It was a warm, dark winter day with the Sou’-West wind singing through
Dallington Forest, and the woods below the Beacon. The children set
out after dinner to find old Hobden, who had a three months’ job in
the Rough at the back of Pound’s Wood. He had promised to get them a
dormouse in its nest. The bright leaf Still clung to the beech coppice;
the long chestnut leaves lay orange on the ground, and the rides were
speckled with scarlet-lipped sprouting acorns. They worked their way by
their own short cuts to the edge of Pound’s Wood, and heard a horse’s
feet just as they came to the beech where Ridley the keeper hangs up the
vermin. The poor little fluffy bodies dangled from the branches--some
perfectly good, but most of them dried to twisted strips.
‘Three more owls,’ said Dan, counting. ‘Two stoats, four jays, and a
kestrel. That’s ten since last week. Ridley’s a beast.’
‘In my time this sort of tree bore heavier fruit.’ Sir Richard
Dalyngridge reined up his grey horse, Swallow, in the ride behind them.
[This is the Norman knight they met the year before in PUCK OF POOK’S
HILL. See ‘Young Men at the Manor,’ ‘The Knights of the Joyous Venture,’
and ‘Old Men at Pevensey,’ in that book.] ‘What play do you make?’ he
asked.
‘Nothing, Sir. We’re looking for old Hobden,’ Dan replied.’He promised to
get us a sleeper.’
‘Sleeper? A DORMEUSE, do you say?’
‘Yes, a dormouse, Sir.’ ‘I understand. I passed a woodman on the low
grounds. Come!’ He wheeled up the ride again, and pointed through an
opening to the patch of beech-stubs, chestnut, hazel, and birch that
old Hobden would turn into firewood, hop-poles, pea-boughs, and
house-faggots before spring. The old man was as busy as a beaver.
Something laughed beneath a thorn, and Puck stole out, his finger on his
lip.
‘Look!’ he whispered. ‘Along between the spindle-trees. Ridley has been
there this half-hour.’
The children followed his point, and saw Ridley the keeper in an old dry
ditch, watching Hobden as a cat watches a mouse.
‘Huhh!’ cried Una. ‘Hobden always ‘tends to his wires before breakfast.
He puts his rabbits into the faggots he’s allowed to take home. He’ll
tell us about ‘em tomorrow.’
‘We had the same breed in my day,’ Sir Richard replied, and moved off
quietly, Puck at his bridle, the children on either side between the
close-trimmed beech stuff.
‘What did you do to them?’ said Dan, as they repassed Ridley’s terrible
tree.
‘That!’ Sir Richard jerked his head toward the dangling owls.
‘Not he!’ said Puck. ‘There was never enough brute Norman in you to hang
a man for taking a buck.’
‘I--I cannot abide to hear their widows screech. But why am I on
horseback while you are afoot?’ He dismounted lightly, tapped Swallow
on the chest, so that the wise thing backed instead of turning in the
narrow ride, and put himself at the head of the little procession. He
walked as though all the woods belonged to him. ‘I have often told my
friends,’ he went on, ‘that Red William the King was not the only Norman
found dead in a forest while he hunted.’
‘D’you mean William Rufus?’ said Dan.
‘Yes,’ said Puck, kicking a clump of red toad-stools off a dead log.
‘For example, there was a knight new from Normandy,’ Sir Richard went
on, ‘to whom Henry our King granted a manor in Kent near by. He chose
to hang his forester’s son the day before a deer-hunt that he gave to
pleasure the King.’
‘Now when would that be?’ said Puck, and scratched an ear thoughtfully.
‘The summer of the year King Henry broke his brother Robert of Normandy
at Tenchebrai fight. Our ships were even then at Pevensey loading for
the war.’
‘What happened to the knight?’ Dan asked.
‘They found him pinned to an ash, three arrows through his leather coat.
I should have worn mail that day.’
‘And did you see him all bloody?’ Dan continued.
‘Nay, I was with De Aquila at Pevensey, counting horseshoes, and
arrow-sheaves, and ale-barrels into the holds of the ships. The army
only waited for our King to lead them against Robert in Normandy, but
he sent word to De Aquila that he would hunt with him here before he set
out for France.’
‘Why did the King want to hunt so particularly?’ Una demanded.
‘If he had gone straight to France after the Kentish knight was killed,
men would have said he feared being slain like the knight. It was
his duty to show himself debonair to his English people as it was De
Aquila’s duty to see that he took no harm while he did it, But it was
a great burden! De Aquila, Hugh, and I ceased work on the ships, and
scoured all the Honour of the Eagle--all De Aquila’s lands--to make a
fit, and, above all, a safe sport for our King. Look!’
The ride twisted, and came out on the top of Pound’s Hill Wood. Sir
Richard pointed to the swells of beautiful, dappled Dallington, that
showed like a woodcock’s breast up the valley. ‘Ye know the forest?’
said he.
‘You ought to see the bluebells there in Spring!’ said Una. ‘I have
seen,’ said Sir Richard, gazing, and stretched out his hand. ‘Hugh’s
work and mine was first to move the deer gently from all parts into
Dallington yonder, and there to hold them till the King came. Next, we
must choose some three hundred beaters to drive the deer to the stands
within bowshot of the King. Here was our trouble! In the mellay of a
deer-drive a Saxon peasant and a Norman King may come over-close to each
other. The conquered do not love their conquerors all at once. So we
needed sure men, for whom their village or kindred would answer in life,
cattle, and land if any harm come to the King. Ye see?’
‘If one of the beaters shot the King,’ said Puck, ‘Sir Richard wanted to
be able to punish that man’s village. Then the village would take care
to send a good man.’
‘So! So it was. But, lest our work should be too easy, the King had done
such a dread justice over at Salehurst, for the killing of the Kentish
knight (twenty-six men he hanged, as I heard), that our folk were half
mad with fear before we began. It is easier to dig out a badger gone to
earth than a Saxon gone dumb-sullen. And atop of their misery the
old rumour waked that Harold the Saxon was alive and would bring them
deliverance from us Normans. This has happened every autumn since
Santlache fight.’
‘But King Harold was killed at Hastings,’ said Una.
‘So it was said, and so it was believed by us Normans, but our Saxons
always believed he would come again. That rumour did not make our work
any more easy.’
Sir Richard strode on down the far slope of the wood, where the trees
thin out. It was fascinating to watch how he managed his long spurs
among the lumps of blackened ling.
‘But we did it!’ he said. ‘After all, a woman is as good as a man to
beat the woods, and the mere word that deer are afoot makes cripples and
crones young again. De Aquila laughed when Hugh told him over the list
of beaters. Half were women; and many of the rest were clerks--Saxon and
Norman priests.
‘Hugh and I had not time to laugh for eight days, till De Aquila,
as Lord of Pevensey, met our King and led him to the first
shooting-stand--by the Mill on the edge of the forest. Hugh and I--it
was no work for hot heads or heavy hands--lay with our beaters on the
skirts of Dallington to watch both them and the deer. When De Aquila’s
great horn blew we went forward, a line half a league long. Oh, to see
the fat clerks, their gowns tucked up, puffing and roaring, and the
sober millers dusting the under-growth with their staves; and, like as
not, between them a Saxon wench, hand in hand with her man, shrilling
like a kite as she ran, and leaping high through the fern, all for joy
of the sport.’ ‘Ah! How! Ah! How! How-ah! Sa-how-ah!’ Puck bellowed
without warning, and Swallow bounded forward, ears cocked, and nostrils
cracking.
‘Hal-lal-lal-lal-la-hai-ie!’ Sir Richard answered in a high clear shout.
The two voices joined in swooping circles of sound, and a heron rose out
of a red osier-bed below them, circling as though he kept time to the
outcry. Swallow quivered and swished his glorious tail. They stopped
together on the same note.
A hoarse shout answered them across the bare woods.
‘That’s old Hobden,’ said Una.
‘Small blame to him. It is in his blood,’ said Puck. ‘Did your beaters
cry so, Sir Richard?’
‘My faith, they forgot all else. (Steady, Swallow, steady!) They forgot
where the King and his people waited to shoot. They followed the deer to
the very edge of the open till the first flight of wild arrows from the
stands flew fair over them.
‘I cried, “‘Ware shot! ‘Ware shot!” and a knot of young knights new from
Normandy, that had strayed away from the Grand Stand, turned about, and
in mere sport loosed off at our line shouting: “‘Ware Santlache arrows!
‘Ware Santlache arrows!” A jest, I grant you, but too sharp. One of our
beaters answered in Saxon: “‘Ware New Forest arrows! ‘Ware Red William’s
arrow!” so I judged it time to end the jests, and when the boys saw my
old mail gown (for, to shoot with strangers I count the same as war),
they ceased shooting. So that was smoothed over, and we gave our beaters
ale to wash down their anger. They were excusable! We--they had
sweated to show our guests good sport, and our reward was a flight
of hunting-arrows which no man loves, and worse, a churl’s jibe over
hard-fought, fair-lost Hastings fight. So, before the next beat, Hugh
and I assembled and called the beaters over by name, to steady them. The
greater part we knew, but among the Netherfield men I saw an old, old
man, in the dress of a pilgrim.
‘The Clerk of Netherfield said he was well known by repute for twenty
years as a witless man that journeyed without rest to all the shrines of
England. The old man sits, Saxon fashion, head between fists. We Normans
rest the chin on the left palm. ‘“Who answers for him?” said I. “If he
fails in his duty, who will pay his fine?”
‘“Who will pay my fine?” the pilgrim said. “I have asked that of all the
Saints in England these forty years, less three months and nine days!
They have not answered!” When he lifted his thin face I saw he was
one-eyed, and frail as a rush. ‘“Nay, but, Father,” I said, “to whom
hast thou commended thyself-?” He shook his head, so I spoke in Saxon:
“Whose man art thou?”
‘“I think I have a writing from Rahere, the King’s jester,” said he
after a while. “I am, as I suppose, Rahere’s man.”
‘He pulled a writing from his scrip, and Hugh, coming up, read it.
‘It set out that the pilgrim was Rahere’s man, and that Rahere was the
King’s jester. There was Latin writ at the back.
‘“What a plague conjuration’s here?” said Hugh, turning it over.
“Pum-quum-sum oc-occ. Magic?”
‘“Black Magic,” said the Clerk of Netherfield (he had been a monk at
Battle). “They say Rahere is more of a priest than a fool and more of a
wizard than either. Here’s Rahere’s name writ, and there’s Rahere’s red
cockscomb mark drawn below for such as cannot read.” He looked slyly at
me.
‘“Then read it,” said I, “and show thy learning.” He was a vain little
man, and he gave it us after much mouthing.
‘“The charm, which I think is from Virgilius the Sorcerer, says: ‘When
thou art once dead, and Minos’ (which is a heathen judge) ‘has doomed
thee, neither cunning, nor speechcraft, nor good works will restore
thee!’ A terrible thing! It denies any mercy to a man’s soul!”
‘“Does it serve?” said the pilgrim, plucking at Hugh’s cloak. “Oh, man
of the King’s blood, does it cover me?”
‘Hugh was of Earl Godwin’s blood, and all Sussex knew it, though no
Saxon dared call him kingly in a Norman’s hearing. There can be but one
King.
‘“It serves,” said Hugh. “But the day will be long and hot. Better rest
here. We go forward now.”
‘“No, I will keep with thee, my kinsman,” he answered like a child. He
was indeed childish through great age.
‘The line had not moved a bowshot when De Aquila’s great horn blew for a
halt, and soon young Fulke--our false Fulke’s son--yes, the imp that
lit the straw in Pevensey Castle [See ‘Old Men at Pevensey’ in PUCK OF
POOK’S HILL.]--came thundering up a woodway.
‘“Uncle,” said he (though he was a man grown, he called me Uncle),
“those young Norman fools who shot at you this morn are saying that
your beaters cried treason against the King. It has come to Harry’s long
ears, and he bids you give account of it. There are heavy fines in his
eye, but I am with you to the hilt, Uncle!” ‘When the boy had fled back,
Hugh said to me: “It was Rahere’s witless man that cried, ‘’Ware Red
William’s arrow!’ I heard him, and so did the Clerk of Netherfield.”
‘“Then Rahere must answer to the King for his man,” said I. “Keep him by
you till I send,” and I hastened down.
‘The King was with De Aquila in the Grand Stand above Welansford down in
the valley yonder. His Court--knights and dames--lay glittering on the
edge of the glade. I made my homage, and Henry took it coldly. ‘“How
came your beaters to shout threats against me?” said he.
‘“The tale has grown,” I answered. “One old witless man cried out,
‘’Ware Red William’s arrow,’ when the young knights shot at our line. We
had two beaters hit.”
‘“I will do justice on that man,” he answered. “Who is his master?”
‘“He’s Rahere’s man,” said I.
‘“Rahere’s?” said Henry. “Has my fool a fool?”
‘I heard the bells jingle at the back of the stand, and a red leg waved
over it; then a black one. So, very slowly, Rahere the King’s jester
straddled the edge of the planks, and looked down on us, rubbing his
chin. Loose-knit, with cropped hair, and a sad priest’s face, under his
cockscomb cap, that he could twist like a strip of wet leather. His eyes
were hollow-set.
‘“Nay, nay, Brother,” said he. “If I suffer you to keep your fool, you
must e’en suffer me to keep mine.”
‘This he delivered slowly into the King’s angry face! My faith, a King’s
jester must be bolder than lions!
‘“Now we will judge the matter,” said Rahere. “Let these two brave
knights go hang my fool because he warned King Henry against running
after Saxon deer through woods full of Saxons. ‘Faith, Brother, if thy
Brother, Red William, now among the Saints as we hope, had been timely
warned against a certain arrow in New Forest, one fool of us four would
not be crowned fool of England this morning. Therefore, hang the fool’s
fool, knights!” ‘Mark the fool’s cunning! Rahere had himself given us
order to hang the man. No King dare confirm a fool’s command to such a
great baron as De Aquila; and the helpless King knew it.
‘“What? No hanging?” said Rahere, after a silence. “A’ God’s Gracious
Name, kill something, then! Go forward with the hunt!”
‘He splits his face ear to ear in a yawn like a fish-pond. “Henry,” says
he, “the next time I sleep, do not pester me with thy fooleries.” Then
he throws himself out of sight behind the back of the stand.
‘I have seen courage with mirth in De Aquila and Hugh, but stark mad
courage of Rahere’s sort I had never even guessed at.’
‘What did the King say?’ cried Dan.
‘He had opened his mouth to speak, when young Fulke, who had come into
the stand with us, laughed, and, boy-like, once begun, could not check
himself. He kneeled on the instant for pardon, but fell sideways,
crying: “His legs! Oh, his long, waving red legs as he went backward!”
‘Like a storm breaking, our grave King laughed,--stamped and reeled
with laughter till the stand shook. So, like a storm, this strange thing
passed!
‘He wiped his eyes, and signed to De Aquila to let the drive come on.
‘When the deer broke, we were pleased that the King shot from the
shelter of the stand, and did not ride out after the hurt beasts as Red
William would have done. Most vilely his knights and barons shot!
‘De Aquila kept me beside him, and I saw no more of Hugh till evening.
We two had a little hut of boughs by the camp, where I went to wash me
before the great supper, and in the dusk I heard Hugh on the couch.
‘“Wearied, Hugh?” said I.
‘“A little,” he says. “I have driven Saxon deer all day for a Norman
King, and there is enough of Earl Godwin’s blood left in me to sicken at
the work. Wait awhile with the torch.”
‘I waited then, and I thought I heard him sob.’
‘Poor Hugh! Was he so tired?’ said Una. ‘Hobden says beating is hard
work sometimes.’
‘I think this tale is getting like the woods,’ said Dan, ‘darker and
twistier every minute.’ Sir Richard had walked as he talked, and though
the children thought they knew the woods well enough, they felt a little
lost.
‘A dark tale enough,’ says Sir Richard, ‘but the end was not all black.
When we had washed, we went to wait on the King at meat in the great
pavilion. Just before the trumpets blew for the Entry--all the guests
upstanding--long Rahere comes posturing up to Hugh, and strikes him with
his bauble-bladder.
‘“Here’s a heavy heart for a joyous meal!” he says. “But each man must
have his black hour or where would be the merit of laughing? Take a
fool’s advice, and sit it out with my man. I’ll make a jest to excuse
you to the King if he remember to ask for you. That’s more than I would
do for Archbishop Anselm.”
‘Hugh looked at him heavy-eyed. “Rahere?” said he. “The King’s jester?
Oh, Saints, what punishment for my King!” and smites his hands together.
‘“Go--go fight it out in the dark,” says Rahere, “and thy Saxon Saints
reward thee for thy pity to my fool.” He pushed him from the pavilion,
and Hugh lurched away like one drunk.’
‘But why?’ said Una. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Ah, why indeed? Live you long enough, maiden, and you shall know the
meaning of many whys.’ Sir Richard smiled. ‘I wondered too, but it was
my duty to wait on the King at the High Table in all that glitter and
stir.
‘He spoke me his thanks for the sport I had helped show him, and he had
learned from De Aquila enough of my folk and my castle in Normandy to
graciously feign that he knew and had loved my brother there. (This,
also, is part of a king’s work.) Many great men sat at the High
Table--chosen by the King for their wits, not for their birth. I have
forgotten their names, and their faces I only saw that one night.
But’--Sir Richard turned in his stride--‘but Rahere, flaming in black
and scarlet among our guests, the hollow of his dark cheek flushed with
wine--long, laughing Rahere, and the stricken sadness of his face when
he was not twisting it about--Rahere I shall never forget.
‘At the King’s outgoing De Aquila bade me follow him, with his great
bishops and two great barons, to the little pavilion. We had devised
jugglers and dances for the Court’s sport; but Henry loved to talk
gravely to grave men, and De Aquila had told him of my travels to the
world’s end. We had a fire of apple-wood, sweet as incense,--and the
curtains at the door being looped up, we could hear the music and see
the lights shining on mail and dresses.
‘Rahere lay behind the King’s chair. The questions he darted forth at me
were as shrewd as the flames. I was telling of our fight with the apes,
as ye called them, at the world’s end. [See ‘The Knights of the Joyous
Venture’ in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.] ‘“But where is the Saxon knight that
went with you?” said Henry. “He must confirm these miracles.”
‘“He is busy,” said Rahere, “confirming a new miracle.”
‘“Enough miracles for today,” said the King. “Rahere, you have saved
your long neck. Fetch the Saxon knight.”
‘“Pest on it,” said Rahere. “Who would be a King’s jester? I’ll bring
him, Brother, if you’ll see that none of your home-brewed bishops taste
my wine while I am away.” So he jingled forth between the men-at-arms at
the door.
‘Henry had made many bishops in England without the Pope’s leave. I know
not the rights of the matter, but only Rahere dared jest about it. We
waited on the King’s next word.
‘“I think Rahere is jealous of you,” said he, smiling, to Nigel of Ely.
He was one bishop; and William of Exeter, the other--Wal-wist the Saxons
called him--laughed long. “Rahere is a priest at heart. Shall I make him
a bishop, De Aquila?” says the King.
‘“There might be worse,” said our Lord of Pevensey. “Rahere would never
do what Anselm has done.”
‘This Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, had gone off raging to the Pope
at Rome, because Henry would make bishops without his leave either. I
knew not the rights of it, but De Aquila did, and the King laughed.
‘“Anselm means no harm. He should have been a monk, not a bishop,” said
the King. “I’ll never quarrel with Anselm or his Pope till they quarrel
with my England. If we can keep the King’s peace till my son comes to
rule, no man will lightly quarrel with our England.”
‘“Amen,” said De Aquila. “But the King’s peace ends when the King dies.”
‘That is true. The King’s peace dies with the King. The custom then is
that all laws are outlaw, and men do what they will till the new King is
chosen.
‘“I will amend that,” said the King hotly. “I will have it so that
though King, son, and grandson were all slain in one day, still the
King’s peace should hold over all England! What is a man that his mere
death must upheave a people? We must have the Law.”
‘“Truth,” said William of Exeter; but that he would have said to any
word of the King.
‘The two great barons behind said nothing. This teaching was clean
against their stomachs, for when the King’s peace ends, the great barons
go to war and increase their lands. At that instant we heard Rahere’s
voice returning, in a scurril Saxon rhyme against William of Exeter:
‘“Well wist Wal-wist where lay his fortune
When that he fawned on the King for his crozier,”
and amid our laughter he burst in, with one arm round Hugh, and one
round the old pilgrim of Netherfield.
‘“Here is your knight, Brother,” said he, “and for the better disport of
the company, here is my fool. Hold up, Saxon Samson, the gates of Gaza
are clean carried away!”
‘Hugh broke loose, white and sick, and staggered to my side; the old man
blinked upon the company.
‘We looked at the King, but he smiled.
‘“Rahere promised he would show me some sport after supper to cover his
morning’s offence,” said he to De Aquila. “So this is thy man, Rahere?”
‘“Even so,” said Rahere. “My man he has been, and my protection he
has taken, ever since I found him under the gallows at Stamford Bridge
telling the kites atop of it that he was--Harold of England!”
‘There was a great silence upon these last strange words, and Hugh hid
his face on my shoulder, woman-fashion.
‘“It is most cruel true,” he whispered to me. “The old man proved it
to me at the beat after you left, and again in our hut even now. It is
Harold, my King!”
‘De Aquila crept forward. He walked about the man and swallowed.
‘“Bones of the Saints!” said he, staring.
‘“Many a stray shot goes too well home,” said Rahere.
‘The old man flinched as at an arrow. “Why do you hurt me still?” he said
in Saxon. “It was on some bones of some Saints that I promised I would
give my England to the Great Duke.” He turns on us all crying, shrilly:
“Thanes, he had caught me at Rouen--a lifetime ago. If I had not
promised, I should have lain there all my life. What else could I have
done? I have lain in a strait prison all my life none the less. There is
no need to throw stones at me.” He guarded his face with his arms, and
shivered. “Now his madness will strike him down,” said Rahere. “Cast out
the evil spirit, one of you new bishops.”
‘Said William of Exeter: “Harold was slain at Santlache fight. All the
world knows it.”
‘“I think this man must have forgotten,” said Rahere. “Be comforted,
Father. Thou wast well slain at Hastings forty years gone, less three
months and nine days. Tell the King.”
‘The man uncovered his face. “I thought they would stone me,” he said.
“I did not know I spoke before a King.” He came to his full towering
height--no mean man, but frail beyond belief.
‘The King turned to the tables, and held him out his own cup of wine.
The old man drank, and beckoned behind him, and, before all the Normans,
my Hugh bore away the empty cup, Saxon-fashion, upon the knee.
“It is Harold!” said De Aquila. “His own stiff-necked blood kneels to
serve him.
“Be it so,” said Henry. “Sit, then, thou that hast been Harold of
England.”
‘The madman sat, and hard, dark Henry looked at him between half-shut
eyes. We others stared like oxen, all but De Aquila, who watched Rahere
as I have seen him watch a far sail on the sea.
‘The wine and the warmth cast the old man into a dream. His white head
bowed; his hands hung. His eye indeed was opened, but the mind was
shut. When he stretched his feet, they were scurfed and road-cut like a
slave’s.
‘“Ah, Rahere,” cried Hugh, “why hast thou shown him thus? Better have
let him die than shame him--and me!”
‘“Shame thee?” said the King. “Would any baron of mine kneel to me if I
were witless, discrowned, and alone, and Harold had my throne?”
‘“No,” said Rahere. “I am the sole fool that might do it, Brother,
unless”--he pointed at De Aquila, whom he had only met that day--“yonder
tough Norman crab kept me company. But, Sir Hugh, I did not mean to
shame him. He hath been somewhat punished through, maybe, little fault
of his own.”
‘“Yet he lied to my Father, the Conqueror,” said the King, and the old
man flinched in his sleep.
‘“Maybe,” said Rahere, “but thy Brother Robert, whose throat we purpose
soon to slit with our own hands--”
‘“Hutt!” said the King, laughing. “I’ll keep Robert at my table for
a life’s guest when I catch him. Robert means no harm. It is all his
cursed barons.”
‘“None the less,” said Rahere, “Robert may say that thou hast not always
spoken the stark truth to him about England. I should not hang too many
men on that bough, Brother.” ‘“And it is certain,” said Hugh, “that”--he
pointed to the old man--“Harold was forced to make his promise to the
Great Duke.”
‘“Very strongly, forced,” said De Aquila. He had never any pride in the
Duke William’s dealings with Harold before Hastings. Yet, as he said,
one cannot build a house all of straight sticks.
‘“No matter how he was forced,” said Henry, “England was promised to my
Father William by Edward the Confessor. Is it not so?” William of Exeter
nodded. “Harold confirmed that promise to my Father on the bones of the
Saints. Afterwards he broke his oath and would have taken England by
the strong hand.”
‘“Oh! La! La!” Rahere rolled up his eyes like a girl. “That ever England
should be taken by the strong hand!”
‘Seeing that Red William and Henry after him had each in just that
fashion snatched England from Robert of Normandy, we others knew not
where to look. But De Aquila saved us quickly.
‘“Promise kept or promise broken,” he said, “Harold came near enough to
breaking us Normans at Santlache.”
‘“Was it so close a fight, then?” said Henry.
‘“A hair would have turned it either way,” De Aquila answered. “His
house-carles stood like rocks against rain. Where wast thou, Hugh, in
it?”
‘“Among Godwin’s folk beneath the Golden Dragon till your front gave
back, and we broke our ranks to follow,” said Hugh.
‘“But I bade you stand! I bade you stand! I knew it was all a deceit!”
Harold had waked, and leaned forward as one crying from the grave.
‘“Ah, now we see how the traitor himself was betrayed!” said William of
Exeter, and looked for a smile from the King.
‘“I made thee Bishop to preach at my bidding,” said Henry; and turning
to Harold, “Tell us here how thy people fought us?” said he. “Their sons
serve me now against my Brother Robert!”
‘The old man shook his head cunningly. “Na--Na--Na!” he cried. “I know
better. Every time I tell my tale men stone me. But, Thanes, I will tell
you a greater thing. Listen!” He told us how many paces it was from some
Saxon Saint’s shrine to another shrine, and how many more back to the
Abbey of the Battle.
‘“Ay,” said he. “I have trodden it too often to be out even ten paces.
I move very swiftly. Harold of Norway knows that, and so does Tostig my
brother. They lie at ease at Stamford Bridge, and from Stamford Bridge
to the Battle Abbey it is--” he muttered over many numbers and forgot
us.
‘“Ay,” said De Aquila, all in a muse. “That man broke Harold of Norway
at Stamford Bridge, and came near to breaking us at Santlache--all
within one month.”
‘“But how did he come alive from Santlache fight?” asked the King. “Ask
him! Hast thou heard it, Rahere?” “Never. He says he has been stoned too
often for telling the tale. But he can count you off Saxon and Norman
shrines till daylight,” said Rahere and the old man nodded proudly.
‘“My faith!” said Henry after a while. “I think even my Father the Great
Duke would pity if he could see him.”
‘“How if he does see?” said Rahere.
‘Hugh covered his face with his sound hand. “Ah, why hast thou shamed
him?” he cried again to Rahere.
‘“No--no,” says the old man, reaching to pluck at Rahere’s cape. “I am
Rahere’s man. None stone me now,” and he played with the bells on the
scollops of it.
‘“How if he had been brought to me when you found him?” said the King to
Rahere.
‘“You would have held him prisoner again--as the Great Duke did,” Rahere
answered.
‘“True,” said our King. “He is nothing except his name. Yet that name
might have been used by stronger men to trouble my England. Yes. I must
have made him my life’s guest--as I shall make Robert.”
‘“I knew it,” said Rahere. “But while this man wandered mad by the
wayside, none cared what he called himself.”
‘“I learned to cease talking before the stones flew,” says the old man,
and Hugh groaned.
‘“Ye have heard!” said Rahere. “Witless, landless, nameless, and, but
for my protection, masterless, he can still make shift to bide his doom
under the open sky.”
‘“Then wherefore didst thou bring him here for a mock and a shame?”
cried Hugh, beside himself with woe.
‘“A right mock and a just shame!” said William of Exeter.
‘“Not to me,” said Nigel of Ely. “I see and I tremble, but I neither
mock nor judge.” “Well spoken, Ely.” Rahere falls into the pure fool
again. “I’ll pray for thee when I turn monk. Thou hast given thy
blessing on a war between two most Christian brothers.” He meant the war
forward ‘twixt Henry and Robert of Normandy. “I charge you, Brother,” he
says, wheeling on the King, “dost thou mock my fool?” The King shook his
head, and so then did smooth William of Exeter.
‘“De Aquila, does thou mock him?” Rahere jingled from one to another,
and the old man smiled.
‘“By the Bones of the Saints, not I,” said our Lord of Pevensey. “I know
how dooms near he broke us at Santlache.”
‘“Sir Hugh, you are excused the question. But you, valiant, loyal,
honourable, and devout barons, Lords of Man’s justice in your own
bounds, do you mock my fool?”
‘He shook his bauble in the very faces of those two barons whose names
I have forgotten. “Na--Na!” they said, and waved him back foolishly
enough.
‘He hies him across to staring, nodding Harold, and speaks from behind
his chair.
‘“No man mocks thee, Who here judges this man? Henry of
England--Nigel--De Aquila! On your souls, swift with the answer!” he
cried.
‘None answered. We were all--the King not least--over-borne by that
terrible scarlet-and-black wizard-jester.
‘“Well for your souls,” he said, wiping his brow. Next, shrill like a
woman: “Oh, come to me!” and Hugh ran forward to hold Harold, that had
slidden down in the chair.
‘“Hearken,” said Rahere, his arm round Harold’s neck. “The King--his
bishops--the knights--all the world’s crazy chessboard neither mock nor
judge thee. Take that comfort with thee, Harold of England!”
‘Hugh heaved the old man up and he smiled.
‘“Good comfort,” said Harold. “Tell me again! I have been somewhat
punished.” ‘Rahere hallooed it once more into his ear as the head
rolled. We heard him sigh, and Nigel of Ely stood forth, praying aloud.
‘“Out! I will have no Norman!” Harold said as clearly as I speak now,
and he refuged himself on Hugh’s sound shoulder, and stretched out, and
lay all still.’
‘Dead?’ said Una, turning up a white face in the dusk.
‘That was his good fortune. To die in the King’s presence, and on the
breast of the most gentlest, truest knight of his own house. Some of us
envied him,’ said Sir Richard, and fell back to take Swallow’s bridle.
‘Turn left here,’ Puck called ahead of them from under an oak. They
ducked down a narrow path through close ash plantation.
The children hurried forward, but cutting a corner charged full-abreast
into the thorn-faggot that old Hobden was carrying home on his back.
‘My! My!’ said he. ‘Have you scratted your face, Miss Una?’
‘Sorry! It’s all right,’ said Una, rubbing her nose. ‘How many rabbits
did you get today?’
‘That’s tellin’!’ the old man grinned as he re-hoisted his faggot. ‘I
reckon Mus’ Ridley he’ve got rheumatism along o’ lyin’ in the dik to see
I didn’t snap up any. Think o’ that now!’
They laughed a good deal while he told them the tale.
‘An’ just as he crawled away I heard some one hollerin’ to the hounds
in our woods,’ said he. ‘Didn’t you hear? You must ha’ been asleep
sure-ly.’
‘Oh, what about the sleeper you promised to show us?’ Dan cried.
‘’Ere he be--house an’ all!’ Hobden dived into the prickly heart of the
faggot and took out a dormouse’s wonderfully woven nest of grass and
leaves. His blunt fingers parted it as if it had been precious lace, and
tilting it toward the last of the light he showed the little, red, furry
chap curled up inside, his tail between his eyes that were shut for
their winter sleep.
‘Let’s take him home. Don’t breathe on him,’ said Una. ‘It’ll make him
warm and he’ll wake up and die straight off. Won’t he, Hobby?’
‘Dat’s a heap better by my reckonin’ than wakin’ up and findin’ himself
in a cage for life. No! We’ll lay him into the bottom o’ this hedge.
Dat’s jus’ right! No more trouble for him till come Spring. An’ now
we’ll go home.’