But still Clarembald made nothing worthy of the name of progress in his enterprise, whilst Oliver continued to make nocturnal sallies which cost the French so dear that Eveille-chiens was glad when the truce which Louis concluded with Pembroke gave him a fair excuse for leaving his red banner to its fate, drawing off his force, and returning to spend his Christmas at Lewes in the halls of the Warrens. The existence of the truce was also notified to William de Collingham by a messenger despatched by the Protector. But Collingham bluntly refused to recognise it.
“I know nothing,” the knight said, “of truces or treaties with Frenchmen who have come into England as invaders. I have sworn to devote myself to ridding the land of them, and to succeed or die in the attempt; and, come what may, I will never lay aside my arms till the invaders have laid down theirs. I have said my say.”
“What mean you, sir knight?” asked the messenger, astonished.
“I mean what I say,” was the brief answer.
And, in truth, Collingham did soon show that he meant what he said. When Louis, with his train, escorted by the Bastard of Melun—a Frenchman, who was captain of Bramber—was on his way from the castle of De Braos to the coast, to take shipping for the Continent, Oliver Icingla, despatched by Collingham to lie in wait for the prince, suddenly appeared with some hundreds of archers, and made a fierce attack—his men shouting, “Ho for the black raven!” and “St. Edward for Icingla!” Louis attempted to charge the archers; but his horse was killed under him, and he rolled on the ground. His knights assisted him to rise, and he was about to mount a fresh steed, when Oliver and his men penetrated to the very spot where he was drawing his sword; and the axe of the Icingla, having rung well on the prince’s head, was already swung a second time, and descending with a force which would have smashed both helmet and head. But fifty knights spurred to the rescue, and saved the invader’s head from the patriot’s hand. A fierce conflict ensued, and Louis, after finding himself more than once in danger, deemed it discreet to escape while his attendants screened his flight with their bodies.
Hurrying on and hailing his ships, he embarked in haste, confusion, and agitation, and sailed in no joyous mood from the shores on which, seven months earlier, he had set foot with prospects so inviting and a heart so elate. Indeed, a great reaction had already manifested itself; and even in London the exploits of the English at the camp of refuge were celebrated in ballads and sung about the streets—the names of William de Collingham and Oliver Icingla gradually becoming so popular that they were on every man’s tongue, and at length reached the ear of the Count de Perche.
Evil was the hour in which this took place.
De Perche was a martial Frank, who frequently exclaimed “Mort Dieu!” and sometimes swore by the bones of St. John the Baptist, which had been secured by Martin Litz as spoil when Constantinople was taken by the Crusaders in 1204, and brought to France, with the arm of St. James and a piece of the true cross, as most precious sacred relics. The count was a handsome personage, with broad shoulders, hazel eyes, and a countenance “prouder than lion or leopard;” and he was cruel towards the people of the country to which he had come as an invader.
One day the count, when about to leave London for the castle of Hertford, and conversing with Constantine Fitzarnulph about the attack made on Prince Louis, suddenly said—
“Foi de mon âme, fair sir, I would you could tell me where lies the domain of this Icingla, for of him I would like well to make an example, in order to encourage others not to follow his footsteps.”