Hereward, the Last of the English by Charles Kingsley (i am reading a book .TXT) 📖

and honorable house of that name, and of those parts; and Duti and Outi, the two valiant twins; and Ulfard the White, and others, some of whose names, and those of their sons, still stand in Domesday-book.

“And what,” asked Hereward, after the first congratulations were over, “of my mother? What of the folk at Bourne?”

All looked each at the other, and were silent.

“You are too late, young lord,” said Azer.

“Too late?”

“The Norman”—Azer called him what most men called him then—“has given it to a man of Gilbert of Ghent’s,—his butler, groom, cook, for aught I know.”

“To Gilbert’s man? And my mother?”

“God help your mother, and your young brother, too. We only know that three days ago some five-and-twenty French marched into the place.”

“And you did not stop them?”

“Young sir, who are we to stop an army? We have enough to keep our own. Gilbert, let alone the villain Ivo of Spalding, can send a hundred men down on us in four-and-twenty hours.”

“Then I,” said Hereward in a voice of thunder, “will find the way to send two hundred down on him”; and turning his horse from the gate, he rode away furiously towards Bourne.

He turned back as suddenly, and galloped into the field.

“Lads! old comrades! will you stand by me if I need you? Will you follow Hereward, as hundreds have followed him already, if he will only go before?”

“We will, we will.”

“I shall be back ere morning. What you have to do, I will tell you then.”

“Stop and eat, but for a quarter of an hour.”

Then Hereward swore a great oath, by oak and ash and thorn, that he would neither eat bread nor drink water while there was a Norman left in Bourne.

“A little ale, then, if no water,” said Azer.

Hereward laughed, and rode away,

“You will not go single-handed against all those ruffians,” shouted the old man after him. “Saddle, lads, and go with him, some of you, for very shame’s sake.”

But when they galloped after Hereward, he sent them back. He did not know yet, he said, what he would do. Better that they should gather their forces, and see what men they could afford him, in case of open battle. And he rode swiftly on.

When he came within the lands of Bourne it was dark.

“So much the better,” thought Hereward. “I have no wish to see the old place till I have somewhat cleaned it out.”

He rode slowly into the long street between the overhanging gables. At the upper end he could see the high garden walls of his mother’s house, and rising over them the great hall, its narrow windows all ablaze with light. With a bitter growl he rode on, trying to recollect a house where he could safely lodge. Martin pointed one out.

“Old Viking Surturbrand, the housecarle, did live there, and maybe lives there still.”

“We will try.” And Martin knocked at the door.

The wicket was opened, but not the door; and through the wicket window a surly voice asked who was there.

“Who lives here?”

“Perry, son of Surturbrand. Who art thou who askest?”

“An honest gentleman and his servant, looking for a night’s lodging.”

“This is no place for honest folk.”

“As for that, we don’t wish to be more honest than you would have us; but lodging we will pay for, freely and well.”

“We want none of your money”; and the wicket was shut.

Martin pulled out his axe, and drove the panel in.

“What are you doing? We shall rouse the town,” said Hereward.

“Let be; these are no French, but honest English, and like one all the better for a little horse-play.”

“What didst do that for?” asked the surly voice again. “Were it not for those rascal Frenchmen up above, I would come out and split thy skull for thee.”

“If there be Frenchmen up above,” said Martin, in a voice of feigned terror, “take us in for the love of the Virgin and all the saints, or murdered we shall be ere morning light.”

“You have no call to stay in the town, man, unless you like.”

Hereward rode close to the wicket, and said in a low voice, “I am a nobleman of Flanders, good sir, and a sworn foe to all French. My horse is weary, and cannot make a step forward; and if you be a Christian man, you will take me in and let me go off safe ere morning light.”

“From Flanders?” And the man turned and seemed to consult those within. At length the door was slowly opened, and Perry appeared, his double axe over his shoulder.

“If you be from Flanders, come in for mercy; but be quick, ere those Frenchmen get wind of you.”

Hereward went in. Five or six men were standing round the long table, upon which they had just laid down their double axes and javelins. More than one countenance Hereward recognized at once. Over the peat-fire in the chimney-corner sat a very old man, his hands upon his knees, as he warmed his bare feet at the embers. He started up at the noise, and Hereward saw at once that it was old Surturbrand, and that he was blind.

“Who is it? Is Hereward come?” asked he, with the dull, dreamy voice of age.

“Not Hereward, father,” said some one, “but a knight from Flanders.”

The old man dropped his head upon his breast again with a querulous whine, while Hereward’s heart beat high at hearing his own name. At all events he was among friends; and approaching the table he unbuckled his sword and laid it down among the other weapons. “At least,” said he, “I shall have no need of thee as long as I am here among honest men.”

“What shall I do with my master’s horse?” asked Martin. “He can’t stand in the street to be stolen by drunken French horseboys.”

“Bring him in at the front door, and out at the back,” said Perry. “Fine times these, when a man dare not open his own yard-gate.”

“You seem to be all besieged here,” said Hereward. “How is this?”

“Besieged we are,” said the man; and then, partly to turn the subject off, “Will it please you to eat, noble sir?”