Harold : the Last of the Saxon Kings — Complete by Lytton (an ebook reader TXT) 📖

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