“Of what adventures and perils speak you?” asked the citizen somewhat jealously; for he himself had passed through neither, save in his visions by day and his dreams by night.
“I would fain not appear vainglorious,” answered the squire, smiling, “and, therefore, I care not to recount my own exploits. But you know that, when I was withdrawn from your companionship, and from the lessons in grammar and letters, to which, be it confessed, I never took very kindly, I entered the castle of my mother’s remote kinsman, William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, and there, not without profit, served my apprenticeship to chivalry. But no sooner did I attain the rank of squire than I began to sigh for real war, and such fields of fight as, for years, I had been dreaming of. And it chanced that about that time Don Diego Perez, a knight from Spain, reached the castle of Salisbury with tidings that Alphonso of Castille was hard pressed by the Moors, and like to lose his kingdom if not aided by the warriors of Christendom. On hearing Don Diego’s report I and others in my Lord of Salisbury’s household, with the noble earl’s sanction, accompanied the knight to Castille; and I fought at Muradel on that day when the Christian chivalry swept the Moorish host before them as the wind does leaves at Yule.”
“In good faith?”
“In good faith, Constantine,” continued the squire. “But it speedily appeared that we had done our work too well, and routed the Moors so thoroughly that there was no likelihood of reaping more honour or more profit under King Alphonso’s banners; and I was even thinking of going to the Holy Land to fight for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre, when news reached the court of Castille that King John had allied himself with the Emperor of Germany and the Count of Flanders to oppose the King of France, and that my Lord of Salisbury was leading an English force to join them; and I and others resolved thereupon to hasten where blows were like to be going; and we made our way, through countless perils, to the great earl’s side on the very day when the two armies—one headed by the Emperor Otho, the other by King Philip—drew up in battle array between Lille and Tournay.”
“By St. Thomas!” exclaimed the citizen with a sneer, “you soon learned to your cost that you had better have gone elsewhere.”
“Nay, nay,” replied the squire sharply—for the sneer of the citizen had not been unobserved—“it is the fortune of warriors to know defeat as well as victory, and we did all that brave men could do on that August day—now four months since—when we came face to face with the French at the bridge of Bovines. It was a long and furious battle; but, from the first, fortune favoured the French, and, when all was lost, my Lord of Salisbury yielded his sword to the Bishop of Beauvais, a terrible warrior, who fought not with a sword, lest he should be accused of shedding men’s blood, but with a mighty club, with which he smashed at once head-piece and head. For my own part,” added the squire carelessly, as one who did not relish speaking of himself, “I fought till I was sore wounded in the face and beaten down; and I should have been trodden under foot but for the earl, who, like a noble warrior as he is, looked to my safety; so I accompanied him into captivity; and, when he covenanted for his own ransom, he, at the same time, paid mine for my mother’s sake, and here I am in England safe and sound; but, I almost grieve to add, hardly a free man.”
“Not a free man, Oliver Icingla? How cometh that?” asked the citizen.
“Even in this wise, Constantine,” answered the squire. “It seems that the king, in order to settle his disputes with the barons, has demanded some of the sons or kindred of each as hostages, and my kinsman, Hugh de Moreville, who scandalously withholds from my mother the castle and manors which she inherited, and which my father enjoyed in her right, albeit he has never before troubled himself much about my existence, suddenly bethinks him that I shall serve his purpose on this occasion, and has named me to the king.”
“And will you go, Oliver Icingla? Will you put yourself into the lion’s den?”
“Ay, man, as blithely as ever lover went to his lady’s bower.”
“And place yourself at the disposal of a tyrant—a cruel, remorseless, hateful tyrant, who murdered his own nephew, Arthur of Brittany, who hanged twenty-six Welsh boys, who poisoned the daughter of that noble man, Robert Fitzwalter, and who allowed the wife and children of William de Braose to perish of hunger in the dungeons of Windsor?”
The squire changed colour, and his lip quivered nervously.
“Fables, Constantine!” exclaimed he, recovering his serenity with an effort, and tossing his head disdainfully backwards—“fables devised by Philip of France and the barons of England to justify their own selfish and ambitious schemes, and such as ought never to gain credit with a person such as thou. But let French kings and Norman barons make dupes and tools of whom they may, I swear by the Holy Cross that never shall Oliver Icingla be either their dupe or their tool. So help me God and good St. Edward!”
And, as he spoke these words with flashing eye, the squire drew his sword and reverently kissed the cross on its hilt.
“Oliver Icingla,” said the citizen, after a pause, during which he eyed his visitor keenly, “if I comprehend thee aright, thou dreamest, as I believe thy fathers ever did, of the restoration of the Anglo-Saxon race to power in England?”
“And if I do, who has a better right?—I, an Icingla, with the blood of Cerdic in my veins?”
“Dreams, Oliver, vain dreams,” replied the citizen. “This is not the age of Hereward, and every chance is gone; and, but for being blinded by hereditary prejudices, you would see, as plainly as you now see me, that your race is vanquished once and for ever.”
“Constantine,” said the squire sadly and thoughtfully, “the words you have spoken, harsh as they may sound in the ear of an Icingla, are partly words of truth and soberness, but only in part. This is not, indeed, the age of Hereward; nor did I, even in my most enthusiastic moments, dream of raising the old cry, ‘Let every man that is not a nothing, whether in the town or in the country, leave his house and come!’ and attempting to make England what it was before Duke William prevailed at Hastings over the usurper Harold. But let me tell you, wise as you deem yourself, that, when you speak of the ancient race as vanquished for ever, you therein greatly err. A great race, like a great family, is never wholly done till it is extinct; and I tell you, for your instruction, ill as you may like to hear the truth, that this Anglo-Saxon race which you mention so contemptuously has been rising, is rising, and will continue to rise, and increase in influence, till Providence grants us a king under whose auspices will reappear, in more than its ancient vigour, the England that disappeared after the death of the Confessor.”
“The past cannot be recalled, and the future is with God and His saints,” said the citizen gravely; “and, for the present, the king and the barons are at daggers drawn, and may any day appeal to the sword; and, when the crisis comes—and I care not how soon—be it mine to persuade the citizens of London to take part against the king, who is a false tyrant, and with the barons, who are true men. Oliver Icingla, I would to God you were of our determination; for I perceive that, under a light and gay demeanour, you hide an ambitious soul and an imagination that can conjure up a future—mayhap, the ingenuity that could fashion a future in spite of fate.”
“Constantine,” interrupted the squire solemnly, “even now you remarked that the future was with God and His saints.”
“True,” replied the citizen; “but, be that as it may, ally yourself with me at this crisis, and give me your hand in token of good faith, and I will reveal projects which would make thee and me great, and bring both king and barons to our feet.”
The squire smiled at the citizen’s somewhat wild enthusiasm, and shook his head.
“Farewell, Constantine,” said he, stretching out