“Good Constantine,” said he, with his colour slightly heightened, “I know not whether you speak in jest or earnest, and, in good sooth, it matters little. But this I do know, and say fearlessly, that I have not fought for the Venetian Republic and for the Emperor of Constantinople without making my name, in some degree at least, known to fame; and that had I castles, and baronies, and manors, and retainers, I should little fear to occupy an eminence even more perilous than that to which you allude. But a younger son, without land and without followers, I feel strongly that Fortune beckons me to other lands than that of my birth, and that there are many countries in Christendom where my sword would be welcome. All over Christendom are wars and rumours of wars. Not to mention what the Venetians and the Emperor of Constantinople are doing against the Greeks, I know that in France war is going on against the Albigenses; in Spain against the Moors; in Germany, Otho and young Frederick, a prince of rare promise, are contending for the imperial crown; in Sweden, King Eric, surnamed the Lisper, is at war with the Tole Kungers; Waldemar, King of Denmark, is contending with Albert of Lauenburg, who is essaying to make himself master of Holstein; Lescus, the King of Poland, is valiantly resisting the Tartars; John de Brienne, King of Jerusalem, is defending himself desperately against the Turks. Mayhap I have some difficulty in choosing, under such circumstances, whither to direct my course; but no fear have I of finding a welcome wherever swords are drawing and blows being exchanged. It is only in mine own country that I am without honour; and, by the mass! I see not wherefore I should sacrifice the prospects of carving out a principality with my sword in order to risk my head in an enterprise into which, as it seems to me, you are being hurried rather by the promptings of despair than the beckoning of hope.”
Fitzarnulph sat for a few moments in an attitude of reflection, and appeared to muse deeply; then suddenly he raised his head, and addressed the young warrior with an expression of peculiar earnestness on his countenance.
“Accompany me to my house,” said he, “and I will there show such reasons for venturing upon this enterprise that you will not only agree to take part in it, but consent to do so in the character of its leader.”
Walter Merley smiled as if gratified, so far as his vanity was concerned, with the prospect of heading an enterprise for the regeneration of England, and, rising with his companion, they attended Fitzarnulph to his house. When, three hours later, Walter Merley left Fitzarnulph’s house, and walked through the narrow streets, he was the wily citizen’s dupe.
CHAPTER LVIII
WRESTLING FOR THE RAM
ON Lammas day the Londoners flocked towards Westminster to witness the great wrestling match which was to decide the comparative superiority of the athletes of the city and the suburbs. Long ere noon the level turf which had been railed off for the encounter was surrounded by a crowd impatient for the commencement of the combat—so impatient, indeed, that they would not deign to be diverted by the gleemen, and jongleurs, and mountebanks, and merry-andrews, and tymberteres, who nevertheless made every effort to attract attention. Curiosity as to the champion who was to encounter Martin Girder had reached a high pitch, and was all the keener that even his name had not transpired.
At length, just before noon, Constantine Fitzarnulph, coming from London, and the abbot’s steward, coming from Westminster, reached the ground, where tents had been erected for the champions; and while the men of Westminster loudly cheered the steward, the Londoners raised their voices not less loudly in praise of Fitzarnulph, some of them adding, “Hail, Constantine, King of the People!”
At the appointed hour, and while yet this storm of cheers was raging, a signal was given for the champions to come into the arena, and forthwith Martin Girder presented himself, looking so big and strong and in such excellent order that the Londoners signified their enthusiasm by cheering 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 so much disappointed the spectators who wished him well as the steward’s champion, that hardly a voice was raised in his encouragement, and the Londoners laughed loudly in scorn of his audacity. Only one person—the landlord of the Walnut-tree, out of which William de Collingham and Oliver Icingla had been hunted by Sir Anthony Waledger on the day when Prince Louis entered London—expressed confidence in the champion, and spoke favourably of his chance.
“Cog’s wounds!” exclaimed mine host, “I know the younker well. It is Wolf, the son of Styr, my wife’s kinsman; and, albeit he does not inherit the height or bulk of his father, yet he has enough of old Styr’s pluck and devilry to make the London loons laugh on the wrong side of their mouths ere he is done with their champion. As the Scots say, ‘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 of the heroes of the camp of refuge; “the son of Styr is game to the backbone like his father before him, and the Icingla spoiled a stout soldier when he made Wolf the forester he is.”