Collingham was differently affected, and intimated that he, at all events, was determined to have an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.
“By the rood,” exclaimed he, as Wolf told the story, “this noble Count de Perche shall know better ere long with what manner of man he has to deal. He has whetted the beak of my raven, and there is not a raven in Sussex like to lack its food this spring if I can find French carrion enough to supply them.”
Within half an hour of Wolf’s arrival in the island proclamation was made in a loud voice—“Let no man in this camp henceforth take quarter from or give quarter to the foreign invaders, on pain of being held mean and niddering; and if any man in the camp will not conform to this rule let him depart on the morrow at break of day.”
Not a man, however, left the island at the time appointed for malcontents to depart, and from that day the war against the French garrisons was carried on with greater energy and fierceness than before. Blood flowed daily. The soldiers, indeed, could scarcely stir from their quarters to procure forage without being attacked by bands of ten, or twenty, or forty, just as it happened. Oliver spoke little, but he was seldom at rest. His dream had made a strong impression on his imagination, and he never thought of Beatrix de Moreville without feeling desperate. His mother’s sad fate, silently as he had heard of it, had affected him acutely, and, alone and friendless in the world, he felt reckless. Nothing cheered him but action, and he pursued the war so unsparingly that wherever he and his band appeared, the French, unless in strong force, fled, shouting, “Gare le corbeau!” The struggle, as it became more intense, was felt throughout all Sussex. It appeared that the county was rapidly becoming too hot to hold both the foreigners and the patriot warriors of the camp of refuge; such of the natives as had submitted to the yoke and owned Prince Louis as their lord, and given hostages for their good faith, trembled for their lives; and being between two fires, as it were, with Collingham and his thousand volunteers on one side and Eveille-chiens with his mercenary bands on the other, they cursed their hard fate, and durst not walk abroad, not even in the grounds around their houses. So that the dwelling of every Englishman who had bent his knee to the French prince was in the condition of a besieged town, the inmates being furnished with weapons to defend themselves in case of need, and the gates and doors with iron bolts and bars. When the family was about to retire to rest, the head of it, after ascertaining that everything was secure, rose and recited the prayers which are offered up at sea on the approach of a storm, he saying in conclusion, “The Lord bless and aid us!” and all his household answering, “Amen.”
When the Lord de Coucy became aware of the stage which affairs had reached in Sussex, he despatched thither fresh troops and orders to Eveille-chiens to destroy the camp of refuge at all hazards and at any cost, and to put all within it to the sword, and at the same time prevailed on Hugh de Moreville to send Ralph Hornmouth with a body of archers and crossbowmen to aid in the operation. Not much relishing the commission, Eveille-chiens nevertheless mustered his forces, both horse and foot, and approaching the islet—not now environed by water, but merely by marshes—he surrounded the place so completely that he flattered himself that his success was certain.
Collingham took no notice of this arrival; but the French could distinctly see the outlaws as they moved about among the trees and shrubs and stood behind the trees watching the preparations making for their destruction.
“Now by St. Remy, to whom the doves brought the sacred oil,” exclaimed Eveille-chiens, gaily, “this stinking crew can no more escape me now than birds can escape from the net of the fowler!” and, with exultation in his countenance, he turned to Ralph Hornmouth.
“Not unless they have the wings of birds,” replied Hornmouth; “for nought else could save them at the press to which matters have come.”
“But mark you how boldly they show themselves,” said Eveille-chiens, a little indignant that they treated his presence so coolly. “Sir squire,” added he, gravely, “deem you that they have gathered much booty into this stronghold of theirs?”
“Fair sir,” answered Hornmouth, “small chance is there, I trow, of booty being collected by men who follow William de Collingham, who has ever been like the rolling stone that gathers no moss. Besides, if my eyes see aright, they are so poverty-stricken that the beggar would disdain the ragged clothes they wear; and I have heard that when Master Icingla, who is known to your soldiers as ‘White Jacket,’ and six others of the gang fought last week, one to three, against the captain of Bramber, whom the French call Bastard of Melun, and the captain’s mail was well-nigh hacked to pieces, and his sword-arm so disabled that he is never like to couch lance again, he had little to cover his nakedness save his boots, and the long white garment by which he is known to his enemies.”