Ralph Hornmouth uttered an audible “Humph!” and in a few moments more the drawbridge was lowered, and Oliver rode in with his captors to the courtyard; and the great gate closed heavily behind, and he found himself where, a few hours earlier, he had, of all other places, least expected to be for the night—in one of the castles which were his mother’s inheritance, and under the same roof with, and in the power of, the person who, of all others on earth, he most disliked—Hugh de Moreville.
CHAPTER XVII
THE WINDSOR OF KING JOHN
“Whether,” says an old writer, speaking of Windsor, “you regard the wholesomeness of the air, the natural beauty and strength of the situation of the place, the pleasant pastime ministered out of the forest, chases, and parks that are annexed unto it, the good neighbourhood of that noble river which runneth by it, or the respective commodity of that most flourishing city, that is not past half-a-day’s journey removed from it, you will find it comparable to any prince’s palace that is abroad, and far surmounting any that we have at home.” But this was written long after Windsor was rebuilt and extended by William of Wykeham, at the command of the third Edward, when it stood regal in situation and aspect, with the standard of England waving from its battlements—a monument—and no unworthy monument—of the pride of the Plantagenets in peace, and of their prowess in war.
It was a very much less splendid edifice, however—as the reader may suppose—which, at the opening of the thirteenth century, stood on the brow of the hill looking over twelve fair counties, and with the Thames flowing at its feet; and it lacked even such means and appliances for rendering mediæval life comfortable and convenient as had come into fashion when, some sixty years later, Eleanor of Castile kept house almost constantly within its walls, and when the conqueror, of Evesham and Kakhow, in the midst of his grand projects of policy and war, was in the habit, on festive occasions, of making merry in the hall, and, as his people liked well to hear, playing “blindman’s-buff” with his children more readily and as heartily as he played a deeper, but somewhat similar, game with Boniface VIII. and Philip the Fair.
No doubt, even in the time of Edward and Eleanor, Windsor was rather a gloomy building for a palace, according to modern ideas, and utterly unlike the regal pile which now occupies the ground—recalling the shadowy past, with a host of memories gratifying to the national pride. For it carries the mind, through five eventful centuries, to that era of English chivalry which could boast of the Black Prince, and which was marked by the institution of the Order of the Garter, and rendered glorious not only by Cressy, and Poictiers, and Navaretta, but by great naval victories over France and Spain, which, even at that early period, made England mistress of the sea. Still, before the reign of John, Windsor, originally founded by the Conqueror as a hunting seat, had witnessed right royal marriages and high feudal ceremonies—especially the marriage of Henry Beauclerc to his second wife, Adelicia of Louvaine, and the homage of the King of Scots and of the Norman barons to the Empress Maude—and had been so enlarged by succeeding kings, that, among the royal fortresses, it was regarded as second in importance only to the Tower of London when the Plantagenets began to rule England, and was determinedly fought for by the various personages—whether prelates or princes—whose quarrels disturbed England during the crusade and captivity of Cœur-de-Lion—Prince John among the number. Imagine an old Norman stronghold on the brow of the hill, with towers, and turrets, and battlements, grey walls, penetrated by loopholes to admit the light, gloomy halls, with huge chimneys and oaken rafters, long, straggling chambers, a garden and a vineyard, a chapel dedicated to Edward the Confessor, and parks stretching away into the forest abounding with wild cattle and beasts of game, and you will have a notion of what Windsor was when King John removed thither from the great metropolitan stronghold before meeting the Anglo-Norman barons at Runnymede, with the intention of granting their demands.
It was not on this occasion John’s fortune to be very magnificently attended. In fact, he was every day becoming more unpopular; and many men who might otherwise have been inclined to arm in his behalf were awed into neutrality by the hostile bearing and the menacing attitude which the confederate barons assumed towards all who would not support their cause. Several men of consideration, however, were sufficiently under the influence of loyal memories to adhere steadfastly to the regal standard, though not much enamoured of a king who had brought his crown into such jeopardy; and the royal party, besides the Earls of Pembroke and Salisbury, and Warren, and Lord Hugh Neville, included eight bishops and about seventy knights. Besides, the papal legate accompanied John, and gave him the whole benefit of his influence, which, in spite of the counteracting influence of the primate, was not slight, nor to be lightly regarded, as both the primate and the barons well knew. Nevertheless, in spite of the presence of the legate and bishops, even the most steadfast of his partisans looked grave; and on the evening of Thursday, the 14th of June, John sat at supper in the gloomy great hall of Windsor with the expression of a man who saw the handwriting on the wall, and whose crown and sceptre were about to pass away.
At a late hour, when the Earl of Pembroke, and the legate, and the eight bishops had quaffed the “poculum charitatis,” and been ceremoniously conducted to the apartments appropriated to their use, Hugh Neville, who was Keeper of the Great Seal, and one of the staunchest of the king’s adherents, reached Windsor and was admitted to the presence of the king, whom he found pacing his chamber restlessly. Many a time, in seasons of depression, John had drawn consolation for the present and hope for the future from Neville’s counsels; but now the Norman baron had a weight of care on his brow, and looked liker a man to need than to administer consolation and hope.
“Welcome, Hugh Neville,” exclaimed John, endeavouring to be gay, “I am right glad to see your face, though it is somewhat longer than I could wish—as glad as if you had brought the philosopher’s stone in your pocket.”
Hugh Neville bowed in acknowledgment of the royal courtesy, and remained silent, that John might pursue the subject without interruption.
“I mean the stone which is said to turn everything into gold,” continued John, “and beshrew me if gold would now come amiss. Had I but treasure, methinks I could not fail speedily to better my position.”