“But as regards yourself, Master Icingla,” added the knight, tightening his rein, and preparing to give his horse the spur, “again I say, be not over-ardent in your pursuits, and bear in mind that, in the struggle of life, battle is not to the strong, nor the race always to the swift. Marry, he was a wise old fellow who stood on the bridge built by Queen Maude at Stratford-le-Bow, and told the youngster who asked him about the way to a certain place that he would get there in time if he did not ride too fast. So now farewell.”
And they parted; and Oliver Icingla rode on, and summoned all his intelligence to aid him in reaching Windsor, and bearing the queen’s letter to her lord with as little hazard of interruption as possible.
Now Oliver had very little doubt of accomplishing his object with success; and for hours he rode on, availing himself of the trees to shade himself and his steed from the heat of the sun, and musing over the conversation he had held with Collingham at parting, not without visions of the kinswoman on whose charms the knight had taken several opportunities to expatiate. In fact, the youth became so absorbed in his own reminiscences and reflections, that he thought only vaguely of the circumstances under which his black steed Ayoub was carrying him from Gloucester, and even neglected to keep that strict watch around him which was so necessary, considering the state of the country—not even paying attention to the wild animals which ever and anon sprang up from the brushwood that bounded his path, and scampered away into the thicket, nor the maiden who filled her pitcher at the brook, nor the old woman who looked out from the solitary cottage as he rode past.
Suddenly, however, Ayoub pricked up his ears, and Oliver roused himself from his reverie, and, looking back, he perceived a small band of horsemen—they might be half a dozen in number—riding at a rapid pace, and, as he shrewdly conjectured, in eager pursuit of some object, and that object he instinctively felt was himself. Of course he could not divine their motive, but, whatsoever it might be, he expected it was not friendly; and, feeling still more certain on a second inspection that he was the game of which they were in pursuit, he resolved to lose no time in giving them the slip. Not hesitating longer, for the distance between himself and the horsemen was now trifling, and their manœuvres and gestures threatening, he turned suddenly into a by-path, plunged into the forest, rode cautiously on, making the best use of his eyes and ears, and succeeded so well that, ere long, he flattered himself that he had evaded pursuit; and, after halting for a brief period at the hut of a forester to refresh his horse, he resumed his journey, and pursued his way in the firm belief that he had, at least, baffled one danger.
It was necessary, however, to think of rest and repose for the night; and, as evening fell, Oliver reined up at a substantial and flourishing wayside inn, which had three cranes for its sign, and was frequented by chapmen and other travellers between London and the West, and which was favourably known among wayfarers as an hostelry where good entertainment was furnished by Robert Goodwin to men with money, and wholesome provender to beasts of burden. Having secured quarters for the night, and having carefully looked to the comfort of his black steed, which was weary with its day’s work, Oliver proceeded to the kitchen of the inn, and, while a fowl was being roasted for his supper, listened to the conversation of the chapmen who lounged about. At first, their conversation was merely about markets and the price of wool and wares, and had little interest for the boy-squire; but he had scarcely seated himself at supper, and begun to satisfy the cravings of hunger, which after his long day’s ride were pretty keen, when the landlord entered with portly dignity, and the chapmen, who appeared to regard mine host as a political oracle, put some questions on public affairs which made Oliver prick up his ears.
“And so, Robin, lad,” said one chapman, with curiosity, “thou deemest that England is not done with these broils, of which her heart is already so sick?”
“Ay, ay, Robin,” chimed in the other, “thou hast a long head; are we not to have peace now, thinkest thou?”
“In truth, my masters,” replied the host, shaking his head sapiently, “I see no more chance of peace for the present than I do of being Soldan of Babylon; and if I saw any chance I should value it but lightly. Appearances are nought when the passions of the great men are roused and their hands on the hilt of their swords. No later than Friday the barons deemed everything settled fair and square, and beguiled themselves with the notion that henceforth the king would comport himself in accord with their wishes. But mark, my masters, what happens: King John goes back to Windsor, takes a second thought, and leaves under night, doubtless to take thought as to the means to get the upper hand. ‘Where has he gone?’ askest thou. As well ask where the flaming star that threatened to burn the world up last year. When the news was carried to London, Constantine Fitzarnulph says, ‘Let him go!’ ‘By Our Lady the Virgin!’ exclaims the Lord Fitzwalter, ‘he has gone for our destruction.’ ‘If we take not the better heed,’ says the Lord de Vesci, ‘we are dead men; but let us seize the queen and the prince and keep them as hostages.’ So the Lord Hugh de Moreville, just returned from the North, and, albeit, somewhat ailing, hastens with a band of armed men to Savernake. But it was too late; the ladybird had flown off to Gloucester, and the Lord de Moreville rode by here, on his way home, no later than noon, with a frowning brow and an angry countenance. Credit me, my masters, they will never make up this quarrel till they have torn the land to pieces between them.”
And, having hazarded this political prophecy, mine host, with a shrug of his shoulders, lounged leisurely from the apartment.
“I fear me, neighbour, that Robin Goodman speaks nothing but the truth,” said one of the chapmen, gravely.