Chapter VI.

ENGLAND UNDER THE NORMANS.

WILLIAM THE RED.

“_There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked._”

LOOK upon the scene which now unfolds itself. You are gazing into the depths of that Hampshire forest which the Conqueror set apart for his kingly sport. It is cursed to his line by reason of the cruelties which he wreaked upon the forest dwellers when he burnt their roof-trees over their heads, and scattered them afar, to make a solitude for his deer. Two scions of his house have already perished in its glades.

The forest is silent. It is late afternoon, and the setting sun is even now gilding the upper branches of the spreading trees. Suddenly the silence is dispelled. You hear the sound of horns, the baying of dogs, the shouts of hunters, and a lordly stag flies past you. Now a pair of horsemen gallop up, and your eye is instantly arrested by the Red King. You recognize him instantly as a son of the Conqueror, though he seems but a caricature of his father.

Of middle stature, he is square and heavy of frame, with a restless eye, and a stammering tongue that can, nevertheless, rap out ready witticisms and biting sarcasms on occasion. Evil living and unbridled passion have left their marks on his ruddy and bloated countenance. He fears neither God nor man. His crafty ministers wring heavy fines from his barons, and he does not even spare the Church. Archbishop Anselm, that tender-hearted poet-dreamer, who showed the courage of a lion when fraud and wrong were brewing, alone held him in check. Now that Anselm is in exile, there is no wickedness that he will not do. Vicious, vain, boastful, and puffed up with pride, he has not an honest friend in the land.

Men hate him and mock him. With what gibes and sneers they tell that story of the chamberlain and the boots! Once his chamberlain brought him a pair of boots, saying that they had cost but three shillings. “Take them away,” roared the vainglorious fool, “they are not worthy of a king’s foot. Bring a pair that costs a mark of silver.” The cunning chamberlain, thereupon, brings a worse pair, and these the Red King pronounces worthy of his majesty. What a king! Ay, but far worse remains behind. There is no baseness, no cruelty, no injustice which he has not practised. Even now the revenues of bishops and abbots are flowing into his pocket, while “the hungry flock look up, and are not fed.” When disease attacks him he repents; when he recovers he is himself again.

But withal he is no craven. He fights like a man, and reveals much of the Conqueror’s skill and cunning. Fear he knows not. Men tell with wonder of the day when he set forth to subdue Normandy in the teeth of a storm. His mariners trembled, but not he. “Kings never drown, ye varlets!” he cried, and forthwith hove out on the tempestuous waters of the Channel.

Watch him closely. Behind his reckless air of gaiety there is an anxious foreboding. Last night he tossed on his couch and dreamed an ugly dream. He thought he was in a gorgeous minster hung with velvet and purple. All around were the shrines of the saints gleaming with gold and gems and ivory. Such riches even he, the despoiler of churches, had never looked upon, and his hands itched to clutch them. But when he tried to seize them they vanished, and an altar rose before him, whereon was lying a naked man. A lust to feed on the man’s flesh overcame him, and he ate of the body that lay before him. At length the victim spoke in accents stern beyond words, “Is it not enough that thou hast thus far grieved me with so many wrongs? Henceforth thou shalt eat of me no more.”

The horror of the dream is still at the back of his mind, though he has quaffed the wine-cup until the disquieting vision no longer terrifies him. His counsellors have besought him not to venture into the forest to-day; but no man save Anselm, and he is beyond the seas, ever turned him from his purpose. Such is the man who now rides into the forest glade.

While he jokes and jests with his companion, a startled stag springs out of the brushwood. Rufus slips from his horse and fits an arrow to his bow. He shoots, and the quarrel strikes the prey and wounds it slightly. “Shoot, man; shoot!” he shouts to his companion, shading his eyes with his hand to see the effect of another shot. The second bow twangs, and down goes the king with an arrow in his heart. What has happened no man can say. Some tell you that his companion’s shaft has glanced from a tree and has found its billet in the Red King’s breast. Some speak of an Englishman, cowering in the undergrowth, who has seized the moment to let fly the arrow of retribution. Some even aver that the deadly missile was sped by his own brother’s hand.

No one knows, and no one cares. It is enough for all that a king whose life has been that of a wild beast perishes like a beast among the beasts. His companion, horrified at the sight of the dying king, and fearing that he will be accused of the crime, spurs his horse out of the forest, and does not check his steed till he is on the seashore, with a bark at hand to carry him to a foreign strand.

There lies the king, the red blood ebbing from his false heart. “That arrow, by whomsoever shot, set England free from oppression such as she never felt before or after at the hand of a single man.”

“Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove; He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove. He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid, And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.”

MATILDA, “LADY” OF ENGLAND.

“_Old, unhappy, far-off things,_ _And battles long ago._”

Now you shall witness a striking scene. You are gazing at the castle of Oxford, that stands up grim and square in the midst of its encircling waters. Oxford is already renowned as the abode of quiet scholars and learned men; for “Beauclerc,” who has now gone to his rest, made it an academy and a sanctuary of letters. He it was who built this grim castle, in which to sojourn when he came to Oxford to enjoy the converse of the bookish men who dwelt beneath its shadow. It is, however, no learned concourse of scholars, no peaceful trial of wits, which we are about to witness, but an incident of stern warfare.

The castle is undergoing a siege, which has already lasted three months. An iron girdle of armed men forbids entrance or exit. You see, however, no great engines for hurling missiles into the fortress; you perceive no battering-rams; no pent-houses for undermining its walls; no scaling-ladders and towers for assault. Hunger and cold are the weapons of the besiegers; within, starvation and disease are fighting their battle. It is early morning of the vigil of St. Thomas, a cold, gray day, with a sharp frost in the air. In the camp of the besiegers a white flag is raised in token of truce, and presently you see a stalwart knight clad in full armour bestride his charger. Behind him assembles a train of abbots and priests bearing Church banners and crucifixes. Slowly they wend their way over the powdery snow to the edge of the castle moat, and presently the loud blast of a trumpet startles the ear. Now you see on the battlements of the castle a warder appear and inquire the meaning of the summons. “Say to thy mistress that I beseech a parley,” cries the knight, and the warder disappears.

There is a pause, and presently on the battlements you see a woman, pale and gaunt, but proud and haughty as angry Juno. You notice her flashing eye, her hard, resolute look, and you know that she will never yield to mortal man. “Why come ye?” she asks in imperious tones, and the Lord Abbot of Reading answers her. He bids her yield the castle, and he promises, in the name of the king, that no harm shall befall her or any that are with her. She shall have honourable escort to the coast, lands and money shall be hers, and no vengeance of any kind shall be wreaked on her adherents. “Gracious lady,” he concludes, “I implore thee to yield and end this cruel war, which is a reproach to Christendom and ruin to the people of England. Thy famishing state is well known, and all hope of escape is gone.”

“Who told thee, thou meddling monk, that I thought of escape?” she answers. “Wherefore should I escape? My brother, Earl Robert, is at hand, and ye wot well how the foul usurper was forced to yield to him at Lincoln. The like will happen again here at Oxenford, so let the false recreant begone. I will not throw open my gates nor quit these walls until thy perjured master is in chains, pleading at my feet for the life I have once too often granted him.”

“Madam, madam, I beseech thee,” begins the abbot in reproof, but the wrathful figure on the wall waves him away. “Get thee gone!” she screams in a fierce passion, “or I will remember to hang thee on the gate of thy abbey when this rebellion is over.” So the knight and the churchman depart, and anon you see the former riding from post to post urging his men to keep closer watch on the besieged, and doubling the guards that lie in wait near every exit from the castle.

The early dusk arrives, and the snow begins to fall, and you can scarce see the dark mass of the fortress. The cold wind drives the falling snow into the eyes of the sentinels; they grow numb and drowsy, and their vigilance is relaxed. Now, strain your eyes, and watch the postern of yonder tower. Slowly the door opens, and dimly you perceive five white-clad figures flit out and descend into the moat. You see their ghost-like forms reappear and make all speed for the river. Across its ice-bound surface they hasten, and as they draw near you perceive that one of them is a woman. Now they plunge into the snowdrifts on the other side, and struggle on towards Abingdon. There they will find friends and horses, and speedily they will make for the coast and hie them to the shores of friendly France.

What is the meaning of the incidents which you have witnessed? The woman who has just escaped is Matilda, sole surviving child of Beauclerc. When Henry’s only son went down in the _White Ship_, she alone remained as heir to the realm. Forthwith Henry called his barons together, and bade them swear fealty to his daughter as “Lady” of England. They did his bidding reluctantly, for they scorned to be ruled by a woman. Amongst the knights who swore the oath was Henry’s nephew Stephen, he whom you saw directing the siege of Oxford. He is handsome, tall, strong, and one of the most renowned knights in all Christendom. Even while the barons obeyed the king’s behest, many of them deemed Stephen far worthier to rule them than the haughty, passionate Dame Matilda.

Ere Henry died, many of the barons had determined to forswear their oath and throw in their lot with Stephen. They knew him as easy-going, soft-hearted, “unstable as water,” and, as such, he was the very king for them. With Stephen on the throne, every baron might be king in his own domain, free to raid and harry and fight as he listed. So when the old king was carried to his tomb, Stephen seized the crown, and, after the fashion of usurpers, strove to win friends to his side. He scattered Henry’s treasure in lavish bribes, he promised men all they asked, he hired foreign soldiers, and was crowned king. Right well pleased were the barons, and right soon they built them those strong castles which they had not dared to rear while Henry was alive. Then they quarrelled and fought, and robbed, and tortured, and hanged to their hearts’ content.

Sad indeed was the condition of England at that time. Turn to the old Chronicle and read:—“They put the wretched country folk to sore toil with their castle-building; and when the castles were made, they filled them with devils and evil men. Then they took all those that they deemed had any goods, both by night and by day, men and women alike, and put them in prison to get their gold and silver, and tortured them with tortures unspeakable, for never were martyrs so tortured as they were. . . . All this lasted nineteen winters while Stephen was king, and ever it was worse and worse. Thou mightest easily fare a whole day’s journey, and shouldest never find a man living in a village nor land tilled. Then was corn dear, and flesh and cheese, for there was none in the land. Wretched men starved for hunger, and some were begging alms that were once rich men, and some fled out of the land.”

And to add to all this horror, Matilda, aided by her noble half-brother, Robert of Gloucester, and her kinsman, David of Scotland, waged war against the usurper. The fortune of battle wavered, now to this side, now to that. Sometimes Stephen was victor, sometimes Matilda. You remember how she taunted Stephen from the battlements of Oxford Castle about the affair at Lincoln. The story is worth telling. Stephen was besieging Lincoln Castle when a superior force of his foes assailed him. With only three faithful followers he fought like a lion at bay, disdaining either to fly or yield. At length his sword-blade snapped; but one of his companions handed him a two-handed Danish axe, with which he did terrible execution. Then the axe-helve splintered in his hand; but all feared to seize him until he was hurled to the ground by a stone thrown by an unknown hand. A knight, greatly daring, ran up and laid hands on the fallen king; but Stephen shook him off, and it was only to Robert of Gloucester that he would deign to surrender. Stephen was put in ward at Bristol, and a great Council elected Matilda queen in his stead.

Ere long her haughty behaviour, her self-will, her revengeful spirit, and the injustice with which she treated the Londoners, disgusted even her best friends. One day, while she was sitting at dinner, the city bells rang out a call to arms, and the Londoners, “like angry wasps from their comb,” swarmed into her palace. She had barely time to escape on a swift steed to Winchester. Then the Londoners arrayed themselves under Stephen’s brave queen and laid siege to Matilda. She was forced to retreat, and in the strife that followed the King of Scots and Robert of Gloucester were captured. Matilda fled on horseback to Devizes; but enemies thronged about her, and her friends only got her safely out of the town by covering her with grave-clothes and carrying her forth on a bier. Robert was now exchanged for Stephen, and once more the tide of war turned in his favour. This brings us up to the incidents which we have just witnessed in front of Oxford Castle.

Little remains to be said. Robert died, and Matilda found that she had lost her best and most gallant champion. Her son Henry, however, was now of an age to take his part in the strife. Strong, able, and rich, he sailed from France with an army, but was too wise to fight a pitched battle. He could afford to wait; and so he made peace with Stephen, who was to reign in England until his death, when Henry was to succeed him. A year later Stephen died, and all good men rejoiced. Peace was coming to the distracted realm, and the old days of “war, wickedness, and waste” were over, men fondly hoped, never to return.

THE GREAT ARCHBISHOP.

“_Fame’s loudest trump upon the ear of Time_ _Leaves but a dying echo; they alone_ _Are held in everlasting memory_ _Whose deeds partake of heaven._”

Once more the scene changes. We are standing in the High Street of Canterbury watching a notable procession pass by. Listen to the clanging bells, and when they cease, hear the organ rolling forth its waves of harmony from the cathedral. The old timbered houses are decked with streamers and garlands; groups of priests with banners are threading the street towards the ancient gate. It is very evident that some great personage is about to visit the city. Is it the king? Not so; it is some one even greater than the king—it is the archbishop, Thomas Becket. You wonder that an archbishop should be more powerful than a king, but in these early days the Church is the greatest power on earth. Even kings must submit to its decrees.

Now the trumpets blow, and a long procession winds its way towards the cathedral. As the archbishop comes in sight loud shouts of welcome rend the air. Look at him as he sits his charger, prouder than the boldest knight in the land. There was a time when he could joust and use sword and lance with the most skilful warrior in the kingdom. Ah! he was a boon companion of the king’s then. What merry jests, what jovial days and nights they spent together! They were Jonathan and David in their friendship. Becket was the king’s right-hand man in all affairs of State. Clever and learned, he seconded the king in all his strenuous endeavours to rid the land of lawlessness and misery. In return, Henry heaped riches and honours upon his chancellor.

What state and ceremony he loved in those days! His palace was far grander than the king’s; a hundred and forty knights followed in his train. None wore such magnificent robes as he; none made so brave a display. As for the king, he cared nothing for those things in which Becket’s soul delighted. Often when the chancellor sat down to feast with his followers, Henry would gallop up to the door of the palace, toss his bridle to a groom, stride into the great hall, vault the table, and in his rough riding-dress take his place by the side of his gorgeous chancellor.

What stories they tell of the pranks these two used to play! One winter day, when the pair were riding through the streets of London, the king saw an old man shivering in his rags. “Look at that poor beggar,” said he. “Would it not be a kind act to give him a good warm coat?”

“Certainly, sire,” replied Becket; “and you are a good Christian to bethink yourself of such a generous deed.”

“Then give him yours,” laughed the king, and seized the rich robe which the chancellor was wearing. Becket was loath to bestow his rich crimson coat on a beggar man; but the king would have his way, and a pretty tussle ensued between them. At last the chancellor’s cloak was pulled from his shoulders, and Henry handed it to the astonished beggar. How hugely he laughed all the way home at the wry face which Becket pulled!

But all this has suffered a “sea-change” long ago. When the king had quelled the robber barons and had pulled down their strongholds about their ears, he found that there was lawlessness in the Church needing his grave attention. The Conqueror had given the bishops the right to hold courts, in which they alone could try the clergy, no matter what crimes they committed. In course of time the bishops claimed jurisdiction, not only over priests, but over all clerks—that is, persons who could read. But who cared for the bishop and his judgments? He could not imprison or hang; he could simply drive a man out of the Church. Many a bold rogue has saved his neck by pulling out a writing from his pocket and gravely reading a certain verse from the Psalms, mayhap while he held the scroll upside down.

Since Henry has sat on the throne more than a hundred murders have been committed by clerks, and not one of the murderers has graced the gallows. This is intolerable; Henry will brook this state of things no longer. He will have justice and order in his land, come what may. Ah! but to meddle with the rights of the Church is no light matter, as he is ere long to discover to his cost. He cannot even make a beginning of reform unless the head of the Church in England is in sympathy with his plans. Good thought! he will make Becket archbishop, and then all will be well.

But when the consecration is over, Henry finds to his dismay that Becket is another man. He dismisses his gay followers; he throws off his costly robes; he abandons his feasting, his gold plate, his tapestries, and his jewels. He mortifies himself with the coarsest food, drinks bitter water, wears sackcloth next his skin, and has himself flogged for his sins. A little cell is his home, and every day, to emulate the meekness of his Master, he washes the feet of thirteen beggars. All the world wonders, and Henry grows angry. His anger increases when Becket resigns the chancellorship, and lets it be known that he now lives for Mother Church, and Mother Church alone.

Henry now tries to carry out his reforms, and make all men, priest and layman alike, answerable for their crimes to the king’s court. For a moment Becket wavers; the king shall have his wish. But a day’s reflection convinces him that in yielding he is betraying the Church. Then his resolution stiffens. He prays the Pope to release him from his promise, and when he is absolved he boldly defies the king. Picture Henry’s rage. You must know the man to imagine the fury of it. When thwarted, he is wont to fling himself on the floor and bite the rushes with which it is strewn.

Becket has made many enemies by his arrogance in the old days, and now they take care to fan the king’s wrath. Some one accuses him of having denied justice, and forthwith he is found guilty and heavily fined. Other punishments are in store for him; but he sweeps into the Council chamber in full robes, with his crosier in his hand, and dares them to pass sentence upon him. He and the Church, he says, are in the keeping of God, and the Pope, and none other, shall judge him. Angry indeed are the king’s friends at these bold words. One of them shouts “Traitor!” and others take up the rushes from the floor and fling them at him. Turning to one of his assailants, he fiercely cries, “If I might bear arms, I would quickly prove on you that you lied!” With this he leaves the hall.

Full well he knows that there is no safety for him in England, so, disguised as a simple monk, and calling himself “Brother Dearman,” he hastens from the kingdom, and for seven long years he dwells abroad. Discontented nobles in Henry’s wide French dominions—he is lord from the Pyrenees to the Tweed—threaten to take up arms in Becket’s cause, and at length a kind of peace is patched up between archbishop and king.

But ere Becket can return home, Henry does a deed which again angers the proud archbishop and rouses all the old enmity between them. Following the French fashion, Henry desires to have his son crowned king in his lifetime. The Archbishop of York is persuaded to undertake the ceremony. Now, the crowning of the king is the privilege of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and of him alone. Becket’s anger flames up at the slight, and he crosses to England in a bitter frame of mind.

And now you stand in the streets of Canterbury watching his return. The people welcome him gladly, for they remember his old kindnesses to them. The nobles, however, stand aloof; they dread his reappearance, and rightly believe that it means trouble to the realm. Becket passes on to his cathedral, and in solemn tones excommunicates the Archbishop of York and the bishops who have crowned the young prince.

Henry is in Normandy, but the news speedily reaches him, and then his passion knows no bounds. “Here,” he shouts to the knights about him, “here is a man that has eaten my bread, a pitiful fellow that came to my court on a sorry hackney, and owes all he has to me, lifting his hand against me, and insulting my kingdom and my kindred, and not one of the cowardly, sluggish knaves I feed and pay so well has the heart to avenge me!”

Fatal words! Four of the knights who listen to the king’s bitter reproof steal away from his court and hurry to Canterbury. While cool reflection has brought wiser counsels to the king, they are bursting into the archbishop’s chamber at Canterbury, and are commanding him to absolve the bishops without delay. He argues with them, and they threaten him, but he is obdurate. “Then we will do more than threaten,” they say, and outside they go to don their coats of mail. Meanwhile the frightened monks run to the archbishop and beg him to take shelter in the cathedral. He laughs at their fears. “Methinks,” he says, “all you monks are cowards.” Not a step will he stir till the bell summons him to vespers. Then he walks serenely to the cathedral.

Soon the knights are thundering at the barred door. “Unbolt the door,” cries Becket; “I will not have God’s house made a fortress for me.” The timid monks dare not obey him, and he flings back the bolt himself. Then the knights enter, and one of them attempts to drag him outside, so that the murderer’s work may not be done within consecrated walls. Becket clings to the great pillar, and Grim, the only brave monk in the chapter, holds him fast. “Strike! strike!” shouts one of the knights, and the sword descends. The devoted Grim catches the blade on his arm, and falls back wounded. Then the blows fall thick and fast, and the archbishop sinks to the ground, crying out that he dies for the cause of God and the Church. And here we leave him in the gloom and silence of his cathedral.

Becket is dead; but though he goes hence and is no more seen, he is mightier in death than he was in life. He conquers as his heart’s blood drips from him.

All Christendom stands aghast at the murder. Henry is horrified when he learns the news, and his grief is real and profound. He instantly sends explanations to the Pope, and, fearing that his enemies will unite against him, embarks for Ireland. In due course he returns to Normandy, and swears that he had no foreknowledge of the archbishop’s death. There is no more talk of curbing the Church; it has proved far too strong for him.

“O’er the rough stones that pave the ancient way, Barefoot, a king in penitent array, Crawls humbly to the canonizèd bones. Doffing his state, he eagerly atones, Performs the penance haughty priests decide, And stills the throbbings of rebellious pride. Prostrate, he feels the stroke of chastening rod, And cleansed, he rises, reconciled with God.”

STRONGBOW.

“_The lovely and the lonely bride_ _Whom we have wedded but have never won._”

Now, for the first time, let Ireland figure in our pageant. So far England has never intruded upon this “green isle of the west.” Centuries have come and gone since the Kelts first crossed into Erin and subdued the primitive inhabitants by force of arms. Legends, many and wondrously beautiful, still remain of those early times, and men read them to-day with a new and kindling interest. A strange dreamland it is of gods and wizards, heroes and beauteous ladies.

“The isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.”

We do not, however, tread the solid ground of history until the coming of St. Patrick, who “preached, baptized, and prayed; from the praise of God he ceased not.” In the days of his successors Ireland became the _Isle of Saints_, and sent forth her missionaries to less favoured lands. At length invaders arrived; the Vikings descended with fire and sword, and after terrible conflicts settled in certain coastwise towns of the eastern shore. Bold Brian Boru, however, clipped their wings at Clontarf, and Ireland still remained unsubdued. When, however, King Henry of England began to meditate on the conquest of the sister isle, Ireland had long fallen from her high estate. All that St. Patrick and his successors had done to civilize the island had disappeared during the long and desperate struggle with the Danes. Ireland was a sad, despairing land, where peace never reigned and men never ceased from foray and slaughter.

Now, turn your eyes to the historic figures who pass us by. Foremost among them you see a dark-visaged “king,” with his collar of gold and his mantle of fur. He is Diarmid, King of Leinster, though his kingdom is shadowy enough at present; for he has been driven out of Ireland by the high-king and a chief whom he has grievously wronged. This Diarmid, smitten by the charms of Devorgilla, wife of the one-eyed chief of Breffni, has carried off the lady, and now he is suffering for his gallantry. He has posted to King Henry, offering him homage in return for assistance in recovering his throne. Henry has other business on hand just now, and he cannot entertain the enterprise in person. He gives the errant king, however, letters-patent permitting all liegemen of the English crown to assist him in recovering his territory.

So Diarmid hies him to Bristol, the great western seaport, and there meets with the second figure in the group now passing before us. Look well at this tall, ruddy, gray-eyed Norman knight, for he is the first to set up English rule in Ireland. He is Richard Strongbow of Clare, Earl of Pembroke, a “landless resolute,” a man of no very good character, but warlike, and with the courage and cunning of his race. You would not think so to speak with him. His voice is soft and gentle, his manner is courteous, but behind it all there is unmistakable determination and daring. Strongbow agrees to throw in his lot with Diarmid, and the price of his assistance is the fair maiden who walks by her father’s side. Eva is nothing loath to accept the debonair Norman knight as her husband, so all goes well.

The buds are bursting into leaf on the Irish trees when the advance-guard of the invaders see the blue hills of Wicklow before them. After some dubious fighting, they seize Wexford, and begin to harry the surrounding country. Raymond the Fat, Strongbow’s nephew, a stout, rosy, valiant knight, arrives in May with reinforcements, and several hard-fought successes are gained. Then comes Strongbow with the main force, and a combined attack is made on Waterford, which is, in sooth, a hard nut to crack. It is Raymond who perceives the means of shelling the kernel. In his reconnoitring he observes a small wooden house built on props and clinging with its timbers to the stones of the walls. His men hew down the posts which support it, and as the building falls it reveals a gap in the wall, through which the besiegers enter. The town is seized, a pitiless slaughter follows, and the dead lie in heaps in the streets.

Strongbow and Eva are forthwith wedded. And now begins a period of fierce strife amidst the woods and bogs, where the Irish can strike shrewd blows at the invader and vanish into security by secret paths. When, emboldened by success, they leave the broken ground and meet the enemy on the plain, they are crushed and scattered by the whirlwind charge of the mailed horsemen. Slowly but surely the newcomers gain ground, and at length Dublin falls. Then Diarmid, “the traitor,” sinks into his grave. His work is done, and no longer will his hoarse voice urge on the enemies of his country. Strongbow is his heir, and he now calls himself King of Leinster.

By this time Henry is alarmed, for Strongbow bids fair ere long to be King of Ireland. He issues a proclamation forbidding Englishmen to engage in warfare in the distracted isle, and Strongbow soon perceives that Henry will brook no vassal of his building up a rival kingdom. Raymond the Fat is at once dispatched with a humble letter of homage; but Henry receives the messenger coldly, and disdains to reply.

Henry himself now prepares to invade Ireland. The month of October, in the year 1171, sees his great fleet of four hundred ships laden with soldiers set sail from Milford Haven. The fame of this fierce, bullet-headed king with the bloodshot eyes and the dark red hair has preceded him, and at his landing all Ireland hastens to do him homage. In a wicker-work hall with walls of peeled osiers, Henry holds his court in Dublin during one of the stormiest winters ever known. He feasts the Irish chieftains on dainty Norman dishes; he grants charters bestowing all the soil of Ireland on ten of his leading knights, and, leaving Strongbow out in the cold, invests Hugh de Lacy with cap and sword as the first governor of Dublin. When the April showers begin to fall, the royal Plantagenet embarks his host and returns to England.

But what of Strongbow? Conscious of the royal displeasure, he joins Henry in Normandy, and fights bravely against the king’s rebel sons. Then once more the sun of royalty deigns to smile on him, and at length he is rewarded with the long-coveted governorship of Dublin. In Ireland he discovers that Raymond the Fat is most popular with the soldiery, and is likely to prove a troublesome rival. A marriage is arranged between Strongbow’s sister and the popular knight, and Strongbow feels that he has staved off a disaster. The wedding festivities are rudely interrupted by news of native risings, and away goes Raymond to the congenial work of quelling the revolting chieftains. He gains success after success. The soldiers will have no other leader but him; and all the while Strongbow jealously intrigues against him. One day when Raymond is in the south he receives this message from his wife: “Be it known unto your sincere love that the great jaw-tooth which used to give me such uneasiness has fallen out. If you have any care or regard for me or yourself, return with all speed.”

The “great jaw-tooth” is none other than Strongbow, who has just died from the effects of an ulcer in his foot. So passes the man who ushers the English race into Ireland. He came to bring not peace but a sword, and with his advent began five long centuries of battle and murder, oppression, confiscation, rebellion, famine, crime, and misery unspeakable.

RICHARD OF THE LION HEART.

“_The knight’s bones are dust,_ _And his good sword rust;_ _His soul is with the saints, I trust!_”

Almost the best-known character in all our pageant now makes his appearance. Clad in coat of mail, his shield blazoned with the leopards of England, his surcoat broidered with the Red Cross, he is the very _beau-ideal_ of a knight. Tall, stalwart, handsome, fair-haired, and blue-eyed, the gaze of all men lingers admiringly on him. A good general, a skilful engineer, a wise judge of men, he might have been a renowned king; but, alas, his lust for war, his thirst for adventure, his fierce delight in conflict made him a mere soldier—the foremost of his time, it is true, but nevertheless a killer of men, and not a builder of states or a benefactor of his land. Still, he shines beyond all other English kings as the hero of song and story, and as the mirror of the knighthood which prevailed in his day.

Richard figures in history as the outstanding hero of the third Crusade. Well-nigh a century before he was crowned king at Westminster, Peter the Hermit had harrowed men’s hearts by a recital of the infamies done by the Saracen to Christian pilgrims in the Holy Land. With frenzied words he bade his hearers, “Go, deliver the sepulchre of the Lord;” and everywhere arose the answering cry, “God wills it!” A tumultuary horde, burning with enthusiasm, plundered its way to the East, but perished without touching Asiatic shores. Behind it came an organized army, which suffered terribly on the burning sands of Syria, but nevertheless achieved its object, and set up a Latin kingdom in the Holy Land. Half a century went by, and the Crescent was once more in the ascendant. Again a Crusade was preached, and again an immense army set forth to deliver the tomb of our Lord from the infidel. It had to fight against treachery of the worst type, and its career was inglorious in the extreme.

Sixteen years ago a new conqueror arose in the East, the great Sultan Saladin, a knight worthy to cross swords with Richard himself. Jerusalem was now in his hands, and pious Christians felt a deep pang of shame that it should be so. Once more a Crusade was preached, and once more the good and the bad, the pious and the impious, the just and the unjust of Christendom swore to drive the Saracen from the holy soil which his foot polluted. Religious enthusiasm blazed up fiercely, and its first-fruits in England was an awful massacre of Jews on the coronation day of Richard. “Down with the foes of the Lord!” shouted the mob, and thousands of innocent Israelites were murdered in cold blood. At Lincoln the brave Jews defended themselves in the castle until all hope was gone. Then they slew their women and children, lest a worse fate should befall them, and perished by their own hands rather than surrender to their Christian foes.

But all this was forgotten in the bustle and tumult of warlike preparation. Never was Richard so busy, never was he in higher spirits. He worked all day, snatching an hour or two in the evening to spend with his loved troubadours. In the August of the year 1189 his galley _Trenche-mer_ set sail from Marseilles, and spread its sails for Messina, where Richard and Philip of France were to forgather. Winter was to be spent peacefully under Sicilian skies; but trouble was not long in brewing. The townsfolk having beaten and insulted his men, Richard forthwith stormed their city. As a notable squire of dames, he then took up the cause of his widowed sister Joan, who had been despoiled of her dowry by her brother-in-law, the new king. Restitution was made perforce, and Richard by his gallantry and lavish bounty soon became the theme of all tongues. Philip of France, as proud and haughty as Richard himself, looked on sullenly, and a passionate jealousy of the English king began to take possession of him.

At last Richard sailed for Cyprus, where he proposed to land and await the coming of his bride, the fair Berengaria of Navarre. But a storm overtook his fleet, and two of his vessels were driven ashore. Isaac Comnenus, the churlish ruler of the island, little guessing with whom he had to deal, seized the cargoes and imprisoned the crews. This was intolerable, and Richard’s hot blood boiled with rage. To avenge the insult, he pounced upon the capital of the island and captured it. Then, to crown his triumph, came Berengaria, and, amidst scenes of splendour, his marriage was celebrated. He spent his honeymoon in conquering the rest of the island, nor did he rest until Isaac, loaded with silver chains, was sent into banishment.

Twice he had fought and conquered since leaving Marseilles, and yet a third adventure awaited him before the real business of his enterprise began. During the voyage to Acre a big merchant ship was sighted flying false colours. Speedily she was discovered to be a Saracen vessel striving to run the blockade of Acre, now besieged by the Crusaders. Forthwith Richard mustered his crew. “I will hang every mother’s son of you if you let yonder dromond go,” was the burden of his speech, and having thus heartened his men, he bore down on the foe. The Saracens let fly a shower of arrows and threw Greek fire aboard the _Trenche-mer_, but, nothing daunted, Richard rammed the Saracen vessel with the sharp prow of his galley. Through the gaping rent in the dromond’s side the sea poured in, and down she went with all her rich cargo and most of her crew.

There were no more adventures before Acre was reached. The ancient town was closely beleaguered by the Crusaders, but little progress had been made. A change came over the spirit of the attackers when Cœur de Lion arrived. Up rose a great wooden castle to top the walls; here and there huge catapults hurled missiles into the town; while beneath the pent-houses was heard the sound of pick and spade as the sappers undermined the walls. Now ague seized the king, but his ardent spirit would not let him rest. Carried in a litter to the trenches, he himself pulled a bow against the Saracens on the ramparts, and by example, stirring words, and promises of reward encouraged his soldiers to press the siege with all possible vigour.

Early in July the town was yielded, and in the first moment of success bickerings began amongst the Christian leaders.

When the Crusaders entered the city, Richard perceived Leopold of Austria’s flag planted side by side with his own on St. George’s Mount. “Who has dared,” he said, laying his hand upon the Austrian standard, and speaking in a voice like the sound which precedes an earthquake, “who has dared to place this paltry rag beside the banner of England?”

“It was I, Leopold of Austria.”

“Then shall Leopold of Austria presently see the rate at which his banner and his pretensions are held by Richard of England.”

So saying, he pulled up the standard-spear, splintered it to pieces, threw the banner itself on the ground, and placed his foot upon it.

“Thus,” said he, “I trample on the banner of Austria.”

In these words does Sir Walter Scott recount the story. Peace was ultimately made between the two, but Richard had made another foe, who was soon to take ample revenge on the haughty island king.

The fame of Richard dwarfed that of every knight who wore the Cross in Palestine, and the bruit of his valorous deeds made him a terror to every Saracen in the land. For years after, an Arab would cry to the steed that stumbled, “Fool, dost thou think thou sawest King Richard?” But the odds were fearfully against him. Every day disease thinned his ranks, and in the long march from Acre along the coast his men suffered terribly, though they turned in wrath and smote, hip and thigh, the Saracens who harried them. Barely, too, did Richard escape the daggers of the assassins sent to do their murderous work by the Old Man of the Mountain, who dwelt at Lebanon. One of them entered Richard’s tent, and was about to strike when the English king caught up the stool on which he had been sitting, and with it crashed in his assailant’s skull. No wonder men believed that he bore a charmed life.

And now he turned his steps to Jerusalem itself, but the Frenchmen forsook him, lest it should be said that an English king had recovered the Holy Sepulchre. Never was he so cast down as at this defection. Without their aid his little army could not hope to succeed. As he wrestled with his grievous disappointment, a knight begged him to ascend a mount from which he might gaze upon Jerusalem. But the king snapped the switch which he held in his hand, and cast his surcoat over his head, while the angry tears gushed forth. “O Lord God,” he prayed, “suffer not mine eyes to behold Thy holy city, since Thou wilt not grant that I deliver it from the hands of Thy foes!”

Back again over the weary sands of the desert he toiled, sick at heart and sick of body, but not so sick that he could not again drive the enemy before him. But he had failed, though he had done all that man could do. Saladin agreed to a truce of three months, three days, and three hours, and with this poor result Richard was forced to be content. So he left the Holy Land, never to return.

Richard, however, was never long without the adventures which he so ardently sought. On the homeward voyage he landed at Ragusa, on the Adriatic shore, meaning to pass through Germany in disguise. But the gloves in the belt of his page betrayed him as a great personage, and he fell into the hands of his foe, Leopold of Austria, who at length found himself able to pay off old scores. Ultimately Richard was sold to the emperor, who put him in chains, and raked the past for offences wherewith to accuse his royal captive. For a time Richard disappeared entirely from view, but the place of his captivity leaked out at last. An old story tells us that his whereabouts were discovered by the minstrel Blondel, who loved the king, and set out on a weary quest to seek him. From castle to castle he passed, singing under the walls a song which Richard had composed. One day, to his great delight, he heard a voice which he knew full well troll out the second verse of the song from a dungeon cell. Forthwith he hastened to England and told the news. Historians, however, frown upon this pleasing story.

Richard was tried at a Great Council, where he defended himself boldly, and cleared himself of all the charges urged against him. Nevertheless, his captor would not let him go without ransom, which was valued at twenty-seven times the king’s weight, and amounted to the colossal sum for those days of £100,000. Richard wrote home to his ministers and begged them to collect the money as speedily as possible, as he was weary of captivity. While they were raising the ransom, which was a grievous burden even to rich England, Richard whiled away the weary hours by writing ballads, one of which ran thus:——

“Never can captive make a song so fair As he can make that has no cause for care, Yet may he strive by song his grief to cheer. I lack not friends, but sadly lack their gold! Shamed are they, if unransomed I lie here a second Yule in hold.”

But his people were not “shamed.” The Pope and other Christian powers were indignant at the ill-usage to which the champion of the Cross had been subjected, and the Emperor thought it wise to yield to that public opinion which almost unanimously condemned him. So when three-fourths of the ransom had been paid, Richard was set free, and sailed with all speed for England.

Not even now was peace to be his lot, for his false brother John was in arms against him. John, however, was soon pleading that forgiveness which Richard of the generous heart was always ready to grant. Then he was crowned afresh, to rid him of the stain of his captivity; and now that his kingdom was regained and all was peaceful, he looked about for new battles to fight.

He had not far to look. Philip of France was an old enemy, and he had treacherously supported John in his endeavours to gain the English crown while Richard was “in hold.” An uneasy peace followed a French defeat, but a few years later war broke out again, and once more a truce was proclaimed. Soon after, Richard’s subjects in Poitou were in rebellion, and Richard went south to quell the rising. By chance he learned that one of his vassals had unearthed a rich treasure-trove in the shape of a golden chess-table and men. Richard claimed the prize, but his vassal was unwilling to surrender it, whereupon the king laid siege to his castle of Chaluz.

During the siege an archer in the beleaguered keep shot at the king and hit him in the breast. The wound was not serious, but the doctor who attended him soon made it mortal. Ere long the king knew that he must die. As he lay on his deathbed the keep was taken, and the archer who had shot the fatal arrow was brought before him.

“What have I done to thee, that thou shouldest slay me?” demanded the dying king.

“Thou hast slain my father and my brothers with thine own hand,” replied the man undauntedly. “Torture me as thou wilt, I shall die gladly, since I have slain him who did me so much ill.”

“Well, I forgive thee,” said Richard, always generous to a bold foe. Then he bade his servants give the man money and dismiss him unhurt. Let us ever remember that, with all his faults, all his pride, his love of pleasure, his vainglory, his animal passion for warfare, Richard’s dying request was for mercy to the man who had robbed him of life. When the breath was out of the king’s body his soldiers flayed the bowman alive, but that foul deed may not be laid to Richard’s charge.

So they buried the Lion’s heart at Rouen, and laid his body at Fontevraud, beside that of the father whose gray hairs he had brought down long years ago with sorrow to the grave.

KING JOHN AND MAGNA CHARTA.

“_Magna Charta is such a fellow that he will have no sovereign._”

Runnymede spreads before you, the famous field on which the English people wrested from a tyrannous monarch their great table of laws. You see a green meadow stretching along the marge of “silver-footed Thames,” a pasturage in no degree distinguished from scores of others in that fair valley. Fronting it is a little island, set like an emerald in the shining waters. Meadow and island should enchain your attention, for here a deed is to be done of deep and solemn import, immeasurable in its effects upon the lives and fortunes of generations yet unborn.

Here you shall see the seed sown which is to shoot up into a goodly tree, bearing as its fruits that liberty, civilization, and knowledge in which we rejoice to-day. Long centuries of toil and struggle will elapse before it is deep-rooted in the soil; the weeds of error and wrong will threaten to choke it; the fierce sun of tyranny will scorch it; the piercing winds of privilege will numb it: but the hardy plant will not succumb. It will be tended by devoted hands, and watered with blood and tears, until it spreads its branches far and wide, and is reckoned the glory of the land. New-graffed with every generation, and branching into offshoots which bear little semblance to the parent stock, it still remains, worthy of all our reverence and regard as the sturdy root of the Constitution under which Britons dwell as the freest nation of the world.

Look at the meadow on this side of the Thames. Busy hands are setting up a pavilion of white and gold, for the sojourn of a king. Other pavilions are rising on Runnymede itself, and on the island too, where a canopied throne is set up. Now the actors in the scene begin to arrive. Mail-clad barons armed as for the fray, grim and determined, solemn of port and sober of converse, draw near. An archbishop with his train of priests joins the armed throng. All the magnates of England, spiritual and secular, are here—and they are here to coerce a king.

All is ready, and now the king leaves his bannered pavilion, and crossing the narrow waters to the isle proceeds towards the throne. Watch him closely, for his like has never before worn the English crown, and—please God—never will again. Look at his fierce, dark countenance, over which waves of passion continually spread, like the ripples on yonder waters. He is the scourge of his land, the worst monarch with which England has been cursed—worse even than Rufus. Bad son, bad husband, bad father, bad king, there is scarce a crime in the whole black calendar of which he may not be justly accused. He is cruel, false, greedy, untruthful, and vile; yet out of his wickedness wondrous good shall come.

He has fought his father, he has wronged his brother, and he has murdered the little nephew who stood in his way. The poor child Arthur, heir to the English throne and to England’s wide realms in France, fell into his hands twelve years ago. John offered him terms, but the lad, brimful of the spirit of his race, would strike no bargain with the “shameless king.” He was close pent in a Norman castle, and thither John dispatched his unwilling minister, Hubert de Burgh, to put out the lad’s eyes. But the frenzied appeals of the little prince so moved Hubert’s heart that he forswore his foul commission, preferring to brave the wrath of his ruthless master than to suffer the sting of conscience. But there were others with no bowels of compassion, and by their aid the lad was slain. How he actually died we do not know. Perhaps John inveigled the boy into a boat and there stabbed him and flung his body overboard, or perhaps he compassed his death by subtler means. Shakespeare tells us that, goaded to madness, the little prince leaped from the walls of his prison, crying,—

“O me! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones— Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones.”

At any rate, the king you now see approaching has murder on his soul. But this is only the beginning of his villainy. Seven years ago the Archbishop of Canterbury went to his rest, and the monks of the cathedral elected another and sent him to Rome for his pall. John chose for the high office a minion of his own, “a servant of Mammon, and an evil shepherd that devoured his own sheep.” Pope Innocent, the proudest and most powerful man who ever wore the triple crown, set both candidates aside and appointed Stephen Langton, a wise and pious Englishman, against whom no word of scandal could be breathed. But John would have none other but his own nominee. He defied the Pope, and then the thunders of Rome were heard in the land. For the king’s sins a religious boycott was imposed upon the people.

The most dreaded terror in the Papal armoury—an interdict—was placed on the land. The churches were closed, no bell rang for prayers, all rites were withheld from the people, and even the dead lay in unconsecrated ground. But John was not yet brought to his knees; he seized the goods and lands of the Church, and then Innocent in wrath cast him out of its pale. Still John was unsubdued; he plundered the Church even more remorselessly.

He treated the Jews as a money-sucking sponge, squeezing them by every conceivable cruelty until they gave up their wealth. One rich Jew, so the story goes, was forced to disgorge by the simple process of having a tooth drawn every day until he had to choose between his remaining molars and his money bags. Others were starved in cages fastened to castle walls until their spirit of resistance was broken.

Military success did not fail the wicked king at this crisis. He compelled William the Lion of Scotland to do homage and pay heavy tribute, and he did the only really good work of his life in Ireland. From that country, which had been destined as his principality, John had been driven in the lifetime of his father by an onslaught of the Irish chiefs, whom he had abominably insulted and goaded into rebellion. Now he returned, and made short work of them and of the quarrelsome Anglo-Normans. He pacified the distracted land, made good laws, appointed capable officers, and sailed home in triumph. Then he turned his victorious arms against his son-in-law, Llewellyn, and forced the Welsh prince to do homage in the midst of his mountain fastnesses. And all the time John snapped his fingers at the Pope.

Innocent’s patience being now well-nigh exhausted, he sent to England his legate Pandulf, who solemnly declared John’s subjects free of their oath of fealty. But most of the nobles and many of the more worldly clergy still stuck to John, and his hired troops feared neither Pope nor devil. So John still held out, and even began to win the goodwill of his subjects by regulating the seaport trade, and by pardoning offenders against the barbarous forest laws of the time. Now came the Pope’s final sentence—John was to be hurled from the throne, and another and a worthier king should reign in his stead.

Philip of France was chosen to carry out the decree, and speedily he mustered an army for the venture. On all hands foes arose, and though the English barons and people were quite ready to fight for their king, John was for the first time thoroughly frightened. He feared to die outside the Church, and he was terrified by a monkish prophecy that he should lose his crown ere next Ascension Day. So he begged forgiveness of Innocent, knelt before Pandulf, and gave up his kingdom, which he received back on promise of amendment and a yearly tribute as vassal of the Pope. The anger of the English people at this base act knew no bounds. “He has become the Pope’s man,” they sneered; “he is no longer a king, but a slave.” Still more angry did they become when John sent an expedition to France, which, after capturing Philip’s fleet and burning his stores, was hopelessly beaten and driven back to England.

Many of the barons had refused to join this ill-fated expedition, and now John began to punish them. This was the last straw. They met in wrath, and Stephen Langton showed them the charter which Henry the First had granted to his people one hundred years before. The barons, utterly disgusted with John and all his works, now knelt before the high altar of St. Edmund’s minster and swore that they would make the king put his seal to a similar charter, even if they had to plunge the land in civil war. They girded on their armour, and under Robert Fitzwalter, “marshal of the army of God and of holy Church,” marched on London, where the citizens threw open the gates to receive them. “These articles,” cried the king, when they were presented to him, “are pure foolishness. Why do they not ask me for the kingdom at once? I will never give them such freedom as would make me their slave.” Brave words these, but when John perceived that all his knights but seven had deserted him he saw that he had no alternative but to yield.

And now let us turn again to the scene on the little island in the Thames. John has ascended his throne, and, holding the sword of state in his hand, battles hard with the fierce rage that is gnawing in his heart. Now he must repress his feelings, but to-night he will give them full fling. He will throw himself on the ground, gnash his teeth, and in a torrent of rage utter curses loud and deep. But here he must dissemble his wrath. Around him are the barons in full armour, their hearts as hard and their wills as unyielding as the mail which clothes them. A monk reads the charter, but the king is not listening. He is plotting and planning how to make these barons eat dirt for the insult they are putting upon him. By his side is Pandulf, urging him to defy them; but the king knows the resistless might of angry Englishmen better than any foreign churchman. He is in a trap; he must yield, but woe betide those who have made him do so!

The reading of the charter is finished, and John cries reluctantly, “Let it be sealed.” Then the charter is placed on the table in front of him, the wax is melted and placed on the parchment, the seal is screwed down, and the great charter becomes, for all time, the law of the land.

Now, what is this charter which has just been sealed? It is really a treaty of peace between king and people. “We will retain you as king,” they say, “only on condition that you swear to keep the law thus written down.” It is no new thing this law, but the old rights and the old liberties of the people collected together, and for the first time put into black and white. All the freemen of the land have united to extort this charter from the king, and the rights of all classes are laid down in it. Naturally, much of the charter deals with the rights of the barons and the clergy, for they have had the chief hand in securing it, but one-third of it contains promises and guarantees for the people in general. All praise to the barons! Unlike those of some foreign lands, they are not selfish now that they have got the upper hand of the king. Of course they take very good care of themselves, but to their credit be it said that they do not neglect the welfare of the nation at large.

In days to come men will regard this charter as the cure for every kind of royal lawlessness and tyranny. Well-nigh forty times will our kings be forced to sign it, and every time the national faith in the principles laid down in it will grow stronger and stronger. It will be greatly changed in form as the years run by, for new conditions will bring the need for new applications of its provisions. Nevertheless, the three main principles of the charter which you have witnessed in the making have been carried into every land where the British flag waves, and to every shore where the spirit of British freedom has penetrated. Let them be set down here before the scene closes and the pageant moves on:—_The people can only be taxed with the consent of their representatives. There shall be justice for all, and it must not be sold, delayed, or refused. No freeman shall be taken, imprisoned, or in any way hurt, unless he be tried by his peers or equals according to the law._

In our days of widespread freedom these priceless principles seem to us the merest commonplaces, yet we must never forget that stout hearts, strong wills, and eternal vigilance were needed before they became the unchallenged possession of all who glory in the name of Briton.