many conquerors. Not only the English and the Danes, but also the
Normans were her conquerors in 1066 under William the Conqueror.
English story-telling, as, for example, Malory's "Morte d'Arthur,"
could never have been the same without the Norman or French influence.
If we pick up a handful of so-called English words, we shall see that
some of these words are English, others are French, and still others
Latin in their origin. But the Norman spoke French only for a while in
England. He soon left the speaking and writing of French for that of
English. However, there are many beautiful words, many strong words,
many words of customs and manners which we should not find in the Great
Palace of English Literature but for the conquerors who came to England.
There are several manuscripts in which the story of Havelok is found.
But the one which is written in an English dialect shows best how old
the story is.
* * * * *
There was a King whose name was Aethelwold, whose only heir was a tiny
little girl. And the little girl's name was Goldborough. Alas, the King
found he must die and leave his little girl fatherless! So he called to
him the wisest and mightiest of his earls. The name of this Earl was
Godrich. And the King made the Earl promise that he would guard his
little girl until she was twenty years old, and that then he would give
her in marriage to the fairest and strongest man alive.
But when the Earl Godrich saw how lovely little Goldborough was going
to be, and knew that he would have to give up the kingdom to her before
long, he was angry, and took her from Winchester to Dover on the
English seacoast and shut little Goldborough up in a castle so that she
could not get out.
In Denmark, just about this time, there lived a King whose name was
Birkabeyn who had one boy and two sweet little girls. He, too, realized
that he had to die. So he called to him his wisest Earl, a man by the
name of Godard, and charged him to care for his children until Havelok,
the boy, was old enough to rule the land. But this wicked Earl shut
little Swanborow and Helfled up in a castle and had them killed.
And Godard was just about to kill Havelok, too, when he bethought him
he would have somebody else do this terrible deed. The wicked Earl sent
for a fisherman who would, he knew, do his will.
"Grim," said the wicked Earl, "to-morrow I will make thee rich if thou
wilt take this child and throw him into the sea to-night."
Grim took the boy Havelok and bound him and gagged him and took him
home in a black bag. When Grim carried the sack into his cottage, Dame
Leve, his wife, was so frightened that she dropped the sack her husband
had handed to her, and cracked poor little Havelok's head against a
stone.
They let the boy lie this way until midnight, when it would be dark
enough for Grim to drown Havelok in the sea. Leve was just bringing
Grim some clothes that he might put on to go out and drown the King's
son, when they saw a light shining about the child.
"What is this light?" cried Dame Leve. "Rise up, Grim."
In haste the fisherman rose and they went over to the child, about
whose head shone a clear light, from whose mouth came rays of light
like sunbeams. It was as if many candles were burning in that tiny
fisherman's hut. They unbound the boy and they found on his right
shoulder a king's mark, bright and fair like the lights.
They were overcome by what Godard had done and had almost led them to
do. They fell upon their knees before the little boy and promised to
feed and clothe him. And so they did, and they were very good to him
and kept him from all harm. But Grim and his wife became frightened,
for fear that Godard would discover that they had not drowned the
child and would hang them. Thereupon Grim sold all that he had, sheep,
cow, horse, pigs, goat, geese, hens--everything, in short, that was
his. Taking his money, he put his wife, his three little sons, and two
pretty little girls and Havelok into his fishing-boat and they set sail
for England.
[Illustration: HENRY III. SAILING HOME FROM GASCONY,
1243 Drawn by Matthew Paris _MS. Roy. 14 C. vii_]
The north wind blew and drove them down upon the coast of England near
the river Humber, and there Grim landed, and the place is called
Grimsby to this day. Then Grim set himself to his old occupation of
fishing, and he caught sturgeon, whale, turbot, salmon, seal, porpoise,
mackerel, flounder, plaice, and thornback. And he and his sons carried
the fish about in baskets and sold them.
Yet while Grim fed his family well, Havelok lay at home and did naught.
And when Havelok stopped to think about that, he was ashamed, for he
was a fine, strong boy.
"Work is no shame," said the King's son to himself.
And the next day he carried to market as much fish as four men could.
And every bit of fish did he sell and brought back the money, keeping
not a farthing for himself. Alas! there came a famine about this time,
and Grim had great fear on Havelok's account lest the boy starve.
"Havelok," said Grim, "our meat is long since gone. For myself it does
not matter, but I fear for thee. Thou knowest how to get to Lincoln,
and there they will give thee a chance to earn thy food. Since thou art
naked, I will make thee a coat from my sail."
This he did, and with the coat on and barefoot the King's son found his
way to Lincoln. For two days the lad had no food. On the third day he
heard some one crying, "Bearing-men, bearing-men, come here!" Havelok
leaped forward to the Earl's cook and bore the food to the castle.
Another time he lifted a whole cart-load of fish and bore it to the
castle.
The cook looked him over and said: "Wilt thou work for me? I will feed
thee gladly."
"Feed me," answered Havelok, "and I will make thy fire burn and wash
thy dishes."
And because Havelok was a strong lad and a good boy, as all kings' sons
are not, he worked hard from that day forth. He bore all the food in
and carried all the wood and the water, and worked as hard as if he
were a beast. And he was a merry lad, too, for he knew how to hide his
griefs. And the old story says that all who saw him loved him, for he
was meek and strong and fair. But still he had nothing but the wretched
coat to wear. So the cook took pity on him and bought him span-new
clothes and gave him stockings and shoes. And when he had put them on
he looked the King's son he was. At the Lincoln games he was "like a
mast," taller and straighter than any youth there. In wrestling he
overcame every one. Yet he was known for his gentleness. Never before
had Havelok seen stone-putting, but when his master told him to try,
Havelok threw the stone twelve feet beyond what any one else could do.
The story of the stone-putting was being told in castle and hall when
Earl Godrich heard it, and said to himself that here was the tallest,
strongest, and fairest man alive, and he would fulfil his promise and
get rid of Goldborough, the King's daughter, by giving her to Havelok,
whom he thought to be just a cook's boy. Now Havelok did not wish to
marry any more than did Goldborough, but they were forced to. And when
they were married Havelok knew not whither they could go, for he saw
that Godrich hated them and that their lives were not safe.
Therefore they went on foot to Grimsby, and royal was their welcome.
Grim, the fisherman, had died.
But his five children fell on their knees and said: "Welcome, dear
lord. Stay here and all is thine."
And that night as they lay on their bed in the fisherman's hut,
Goldborough discovered, because of the bright light which came from the
mouth of Havelok, that he was a King's son. And it was not long after
this they all set sail for Denmark, so that Havelok, with the help of
Grim's sons and many others, might win back the kingdom of Denmark.
It was in the house of Bernard Brown, the magistrate of the Danish
town, that sixty strong thieves, clad in wide sleeves and closed capes,
attacked him. Bernard Brown seized an ax and leaped to the door to
defend his home.
One of the thieves shouted at him, "We will go in at this door despite
thee."
And he broke the door asunder with a boulder. Whereupon Havelok took
the great bar from across the door. And with the bar he slew several,
yet the thieves had wounded him in many places, when Grim's sons came
upon the scene to defend their lord and saw the thieves treating
Havelok as a smith does his anvil. Like madmen the three sons of Grim
leaped into the fight, and they fought until not one of the thieves was
left alive.
When Earl Ubbe heard of this he rode down to Bernard Brown's. Then he
heard the story of Havelok's bravery and of the terrible wounds he had
received, so that Bernard Brown feared he might die because of them.
"Fetch Havelok quickly," commanded Ubbe. "If he can be healed, I myself
will dub him knight."
When a leech saw the wounds of Havelok he told Ubbe that they could be
cured.
"Come forth now," said Ubbe to Havelok, "thou and Goldborough and thy
three servants."
And with rejoicing did Ubbe bring them to his city. And about the
middle of the night Ubbe saw a great light in the tower where Havelok
was sleeping. He peered through a crack and he saw that the "sunny
gleam" came from Havelok's mouth. It was as if a hundred and seven
candles were burning, and on Havelok's shoulder was a clear, shining
cross.
"He is Birkabeyn's heir," said Ubbe, "for never in Denmark was brother
so like to brother as this fair man is like the dead King."
And Earl Ubbe and his men fell at Havelok's feet and awoke him. And
very happy was Havelok, and thankful to God. And then came barons and
warriors and thanes and knights and common men, and all swore fealty to
Havelok. With a bright sword Ubbe dubbed Havelok knight and made him
King. And the three sons of Grim were also made knights. Thereat were
all men happy, and they wrestled and played, played the harp and the
pipe, read romances from a book, and sang old tales. There was every
sort of sport and plenty of food.
Finally they all, a thousand knights and five thousand men, set forth
that Havelok might take vengeance on the wicked Earl Godard. There was
a hard fight, but at last they caught and bound Earl Godard. And he
was hung on the gallows and died there. Such was the end of one who
betrayed his trust.
The wicked Earl Godrich in England, who had robbed Goldborough of her
kingdom, heard that Havelok was become King of Denmark and also that
he was come to Grimsby. So he gathered all his army together and there
was a great battle. And the battle was going against Havelok, when the
wicked hand of Godrich was struck off. After that Havelok and his men
were victorious. Then did they condemn the Earl Godrich to death. And
he was bound to an ass and led through London and burned at the stake.
Such was the end of one who betrayed his trust.
And after that Havelok and Goldborough reigned in England for sixty
years. So great was the love of the King and Queen for each other that
all marveled at it. Neither was happy away from the other. And never
were they angry, for their love for each other was always new.
VIII
THE WEREWOLF
In the Great Palace of English Literature over one of the golden doors
hangs a horn of ivory, and a sword of which the name is Durendal.
Above that door is written _Chanson de Roland_, which means the Song
of Roland. Often in the stillness of the early morning or at dusk the
Great Palace rings faintly with the music from that ivory horn which
belonged to Roland, and which he sounded for the last time in the Pass
of Roncevaux. Or there is heard the clinking of Durendal against the
stone of the palace walls--no doubt the wind stirring it where it hangs
beside the door it guards.
"Chanson de Roland!" You see the story is French. The Normans brought
it with them when they came to conquer Britain in 1066 under William of
Normandy. Before the soldiers of William, the minstrel, Taillefer, rode
singing of "Charlemagne, and of Roland, and of Oliver, and the vassals
who fell at Roncevaux."
"Roland, comrade," said Oliver, "blow thy horn of ivory, and Charles
shall hear it and bring hither again his army, and ... succor us."
"Nay, first will I lay on with Durendal, the good sword girded at my
side."
"Roland, comrade," urged Oliver, "blow thy horn of ivory, that Charles
may hear it."
"God forbid that they should say I sounded my horn for dread of the
heathen."
"Prithee look!" begged Oliver. "They are close upon us. Thou wouldst
not deign to sound thy horn of ivory. Were the King here we should
suffer no hurt."
Oliver was wise and Roland was brave, and the song that the minstrel
Taillefer chanted before the conquering hosts of William of Normandy
was a wonderful, stirring song. No doubt there flows in English veins
to-day much of the courage of Roland and the wisdom of Oliver. Although
the English continued English, yet for a long time following the
conquest of England by the Normans songs were sung in French rather
than in English. And ready and witty was all that was written down in
French, for the literature of the Normans was as brightly colored as
a jewel and not grand and melancholy as was that of the Anglo-Saxons.
"Beowulf" was the battle song of the Anglo-Saxons, the "Song of Roland"
that of the Normans. Melancholy was the poem of "Beowulf." White
and clear, stirring and flashing in the sunshine was the "Chanson
de Roland," even as Roland's beloved sword Durendal, which is heard
clinking against the stone of the Great Palace of English Literature.
But "Roland" represented only a fraction of the story-telling in
the French poetry of that time. The most exquisite and delightful
story-teller of that twelfth century collected and wrote here charming
stories on English soil and dedicated them to Henry II., who died in
1189. Her name was Marie de France, and of her lays a rival poet wrote:
All love them much and hold them dear,
Baron, count and chevalier,
Applaud their form and take delight
To hear them told by day and night.
In chief, these tales the ladies please;
They listen glad their hearts to ease.
Marie de France's lays are based on British tradition. There are many
of these delightful stories. Among the most interesting of them is "The
Werewolf."
* * * * *
Once upon a time in the days of King Arthur--for later there are some
lines in Malory's "Morte d'Arthur" which tells us that this story
must have been true--there lived a man who for part of the week was a
wolf--that is, he had the form and the appetite of a wolf, and was
called a werewolf. But nobody knew that he was a werewolf for three
days in the week. Not even his wife, whom he loved well and devotedly,
knew what happened to her husband while he was away from her these
three days every week.
It vexed the wife very much that she did not know, but she was afraid
to question her husband, lest he be angry. At last one day she did
question him.
"Ask me no more," replied the husband, "for if I answered you you would
cease to love me."
Nevertheless she gave him no peace until he had told her that three
days in the week, because of a spell which was over him, he was forced
to be a werewolf, and that when he felt the change coming over him he
hid himself in the very thickest part of the forest.
Then the wife demanded to know what became of his clothes, and he
answered that he laid them aside. The wife asked where he put them. He
begged her not to ask him, for only the garments made it possible for
him to return to human shape again. But the wife cried and begged until
the knight, her husband, had told her all.
"Wife," he said, "inside the forest on a crossroad is a chapel. Near
the chapel under a shrub is a stone. Beneath the stone is a hole,
and in that hole do I hide my clothes until the enchantment makes it
possible for me to take my human shape again."
Now the wife was not a good wife. Instead of trying to help her husband
to get free from the wolf shape he had to assume three days in every
week, thereafter she loathed him and was afraid of him. And what is
worse still, she betrayed him to another knight. She took this other
knight into her confidence and told him where her husband hid his
clothes when the spell came upon him and he took the form of a wolf.
Thereupon the knight to whom she had told this dreadful secret stole
the clothes, and they hid them where the poor wolf could never find
them again. After that these two wicked people were married, while the
poor wolf wandered about in the forest, grieving, for he had loved his
wife well and truly.
Some time after this the King was hunting one day in the forest, and
his hounds gave chase to a wolf. At last, when the wretched beast was
in danger of being overtaken by the hounds and torn into a thousand
pieces, he fled to the King, seized him by the stirrup, and licked his
foot submissively.
The King was astonished. He called his companions, and they drove off
the dogs, for the King would not have the wolf harmed. But when they
started to leave the forest the wolf followed the King and would not be
driven away. The King was much pleased, for he had taken a great liking
to the wolf. He therefore made a pet of the lonely beast, and at night
he slept in the King's own chamber. All the courtiers came to love the
wolf, too, for he was a gentle wolf and did no one any harm.
A long time had passed when one day the King had occasion to hold a
court. His barons came from far and near, and among them the knight
who had betrayed the werewolf. No sooner did the wolf see him than he
sprang at him to kill him. And had the King not called the wolf off he
would have torn the false knight to pieces. Every one was astonished
that this gentle beast should show such rage. But after the court was
over and as time went on they forgot the beast's savage act.
At length the King decided to make a tour throughout his kingdom. And
he took the wolf with him, for that was his custom. Now the werewolf's
false wife heard that the King was to spend some time in the part of
the country where she lived. So she begged for an audience. But no
sooner did she enter the presence-chamber than the wolf sprang at her
and bit off her nose.
The courtiers were going to slay the beast, but a wise man stayed their
weapons.
"Sire," said the councilor, "we have all caressed this wolf and he has
never done us any harm. This lady was the wife of a man you held dear,
but of whose fate we none of us know anything. Take my counsel and make
this lady answer your questions, so shall we come to know why the wolf
sprang at her."
This was done. The false knight who had married her was brought also,
and they told all the wickedness they had done to the poor wolf. Then
the King caused the wolf's stolen clothes to be fetched. But the wolf
acted as if he did not see the clothes.
"Sire," said the councilor, "if this beast is a werewolf he will not
change back into his human shape until he is alone."
They left him alone in the King's chamber, and put the clothes beside
him. Then they waited for a long time. Lo, when they entered the
chamber again, there lay the long-lost knight in a deep sleep on the
King's bed! Quickly did the King run to him and embrace him, and
after that he restored to him all his lost lands, and he banished
the false wife and her second husband from the country. And they who
were banished lived in a strange land, and all the girls among their
children and grandchildren were without noses.
* * * * *
So close we this little golden door--not the less precious because
little--over which is written in letters all boys and girls should
love: _Marie de France_, who wrote "The Werewolf."
IX
AT GEOFFREY'S WINDOW
Among all the golden doors in the Great Palace of English Literature
about which we are coming to know something, and through some of which
we have already passed, there was one golden window on the stairway
of the palace. This window on the stairway of the palace looked out
upon a busy town and down upon the windings of the river Wye, and off
upon hills and upon the ruins of a wonderful old abbey called Tintern
Abbey, about which, some six hundred years later, an English poet
called William Wordsworth was to write a poem called "Tintern Abbey."
Wordsworth wrote "We Are Seven," and also this little poem about a
butterfly:
I've watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! Not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees
And calls you forth again.
This plot of orchard ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days when we were young;
Sweet childish days that were as long
As twenty days are now.
But the golden window at which Geoffrey sat was in Monmouth, and he was
called Geoffrey of Monmouth. That was some seven hundred years ago. No
doubt the little town was very busy even in 1137 when Geoffrey sat at
his window and wrote his famous chronicle called _British History_.
Before Geoffrey began to write down his marvelous stories, other
stories and poems were written. In King Alfred's time, when the home of
English literature was shifted from the north to the south, two fine
battle songs were written. They were the "Song of Brunanburh" and the
"Song of the Fight at Maldon." These were written in the tenth century.
"The Charge of the Light Brigade," composed some eight hundred years
later by the poet Tennyson, is like these old songs in its short, rapid
lines and in its thought. Every one should learn these lines from the
poem Alfred Tennyson wrote:
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
But we have been long enough away from that golden window by which
Geoffrey of Monmouth sat and wrote his immortal stories. Geoffrey
was called a chronicler. And what he was supposed to be doing was
jotting down accurately historical events year after year. Some of the
chronicles written in this way have become the chief sources of English
history. Among the men who wrote these chronicles were William of
Malmesbury and Matthew Paris. And between them came Geoffrey himself.
It will never be known, unless it should prove possible to roll time
back some seven hundred years, just what Geoffrey did see from his
window as he looked out upon the busy town of Monmouth, or all that
went on in his nimble mind. In any event it is plain that he had the
best of good times inventing or retelling stories in his chronicle.
There is to be found the story of King Lear and his three daughters,
Regan, Goneril, and Cordelia--Lear, the hero of Shakespeare's play,
"King Lear," written over four hundred years later. There, too, is
the story of Ferrex and Porrex. Geoffrey had a nimble quill pen with
which to follow his nimble wit. He writes of Julius Cæsar and of
how he came to Great Britain. What Geoffrey of Monmouth says may be
ridiculous enough in the light of history, but there it is, and there
is Cæsar himself, not only looking upon the coast of Britain but
actually standing upon it. We become familiar, too, with many names
known in stories about King Arthur. Perceval is one of these. And Uther
Pendragon, who was the father of King Arthur, is another.
One of the marvelous facts about Geoffrey is that when he looked out
of that golden window he could see so much farther than just Monmouth.
He could see all the way to the sea, and on its shores that beautiful
city Tintagel, where Queen Igraine, the mother of Arthur, lived. But in
Geoffrey's chronicle she was called Igerna. A name is sometimes like a
long, long journey, not only in its romance, but also because it takes
you to other lands and other people, and passes, even as the road upon
a long journey, through many changes.
* * * * *
Geoffrey saw from his golden window not only Tintagel, that beautiful
South Welsh city by the sea, but also a little village in North Wales
called Beddgelert. This little village is set down in the midst of
mountains like a lump of sugar in the bottom of a deep cup. Outside
this little village is a hill called Dinas Emrys. Geoffrey looked
northward out of his golden window in Monmouth, and what do you think
he saw? He saw the magician, Merlin, the youth who had never had a
father. And this lad was quarreling with another lad in Caernarvon, a
Welsh city thirteen miles away from the little village of Beddgelert.
Now Vortigern had been attempting to build a tower on Dinas Emrys, but
whatever the workmen did one day was swallowed up the next.