CHAPTER LVII

A MEDIÆVAL RESTAURANT

Among the wonders of London at the opening of the thirteenth century, when Constantine Fitzarnulph ranked as “one of the noblest citizens,” was a restaurant on the banks of the Thames, which satisfied every want of the stranger or traveller, and seemed to old Fitzstephen to realise Plato’s dreams.

“Here,” says the chronicler, going into details, “according to the season, you may find victuals of all sorts, roasted, baked, fried, and boiled; fish large and small, and coarse viands for the poorer sort, and more delicate ones for the rich--such as venison, fowls, and small birds.

“In case a friend should arrive at a citizen’s house much wearied with his journey, and chooses not to wait, an hungered as he is, for the buying and cooking of meats, recourse is had to the bank before mentioned, where everything desirable is instantly procured. No number of knights and strangers can enter the city at any hour of the day or night but all may be supplied with provisions; so that those have no occasion to fast too long, nor these to depart the city without dinner.

“To this place, if they are so disposed, they resort, and there they regale themselves, every man according to his abilities. Those who have a mind to indulge need not hanker after sturgeon, or a game fowl, or a _gelinotte-de-bois_--a particularly delicate bird--for there are delicacies enough to gratify their palates. It is a public eating-house, and it is both highly convenient and useful to the city, and is a clear proof of its civilisation.”

At one of the tables of this celebrated eating-house, on the last day of July, the day for Lammas, a young warrior, strong and handsome, rather brilliantly attired as a squire of noble Norman birth, was seated with a companion somewhat his junior, whom he called Rufus. They had finished their meal, which had been of the most costly description, and were indulging, though moderately, in the most expensive Bordeaux wine which the establishment boasted, the squire justifying his extravagance by quoting--

“Nullus argento color est,-- ---- nisi temperato Splendeat usu,”

when Constantine Fitzarnulph entered, and cordially saluted them.

“Welcome back to England and to London, fair sir,” said the citizen, seating himself, and addressing the elder of the two, while he helped himself to a cup of wine. “You have come in the very moment of time to serve your country; but, as my trusty messenger doubtless informed you, I have much to say of a private nature; and this place being somewhat public, and the drawers, moreover, being parlous spies, I would fain conduct you to my own house that we may converse more freely.”

“Thanks, good Fitzarnulph,” replied the other, nodding easily as he raised a wine-cup to his lips; “I arede your meaning. But, in sober earnest, I am free to confess that, the business being of such a nature as your trusty messenger gave me to understand, I see not how it can have other than a disastrous issue. Credit me,” added he, looking round cautiously to assure himself that he was not overheard, “it is vain to expect the country to come around you unless your enterprise be headed by a man bearing a great and renowned name, and one about which clusters a halo of associations to dazzle the multitude.”

“Faint heart never won fair lady,” said Fitzarnulph, “and men must run some risks in regenerating a nation. Besides, there will not be wanting such a leader as you picture, if once it is known that there exists a ladder by which such a man may climb to a splendid eminence.”

“In the days of my youth,” said the other, almost sadly, “I had great faith in the Lord Hugh de Moreville. By St. John of Beverley! he was a great man, and of high lineage, but he made a false step and fell; and I could almost weep when I think how the feathers drooped from that day, one by one, from the De Moreville eagle.”

“Wherefore not recall Louis of France, a prince who has both the will and the power to aid us?” asked Fitzarnulph, cautiously.

“By the Holy Cross!” replied the other, striking the table in his enthusiasm; “as soon would I consent to invoke the aid of the Sultan of Egypt, or the King of the Tartars. No foreign prince for me, least of all a Frank, and of all Franks, least of all a Capet.”

“The Lord Robert Fitzwalter yet lives,” suggested Fitzarnulph, in a significant tone.

“He lives, indeed,” said the other, half scornfully; “but he lives with a reputation much the worse for the wear. The man who played towards England the part which Count Julian played towards Spain is not the man to head Englishmen when hazarding everything to regenerate their country. Therefore let us speak no more of Robert Fitzwalter.”

“By St. Thomas! fair sir,” exclaimed Fitzarnulph, testily, “you are somewhat difficult to please in the choice of a leader; and, since the names I have mentioned are so ungrateful to your ear, I know not who is capable of assuming the truncheon of command in this great enterprise--for great it is destined to be--unless, indeed, it be a Norman lord, young in years, but already well known to fame--I mean Walter Merley.”

The young warrior smiled complacently, cast his eyes up to the roof, and then around him, with the air of a person contemplating his own perfections, and then looked Fitzarnulph in the face.

“Good Constantine,” said he, with his colour slightly heightened, “I know not whether you speak in jest or earnest, and, in good sooth, it matters little. But this I do know, and say fearlessly, that I have not fought for the Venetian Republic and for the Emperor of Constantinople without making my name, in some degree at least, known to fame; and that had I castles, and baronies, and manors, and retainers, I should little fear to occupy an eminence even more perilous than that to which you allude. But a younger son, without land and without followers, I feel strongly that Fortune beckons me to other lands than that of my birth, and that there are many countries in Christendom where my sword would be welcome. All over Christendom are wars and rumours of wars. Not to mention what the Venetians and the Emperor of Constantinople are doing against the Greeks, I know that in France war is going on against the Albigenses; in Spain against the Moors; in Germany, Otho and young Frederick, a prince of rare promise, are contending for the imperial crown; in Sweden, King Eric, surnamed the Lisper, is at war with the Tole Kungers; Waldemar, King of Denmark, is contending with Albert of Lauenburg, who is essaying to make himself master of Holstein; Lescus, the King of Poland, is valiantly resisting the Tartars; John de Brienne, King of Jerusalem, is defending himself desperately against the Turks. Mayhap I have some difficulty in choosing, under such circumstances, whither to direct my course; but no fear have I of finding a welcome wherever swords are drawing and blows being exchanged. It is only in mine own country that I am without honour; and, by the mass! I see not wherefore I should sacrifice the prospects of carving out a principality with my sword in order to risk my head in an enterprise into which, as it seems to me, you are being hurried rather by the promptings of despair than the beckoning of hope.”

Fitzarnulph sat for a few moments in an attitude of reflection, and appeared to muse deeply; then suddenly he raised his head, and addressed the young warrior with an expression of peculiar earnestness on his countenance.

“Accompany me to my house,” said he, “and I will there show such reasons for venturing upon this enterprise that you will not only agree to take part in it, but consent to do so in the character of its leader.”

Walter Merley smiled as if gratified, so far as his vanity was concerned, with the prospect of heading an enterprise for the regeneration of England, and, rising with his companion, they attended Fitzarnulph to his house. When, three hours later, Walter Merley left Fitzarnulph’s house, and walked through the narrow streets, he was the wily citizen’s dupe.