Both the stripling and the yeoman looked on the Abbey with peculiar reverence, and the sight of it seemed to recall to them the memory of the pious founder, but of whom few else in London or Westminster thought that day.
“Holy Edward be our aid, and the aid of England!” said the younger, uncovering his head; “for never, certes, have we and England been more in need of the protection of our tutelary saint.”
“Amen,” added the yeoman; and, separating themselves from the crowd, they proceeded to an ale-house right opposite the gate of the palace, exchanged salutations with the landlord in a confidential tone, and ascended a stair to a chamber, the window of which looked into the palace-yard. Finding themselves alone, they turned to each other with a glance of peculiar significance.
“Sir William de Collingham,” said the stripling, much agitated, “we are discovered. That drunken maniac of a knight saw through our disguise.”
“Be calm, Master Icingla,” replied the other, like a man long habituated to danger; “you may be in error. Anyhow, we gain nothing by taking fright; for, if it be as you say, he may even now have taken such measures that we must fall into the toils. Wherefore I say, be calm.”
And, in truth, their situation was perilous; for since the exploit of Collingham at Chas-Chateil, and Oliver’s escape from that castle, had become matters of notoriety in London, both had been marked men. And not only had Hugh de Moreville sworn vengeance in case of having the power to inflict it, but Sir Anthony Waledger, exasperated by the loss of his post as governor of Chas-Chateil, which he ascribed to the trick put upon him and its results, vowed never to taste joy again till he had put both the knight and the squire into his patron’s power. What was their real object in being in London under the circumstances, chroniclers have not pretended to state; but certainly they would have been safer elsewhere. Perhaps the very danger they incurred had its influence in making them venture into the midst of foes; but, however that may have been, there they were in that ale-house at Westminster, and below was Sir Anthony Waledger conversing with the woman of the hostelry.
“Dame,” said the knight, in his grandest way, “tell me, on your troth, who are they drinking above? Are they alone, or in company?”
“On my troth, sir,” answered the landlady, “I cannot tell you their names; they have come here but now.”
On hearing this, Sir Anthony Waledger, wishing to judge with his own eyes, went up-stairs to ascertain the truth, and, not doubting that he was right in the conjecture he had formed, called for a quart of ale—for the Norman knight was never neglectful of opportunities of getting liquor—and, having ordered the quart of ale, he saluted Collingham.
“God preserve you, master!” said he, dissembling; “I hope you will not take my coming amiss; for, seeing you at the window, I thought you might be one of my farmers from Berks, as you are very like him.”