And right glad at that crisis was the great Protector to have such an addition to his force, and infinite was the curiosity of nobles and knights and fighting men to see the rough and ragged warriors who, as “Collingham’s ravens,” had been celebrated in town and hamlet as the terror of the invaders. But none were more curious on the subject than the knights and squires of the Earl of Salisbury, who gasped and stared at the sight of Oliver Icingla--in other days, when at Salisbury, and in Spain and Flanders, the pink of youthful chivalry in his dress and equipments--with his shaggy beard, his tattered white jacket, and his battle-axe, so antique in appearance that one of Salisbury’s knights asked laughingly if it had been wielded by some of the Icinglas who were comrades of Hengist or of Cerdic.
However, the warriors who excited so much curiosity, and, it must be added, some ridicule, had a pride of their own, and felt a kind of satisfaction which few even in Pembroke’s army could know. When loyal earls and barons were submitting to the invaders, they had treated the invaders with defiance; they had attacked Prince Louis himself, and forced him to make an undignified flight to his ships--the first rough treatment he experienced in England--and, through good and evil reports, they had adhered to the cause of England and England’s king, enduring all hardships and despising all odds.
Verily such things might well make Collingham’s band a little proud under the circumstances; and proud they felt of their fidelity and their exploits as they marched towards Lincoln, their raven banner fluttering and their stalwart chief towering in front like some giant Dane of the days of Canute. Nor was Oliver Icingla idle. He was still much under the influence of his strange dream in the Sussex forest, for, like most of his race, he had the element of superstition largely in his composition, and considered dreams and omens too serious to be disregarded. This made him all the more joyous to go into battle, if only for change and excitement, moving from front to rear, talking pithily to all the men, stimulating their enthusiasm, and firing their courage and patriotism.
“Englishmen and freemen,” so ran the words of the heir of the Icinglas, “remember your vows as the hour of battle approaches; for a battle there will be, strong and obstinate, albeit not so bloody as some that have been fought on English soil; and that the men whom you are going to encounter are aliens and oppressors. So strike and spare not! Spare neither French count nor Norman baron! This is no day for dainty chivalry, as when a feudal sovereign takes the field against a refractory vassal about some petty dispute, to exchange a few blows, without inflicting a wound, and then feast together in the hall of the nearest castle or abbey, as if nothing had happened. This is, in truth, a very different kind of war. It is a war of Englishmen against foreign invaders--a war of true and loyal men against false men and traitors--a war for our homes which they have burned, and our hearths which they have rendered desolate. Wherefore I say to you, smite and spare not! Down with every ruffian Frank who crosses your path, and down, down with the traitors who invited the ruffian Franks hither! I myself will not fail, if opportunity serve me, to show you in this an example such as an Icingla should show to Englishmen fighting for their country, and may God and good St. Edward aid us in doing battle for our young king and our ancient rights!”