Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

by John G. Edgar

“Sir squire, is this what the Lord Hugh de Moreville calls the blind chamber?” asked Oliver, without noticing the henchman’s observations.

“Nay, by rood and mass, and well for you that it is not,” answered Hornmouth, smiling grimly. “It is no place for birds of your feather, I ween, and so would you were you there till cock-crow. My lord spake in his wrath, but he will think better of it ere another sun shines; and were I simple enough to take a kinsman of his, with the blood of Moreville in his veins, thither to-night, my reward would be the dule tree on the morrow. I have more regard for my neck, Master Icingla, than you seem to have for your limbs. Cog’s wounds! but I cannot think enough of the courage with which you flouted and defied my lord, at whose frown I have seen so many tremble;” and the rude soldier eyed Oliver with the genuine admiration which a display of real courage seldom fails to inspire.

Having given warning that any attempt to escape would be certain destruction, and that any attempt to corrupt the gaolers would only lead to a close confinement, Hornmouth took the captive by the hand.

“Beware,” whispered he, “of doing aught to place thee in the power of the governor of the castle. Sir Anthony Waledger detests thy race and thy name, and is marvellous valiant when dealing with enemies who cannot injure him. Good night, and droop not; all will yet be well.”

Oliver was then left to solitude and his own reflections, which were none of the pleasantest. Of all men in England, Hugh de Moreville was the last into whose hands he could have wished to fall; and, though reassured in some measure by the words of the squire, he could not feel certain, after what had passed, that he might not, in some unlucky hour, be exposed to personal violence. However, after worrying himself with gloomy thoughts for hours, he gradually felt sleep stealing over him, and soon exchanged his torturing reflections for dreams of the palace of Savernake and the city of Gloucester. Nor did he awake till he was shaken by the arm; and, as he looked up, one sight of the bronzed face of Hornmouth brought all the events of yesterday to his memory.

“Young gentleman,” said De Moreville’s squire, respectfully, “it is as I foretold. My lord wishes you no harm; but I tell you frankly, that you have no more chance of leaving this castle till the war is over than of going to Fairyland, if such a place there be. Wherefore be ruled by my advice, and content yourself. Make the best of a bad bargain, and make good cheer. I will forthwith send the wherewithal, and give orders for all your wants being supplied, save thy liberty, which is not mine to give. I myself am on the point of undertaking an expedition to the castle of Mount Moreville, and may not return for many months. But fear not. Be quiet. Make no vain attempt to escape; and I swear to you, by mass and rood, that you are as safe in this chamber as if you sat in your mother’s hall.”

“By the Holy Cross!” exclaimed Oliver, “you give me cold comfort. Deem you that it can be otherwise than irksome to an Icingla to lie here like a useless log, while others are pressing on in the race of life, and marking their valour on the crests of foemen? True, I am an Englishman, and I have none of the vague aspirings about conquering kingdoms and principalities with which so many Norman warriors delude their imaginations. Still I want to do my duty and to keep my sword from rusting, and to enjoy freedom and free air. But I see you mean me well, good squire, and I thank you with all my heart; albeit I can hardly in my heart forgive you for having come with such odds at your back, that I had not even a chance of avoiding what I loathe most—I mean captivity.”

Ralph Hornmouth laughed and withdrew; and Oliver, rising from his couch, resolved to his utmost to reconcile himself to his fate, and, moreover, began to indulge in vague hopes.

“Collingham may learn my fate, or the faithful Styr,” soliloquised he as he devoured his morning meal with the appetite of a Saxon thane in the days of King Ethelred; “and if they do, by the Holy Cross, Chas-Chateil, thick as may be its walls, and well guarded as may be its doors and gates, will not long hold me as a captive. Holy Edward be my aid meanwhile!”

But it cannot be very easy for a young warrior, in a fighting age, who has fleshed his maiden sword, and taken part in two fields of fame, especially at the age of eighteen, to force himself to be philosophical in captivity; and Oliver Icingla, being intended by nature for a man of action, soon grew weary of compelling himself to be patient. Indeed, as days and weeks passed, the dulness and monotony of his existence, and the thought of his home and his mother’s grief, depressed him to such a point that he experienced something like intolerable woe. Hugh de Moreville he never saw. Ralph Hornmouth did not reappear to bid him take comfort. The gaoler performed his functions in silence, and, when questioned, replied in monosyllables. During his brief captivity on the continent, Oliver had been in attendance on a great earl, and daily in contact with knights and squires, and he had borne it easily. But he feared that this solitary incarceration would, if prolonged, break his spirit.