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

quoth the abbot, proud of the one Latin word he thought he knew, but, that, as we see, was an error; “they cannot speak so as to be understood, and I fear me much they incline to mere carnal learning.”

Here there was a sanctified groan:

“Count William himself spoke to me in Latin!” continued the abbot, raising his eyebrows.

“Did he?—Wonderful!” exclaimed several voices. “And what did you answer, holy father?”

“Marry,” said the abbot solemnly, “I replied, Inprinis.”

“Good!” said the young monk, with a look of profound admiration.

“Whereat the good Count looked puzzled—as I meant him to be:—a heinous fault, and one intolerant to the clergy, that love of profane tongues! And the next thing against your Norman is (added the abbot, with a sly wink), that he is a close man, who loves not his stoup; now, I say, that a priest never has more hold over a sinner than when he makes the sinner open his heart to him.”

“That’s clear!” said a fat priest, with a lubricate and shining nose.

“And how,” pursued the abbot triumphantly, “can a sinner open his heavy heart until you have given him something to lighten it? Oh, many and many a wretched man have I comforted spiritually over a flagon of stout ale; and many a good legacy to the Church hath come out of a friendly wassail between watchful shepherd and strayed sheep! But what hast thou there?” resumed the abbot, turning to a man, clad in the lay garb of a burgess of London, who had just entered the room, followed by a youth, bearing what seemed a coffer, covered with a fine linen cloth.

“Holy father!” said the burgess, wiping his forehead, “it is a treasure so great, that I trow Hugoline, the King’s treasurer, will scowl at me for a year to come, for he likes to keep his own grip on the King’s gold.”

At this indiscreet observation, the abbot, the monks, and all the priestly bystanders looked grim and gloomy, for each had his own special design upon the peace of poor Hugoline, the treasurer, and liked not to see him the prey of a layman.

“Inprinis!” quoth the abbot, puffing out the word with great scorn; “thinkest thou, son of Mammon, that our good King sets his pious heart on gew-gaw, and gems, and such vanities? Thou shouldst take the goods to Count Baldwin of Flanders; or Tostig, the proud Earl’s proud son.”

“Marry!” said the cheapman, with a smile; “my treasure will find small price with Baldwin the scoffer, and Tostig the vain! Nor need ye look at me so sternly, my fathers; but rather vie with each other who shall win this wonder of wonders for his own convent; know, in a word, that it is the right thumb of St. Jude, which a worthy man bought at Rome for me, for 3000 lb. weight of silver; and I ask but 500 lb. over the purchase for my pains and my fee.” 119

“Humph!” said the abbot.

“Humph!” said the aspiring young monk; the rest gathered wistfully round the linen cloth.

A fiery exclamation of wrath and disdain was here heard; and all turning, saw a tall, fierce-looking thegn, who had found his way into that group, like a hawk in a rookery.

“Dost thou tell me, knave,” quoth the thegn, in a dialect that bespoke him a Dane by origin, with the broad burr still retained in the north; “Dost thou tell me that the King will waste his gold on such fooleries, while the fort built by Canute at the flood of the Humber is all fallen into ruin, without a man in steel jacket to keep watch on the war fleets of Swede and Norwegian?”

“Worshipful minister,” replied the cheapman, with some slight irony in his tone, “these reverend fathers will tell thee that the thumb of St. Jude is far better aid against Swede and Norwegian than forts of stone and jackets of steel; nathless, if thou wantest jackets of steel, I have some to sell at a fair price, of the last fashion, and helms with long nose-pieces, as are worn by the Normans.”

“The thumb of a withered old saint,” cried the Dane, not heeding the last words, “more defence at the mouth of the Humber than crenellated castles and mailed men!”

“Surely, naught son,” said the abbot, looking shocked, and taking part with the cheapman. “Dost thou not remember that, in the pious and famous council of 1014, it was decreed to put aside all weapons of flesh against thy heathen countrymen, and depend alone on St. Michael to fight for us? Thinkest thou that the saint would ever suffer his holy thumb to fall into the hands of the Gentiles?—never! Go to, thou art not fit to have conduct of the King’s wars. Go to, and repent, my son, or the King shall hear of it.”

“Ah, wolf in sheep’s clothing!” muttered the Dane, turning on his heel; “if thy monastery were but built on the other side the Humber!”

The cheapman heard him, and smiled. While such the scene in the ante-room, we follow Harold into the King’s presence.

On entering, he found there a man in the prime of life, and though richly clad in embroidered gonna, and with gilt ateghar at his side, still with the loose robe, the long moustache, and the skin of the throat and right hand punctured with characters and devices, which proved his adherence to the fashions of the Saxon 120. And Harold’s eye sparkled, for in this guest he recognized the father of Aldyth, Earl Algar, son of Leofric. The two nobles exchanged grave salutations, and each eyed the other wistfully.

The contrast between the two was striking. The Danish race were men generally of larger frame and grander mould than the Saxon 121; and though in all else, as to exterior, Harold was eminently Saxon, yet, in common with his brothers, he took from the mother’s side the lofty air and iron frame of the old kings of the sea. But Algar, below the middle height, though well set, was slight in comparison with Harold. His strength was that which men often take rather from the nerve than the muscle; a strength that belongs to quick tempers and restless energies. His light blue eye, singularly vivid and glittering; his quivering lip, the veins swelling at each emotion on the fair white temples; the long yellow hair, bright as gold, and resisting, in its easy curls, all attempts to curb it into the smooth flow most in fashion; the nervous movements of the gesture; the somewhat sharp and hasty tones of the voice; all opposed, as much as if the two men were of different races, the steady, deep eye of Harold, his composed mien, sweet and majestic, his decorous locks parted on the king-like front, with their large single curl where they touched the shoulder. Intelligence and will were apparent in both the men; but the intelligence of one was acute and rapid, that of the other profound and steadfast; the will of one broke in flashes of lightning, that of the other was calm as the summer sun at noon.

“Thou art welcome, Harold,” said the King, with less than his usual listlessness, and with a look of relief as the Earl approached him.