Three men in a boat (to say nothing of the dog)
have gone better if we had had a fish-kettle and a gas-stove; and
we decided not to attempt the dish again until we had those aids to
housekeeping by us.
The sun had got more powerful by the time we had finished breakfast,
and the wind had dropped, and it was as lovely a morning as one could
desire. Little was in sight to remind us of the nineteenth century;
and, as we looked out upon the river in the morning sunlight, we could
almost fancy that the centuries between us and that ever-to-be-famous
June morning of 1215 had been drawn aside, and that we, English
yeomen’s sons in homespun cloth, with dirk at belt, were waiting there
to witness the writing of that stupendous page of history, the meaning
whereof was to be translated to the common people some four hundred and
odd years later by one Oliver Cromwell, who had deeply studied it.
It is a fine summer morning—sunny, soft, and still. But through the air
there runs a thrill of coming stir. King John has slept at Duncroft
Hall, and all the day before the little town of Staines has echoed to
the clang of armed men, and the clatter of great horses over its rough
stones, and the shouts of captains, and the grim oaths and surly jests
of bearded bowmen, billmen, pikemen, and strange-speaking foreign
spearmen.
Gay-cloaked companies of knights and squires have ridden in, all
travel-stained and dusty. And all the evening long the timid townsmen’s
doors have had to be quick opened to let in rough groups of soldiers,
for whom there must be found both board and lodging, and the best of
both, or woe betide the house and all within; for the sword is judge
and jury, plaintiff and executioner, in these tempestuous times, and
pays for what it takes by sparing those from whom it takes it, if it
pleases it to do so.
Round the camp-fire in the market-place gather still more of the
Barons’ troops, and eat and drink deep, and bellow forth roystering
drinking songs, and gamble and quarrel as the evening grows and deepens
into night. The firelight sheds quaint shadows on their piled-up arms
and on their uncouth forms. The children of the town steal round to
watch them, wondering; and brawny country wenches, laughing, draw near
to bandy ale-house jest and jibe with the swaggering troopers, so
unlike the village swains, who, now despised, stand apart behind, with
vacant grins upon their broad, peering faces. And out from the fields
around, glitter the faint lights of more distant camps, as here some
great lord’s followers lie mustered, and there false John’s French
mercenaries hover like crouching wolves without the town.
And so, with sentinel in each dark street, and twinkling watch-fires on
each height around, the night has worn away, and over this fair valley
of old Thame has broken the morning of the great day that is to close
so big with the fate of ages yet unborn.
Ever since grey dawn, in the lower of the two islands, just above where
we are standing, there has been great clamour, and the sound of many
workmen. The great pavilion brought there yester eve is being raised,
and carpenters are busy nailing tiers of seats, while ’prentices from
London town are there with many-coloured stuffs and silks and cloth of
gold and silver.
And now, lo! down upon the road that winds along the river’s bank from
Staines there come towards us, laughing and talking together in deep
guttural bass, a half-a-score of stalwart halbert-men—Barons’ men,
these—and halt at a hundred yards or so above us, on the other bank,
and lean upon their arms, and wait.
And so, from hour to hour, march up along the road ever fresh groups
and bands of armed men, their casques and breastplates flashing back
the long low lines of morning sunlight, until, as far as eye can reach,
the way seems thick with glittering steel and prancing steeds. And
shouting horsemen are galloping from group to group, and little banners
are fluttering lazily in the warm breeze, and every now and then there
is a deeper stir as the ranks make way on either side, and some great
Baron on his war-horse, with his guard of squires around him, passes
along to take his station at the head of his serfs and vassals.
And up the slope of Cooper’s Hill, just opposite, are gathered the
wondering rustics and curious townsfolk, who have run from Staines,
and none are quite sure what the bustle is about, but each one has a
different version of the great event that they have come to see; and
some say that much good to all the people will come from this day’s
work; but the old men shake their heads, for they have heard such tales
before.
And all the river down to Staines is dotted with small craft and boats
and tiny coracles—which last are growing out of favour now, and are
used only by the poorer folk. Over the rapids, where in after years
trim Bell Weir lock will stand, they have been forced or dragged by
their sturdy rowers, and now are crowding up as near as they dare come
to the great covered barges, which lie in readiness to bear King John
to where the fateful Charter waits his signing.
It is noon, and we and all the people have been waiting patient for
many an hour, and the rumour has run round that slippery John has again
escaped from the Barons’ grasp, and has stolen away from Duncroft Hall
with his mercenaries at his heels, and will soon be doing other work
than signing charters for his people’s liberty.
Not so! This time the grip upon him has been one of iron, and he has
slid and wriggled in vain. Far down the road a little cloud of dust
has risen, and draws nearer and grows larger, and the pattering of
many hoofs grows louder, and in and out between the scattered groups
of drawn-up men, there pushes on its way a brilliant cavalcade of
gay-dressed lords and knights. And front and rear, and either flank,
there ride the yeomen of the Barons, and in the midst King John.
He rides to where the barges lie in readiness, and the great Barons
step forth from their ranks to meet him. He greets them with a smile
and laugh, and pleasant honeyed words, as though it were some feast in
his honour to which he had been invited. But as he rises to dismount,
he casts one hurried glance from his own French mercenaries drawn up in
the rear to the grim ranks of the Barons’ men that hem him in.
Is it too late? One fierce blow at the unsuspecting horseman at his
side, one cry to his French troops, one desperate charge upon the
unready lines before him, and these rebellious Barons might rue the
day they dared to thwart his plans! A bolder hand might have turned
the game even at that point. Had it been a Richard there! the cup of
liberty might have been dashed from England’s lips, and the taste of
freedom held back for a hundred years.
But the heart of King John sinks before the stern faces of the English
fighting men, and the arm of King John drops back on to his rein, and
he dismounts and takes his seat in the foremost barge. And the Barons
follow in, with each mailed hand upon the sword-hilt, and the word is
given to let go.
Slowly the heavy, bright-decked barges leave the shore of Runningmede.
Slowly against the swift current they work their ponderous way, till,
with a low grumble, they grate against the bank of the little island
that from this day will bear the name of Magna Charta Island. And King
John has stepped upon the shore, and we wait in breathless silence till
a great shout cleaves the air, and the great cornerstone in England’s
temple of liberty has, now we know, been firmly laid.
CHAPTER XII.
Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn.—Disadvantages of living in same house
with pair of lovers.—A trying time for the English nation.—A
night search for the picturesque.—Homeless and houseless.—Harris
prepares to die.—An angel comes along.—Effect of sudden joy on
Harris.—A little supper.—Lunch.—High price for mustard.—A fearful
battle.—Maidenhead.—Sailing.—Three fishers.—We are cursed.
I was sitting on the bank, conjuring up this scene to myself, when
George remarked that when I was quite rested, perhaps I would not mind
helping to wash up; and, thus recalled from the days of the glorious
past to the prosaic present, with all its misery and sin, I slid down
into the boat and cleaned out the frying-pan with a stick of wood and a
tuft of grass, polishing it up finally with George’s wet shirt.
We went over to Magna Charta Island, and had a look at the stone which
stands in the cottage there and on which the great Charter is said to
have been signed; though, as to whether it really was signed there, or,
as some say, on the other bank at “Runningmede,” I decline to commit
myself. As far as my own personal opinion goes, however, I am inclined
to give weight to the popular island theory. Certainly, had I been
one of the Barons, at the time, I should have strongly urged upon my
comrades the advisability of our getting such a slippery customer as
King John on to the island, where there was less chance of surprises
and tricks.
There are the ruins of an old priory in the grounds of Ankerwyke House,
which is close to Picnic Point, and it was round about the grounds of
this old priory that Henry VIII. is said to have waited for and met
Anne Boleyn. He also used to meet her at Hever Castle in Kent, and also
somewhere near St. Albans. It must have been difficult for the people
of England in those days to have found a spot where these thoughtless
young folk were _not_ spooning.
Have you ever been in a house where there are a couple courting? It is
most trying. You think you will go and sit in the drawing-room, and you
march off there. As you open the door, you hear a noise as if somebody
had suddenly recollected something, and, when you get in, Emily is
over by the window, full of interest in the opposite side of the road,
and your friend, John Edward, is at the other end of the room with his
whole soul held in thrall by photographs of other people’s relatives.
“Oh!” you say, pausing at the door, “I didn’t know anybody was here.”
“Oh! didn’t you?” says Emily, coldly, in a tone which implies that she
does not believe you.
You hang about for a bit, then you say:
“It’s very dark. Why don’t you light the gas?”
John Edward says, “Oh!” he hadn’t noticed it; and Emily says that papa
does not like the gas lit in the afternoon.
You tell them one or two items of news, and give them your views and
opinions on the Irish question; but this does not appear to interest
them. All they remark on any subject is, “Oh!” “Is it?” “Did he?”
“Yes,” and “You don’t say so!” And, after ten minutes of such style of
conversation, you edge up to the door, and slip out, and are surprised
to find that the door immediately closes behind you, and shuts itself,
without your having touched it.
Half an hour later, you think you will try a pipe in the conservatory.
The only chair in the place is occupied by Emily; and John Edward, if
the language of clothes can be relied upon, has evidently been sitting
on the floor. They do not speak, but they give you a look that says all
that can be said in a civilised community; and you back out promptly
and shut the door behind you.
You are afraid to poke your nose into any room in the house now; so,
after walking up and down the stairs for a while, you go and sit in
your own bedroom. This becomes uninteresting, however, after a time,
and so you put on your hat and stroll out into the garden. You walk
down the path, and as you pass the summer-house you glance in, and
there are those two young idiots, huddled up into one corner of it; and
they see you, and are evidently under the idea that, for some wicked
purpose of your own, you are following them about.
“Why don’t they have a special room for this sort of thing, and make
people keep to it?” you mutter; and you rush back to the hall and get