CHAPTER LI

DE MOREVILLE IN BATTLE HARNESS

As Pembroke was marching on Lincoln from the North, and the French and Anglo-Normans were arraying themselves for the combat, a very important arrival took place. In fact, Hugh de Moreville--attended by Sir Anthony Waledger, Ralph Hornmouth, and his young kinsman Richard--with a strong body of horse at his back, entered the city by the south gate. De Moreville’s arrival was hailed with cheers; for, however unpopular generally, his fame as a warrior made him welcome in the hour of danger; and the Count de Perche could not conceal his satisfaction as the haughty Norman presented himself.

Now it may as well be mentioned at once that De Moreville had not been attracted to Lincoln by any enthusiasm for Prince Louis, of whom he was weary, nor by any love of the French warriors, of whose arrogance he was heartily sick, and of whose affectations of superiority he was very much more impatient than others of his class. But since the night when Collingham so suddenly found his way into Chas-Chateil, De Moreville had been much more nervous on all points than of yore, and reflecting seriously on the past and speculating keenly on the future, he saw that his interests were bound up with the cause of Prince Louis, and that a decisive triumph of young Henry’s adherents would lead to his utter ruin. All would go that made him the great personage he was--castles, and manors, and feudal power; and he would have to hide his head in a cloister or fare forth to foreign lands and fight as a soldier of fortune.

No man was therefore more interested in the issue of the struggle going on; and having left his daughter at his house in Ludgate, under the charge of Dame Waledger, he hastened to Lincoln, which he knew was likely to be the place where the crisis of the war would come. But he did not dream of giving any hint of the motives by which he was animated; and even De Perche was so convinced of the Norman’s hearty good-will towards Louis and himself, that he ascribed the arrival to pure enthusiasm, and the count gave him so flattering a reception that De Moreville was fain to be more hypocritical than was his wont.

“Ha! my good Lord De Moreville,” exclaimed De Perche, joyfully, “welcome in the hour of danger. Our enemies are even now at the gates, and are coming in greater force than I anticipated.”

“Let them come,” said De Moreville, smiling grimly; “we have no reason to grow alarmed at their approach. William Marshal and William Albini are Norman nobles, like myself, and falcons fear not falcons.”

De Perche started and looked suspicious in De Moreville’s face; but the Norman smiled so frankly that the count blushed at the suspicion that had crossed his mind, and said, carelessly--

“O, mort Dieu! they are doubtless puissant foes.”

“However,” replied De Moreville, “I have in my day fought with braver men than they are, albeit no braggart, and I say by St. Moden I am ready to do so again, and ever shall be, while I breathe the breath of life and have strength enough to mount a steed and shake a spear.”

“Who could dream of the Lord De Moreville knowing fear?” said De Perche between jest and earnest.

“Anyhow,” said De Moreville, earnestly, “I have sworn allegiance to Lord Louis, and I shrink not from any sacrifices which that allegiance involves. For one’s lord we are bound to suffer any distress, whether heat or cold, and lose both hair and leather, and flesh and blood; and, sir count, I am not the man to shirk a duty. True it is that duty sometimes marches between rocks, and that the path of duty is often the path of danger. Nevertheless----”

“Nevertheless,” said De Perche, interrupting, “it is not less true that the path of duty is often the road to honour and glory; that is what you have found it, as you were about to say; so,” added the count, gaily, “let us forth and meet our foes, and upon them with the lance, in the name of St. Denis and our good Lord Louis.”

Accordingly, De Perche and De Moreville mounted and sallied into the streets, to take each his part in the conflict that was even then beginning. And while the count joined his knights and headed the resistance well, the Norman baron that day maintained the reputation which he enjoyed in England and on the continent as a bold knight and a terrible man-at-arms. In the midst of the confusion and the panic which prevailed throughout the baronial forces, De Moreville fought with energy and courage not exceeded by any man in either army. It was he who made the charge during which Falco was taken; it was he whose lance threw Richard, surnamed Crocus, to the ground from which he was to be raised a corpse; it was he who, when his lance was broken, drew his mace, and, sweeping all before him, cleared the causeway of Falco’s mercenaries when they were pushing on to open the north gate in order to allow Pembroke’s army to rush into the city. Moreover, even after the struggle became close, and Collingham’s band were proving how well they merited the fame they had won, and the French and Anglo-Normans, huddled together and terror-stricken, were yielding themselves like sheep to the shearer, De Moreville and his riders were still bearing themselves valiantly in the _mêlée_, and still breaking into the ranks of the conquering foe and riding triumphantly through Collingham’s men with the well-known battle-cry of “St. Moden for De Moreville! Strike! strike! and spare not!”

In the midst of one of his fiery courses, however, the Norman baron reined up at a short distance from the north gate, on a spot which was literally surrounded by the carcases of the horses that had been slain; and he ground his teeth in bitter wrath as he surveyed the scene before him, and listened to the shouts of the victors as they pressed on in a mass towards the spot where, around De Perche, fighting bravely against odds, the war still centred.

“All is lost!” exclaimed De Moreville, in the tone of a man vexed to the heart’s core. “By St. Moden, methinks the heirs of the heroes of Hastings have lost their very manhood while feasting and bull-baiting in the company of citizens. Beshrew me if children with willow wands could not have made a better fight than the Anglo-Norman warriors have this day done.”

“My lord,” said Sir Anthony Waledger, nervously, “it seems to me that we had better save ourselves.”

De Moreville, in spite of the serious position in which he was, laughed at the drunken knight’s suggestion.

“On my faith, Sir Anthony,” replied he, as he exchanged a smile with his young nephew Richard at the knight’s expense, “methinks, for once, you are in the right in thinking rather of safety than renown, for, if we escape not, we either yield or die. But whither are we to go?”

“To Chas-Chateil,” suggested Hornmouth, in a significant tone. “No safer stronghold in all England, if matters come to the worst.”

“True,” said De Moreville, thoughtfully. “But,” added he, slowly, “after this day’s work, no fortress in England, however strong, will long hold out against King Henry. Therefore it is expedient to hold our course northward, and take refuge at Mount Moreville. But my daughter, left to her fate in London, and London certain to be surrendered!”

“She will be safe under the wing of Dame Waledger,” replied Hornmouth, “and all the more for your absence, seeing that she is a kinswoman of my Lord of Salisbury, and can easily, therefore, secure protection. Come, my good lord, time flies; let us ride. This day fortune is against you, but you may live to conquer again. Our enemies have broken near the north gate as they entered; let us charge towards it, and fly while there is yet time.”

“Ay,” said De Moreville, fiercely, “let us charge, but slaughtering the rascally rabble as we go. See how they swarm. On! on! St. Moden for De Moreville! Strike! strike! and spare not!”

And, setting spurs to his steed, the Norman baron, at the head of his riders, charged towards the north gate.

But this charge proved no such child’s play as De Moreville had expected. The rascal rabble of which he had spoken so contemptuously was Collingham’s band of patriots, who, after doing good service to their king and country in the deadly struggle, had rallied to their celebrated standard, bringing their prisoners with them, ere dispersing to secure their share of the booty, which they did not despise. No further thought of fighting that day had they; for, save on the spot where De Perche still struggled, all resistance had ceased, and the royalists, not interested in the count’s fate, were striding through the streets without finding a foe to encounter, or spreading themselves over the city to begin the work of plunder. But when Collingham suddenly descried De Moreville’s banner, and observed that the Norman baron was about to charge, he formed his men with marvellous rapidity into a phalanx resembling a wedge, and there, with their captives in the midst, they stood, presenting a wall of shields, every man grasping his axe or bending his bow, and their dauntless chief still towering in front, with his heavy club in his hand, and his attitude that of good-humoured defiance.

It was not without an unwonted thrill that De Moreville beheld that brave phalanx as he spurred forward; but he was not a man to be easily daunted. Bravely and resolutely he charged on that wall of shields; as bravely and resolutely his charge was resisted. He might as well have ridden lance in rest against the ramparts of the castle. De Moreville’s rage knew no bounds. His heart beat wildly; his eyes rolled in flames; his nostrils snorted fire; violent exclamations burst from his lips; his whole frame quivered with his angry passions. Furious at his own repulse, he again, and this time more fiercely, led on his riders to the assault, and with a charge so vehement that he all but penetrated into the midst. But as he came face to face and hand to hand with Collingham, he was hurled back with such force that his horse was thrown on its haunches, and his band of cavalry was broken on the rampart of shields as a hammer on the anvil, young Richard de Moreville falling, bruised and senseless, by the axe of the Icingla, and Sir Anthony remaining Collingham’s prisoner.

“By the bones of St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, as, having drawn back, he surveyed the wreck of what had been a gallant feudal following, “this passes all patience. Why do I live to be baffled by such a rabble rout? Why am I man in mail, and not monk in minster? Let us charge once more; for rather would I die by their hands, rather would I forfeit all chance of tasting the joys of Paradise, than live to remember that they had foiled me.”

And laying his lance at rest, and spurring his horse, De Moreville loudly shouted his battle-cry, and led on his riders with such ferocity that Collingham’s phalanx gave way, and the men went whirling hither and thither, like leaves blown about by the November blasts. At that moment Philip de Albini and John Marshal, attracted by the fray, rode hastily up to take part in it, and De Moreville, dashing side by side with Ralph Hornmouth to the north gate, darted rapidly through it, and spurred fast away on the first stage of his long journey.

And now Collingham hasted to where Oliver stood, and said, “The Count de Perche has retreated to the churchyard of the cathedral.”

Immediately the Icingla threw his battle-axe over his shoulder, and rushed off with the speed of the wind, muttering the word “Revenge!”