The next morning William was long closeted alone with Lanfranc,--that
man, among the most remarkable of his age, of whom it was said, that
"to comprehend the extent of his talents, one must be Herodian in
grammar, Aristotle in dialectics, Cicero in rhetoric, Augustine and
Jerome in Scriptural lore," [66]--and ere the noon the Duke's gallant
and princely train were ordered to be in readiness for return home.
The crowd in the broad space, and the citizens from their boats in the
river, gazed on the knights and steeds of that gorgeous company,
already drawn up and awaiting without the open gates the sound of the
trumpets that should announce the Duke's departure. Before the hall-
door in the inner court were his own men. The snow-white steed of
Odo; the alezan of Fitzosborne; and, to the marvel of all, a small
palfrey plainly caparisoned. What did that palfrey amid those
steeds?--the steeds themselves seemed to chafe at the companionship;
the Duke's charger pricked up his ears and snorted; the Lord of
Breteuil's alezan kicked out, as the poor nag humbly drew near to make
acquaintance; and the prelate's white barb, with red vicious eye, and
ears laid down, ran fiercely at the low-bred intruder, with difficulty
reined in by the squires, who shared the beast's amaze and resentment.
Meanwhile the Duke thoughtfully took his way to Edward's apartments.
In the anteroom were many monks and many knights; but conspicuous
amongst them all was a tall and stately veteran, leaning on a great
two-handed sword, and whose dress and fashion of beard were those of
the last generation, the men who had fought with Canute the Great or
Edmund Ironsides. So grand was the old man's aspect, and so did he
contrast in appearance the narrow garb and shaven chins of those
around, that the Duke was roused from his reverie at the sight, and
marvelling why one, evidently a chief of high rank, had neither graced
the banquet in his honour, nor been presented to his notice, he turned
to the Earl of Hereford, who approached him with gay salutation, and
inquired the name and title of the bearded man in the loose flowing
robe.
"Know you not, in truth?" said the lively Earl, in some wonder. "In
him you see the great rival of Godwin. He is the hero of the Danes,
as Godwin is of the Saxons, a true son of Odin, Siward, Earl of the
Northumbrians." [67]
"Norse Dame be my aid,--his fame hath oft filled my ears, and I should
have lost the most welcome sight in merrie England had I not now
beheld him."
Therewith, the Duke approached courteously, and, doffing the cap he
had hitherto retained, he greeted the old hero with those compliments
which the Norman had already learned in the courts of the Frank.
The stout Earl received them coldly, and replying in Danish to
William's Romance-tongue, he said:
"Pardon, Count of the Normans, if these old lips cling to their old
words. Both of us, methinks, date our lineage from the lands of the
Norse. Suffer Siward to speak the language the sea-kings spoke. The
old oak is not to be transplanted, and the old man keeps the ground
where his youth took root."
The Duke, who with some difficulty comprehended the general meaning of
Siward's speech, bit his lip, but replied courteously:
"The youths of all nations may learn from renowned age. Much doth it
shame me that I cannot commune with thee in the ancestral tongue; but
the angels at least know the language of the Norman Christian, and I
pray them and the saints for a calm end to thy brave career."
"Pray not to angel or saint for Siward son of Beorn," said the old man
hastily; "let me not have a cow's death, but a warrior's; die in my
mail of proof, axe in hand, and helm on head. And such may be my
death, if Edward the King reads my rede and grants my prayer."
"I have influence with the King," said William; "name thy wish, that I
may back it."
"The fiend forfend," said the grim Earl, "that a foreign prince should
sway England's King, or that thegn and earl should ask other backing
than leal service and just cause. If Edward be the saint men call
him, he will loose me on the hell-wolf, without other cry than his own
conscience."
The Duke turned inquiringly to Rolf; who, thus appealed to, said:
"Siward urges my uncle to espouse the cause of Malcolm of Cumbria
against the bloody tyrant Macbeth; and but for the disputes with the
traitor Godwin, the King had long since turned his arms to Scotland."
"Call not traitors, young man," said the Earl, in high disdain, "those
who, with all their faults and crimes, have placed thy kinsman on the
throne of Canute."
"Hush, Rolf," said the Duke, observing the fierce young Norman about
to reply hastily. "But methought, though my knowledge of English
troubles is but scant, that Siward was the sworn foe to Godwin?"
"Foe to him in his power, friend to him in his wrongs," answered
Siward. "And if England needs defenders when I and Godwin are in our
shrouds, there is but one man worthy of the days of old, and his name
is Harold, the outlaw."
William's face changed remarkably, despite all his dissimulation; and,
with a slight inclination of his head, he strode on moody and
irritated.
"This Harold! this Harold!" he muttered to himself, "all brave men
speak to me of this Harold! Even my Norman knights name him with
reluctant reverence, and even his foes do him honour;--verily his
shadow is cast from exile over all the land."
Thus murmuring, he passed the throng with less than his wonted affable
grace, and pushing back the officers who wished to precede him,
entered, without ceremony, Edward's private chamber.
The King was alone, but talking loudly to himself, gesticulating
vehemently, and altogether so changed from his ordinary placid apathy
of mien, that William drew back in alarm and awe. Often had he heard
indirectly, that of late years Edward was said to see visions, and be
rapt from himself into the world of spirit and shadow; and such, he
now doubted not, was the strange paroxysm of which he was made the
witness. Edward's eyes were fixed on him, but evidently without
recognising his presence; the King's hands were outstretched, and he
cried aloud in a voice of sharp anguish:
"Sanguelac, Sanguelac!--the Lake of Blood!--the waves spread, the
waves redden! Mother of mercy--where is the ark?--where the Ararat?--
Fly--fly--this way--this--" and he caught convulsive hold of William's
arm. "No! there the corpses are piled--high and higher--there the
horse of the Apocalypse tramples the dead in their gore."
In great horror, William took the King, now gasping on his breast, in
his arms, and laid him on his bed, beneath its canopy of state, all
blazoned with the martlets and cross of his insignia. Slowly Edward
came to himself, with heavy sighs; and when at length he sate up and
looked round, it was with evident unconsciousness of what had passed
across his haggard and wandering spirit, for he said, with his usual
drowsy calmness:
"Thanks, Guillaume, bien aime, for rousing me from unseasoned sleep.
How fares it with thee?"
"Nay, how with thee, dear friend and king? thy dreams have been
troubled."
"Not so; I slept so heavily, methinks I could not have dreamed at all.
But thou art clad as for a journey--spur on thy heel, staff in thy
hand!"
"Long since, O dear host, I sent Odo to tell thee of the ill news from
Normandy that compelled me to depart."
"I remember--I remember me now," said Edward, passing his pale womanly
fingers over his forehead. "The heathen rage against thee. Ah! my
poor brother, a crown is an awful head-gear. While yet time, why not
both seek some quiet convent, and put away these earthly cares?"
William smiled and shook his head. "Nay, holy Edward, from all I have
seen of convents, it is a dream to think that the monk's serge hides a
calmer breast than the warrior's mail, or the king's ermine. Now give
me thy benison, for I go."
He knelt as he spoke, and Edward bent his hands over his head, and
blessed him. Then, taking from his own neck a collar of zimmes
(jewels and uncut gems), of great price, the King threw it over the
broad throat bent before him, and rising, clapped his hands. A small
door opened, giving a glimpse of the oratory within, and a monk
appeared.
"Father, have my behests been fulfilled?--hath Hugoline, my treasurer,
dispensed the gifts that I spoke of?"
"Verily yes; vault, coffer, and garde-robe--stall and meuse.-are well
nigh drained," answered the monk, with a sour look at the Norman,
whose native avarice gleamed in his dark eyes as he heard the answer.
"Thy train go not hence empty-handed," said Edward fondly. "Thy
father's halls sheltered the exile, and the exile forgets not the sole
pleasure of a king--the power to requite. We may never meet again,
William,--age creeps over me, and who will succeed to my thorny
throne?" William longed to answer,--to tell the hope that consumed
him,--to remind his cousin of the vague promise in their youth, that
the Norman Count should succeed to that "thorny throne:" but the
presence of the Saxon monk repelled him, nor was there in Edward's
uneasy look much to allure him on.
"But peace," continued the King, "be between thine and mine, as
between thee and me!"
"Amen," said the Duke, "and I leave thee at least free from the proud
rebels who so long disturbed thy reign. This House of Godwin, thou
wilt not again let it tower above thy palace?"
"Nay, the future is with God and his saints;" answered Edward, feebly.
"But Godwin is old--older than I, and bowed by many storms."
"Ay, his sons are more to be dreaded and kept aloof--mostly Harold!"
"Harold,--he was ever obedient, he alone of his kith; truly my soul
mourns for Harold," said the King, sighing.
"The serpent's egg hatches but the serpent. Keep thy heel on it,"
said William, sternly.
"Thou speakest well," said the irresolute prince, who never seemed
three days or three minutes together in the same mind. "Harold is in
Ireland--there let him rest: better for all."
"For all," said the Duke; "so the saints keep thee, O royal saint!"
He kissed the King's hand, and strode away to the hall where Odo,
Fitzosborne, and the priest Lanfranc awaited him. And so that day,
halfway towards the fair town of Dover, rode Duke William, and by the
side of his roan barb ambled the priest's palfrey.
Behind came his gallant train, and with tumbrils and sumpter-mules
laden with baggage, and enriched by Edward's gifts; while Welch hawks,
and steeds of great price from the pastures of Surrey and the plains
of Cambridge and York, attested no less acceptably than zimme, and
golden chain, and embroidered robe, the munificence of the grateful
King. [68]
As they journeyed on, and the fame of the Duke's coming was sent
abroad by the bodes or messengers, despatched to prepare the towns
through which he was to pass for an arrival sooner than expected, the
more highborn youths of England, especially those of the party counter
to that of the banished Godwin, came round the ways to gaze upon that
famous chief, who, from the age of fifteen, had wielded the most
redoubtable sword of Christendom. And those youths wore the Norman
garb: and in the towns, Norman counts held his stirrup to dismount,
and Norman hosts spread the fastidious board; and when, at the eve of
the next day, William saw the pennon of one of his own favourite
chiefs waving in the van of armed men, that sallied forth from the
towers of Dover (the key of the coast) he turned to the Lombard, still
by his side, and said:
"Is not England part of Normandy already?"
And the Lombard answered:
"The fruit is well nigh ripe, and the first breeze will shake it to
thy feet. Put not out thy hand too soon. Let the wind do its work."
And the Duke made reply:
"As thou thinkest, so think I. And there is but one wind in the halls
of heaven that can waft the fruit to the feet of another."
"And that?" asked the Lombard.
"Is the wind that blows from the shores of Ireland, when it fills the
sails of Harold, son of Godwin."
"Thou fearest that man, and why?" asked the Lombard with interest.
And the Duke answered:
"Because in the breast of Harold beats the heart of England."