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CHAPTER VII
A MAN OF THE FOREST
FEW days were merrier in ancient England than the first day of the year. Not so fatigued with the celebration of Christmas as to be incapable of continuing the festivity, the inhabitants – especially the young – welcomed the new year with uproarious mirth.
Even before the Saxon, or Dane, or Norman had set foot in Britain – even before the apostles of Christianity had found their way to our shores – the season had been the occasion of religious rites and observances. It is well known that, on the last night of the year, the Druids were in the habit of going into the woods, cutting the mistletoe off the oak with golden bills, bringing it next morning into the towns, distributing it among the people, who wore it as an amulet to preserve them from danger, and performing certain pagan rites, which were gradually turned by the early Church into such exhibitions as the “Fête des Fous,” performed by companies of both sexes, dressed in fantastic garments, who ran about on New Year’s Day, asking for gifts, rushing into churches during the services of the vigils, and disturbing the devout by their gestures and cries.
In England, on New Year’s Day, it was customary for every one who had it in his power to wear new clothes; and unfortunate was deemed the wight who had not the means that day of indulging in some luxury of the kind. Now, on the 1st of January in the year 1215 – a year destined to be memorable in the annals of England – Wolf, the varlet, had been provided with garments more befitting the sobriety observed in the house of Dame Isabel Icingla than the scarlet striped with yellow, in which he had strutted at the court of Castile; and, prompted by the vanity natural to youth, he resolved on displaying his finery at the cottage inhabited by his father, Styr, the Anglo-Saxon.
And the cottage of Styr, which stood about a mile from Oakmede, was not without its pretensions. Indeed, it was a palace compared with the squalid huts in which most of the labouring peasantry of England then herded; for Styr, in his youth, had served the Icinglas with fidelity in peace and war, and they had not proved forgetful of his services. Moreover, it was rumoured that Styr had dealings with outlaws, and that, at times, he so far forgot himself as to take out his crossbow on moonlight nights with an eye to the king’s deer. But, however that may have been, food in abundance, and, on such occasions as holidays, good cheer in plenty, and tankards of foaming ale, were found under Styr’s roof; and he could tell of war and of battles, especially of that last battle in which Richard Cœur de Lion defeated Philip Augustus, and in which Edric Icingla fell with his back to the ground and his feet to the foe. Listening to stories of the past, and singing some songs he had learned in Spain, Wolf found the hours glide away rather swiftly, and the day was far spent when he rose to leave.
“And so, Wolf,” said Styr for the fifth or sixth time, “it is not, after all, to the wars to which the young Hlaford has gone?”
“No, in truth,” replied Wolf, quickly, “or, credit me, he would not have left me behind. Little better than a prisoner is he, mewed up in the gloomy Tower, like bird in cage.”
“But hark thee, Wolf,” said the old man, “and I will tell thee a secret. Forest Will, or Will with the Club, as they call him, passed this way not later than yesterday.”
“And who is this Forest Will – knowest thou, father?” asked Wolf, interrupting.
“Nay, lad, that is more than I can tell. Some say he is a great man whose life is forfeit to the law; others that he is a captain of forest outlaws. For my part, I know little more of him than do my neighbours; but this little I do know, that he is wondrous familiar with all that is doing, alike at the king’s court and the castles of the barons – ay, even in foreign parts – and he foretells that, ere the harvest is ready for the sickle, there will be war.”
“War in England?” said Wolf.
“Ay, war in England – and a bloody war to boot; and when swords are being drawn, King John will know better than to keep an Icingla from drawing his sword. Even mine must be scoured up if blows are to be going, and if King Harry’s son has to defend himself against the men who have done all but crush our race to the dust.”
And Styr bent his brows and clenched his hands as if eager for the battle, which, with the instinct of an old warrior, he scented from afar.
“Well, father,” said Wolf, “I hope it will all turn out for the best; but what if my master took into his head to fight on the other side?”
“What if an Icingla took into his head to fight for Norman oppressors against an English king, the heir of the Athelings!” cried Styr, repeating his son’s words. “Why, just this, that he might expect his ancestors to come out of their graves and cry ‘shame’ upon him.”
“May the saints forefend!” exclaimed Wolf, almost as much terrified as if the Saxon chiefs alluded to had appeared before him in their shrouds. “But, come what may, I must even take my departure, for the hour grows late, and Dame Isabel is somewhat strict in her rules.”
“The better for thee and others that live under the Hleafdian’s roof,” observed Styr.
It was about the fall of evening when Wolf left his father’s tenement to return to Oakmede, and he hurried through the woodland and over the crisp ground that he might reach the hall of the Icinglas before the hour of supper, then an important meal under the roof of vanquished Saxon as well as victorious Norman, and especially in seasons of festivity. Notwithstanding the anxiety he felt about Oliver Icingla, and the disappointment he had experienced in not being allowed to accompany the young squire to the court or into captivity – just as might turn out – Wolf’s heart was not heavy, and as he neared the old house of brick and timber, and anticipated the good cheer that awaited him, he began to believe that all would come right in the end, and whistled almost joyously as his spirits rose and he thought of the good time that was coming. Suddenly a hare crossed his path. “A bad omen,” said Wolf, who had all the superstitious feelings of his race and country; and scarcely had he thus briefly soliloquised when his steps were arrested by a huge white bulldog which growled menacingly in his face, and by the voice of a man who leant against the trunk of a leafless oak.
“Wolf, boy, where is thy master?” said the man. “I have not seen him once of late, albeit he was wont to seek my company often enough.”
Wolf turned to the speaker, and, as he found his sleeve grasped, appeared somewhat more awed than was reasonable at finding himself alone with such a person and in such a place, and he would have been still more so had it been an hour after dark.
He was, so far as could be judged from his appearance, not more than thirty-five – that age which has been called “the second prime of man” – and had nothing about him to daunt or terrify a youth who, like Wolf, had been in Spain, and watched eagerly while grim warriors engaged in mortal combat. Indeed, the expression of his countenance was frank, and even kindly, and to the ordinary eye would have been prepossessing, while his figure was tall and of herculean strength, with mighty limbs, the arms long and muscular. His dress was that which might have been worn by any forester or forest outlaw, and he had a bugle-horn at his girdle, to which also was attached a heavy club of iron, which was likely, in his hands, to do terrible execution whenever necessity or inclination made him use it. But, as I have said, there was nothing in his appearance to excite alarm. Nevertheless, Wolf gazed on him with an awe that every moment increased, for he had often seen this person before, and knew him as Forest Will, or Will with the Club, whose existence was enveloped in mystery, but who was suspected of being a chief of outlaws, and by most people, particularly by Dame Isabel Icingla, deemed a dangerous man, with whom it was as impossible to hold converse without being led into mischief as to touch pitch without being defiled. Such being the case, Wolf felt almost as much alarmed as if Satan had suddenly started up in his path, and with difficulty mustered voice to say in a tremulous tone —
“I am in haste; I pray thee permit me to pass on my way.”
“Have patience and fear nothing,” said the man of the forest. “I asked thee what had become of thy master. I fain would see him.”
“May it please thee,” replied Wolf, after a pause, “my master has gone to the king’s court.”
“Gone to the king’s court! Oliver Icingla gone to the king’s court!” exclaimed the man of the forest, wonderingly. “What in the fiend’s name took him there?”
“In truth,” answered Wolf, slowly but gradually recovering his self-possession, “it was not of his own will that he went thither; but ‘needs must when the devil drives.’ He was conducted to the Tower of London as a hostage by his mother’s kinsman, the Lord Hugh de Moreville.”
“Ho, ho, ho!” cried the man of the forest, stamping his foot with anger and vexation; “I see it all. He is destined to feed the crows, if not saved by a miracle. I marvel much that a youth of his wit could be so blind as to be led by his false kinsman into such a snare. Hugh de Moreville,” he continued, speaking to himself, but still loud enough to be heard by Wolf, whose hearing was acute – “Hugh de Moreville gives Oliver Icingla to King John as a hostage for his good faith. Hugh breaks faith with the king and rises with the barons, and Oliver is hung up to punish Hugh’s perfidy, which is just what Hugh wants; and when peace is patched up between the king and the barons, and the past forgiven and forgotten, Hugh remains in undisputed possession of the castles and baronies, which otherwise he might one day have to surrender to the rightful heir at the bidding of the law. By the rood, this lord is wise in his own generation, and, doubtless, knows it; yet, had he asked my counsel, I could have shown him a less hazardous way to accomplish his wishes; for Hugh has but one daughter, who is marvellous fair to look upon; and the Icinglas, whatever their pride and prejudices as to race, are as wax in the presence of Norman women of beauty and blood. What thinkest thou the life of Master Oliver Icingla may be worth,” asked he, again addressing Wolf, “now that he is securely mewed in the Tower?”
“I know not,” said Wolf, mournfully. “I would fain hope my lady’s son is in no real danger.”
“Your lady,” continued the man of the forest, with an air of careless indifference, “relished not the thought of her son holding so much discourse as he was wont to do with one like me. Was it not so?”
Wolf hesitated.
“Nay, boy, speak, and fear not. Knowest thou not it is good to tell truth and shame the devil?”
“In good sooth, then,” replied Wolf, at length yielding to the pressure of his questioner, “I know right well that my lady did much fear that her son might be tempted into some enterprise perilous to his life.”
“Even so,” said the man of the forest; “and it is ever in this way that women err as to the quarter where danger lies; and now her noble kinsman has led her son into far greater peril than he was ever like to be exposed to in my company.”
“I grieve to hear thee speak of his danger in such terms,” said Wolf, gloomily.
“Matters may yet be remedied,” continued the man of the forest, “and I own I would do much for thy master. Would that this false step of his could have been prevented! Better far that he had taken to the greenwood or to the caves in the rocks, or roamed the sea as a pirate, than gone to the Tower as hostage for a kinsman who to treachery adds the cunning of a fox and the cruelty of a tiger.”
And, releasing Wolf’s sleeve, Forest Will, alias Will with the Club, turned on his heel, and, whistling on his dog, made for the forest, and disappeared.
Wolf, not much pleased with the interview, nor with himself for having been so confidential in his communications, pursued his way to Oakmede.
“On my faith,” said he to himself, as he came in sight of the house and breathed more freely, “that terrible man has well-nigh scared all the blood out of my body. May the saints so order it that I see his face no more!”
Wolf’s prayer, however, was not to be granted. It was not the last time that his eyes were to alight on the man of the forest; in fact, that person was to cut rather a prominent figure in the exciting scenes which were about to be enacted in England.
CHAPTER VIII
THE KING AND THE BARONS
I HAVE stated that between the Plantagenet kings of England and the Anglo-Norman barons there existed no particular sympathy; and considering who the Plantagenet kings were, and what was their origin, it need not be matter of surprise that they cherished something like an antipathy towards the feudal magnates whose ancestors fought at Hastings, and had their names blazoned on the grand roll of Battle Abbey.
It was in the ninth century, when Charles the Bald, one of the heirs of Charlemagne, reigned over France, that a brave and good man, named Torquatus, lived within the limits of the French empire, and passed his time chiefly in cultivating his lands and hunting in his woods. Torquatus had every prospect of living and dying in obscurity, without making his name known to fame. Happening, however, to be summoned to serve his sovereign in war, he gave proofs of such courage and ability that he rose high in the king’s favour, and was for his valuable services rewarded with a forest known as the “Blackbird’s Nest,” and continued to serve Charles the Bald so stoutly and faithfully in the wars with the sea kings, that, when living, he won much renown among his contemporaries, and, when dead, was distinguished by the monkish chroniclers as “another Cincinnatus.”
Tertullus, the son of Torquatus, inherited his father’s talent and prowess, and did such good work in his day that he was rewarded for his signal services to Charles the Bald with the hand of Petronella, the king’s kinswoman; and the heirs of Tertullus, ennobled by worthy exploits and by their Carlovingian blood, became Counts of Anjou and hereditary High Stewards of France. In fact, they had risen to a very high position among the princes of Continental Europe when, in 1130, Fulke, Count of Anjou, mourning the loss of a wife whom he had dearly loved, went on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, wedded the heiress of one of the Baldwins, and ascended the throne which the early crusaders, under Godfrey of Bouillon, had set up in the holy city. But it was in England that the heirs of Torquatus and Tertullus were to figure most prominently, and it was with English history that their name was to be associated even as that of the Pope was with the Church.
Before setting out for the Holy Land, Fulke of Anjou bestowed his hereditary dominions on his son Geoffrey, a bold warrior and an accomplished gentleman, who, from wearing a sprig of flowering broom in his hat, instead of a feather, acquired the surname of Plantagenet. Fortune favoured Geoffrey of Anjou, and enabled him to form an alliance which made his descendants the greatest sovereigns in Christendom. Having attracted the attention and secured the friendship of Henry Beauclerc, King of England, he espoused Henry’s daughter, Maude, the young widow of an Emperor of Germany. Naturally it was supposed that Maude, as her father’s only surviving child, would succeed to England and Normandy on his death. But in that age the laws of succession were ill understood, and when Henry expired, his sister’s son, Stephen, Count of Bouillon, seized the English throne, and, notwithstanding a terrible civil war, contrived to keep it during his life. All Maude’s efforts to unseat him proved unavailing; and, weary of the struggle, she, about 1147, retired to the Continent, and endeavoured to console herself with sovereignty over Normandy.
But meanwhile Maude had become the mother of a son, who, as years passed over, proved a very formidable adversary. Henry Plantagenet was a native of Mantz, in Normandy, where he drew his first breath in 1133; but at an early age he was brought to England to be educated, and while passing his boyhood at Bristol, was made familiar with the country whose destinies he was one day to control. It was not, however, till, on the death of his father, he had become Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy, and, by his marriage with Eleanor of Guienne, Duke of Aquitaine and Poitou, that, in 1153, he landed in England with the determination of asserting his rights. At first a sanguinary struggle appeared imminent; but Stephen consented to a compromise, and, excluding his own son, acknowledged Henry as heir to the crown, stipulating, however, that he should wear it during his lifetime. Next year Stephen breathed his last, and Henry was crowned in the Cathedral of Winchester, which up to that date was regarded as the proper constitutional capital of England. A terrible task was before him.
At the time of Henry’s coronation the condition of England was wretched in the extreme. Never, even in the worst days of the Norman Conquest, had life and property been so insecure. The laws were utterly impotent to protect the weak against the strong, and the barons set truth, honesty, and humanity at defiance; and, unless history lies, nothing could have been more outrageous than the conduct of the men whose sons afterwards, when they perceived that it was expedient to get the nation over to their side, found it convenient to affect so high a regard for “justice and righteousness.”
“All was dissension, and evil, and rapine,” says the Saxon chronicle, speaking of the reign of Stephen. “The great men rose against him. They had sworn oaths, but they maintained no truth. They built castles which they held out against him. They cruelly oppressed the wretched people of the land with his castle work. They filled their castles with devils and evil men. They seized those whom they supposed to have any goods, and threw them into prison for their gold and silver, and inflicted on them unutterable tortures. Some they hanged up by the feet. They threw them into dungeons with adders, and snakes, and toads. They made many thousands perish with hunger. They laid tribute upon tribute on towns and cities… The land remained untilled, and the poor starved. To till the land was to plough the sea.”
Such was the state of affairs with which the early Plantagenets had to deal, and such the men who, after having been cowed by the energy and genius of Henry and the vigour and courage of Richard, prepared to raise their banners and head their feudal array with the object of crushing John, whose imprudence and indolence made him a much less formidable adversary than either his father or his brother would have been. Moreover, he stood charged with crimes and follies which made the most loyal Englishman half ashamed of the royal cause.
It was in the midst of his struggles with Philip Augustus that John was first involved in disputes with the barons, on account of their positive refusal to accompany him to the Continent. On this point the barons appear to have been somewhat unreasonable; and John treated them with such hauteur that they announced his bearing quite intolerable. Gradually matters grew worse; and when John was in the midst of his quarrel with the Pope, the barons, believing that the time for retaliation had arrived, espoused the papal cause, and formed a conspiracy for seizing the king, and giving the crown to Simon de Montfort, a French nobleman who afterwards gained an unenviable notoriety as leader of the crusade against the unfortunate Albigenses. Moreover, the barons took great credit with the Pope for having forced John to surrender his crown to the legate. But no sooner did Innocent signify his intention of supporting the king on his throne than the barons changed their tone, and made what political capital they could out of the humiliation which the king had brought upon England when he consented to become the vassal of Rome. Nor were other charges of a scandalous nature wanting to embitter the dispute and add to the exasperation. Almost every baron, in fact, had some complaint to make, and in particular the chiefs of the house of Braose, Fitzwalter, and De Vesci.
William de Braose was an Angevin noble of high rank, and Lord of Bramber, who unfortunately involved himself in a dispute with the crown about a debt which he would not or could not pay. At first De Braose was exiled to Ireland; but, having obtained the king’s sanction to travel through the country to make up the sum, which was forty thousand marks, he availed himself of his liberty to escape to the Continent. His wife and children, however, were not so fortunate. While at Galway, endeavouring to embark for Scotland, they were arrested, brought as prisoners to Windsor, and confined in the castle. While in captivity the whole family died, and it was generally rumoured that they had been inhumanly starved to death.
Robert Fitzwalter was one of the proudest nobles in England, and Lord of Baynard’s Castle, in London; and he had a daughter so celebrated for her beauty that she was called Maude the Fair. On this damsel John cast his eyes with evil intent. His advances were repelled. Maude the Fair died soon after, and the king was accused of having caused poison to be given to her in a poached egg.
Among Anglo-Norman barons, hardly one was more powerful than Eustace de Vesci, Lord of Alnwick, where he maintained great feudal state. Eustace had wedded Margery, daughter of William the Lion, King of Scots, and the Lady de Vesci was famous for her grace and beauty. Hearing of her perfections, the king contrived to get possession of her husband’s ring and sent it with a message that she was immediately to repair to court if she wished to see her lord alive. Not having the slightest suspicion, the lady at once set out in haste; but, when on her journey, she accidentally met her husband, and, with the utmost surprise on her countenance, told him of the ring and the message she had received. Comprehending the whole, De Vesci sent his lady home, and took such measures that the king in a violent rage vowed vengeance, and the Northern baron, fearing for his life, fled from London.
Naturally enough, such scandals tended to deepen the resentment which the barons of England felt towards their king; and when affairs approached a crisis, the foremost and most resolute among John’s enemies were Robert Fitzwalter and Eustace de Vesci.
It was in the summer of 1213 that matters began to assume such an aspect that the wise and prudent shook their heads and predicted a civil war. At that time John, bent on retrieving his disasters on the Continent, embarked for Jersey, after summoning the barons to follow. Instead of obeying, they assembled in London, and held a meeting at St. Paul’s with the primate, who was devoted to their interests. On this occasion Stephen Langton produced the charter which Henry Beauclerc had promised to grant at his coronation, and which was understood to embody the laws popularly known as “The Laws of King Edward.”
“My lords,” said the primate, “I have found a charter of King Henry, by which, if you choose, you may recall the liberties of England to their former state.”
Langton then read the document, and the barons responded with acclamations.
“Never,” exclaimed they with one voice, “has there been a fitter time than this for restoring the ancient laws.”
“For my part,” said Langton, “I will aid you to the uttermost of my power.”
And the primate having administered an oath by which they bound themselves to conquer or die, they dispersed.
Meanwhile John, having learnt what had taken place, landed from Jersey, and, with characteristic imprudence, began to ravage the lands of the malcontents with fire and sword. On reaching Northampton, however, he was overtaken by Langton, who protested loudly against the king’s conduct, and threatened him with retaliation.
“Archbishop, begone!” said John, sternly. “Rule you the Church, and leave me to govern the State.”
And, heedless of the warning, he carried the work of destruction as far as Nottingham.
But ere long events occurred which made John somewhat less confident. The defeat of his ally, the Emperor of Germany, at Bovines, ruined all his projects for recovering the ground he had lost on the Continent; and he was fain to conclude a peace with Philip Augustus on terms the reverse of flattering to his vanity, and return to England, where his enemies were every day becoming more determined to bring all disputes to a decisive issue.
No sooner, indeed, had the Christmas of 1214 passed, and the year 1215 begun its course, than the barons came to London with a strong military force, and demanded an interview with the king. At first John was inclined to ride the high horse, and refuse them an audience; but, learning that they were strongly attended, he deemed it politic to temporise, and met them at the house of the Knights of the Temple. On finding himself face to face with his adversaries, and on being handed a petition embodying their demands, which were by no means trifling in extent, John attempted to intimidate them; but finding that his attempts were ineffectual, he asked them to allow the business on which they had come to lie over till Easter, that he might have time to give it his deliberate consideration. The barons hesitated. At length, however, they consented to the delay on condition that Archbishop Langton and the Earl of Pembroke were sureties for the king’s good faith. The primate and the earl pledged themselves as was wished; and the king and the barons parted, each party distrusting the other, and vowing in their inmost souls never, while they had life and breath, to bate one jot or tittle of their pretensions.
