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

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.”