Fitzarnulph smiled at the idea of Oliver’s domain, and explained to the count that the Icingla only possessed an old grange in a woodland occupied by his mother, who was a widow.
“Nevertheless,” rejoined the count, shaking his head, “it is necessary to do something by way of an example; and if, by your favour, I can but find one familiar with the country to guide me to the house of the Icingla on my way to Hertford, mort Dieu! I will teach him, and such as are of his company, to think twice before they defy the authority and attack the person of our good lord Louis.”
Fitzarnulph opened his mouth to speak, then paused, reflected, and hesitated; then struggled with his own sense of what was generous; and finally got over all the difficulty which he felt by shifting the responsibility of this business to the shoulders of a man whom he knew would be very willing to bear the burden, heavy and crushing as that burden might one day become.
“Sir count,” at length he replied, “I swear to you, by St. Thomas, that I scarce know what to do in this matter; for I own that I can hardly, with propriety, aid you in your wish. But,” added the citizen, significantly, “if you will send for that good knight, Sir Anthony Waledger, who is even now at the house of the Lord Hugh de Moreville, in Ludgate, I will answer for his finding you as trusty a guide as you could desire.”
CHAPTER XLI
OLIVER’S DREAM
IN spite of the truce agreed to by Louis and Pembroke, both of whom expected to profit by the delay, much fighting went on in Sussex in the early spring of 1217, during the absence of the French prince from England, and while the Lord de Coucy was acting as his lieutenant. Philip de Albini and John Marshal, Pembroke’s nephew, having undertaken of their own free will to guard the coasts in the neighbourhood of the Cinque Ports to prevent any more of the French from landing, allured many English yeomen to their standard, and were ever on the alert with a body of armed men under their command. William de Collingham, instead of relaxing his efforts, became more and more determined in his hostility to the invaders; and Oliver Icingla, whom, on account of his dress the French called “White Jacket,” made such unlooked-for sallies, and presented himself to the foreigners under circumstances so unexpected, that his name inspired something resembling terror even in the bold heart of Eveille-chiens, who began seriously to wish himself safe back on continental soil and under his native sky.
Nor was Oliver satisfied with displaying his courage against the enemy in the fierce skirmishes that almost daily took place in the vicinity of the camp of refuge. Nothing less, indeed, than taking the town and castle of Lewes from the French garrison would content him, and sometimes, accompanied by bands of ten or twenty, sometimes only by Canmore, the bloodhound, he roamed the country on foot to watch his opportunity and gain intelligence likely to aid him in his project. Nobody, however, sympathised very particularly with his aspiration, and Collingham especially, it was clear, thought that the wood and the morass and the intrenched camp were fitter strongholds for people in their circumstances than the walled town, and the fortified castle. Oliver, however, very slow to embrace this conviction, in spite of remonstrances, pursued his enterprise with ardour and zeal, and, in the course of his adventures, found himself in a situation of such peril that he well-nigh gave himself up for lost.
One spring evening, after having been for hours prowling within sight of Lewes, unattended save by the bloodhound, he retreated to the surrounding forest, and, feeling much more fatigued with the exertions of the day than was his wont, he was fain to seek rest under a giant tree which spread its branches over a wide space of ground. Within a few paces the sward was smeared with blood, and at first Oliver supposed that some fray had just taken place there between the French and a party of his comrades. A closer examination, however, convinced him that one or more of the wild bulls which in that age ran free in the oaken forests of England had that day been slaughtered on the spot, possibly to supply food to the garrison, who, being in a hostile country and in a district which they had early exhausted by their rapacity, were known to be pressed for provisions. Not deeming the matter worthy of prolonged consideration, the boy-warrior returned to the root of the tree and laid down his axe with the expectation of enjoying some repose undisturbed.
Resting himself on the lowest bough, and settling himself securely with his feet on the grass and the faithful hound by his side, Oliver Icingla endeavoured to snatch a brief sleep in the twilight. But sleep would not come, and, as twilight faded into darkness and evening deepened into night, and the moon rose and shone through the trees on the grass, he thought of Beatrix de Moreville and of Oakmede and Dame Isabel, and from his home and his mother Oliver’s thoughts wandered to the Icinglas and the days when they had been great in England and marched to battle under a gonfalon as stately as a king’s.
But no matter what subject presented itself, all his reflections were tinged with gloom, and several times he rose to his feet and walked about with the uneasy feeling of one who has, he knows not why, a presentiment of coming woe. At length, worn out with bodily fatigue and melancholy musing, he fell into a feverish sleep, and dreamt dreams which made his breath come by gasps, and caused his brow to darken, and his teeth to clench, and his frame to quiver.