddlers, and a man who played the guitar, and secured the assistance of two young ladies – the daughters of a count – to carry the dishes, and to sing songs, he, at the hour appointed for the banquet, proceeded to the Louvre, and entered the great hall, where Louis and Blanche of Castile were presiding at a board, surrounded by young nobles of great name, and dames and demoiselles celebrated for grace and elegance. The prince had what is called the Capet face, with the large, long, straight nose, slanting forward, and hanging over the short upper lip, and was no beauty; but the princess inherited the features of her maternal ancestors, and was fair and fascinating to behold as in the days when, in her youthful widowhood, she won the heart and inspired the muse of Thibault of Champagne. Among the company were the Count of Perche, the Viscount of Melun, the Count of Nevers, and the young Lord Enguerraud De Coucy, one of that proud house whose chiefs had on their banners the motto disclaiming the rank of king: —

 
“Je suis ni roi, ni prince aussi —
Je suis le Seigneur De Couci.”
 

“Open your ranks, good people,” cried Hugh de Moreville in a loud voice, as he entered the hall of the Louvre, with the two fiddlers and the man who played the guitar and the two noble demoiselles carrying the heron; “I have a heron which my falcon has caught, and which, methinks, is fitting food for the knights who are subject to the ladies, who have such delicate complexions. My lords, there should be no coward sitting at this board, except the gentle lovers; yet I have with me the bird which is the most cowardly of all others; for such is the heron by nature, that, as soon as it sees its own shadow, it is astonished, and gives way to fear; and, since the heron is so timorous, and the timid ought to make their vows on it, I opine that I ought to give it to my Lord Louis, who is so faint-hearted that he allows himself to be deprived of England, the noble country of which his lady and companion is the rightful heir; and, seeing that his heart has failed him, she is like to die disinherited. However, he must vow on the heron to take some step befitting the occasion.”

Louis reddened perceptibly as De Moreville and the demoiselles stood before him with the heron, and his eye flashed with pride and ire.

“By St. Denis!” said he, solemnly, “since I am charged with timorousness, and the word coward is almost thrown in my face, I must needs prove my worth. I do vow and promise that, before this year is past, I will cross the sea, my father’s subjects with me, and defy King John; and, if he does come against me, I will fight him, let him be sure of that. With my oath have I taken this vow; and, if I live long enough, I will perform it, or die in labouring to accomplish it – so help me God and St. Denis!”

When Hugh de Moreville heard the words of Prince Louis, he smiled with the anticipation of triumph.

“Now, in truth,” exclaimed he, “matters will go right; and, for my part, I ought to have joy that, through this heron I have caught, victory will be ours; and I swear by St. Moden that I will attend the Lord Louis to England, and act as marshal of his army, and do all that in me lies to set him on the throne, which is his lady’s by right; and, if I live, I will accomplish the vow I have taken.”

Again Hugh de Moreville moved on with the two silver dishes, and while the fiddles and the guitar played, and the demoiselles sang, he carried the heron to the Count of Nevers, and the Count of Perche, and the Lord de Coucy, and to each of the knights and barons present, who each took the vow, and then to the Viscount of Melun, who, however hostile to King John and England, was not much gratified with the scene that was being enacted before his eyes.

“Sir,” said De Moreville, pausing before the viscount, “vow to the heron, I pray thee.”

“At your will,” replied the viscount, sighing deeply; “but I marvel greatly at so much talk. Boasting is nothing worth unless it be accomplished. When we are in taverns or in festive halls, drinking the strong wines, and looked upon by ladies drawing the kerchiefs round their smooth necks, every man is eager for war and glory. Some, at such times, in imagination conquer Yaumont and Aguilant, and others Roland and Oliver; but when we are in the field, on our steeds, our limbs benumbed with cold, with our shields round our necks, and our spears lowered, and the enemy approaches, then we wish we had never made such vows. For such boasts, in truth, I would not give a bezant; not that I say this to excuse myself; for I vow and promise, by the finger of St. John the Baptist, which was of late brought from Constantinople, that if our lord, Louis, will cross the sea, and enter England, I will accompany him with all my forces, and do my devoir in aiding him to gain the realm which is by right his lady’s.”

Hugh de Moreville smiled grimly as the Viscount of Melun made his vow, and took the dishes, and again moving, with the fiddles and guitar playing, and the demoiselles singing, he knelt before Blanche of Castile, and said that “the heron he would distribute in time, but meanwhile he implored her to say that which her heart would dictate;” and the princess, having vowed, in case of need, to embark for the war which Louis and his lords had sworn to undertake, the bird was cut up and eaten, and the ceremony closed.

And now Louis of France delayed no longer. Next day he presented himself to Philip Augustus, and begged that his voyage might not be obstructed, for that he was under a vow which he could not break; and the king, though somewhat against his inclination, granted his son’s request; and Louis, with his lords and knights, and Hugh de Moreville, hastened to Calais.

At that time, one of the most remarkable of naval heroes was a Fleming by birth, who had originally been in a convent, and who was popularly known as Eustace the Monk. It is said that, on the death of his brother without children, Eustace cast the cowl, and threw aside the monk’s habit, and abandoned the convent to inherit the property. But, be that as it may have been, he had become a captain of pirates, and made his name terrible on the sea. Allured into the service of Louis, Eustace had fitted out at Calais a fleet to transport the French army to the English coast; and the prince, having embarked with his fighting men, put to sea. The voyage was not particularly prosperous. The winds were stormy, and the mariners of the Cinque Ports were eager and earnest in their attacks on the French armament. Louis, however, escaped all perils, and on the 26th of May, 1216, landed at Sandwich.

But no sooner did he set foot in England than the legate excommunicated him, and the pope, on hearing that he had crossed the Channel, exclaimed, significantly —

“Sword, sword, spring from the scabbard, and sharpen thyself to kill!”

CHAPTER XXVI
A PAINFUL INTERVIEW

HUGH DE MOREVILLE did not await the sailing of Prince Louis and the fleet which Eustace the Monk had fitted out at Calais. Indeed, the Norman baron was all eagerness to reach London, and communicate to his confederates the intelligence that the French prince was really coming with a formidable force. Embarking in a swift vessel, and having a prosperous voyage, he soon reached the English coast, and, hastening to the capital, carried to Fitzwalter, and De Quency, and Stephen Langton, intelligence that his important mission to the court of Paris had been crowned with complete success.

De Moreville was still in London at his great mansion in Ludgate, but preparing to set out for Chas-Chateil, where he had reason to believe all was not quite right, and whither he had already despatched Ralph Hornmouth, in whom he had great faith, when one morning a visitor was announced, and the Norman baron, on looking up, perceived that it was Walter Merley. The young noble, however, looked haggard, careworn, and sad, and marvellously unlike the keen and sanguine partisan of Fitzwalter and the barons who had appeared as a guest at the board of Constantine Fitzarnulph, and aided in alluring the citizens into the alliance which enabled the confederates to seize the capital and strike dismay into the king.

“Walter Merley,” said De Moreville, a little taken by surprise at his visitor’s woe-begone look, “I give thee welcome, and have news of great import to tell thee, so I pray thee be seated.”

“Nay, De Moreville,” replied the young noble, sadly, very sadly indeed, “it needs not. I already know it, and I grieve to think that other matters should be as they are. For yourself, I must say that you have misled me. Nay, frown not; it avails nought with me. I believed you to be a man true to England in thought, word, and deed; and I, the son of a woman of English blood, mark you, and therefore more closely interested in the national welfare than any mere Anglo-Norman, understanding that it was the object of yourself, and the barons with whom you are associated, to secure the liberties of England by forcing John of Anjou to confirm the laws of the Confessor, and to restore the usages that prevailed in England in the Confessor’s reign – understanding this, I repeat, I not only gave you all the aid in my power, but exposed my brother and my mother to the vengeance of a king who is as cruel and unjust as he is treacherous. And now neither of them have a roof under which to shelter their head. Their hearths are desolate, their castles and manors in the hands of strangers.”

“Even taking it at the worst, Walter,” said De Moreville, startled more and more at the young noble’s aspect and style of address, “you must own that others in the North besides your kindred have felt the king’s vengeance. De Vesci, and De Roos, and Delaval, and half a dozen others, are equally sufferers.”

“But, De Moreville,” continued Merley, still calmly and sadly, “what I complain of is this: that you and your confederates have deserted all the professions so loudly and so boastfully made, and that you have betrayed England. Nay, frown not, for I tell you again that the son of Dame Juliana Merley is not to be daunted by a frown; I say you have betrayed the cause of England by calling into the kingdom a foreign prince who is certain to hold the ancient laws of England in lighter regard than the worst Plantagenet whom the imagination could conjure up; and of all foreigners a Frenchman, and of all Frenchmen a Capet, and of all Capets a son of Philip Augustus, England’s fellest foe.”

“Necessity, Walter – a stern necessity.”

“However,” continued Merley, more calmly, “I do not recognise the necessity; nor, credit me, will the country long recognise it. Meanwhile I can take no part in the struggle. King John I abhor; Prince Louis I abhor still more than I do King John. I have, under your counsel, De Moreville, taken such a course as to involve in ruin the house to which I belong. My brother and my mother are exiles north of the Tweed, dependent on our potent kinsman for the very bread they eat. All that I could have endured to behold; but to think that this was suffered to place a Frenchman and a Capet on the throne of Alfred and Edward maddens me. But, farewell! I go to Flanders to seek oblivion in the excitement of war; and may God pardon you, De Moreville, for having brought this wretched foreign prince and his rascal myrmidons into England, for I own that I cannot. I have said.”

De Moreville was much affected, and buried his head in his bosom to conceal his agitation. This was not the kind of language he expected to hear from an eager partisan of the baronial cause; and he certainly began to view the matter in a different light than when he was at the court of Paris, and thinking only of vengeance on King John. However, he felt that every awkwardness and inconvenience must be endured, and every reproach borne, now that the great step was taken, and it was too late to recede. He raised his head resolutely, with the intention of bringing his young friend over to his view. When he did so, he found that he was alone. Walter Merley was gone.

CHAPTER XXVII
THE INVADER AND HIS DUPES

MEANWHILE King John had left Dover for Guildford, and marched from Guildford to Winchester, and from Winchester to Bristol, having taken the precaution of strongly garrisoning the castles of Windsor, Wallingford, and Corfe; and Louis of France, after landing at Sandwich, in spite of the legate, led his army to Rochester, and on the 30th of May, 1216, took that fortress from the garrison which John had left within its walls six months earlier. Having thus inaugurated his career in England with a conquest which raised the hopes of John’s enemies, Louis, accompanied by the Lord de Coucy, the Viscount of Melun, the Count of Nevers, and the Count of Perche, marched his army towards London.

It was Thursday, the 2nd of June, when the heir of the Capets rode into the capital of England, and met with a reception which must have excited at once his wonder and contempt. Both by barons and citizens he was welcomed with rapturous applause, and conducted to the church of St. Paul’s, a rude and homely structure, standing amidst the ruins of the Temple of Diana, so soon to be replaced by a magnificent edifice; and within St. Paul’s the mayor, aldermen, and chief citizens took the oath of allegiance. This ceremony over, Louis mounted his steed, and, riding to Westminster, entered the abbey, where the Anglo-Norman barons solemnly acknowledged him as their sovereign, and swore to be true to him – the French prince taking an oath on his part to restore to every one his rights, and to recover for the crown whatever had been lost to it by King John. Louis, being under a sentence of excommunication, could not be crowned. However, he was hailed King of England, and, in that capacity, nominated Langton to the office of chancellor.

But Louis and the companions of his adventurous enterprise were well aware that ceremonies, however solemn, could not render his position secure, and that the crown could only be his by right of conquest. No time, therefore, did he lose before letting loose his foreign troops and his Anglo-Norman partisans on the unfortunate country which he hoped, when conquered, to govern by the strong hand. Having despatched the Count of Nevers to besiege Windsor, Robert Fitzwalter to make war in Suffolk, and the Earl of Essex to gain possession of Essex, he himself raised the royal banner of France, led his army from London into Sussex, seized the fortresses in that county, and manned them with French troops; marched from Sussex into Surrey, taking the castles of Reigate, Guildford, and Farnham; and, passing into Hampshire, appeared on the 14th of June before Winchester, and soon made himself master of the ancient capital of England and all that it contained – the city, in fact, surrendering at his summons, and the king’s castle and the bishop’s palace eleven days later.

Naturally enough, so brilliant an opening of the campaign exerted a powerful influence on men of all opinions. The populace, indeed, continued sullen, and their hatred of the foreigner grew daily stronger. But people who had much to lose were startled by events so important as weekly occurred. The friends of Louis gained confidence, and took bolder steps; his foes were disheartened, and led to doubt and hesitate. Neutrals began to make up their minds as to the merits of the controversy, and, in most cases, decided on taking the winning side. So far the invader was pleasant to all men, and so charmed his Anglo-Norman partisans by his affability, that his praise was on thousands of tongues; and he was everywhere contrasted most favourably with King John. Even the reports spread abroad as to the beauty, the intelligence, and the high spirit of his wife had their effect. Besides, victory seemed to sit on his helm, and misfortune to have claimed his rival as her own. Everywhere the shout of “Montjoie, St. Denis, God aid us, and our Lord Louis!” was shouted by warriors confident of triumph. Nowhere could John remain, even for a week at a time, without having to make a hasty exit. Daily the shouts for “our Lord Louis” became louder and more general; and at length the nobles who had hitherto adhered to the royal cause, believing that, do what they might, the invader was destined to reign, lost heart and hope, and, in order to escape the utter ruin that stared them in the face, ventured to the camp of Louis, and gave in their adhesion.

First appeared Hugh Neville, and yielded the castle of Marlborough; then the Earls of Oxford, and Arundel, and Albemarle, and Warren made their submission; and so hopeless appeared the struggle, that even Salisbury, notwithstanding the Plantagenet blood that ran in his veins, appeared at the French camp, and did as Hugh Neville and his peers the other earls had done before him. Pembroke, however, remained stanchly loyal, and somewhat startled the conquerors by wresting the city of Worcester from their grasp, almost while they were triumphing in the thought of having taken it; and, what in the end proved of immense importance to the royal cause, the mariners of the Cinque Ports continued to be loyally devoted to the crown. Everything, however, led Louis to believe in the ultimate success of his enterprise; and having obtained possession of Odiham, he was already master of all the country as far as Corfe Castle, when, on the 22nd of July, he appeared at Dover, and laid siege to that stronghold rising in silent majesty from the range of cliffs, and regarded as the key of the kingdom.

It could not be denied that the castle of Dover presented a formidable aspect; and even the most sanguine of the invaders must have eyed its towers and battlements with some misgiving. Louis, however, had no doubt of being able to reduce it. In fact, he had made preparations which he believed could not fail in their object, and particularly relied on engines of war sent by his father, Philip Augustus, particularly a machine called a “malvoisine,” with which to batter the walls. But the effect was not commensurate with the prince’s expectations. Hubert de Burgh not only looked calmly upon the besieging force and apparatus, but soon took such measures to mitigate the violence of the assault that the French were driven back, and forced to remove their lines to a greater distance from the castle than they had at first deemed necessary. Louis, Capet like, lost his temper when he found matters were not going so favourably as he wished.

“By St. Denis!” cried he in a rage, “I swear that I will not depart hence till I have taken the castle, and hanged the garrison.”

Meanwhile the Count of Nevers and the barons of England who served under his banner had failed to take Windsor, which was defended by Ingelard D’Athie, a warrior of great experience; and learning that King John was moving northward at the head of a slender force, they marched to intercept him. John, however, contrived to elude them; and learning that he had taken possession of Stamford, they retraced their steps, and proceeded to Dover to aid Louis in the siege, which was making no progress.

It happened, however, that among the prisoners taken by the French was Thomas, brother of Hubert de Burgh, and Louis now smiled with triumph as he anticipated the hour for setting the royal standard of France on the heights of Godwin’s tower. Demanding a parley, he sent to inform Hubert de Burgh of what had happened.

“If you do not surrender the castle,” said the messengers of Louis, “you are likely presently to see your brother put to death, with every torment likely to render death horrible.”

“I grieve to hear it,” replied Hubert, calmly; “but I cannot value any man’s life in comparison with the loyalty which I have sworn to maintain.”

“Our lord, Louis,” said the messengers, returning, “will give you a large sum of money to surrender.”

“I intend to hold out the castle and maintain my loyalty,” was the brief and conclusive reply.

Finding that Hubert de Burgh was proof against threats and promises, Louis became very irritable, and treated the Anglo-Norman barons with a disdainful indifference which sorely galled them, and at the same time gave much offence by bestowing the earldoms of Wiltshire and Surrey on the Count of Nevers, who was very avaricious and exceedingly unpopular. Jealousy was already at work in the camp before Dover, and many of the barons were beginning to think less unkindly of King John, and were inclined to return to their allegiance, when a story which was spread abroad gave them an excellent excuse for changing sides, and in the long run did better service to the royal cause than could have been rendered by a thousand knights.

While Louis was prosecuting the siege of Dover, the Viscount of Melun, who had remained in London, was attacked by a malady which his physicians assured him could not fail to end fatally; and, finding himself drawing near to the gates of death, he sent for Hugh de Moreville and others of the barons who were then in the capital, and, turning on his couch, he informed them that he had something on his conscience, of which he felt bound to relieve it before going to his account.

“Your fate,” continued the viscount, “grieves me, for you are doomed. Our lord Louis and sixteen of his comrades, on leaving France, bound themselves by an oath, as soon as the realm of England is conquered and he is crowned king, to banish for ever you who have joined his standard, as traitors, who are not to be trusted. Moreover, your whole offspring will be exterminated or beggared. Doubt not my words. I who lie here dying was one of the conspirators. Look to your safety.”

And, having given this warning, the Viscount of Melun lay back on his couch and died.

Naturally enough, this story, when it reached the camp at Dover, made a strong impression, and the barons regarded the movements of their foreign allies with grave suspicion, and communicated their thoughts to each other in whispers. But they had placed themselves in such a predicament that they knew not what steps to take. In fact, Louis had them under his thumb. He had made himself master of the whole South of England. In the West and in the North his power was great, supported in one quarter by the Prince of Wales and in the other by the King of Scots.

“We are like woodcocks caught in our springe,” said one.

“And ere long,” remarked others, “we may be dealt with as deer in a buckstall.”

“In truth,” observed Hugh de Moreville, “our lord Louis is a deceiver, and we are his dupes. But patience, and the tables will be turned, without our cause being lost. It is possible to dupe the deceiver. Meantime, let us use these Frenchmen while they believe they are using us. Patience, I say, and one day they will discover with amazement that the tables are turned. By St. Moden, I swear it!”

“Our friends are already beginning to fall away from our cause, as rats desert a falling house,” said the first speaker bitterly.

“It is true,” said De Moreville; and he sighed as he thought of Walter Merley.