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The merchants had told him of one ' Alef,'^ a valiant ' regulus,' or kinglet, living at Gweek, up the Helford river, who was indeed a distant connection of Hereward himself, having married, as did so many of the Celtic princes, the daughter of a Danish sea rover of Siward's blood. They told him also that the kinglet increased his wealth, not only by the sale of tin and of red cattle, but by a certain amount of ' summer-leding ' {i.e. jDiracy beween seed-time and harvest) in company with his Danish brothers - in - law from Dublin and Waterf ord : and Hereward, who believed, with most Englishmen of the East Country, that Cornwall still produced a fair crop of giants, some of them with two and even three heads, had hopes that Alef might show him some adventure worthy of his sword. He sailed in, therefore, over a rolling bar, between jagged points of black rock, and up a tide river which wandered and branched away inland like a landlocked lake, between high green walls of oak and ash, till they saw at the head of the tide Alef 's town, nestling in a glen which sloped towards the southern sun. They discovered, besides, two ships drawn up upon the beach, whose long lines and snake-heads, beside the stoat carved on the beak- head of one, and the adder on that of the other, bore witness to the piratical habits of their owner. The merchants, it seemed, were well known to the Cornishmen on shore, and Hereward went up with them unopposed ; joast the ugly dykes and muddy leats, where Alef's slaves were streaming the gravel for tin ore ; through rich alluvial pastures spotted with red cattle ; and up to Alef's town. Earthworks and stockades surrounded a little church of ancient stone, and a cluster of granite cabins thatched with turf, in M'hich the slaves abode. In the centre of all a vast stone barn, with low walls and high sloping roof, contained Alef's family, treasures, housecarles, horses, cattle, and pigs. They entered at one end between the pigstyes, passed on through the cow-stalls, then through the stables ; till they saw before them, dim through the reek of peat-smoke, a long oaken table, at which sat huge dark-haired Cornishmen, with here and there among them the yellow head of a Norseman, who were Alef's following of lighting men. Boiled meat was there in plenty ; barley cakes ^ Probably a corruption of the Norse name Olaf. There is much Norse blood in the seaports of Cornwall and Devon, as the surnames testify. Ill HOW HEREWARD SUCCOURED A PRINCESS 53 and ale. At the head of the table, on a high-backed settle, was Alef himself, a jolly giant, who was just setting to work to drink himself stupid with mead made from narcotic heather honey. By his side sate a lovely dark-haired girl, with great gold tores upon her throat and wrists, and a great gold brooch fastening a shawl which had plainly come from the looms of Spain or of the East ; and next to her again, feeding her with tit-bits cut off with his own dagger, and laid on barley cake instead of a plate, sat a more gigantic personage even than Alef, the biggest man that Hereward had ever seen, with high cheek-bones and small ferret eyes, looking out from a greasy mass of bright red hair and beard. No questions were asked of the newcomers. They set them- selves down in silence in empty places, and according to the laws of the good old Cornish hospitality, were allowed to eat and drink their fill before they spoke a word. 'Welcome here again, friend,' said Alef at last, in good enough Danish, calling the eldest merchant by name. ' Do you bring wine ? ' The merchant nodded. ' And you want tin V The merchant nodded again, and lifting his cup drank Alef's health, following it up by a coarse joke in Cornish, which raised a laugh all round. The Norse trader of those days, it must be remembered, was . none of the cringing and efieminate chapmen who figure in the stories of the middle ages. A free Norse or Dane, himself often of noble blood, he fought as willingly as he bought ; and held his own as an equal, whether at the court of a Cornish kinglet or at that of the great Kaiser of the Greeks. 'And you, fair sir,' said Alef, looking keenly at Hereward, ' by what name shall I call you, and what service can I do for you ? You look more like an earl's son than a merchant, and are come here surely for other things besides tin.' 'Health to King Alef,' said Hereward, raising the cup. 'Who I am I will tell to none but Alef's self : but an earl's son I am, though an outlaw and a rover. My lands are the breadth of my boot sole. My plough is my sword. IMy treasure is my good right hand. Nothing I have, and nothing I need, save to serve noble kings and earls, and win me a champion's fame. If you have battles to fight, tell me ; that I may fight them for you. If you have none, thank God for his peace ; and let me eat and drink, and go in peace.' ' King Alef needs neither man nor boy to fight his battle as long as Ironhook ^ sits in his hall. It was the red-bearded giant who spoke, in a broken tongue, ^ ' Ulcus Ferreus,' says Richard of Ely ; surely a misreading for uncus. The hook was a not uncommou weapon among seamen. 54 HEREWARD THE WAKE . chap. part Scotch, part Cornish, part Danish, which Hereward could liardly understand : but that the ogre intended to insult him he understood well enough. Hereward had hoped to find giants in Cornwall ; and behold he had found one at once ; though rather, to judge from his looks, a Pictisli than a Cornisli giant ; and true tohis reckless determination to defy and fight every man and beast who was willing to defy and fight him, he turned on his elbow and stared at Ironhook in scorn, meditating some speech which might prove the hoped-for quarrel. As he did so his eye happily caught that of the fair princess. She was watching him with a strange look, admiring, warning, imploring ; and when she saw that he noticed her, she laid her finger on her lip in token of silence, crossed herself devoutly, and then laid her finger on her lips again, as if beseeching him to be patient and silent in the name of the heavenly powers. Hereward, as is well seen, wanted not for quick wit or for chivalrous feeling. He had observed the rough devotion of the giant to the lady. He had observed, too, that she shrank from it ; that she turned away with loathing when he offered her his own cup, while he answered by a dark and deadly scowl. Was there an adventure here ? Was she in duresse either from this Ironhook, or from her father, or from both ? Did she need Hereward's lielp ? If so, she was so lovely that he could not refuse it. And on the chance, he swallowed down his high stomach, and answered blandly enough : ' One could see without eyes, noble sir, that you were worth any ten common men : but as every one has not like you the luck of so lovely a lady by your side, I thouglit that perchance you might hand over some of your lesser quarrels to one like" me, who has not yet seen so much good fighting as yourself, and enjoy yourself in pleasant company at home, as I should surely do in your place.' The Princess shuddered and turned jDale ; then looked at Hereward and smiled her thanks. Ironhook laughed a savage laugh. Hereward's jest being translated into Cornish for the benefit of the comjiany, was highly approved by all ; and good humour being restored, every man got drunk save Hereward, who found the mead too sweet and sickening. After which those who could go to bed, went to bed, not as in England,^ among tlie rushes on the floor, but in the bunks or berths of wattle which stood two or three tiers high along the wall. The next morning, as Hereward went out to wash his face and hands in the brook below (lie being the only man in the house who did so), Martin Lightfoot followed him. ^ Cornwall was not then considered part of England. HI HOW HEREWARD SUCCOURED A PRINCESS 55 'What is it, Martin? Hast thou had too much of that sweet mead last night that thou must come out to cool thy head too ? ' ' I came out for two i-easons — first to see fair play, in case that Ironhook should come to wash his ugly visage, and find you on all fours over the brook — you understand? And next to tell you what I heard last night among the maids.' ' And what didst thou hear ? ' 'Fine adventures, if we can but compass them. You saw that lady with the carrot-headed fellow ? I saw that you saw. Well, if you will believe me, that man has no more gentle blood than I have. He is a No-man's son, a Pict from Galloway, who came clown with a pirate crew, and has made himself the master of this drunken old prince, and the darling of all his housecarles, and now will needs be his son-in-law whether he will or not.' ' I thought as much,' said Hereward ; ' but how didst thou find out this?' 'I went out and sat with the knaves and the maids, and listened to their harp-playing (and harp they can, these Cornish, like very elves); and then I too sang songs and told tliem stories, for I can talk their tongue somewhat, till they all blest me for a right good fellow. And then I fell to praising up Ironhook to the women.' ' Praising him uji, man ? ' ' Ay, just because I suspected him ; for the women are so contrary that if you speak evil of a man they will surely speak good of him ; but if you will only speak good of him, then you will hear all the evil of him he ever has done, and more_ besides. And this I heard ; tliat the king's daughter cannot abide him; and would as lief marry a seal.' ' One did not need to be told that,' said Hereward, ' as long as one has eyes in one's head. I will kill the fellow and carry her off", ere four-and-twenty hours be past.' ' Softly, softly, my young master. You need to be told some- thing that your eyes would not tell you, and tliat is that tlie poor lass is betrothed already to a son of old King Ptanald the Ostman, of Waterford, son of old King Sigtryg, who ruled there when I was a boy.' 'He is a kinsman of mine tlien,' said Hereward. 'All the more reason that I should kill this ruffian.' ' If you can,' said Mai'tin Lightfoot. ' If I can ? ' retorted Hereward fiercely. ' Well, well, wilful heart must have its way, only take my counsel ; speak to the poor young lady first, and see what she will tell you, lest you only make bad worse, and bring down her father and his men on her as well as you.' Hereward agreed, and resolved to watch his opportunity of speaking to the princess. 56 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. As they went in to the morning meal they met Alef. He was in high good humour with Hei-eward ; and all the more so when Hereward told him his name, and how he was the son of Leofric. ' I will warrant you are,' he said, ' by the gray head you carry on green shoulders. No discreeter man, they say, in these isles than the old earl.' 'You speak truth, sir,' said Hereward, 'though he be no father of mine now, for of Leofric it is said in King Edward's court, that if a man ask counsel of him, it is as though he had asked it of the oracles of God.' ' Then you are his true son, young man. I saw how you kept the peace with Ironhook, and I owe you thanks for it ; for though he is my good friend, and will be my son-in-law ere long, yet a quarrel with him is more than I can abide just now, and I should not like to have seen my guest and my kinsman slain in my house.' Hereward would have said that he thought there was no fear of that : — but he prudently lield his tongue, and having an end to gain, listened instead of talking. ' Twenty years ago, of course, I could have thrashed him as easily as but now I am getting old and shaky, and the man has been a great help in need ; six kings of these parts has he killed for me, who drove off my cattle, and stopped my tin works, and plundered my monks' cells too, which is worse, while I was away sailing the seas ; and he is a right good fellow at heart, though he be a little rough. So be friends Avithhim as long as you stay here, and if I can do you a service I will.' They went into their morning meal, at which Hereward re- solved to keep the peace which he longed to break, and there- fore, as was to be expected, broke. For during the meal the fair lady, with no worse intention perhaps than that of teasing her tyrant, fell to open praises of Hereward's fair face and golden hair, and being insulted there- fore by the Ironhook, i-etaliated by observations about his personal appearance, which were more common in the eleventh century than they happily are now. He, to comfort himself, drank deep of the French wine which had just been brought and broached, and then went out into the courtyard, where in the midst of his admiring fellow-ruffians he enacted a scene as ludicrous as it was pitiable. All the childish vanity of the savage boiled over. He strutted, he shouted, he tossed about his huge limbs, he called for a harper, and challenged all around to dance, sing, leap, fight, do anything against him ; meeting with nothing but admiring silence, he danced himself out of breath, and then began boasting once more of liis fights,_his cruelties, his butcheries, his impossible escapes and victories ; till at last, as luck would have it, he espied Hereward, and in HOW HEREWARD SUCCOURED A PRINCESS 57 poured out a stream of abuse against Englishmen and English courage. ' Englishmen,' he said, ' were nought. Had he not slain three of them himself with one blow 1 ' ' Of your mouth, I suppose,' quoth Hereward, who saw that the quarrel must come, and was glad to have it done and over. ' Of my mouth ? ' roared Ironhook, ' of my sword, man ! ' ' Of your mouth,' said Hereward ' Of your brain were they begotten, of the breath of your mouth they were born, and by the breath of your mouth you can slay them again as often as you choose.' The joke, as it has been handed down to us by the old chroniclers, seems clumsy enough : but it sent the princess, say they, into shrieks of laughter. ' Were it not that my lord Alef was here,' shouted Ironhook, ' I would kill you out of hand.' ' Promise to fight fair, and do your worst. The more fairly you fight, the more honour you will win,' said Hereward. Whereupon the two were parted for the while. Two hours afterwards Hereward, completely armed with helmet and mail shirt, sword and javelin, hurried across the great courtyard with Martin Lightfoot at his heels, towards the little church upon the knoll above. The two wild men entered into the cool darkness, and saw before them by the light of a tiny lamp the crucifix over the altar, and beneath it that which was then believed to be the body of Him who made heaven and earth. They stopped trembling for a moment ; bowed them- selves before that to them perpetual miracle : and then hurried on to a low doorway to the right, inside which dwelt Alef's chaplain, one of those good Celtic priests who were supposed to represent a Christianity more ancient than, and all but inde- pendent of, the then all-absorbing Church of Rome The cell was such an one as a convict would now disdain to inhabit. A low lean-to roof ; the slates and rafters unceiled ; the stone walls and floor unplastered ; ill-lighted by a hand- broad window, unglazed, and closed with a shutter at night. A truss of straw and a rug, the priest's bed, lay in a corner. The only other furniture was a large oak cliest, containing the holy vessels and vestments and a few old books. It stood directly under the window for the sake of light, for it served the good priest for both table and chair ; and on it he was sitting reading in his book at that minute, the sunshine and the wind streaming in behind his head, doing no good to his rheuma- tism of thirty years' standing. ' Is there a priest here ? ' asked Hereward hurriedly. The old man looked up, shook his head and answered in Cornish. ' Speak to him in Latin, Martin : may be he will understand that.' 58 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ]\Iartin spoke. ' jNIy lord here wants a priest to shrive him, and that quickly. He is going to fight the great tyrant Iron- hook, as you call him.' ' Ironhook ? ' answered the j^riest in good Latin enough, ' And he so young ! God help him, he is a dead man. What is this ? A fresh soul sent to its account by the hands of that man of Belial ? Cannot he entreat him ; can he not make peace, and save his young life ? He is but a stripling, and that man, like Goliath of old, a man of war from his youtli up.' 'And my master,' said Martin Lightfoot proudly, 'is like young David — one that can face a giant and kill him ; for he has slain, like David, his lion and his bear ere now. At least, he is one that will neither make peace, nor entreat the face of living man. So shrive him quickly, master priest, and let him begone to his work.' Poor Martin Lightfoot spoke thus bravely only to keep up his spirits and his young lord's — for in spite of his confidence in Hereward's prowess, he had given him up for a lost man ; and the tears ran down his rugged cheeks as tlie old priest, rising up and seizing Hereward's two hands in his, besought him, with the passionate and graceful eloquence of his race, to have mercy upon his own youth. Hereward understood his meaning, though not his words. ' Tell liim,' he said to Martin, ' that fight I must, and tell him that shrive me he must and that quickly. Tell him how the fellow met me in the wood below just now, and would have slain me there, unarmed as I was ; and how, when I tokl him it was a shame to strike a naked man, he told me he would give me but one hour's grace to go back, on the faith of a gentleman, for my armour and weapons, and meet him there again to die by his hand. So shrive me quick, sir priest.' Hereward knelt down. Martin Lightfoot knelt down by him, and with a trembling voice began to interpret for him. ' What does he say?' asked Hereward, as the priest murmured something to hirtiself. ' He said,' quoth Martin, now fairly blubbering, ' that, fair and young as you are, your shrift should be as short and as clean as David's.' Hereward was touched. 'Anything but that,' said he, smiting on his breast, 'Mea culpa — mea culpa — mea maxima culpa.' ' Tell him how I robbed my father.' The priest groaned as Martin did so. ' And how I mocked at my mother, and left her in a rage, without ever a kind word between us. And how I have slain I know not how many men in battle, though that, I trust, need not lie heavily on my soul, seeing that I killed them all in fair fight.' _ Again the priest groaned. ^ Ill HOW HEREAVARD SUCCOURED A PRINCESS 59 ' And how I robbed a certain priest of his money and gave it away to my housecarles.' Here the priest groaned more bitterly still. ' Oh ! my son, my son, where hast thou found time to lay all these burdens on thy young soul 1 ' ' It will take less time,' said Martin bluntly, ' for you to take the burdens off again.' ' But I dare not absolve him for robbing a priest. Heaven help him ! He must go to the bishop for that. He is more fit to go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem tlian to battle.' ' He has no time,' quoth Martin, ' for bishops or Jeru- salem.' ' Tell him,' says Hereward, ' that in tliis purse is all I have, that in it he will find sixty silver pennies, besides two strange coins of gold.' 'Sir jjriest,' said Martin Liglitfoot, taking the i^urse from Hereward, and keeping it in his own hand, ' there are in this bag monies.' Martin had no mind to let the priest into the secret of the state of their finances. ' And tell him,' continued Hereward, ' that if I fall in this battle I give him all that money, that he may part it among the poor for the good of my soul.' ' Pish ! ' said Martin to his lord ; ' that is paying him for having you killed. You should pay him for keeping you alive.' And without waiting for the answer, he spoke in Latin. 'And if he comes back safe from this battle, he will give you ten pennies for yourself and your church, priest, and therefore expects you to pray your very loudest while he is gone.' ' I will pray, I will pray,' said the holy man : ' I will wrestle in prayer. Ah ! that he could slay the wicked, and reward the proud according to his deservings. Ah ! that he could rid me and my master, and my young lady, of this son of Belial — this devourer of widows and orphans — this slayer of the poor and needy, who fills tliis place with innocent blood — him of whom it is written, "Tliey stretch forth their mouth unto the heaven, and their tongue goeth through the world. Therefore fall the people unto them, and tliereout suck they no small advantage." I will shidve liim, shi-ive him of all save robbing the priest, and for that he must go to the bishop, if ho live : and, if not, the Lord have mercy on his soul.' And so, weeping and trembling, the good old man pronounced the words of absolution. Hereward rose, thanked him, and then hurried out in silence. 'You will pray your very loudest, priest,' said Martin, as he followed his young lord. 'I will, I will,' quoth he, and kneeling down began to chant 60 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. that noble VSd Psalm, ' Quam bonus Israel,' which he had just so fitly quoted. ' Thou gavest him the bag, Martin ? ' said Hereward, as they hurried on. ' You are not dead yet. " No pay no play " is as good a rule for priest as for layman.' 'Now then, Martin Lightfoot, good-bye. Come not with me. It must never be said, even slanderously, that I brought two into the field against one ; and if I die, Martin— — ' ' You won't die ! ' said Lightfoot, shutting his teeth. 'If I die, go back to my people somehow, and tell them that I died like a true earl's son.' _ Hereward held out his hand ; Martin fell on his knees and kissed it ; watched him with set teeth till he disappeared in the wood ; and then started forward and entered the bushes at a different spot. ' I must be nigh at hand to see fair play,' he muttered to himself, 'incase any of his ruffians be hanging about. Fair play I'll see, and fair play I'll give, too, for the sake of my lord's honour, though I be bitterly loth to do it. So many times as I have been a villain when it was of no use, why mayn't I be one now, when it would serve the purpose indeed ? Why did we ever come into this accursed jilace 1 But one thing I will do,' said he, as he ensconced himself under a thick holly, whence he could see the meeting of the combatants upon an open lawn some twenty yards away ; ' if that big bull calf kills my master, and I do not jump on his back and pick his brains out with this trusty steel of mine, may my right arm ' And Martin Lightfoot swore a fearful oath, which need not here be written. The priest had just finished his chant of the 73d Psalm, and had betaken himself in his spiritual warfare, as it was then called, to the equally opposite 52d, ' Quid gioriaris 1 ' ' Why boastest thou thyself, thou tyrant, that thou canst do mischief, whereas the goodness of God endureth yet daily ? ' ' Father ! father ! ' cried a soft voice in the doorway, ' where are you 1 ' And in hurried the princess. ' Hide this,' she said, breathless, drawing from beneath her mantle a huge sword ; 'hide it, where no one dare touch it, under the altar behind the holy rood : no place too secret.' 'What is it?' asked the priest, rising from his knees. ' His sword — the Ogre's — his magic sword, which kills whom- soever it strikes. I coaxed him to let me have it last night when he was tipsy, for fear he should quarrel with the young stranger ; and I have kept it from him ever since by one excuse or another ; and now he has sent one of his ruffians in for it, Ill HOW HEREWARD SUCCOURED A PRINCESS 61 saying, that if I do not give it up at once he will come back and kill me.' ' He dare not do that,' said the priest. ' What is there that he dare not 1 ' said she. ' Hide it at once ; I know that he wants it to fight with this Hereward.' ' If he wants it for that,' said the priest, ' it is too late ; for half an hour is past since Hereward went to meet him.' ' And you let him go ? You did not persuade him, stop him 1 You let him go hence to his death 1 ' In vain the good man expostulated, and explained that it was no fault of his. ' You must come with me this instant to my father — to them ; they must be parted. They shall be parted. If you dare not, I dare. I will throw myself between them, and he that strikes the other shall strike me.' And she hurried tlie priest out of the house, down the knoll, and across the yard. There they found others on the same errand. The news that a battle was toward had soon spread, and the men-at-arms were hurrying down to the tight ; kept back, however, by Alef, who strode along at their head. Alef was sorely perplexed in mind. He had taken, as all honest men did, a great liking to Hereward. Moreover, he was his kinsman and his guest. Save him he would if he could ; but how to save him without mortally offending his tyrant Ironhook he could not see. At least he would exert what little power he had, and prevent, if possible, his men-at-arms from helping their darling leader against the hapless lad. Alef's perplexity was much increased when his daughter bounded towards him, seized him by the arm, and hurried him on, showing by look and word which of tlie combatants she favoured, so plainly that the ruffians behind broke into scornful murmurs. They burst through the bushes. Martin Lightfoot happily heard them coming, and had just time to slip away noiselessly, like a rabbit, to the other part of the cover. The combat seemed at the first glance to be one between a grown man and a child, so unequal was the size of the com- batants. But the second look showed that the advantage was by no means with Ironhook. Stumbling to and fro with the broken shaft of a javelin sticking in his thigh, he vainly tried to seize Hereward with his long- iron grapple. Hereward, bleeding, but still active and upright, broke away, and sprang round him, watcliing for an opportunity to strike a deadly blow. The housecarles rushed forward with yells. Alef shouted to the combatants to desist : but ere the party could reach them, Hereward's opportunity had come. Ironhook after a fruitless lunge stumbled forward. Hereward leapt aside, and spying an unguarded spot l)elow the corslet, drove his sword deep into the giant's body, and rolled him over upon the sward. Then arose shouts of fury. 62 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' Foul play ! ' cried one. And otliers, taking up the cry, called out, ' Sorcery ! ' and ' Treason ! ' Hereward stood over Ironhook as he lay writhing and foam- ing on the ground. ' Killed by a boy at last ! ' groaned he. ' If I had but had my sword — my brain-biter which that witch stole from me but last night ! ' — and amid foul curses and bitter tears of shame his mortal spirit fled to its doom. The housecai'les rushed in on Hereward, who had enough to do to keep them at arm's length by long sweeps of his sword. Alef entreated, threatened, promised a fair trial if the men would give fair play : when, to complete the confusion, the Ijrincess tlirew herself upon the corpse, shrieking and tearing lier hair ; and to Hereward's surjorise and disgust, bewailed the prowess and tlie virtues of the dead, calling upon all present to avenge his murder. Hereward vowed inwardly that he would never again trust woman's fancy, or fight in woman's quarrel. He was now nigh at his wits' end ; the housecarles had closed round him in a ring with the intention of seizing him ; and however well he might defend his front, he might be crippled at any moment from behind : but in the very nick of time Martin Lightfoot burst through tlie crowd, set himself heel to heel with his master, and broke out, not with threats, but with a good- humoured laugh. ' Here is a pretty coil about a red-headed brute of a Pict ! Danes, Ostmen,' he cried, 'are you not ashamed to call such a fellow your lord, when you have such a true earl's son as this to lead you if you will ? ' The Ostmen in the company looked at each other. Martin Lightfoot saw that Iiis appeal to the antipathies of race had told. He, therefore, followed it up by a string of witticisms upon the Pictish nation in general, of which tlie only two fit for modern ears to be set down were the two old stories, that the Picts had feet so large that they used to lie upon their backs and hold up their legs to shelter themselves from the sun ; and that when killed, they could not fall down, but died as they were, all standing. ' So that the only foul play I can see is that my master shoved tlie fellow over after lie had stabbed him, instead of leaving him to stand upright there, like one of your Cornish Dolmens, till his flesh should fall off' his bones.' Hereward saw the effect of oMartin's words ; and burst out in Danish likewise, with a true Viking chant — ' Look at me, dread me ! I am the Hereward,^ ^ ' Guardian of the Army.' Ill HOW HEREWARD SUCCOURED A PRINCESS 63 The watcher, the chanipion, The Berserker, the Viking, The land-thief, the sea-thief, Young summer-pirate, Famous land-waster, Slayer of witch -bears, Queller of Ogres, Fattener of ravens, Darling of gray wolves, Wild widow-maker. Touch me — to wolf and Raven I give you. Ship with me boldly, Follow me gaily. Over the swan's road, Over the whale's bath. Far to the southward, Where sun and sea meet ; Where from the palm-boughs Apples of gold hang ; And freight there our long-snake With sendal and orfray, Dark Moorish maidens, And gold of Algier. ' ' Hark to the Viking ! Hark to the right earl's son ! ' shouted some of the Danes, whose blood had been stirred many a time before by such wild words, and on whom Hereward's youth and beauty had their due efi'ect. And now the counsels of the ruffians being divided, the old priest gained courage to stej:) in. Let them deliver Hereward and his serving man into his custody. He would bring them forth on the morrow, and there should be full investigation and fair trial. And so Hereward and Martin, who both refused stoutly to give up their arms, were marched back into the town, locked in the little church, and left to their meditations. Hereward sat down on the pavement and cursed the princess. Martin Lightfoot took off his master's corslet, and, as well as the darkness would allow, bound up his wounds, which happily were not severe. 'Were I you,' said lie at last, 'I should keep my curses till I saw the end of this adv^enture.' 'Has not the girl betrayed me shamefully V ' Not she. I saw her warn you, as far as looks could do, not to quarrel with tlie man.' ' That was because she did not know me. Little she thouglit that I could ' ' Don't holloa till you are out of the wood. This is a niglit for i^raying ratlier tlian l)oasting.' 'iShe cannot really love that wretch,' said Hereward, after a pause. 'Thou saw'st how she mocked him.' 64 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. * Women are strange things, and often tease most where they love most.' ' But such a misbegotten savage.' ' Women are strange things, say I, and with some a big fellow is a pretty fellow, be he uglier than seven Ironhooks. Still, just because women are strange things, have patience, say I. The lock creaked, and the old priest came in. Martin leapt to the open door ; but it was slammed in his face by men out- side with scornful laughter. The priest took Hereward's head in his hands, wept over him, blest him for having slain Goliath like young David, and then set food and drink before the two ; but he answered Martin's questions only with sighs and shakings of the head. * Let us eat and drink then,' said Martin, ' and after that you, my lord, sleep ofi' your wounds while I watch the door. I have no fancy for these fellows taking us ^^nawares at night.' Martin lay quietly across the door till the small hours, listen- ing to every sound, till the key creaked once more in the lock. He started at the sound ; and seizing the person who entered round the neck, whispered, ' One word, and you are dead.' ' Do not hurt me,' answered a stifled voice ; and Martin Light- foot, to his surprise, found that he had grasped no armed man, but the slight frame of a young girl. 'I am the princess,' she whispered, 'let me in.' ' A very pretty hostage for us,' thought Martin, and letting her go seized the key, locking the door in the inside. 'Take me to your master,' she cried, and Martin led her up the church wondering, but half suspecting some further trap. 'You have a dagger in your hand,' said he, holding her wrist. ' I have. If I had meant to use it, it would have been used first on you. Take it, if you like.' She hurried up to Hereward, who lay sleeping quietly on the altar -steps ; knelt by him, wrung his hands, called him her champion, her deliverer. 'I am not well awake yet,' said he coldly, 'and do not know whether this may not be a dream, as more that I have seen and heard seems to be.' ' It is no dream. I am true. I was always true to you. Have I not put myself in your power 1 Am I not come here to deliver you, my deliverer 1 ' ' The tears which you shed over your Ogre's corpse seem to have dried quickly enough.' 'Cruel ! What else could I do? You heard him accuse me to his rough followers of having stolen his sword. My life, my father's life, were not safe a moment, had I not dissembled, and done the thing I loathed. Ah ! ' she went on bitterly. ' You men, who rule the world and us by cruel steel, you forget that we poor women have but one weapon left wherewith to hold Ill HOW HEREAVARD SUCCOURED A PRINCESS G5 our own, and that is cunning ; and are driven by you day after day to tell the lie which we detest.' ' Then you really stole his sword 1 ' ' And hid it here, for your sake.' And she drew the weapon from behind the altar. ' Take it. It is yours now. It is magical. Whoever smites Avitli it, need never smite again. Now, quick, you must be gone. But promise one thing before you go.' ' If I leave this land safe I will do it, be it what it may. Why not come with me, lady, and see it done 1 ' She laughed. ' Vain boy, do you think that I love you well enough for that 1 ' ' I have won you, and why should I not keep you 1 ' said Hei^e- ward sullenly. ' Do you not know that I am betrothed to your kinsman 1 And — though that you cannot know — that I love your kins- man V ' 8o I have all the blows and none of the spoil.' 'Tush, you have the glory — and the sword — and the chance, if you will do my bidding, of being called by all ladies a true and gentle knight, who cared not for his own pleasure but for deeds of chivalry. Go to my betrothed — to Waterford over the sea. Take him this ring, and tell liim by that token to come and claim me soon, lest he run the danger of losing me a second time, and lose me then for ever ; for I am in hard case here, and were it not for my father's sake, perliaps I might dare, in spite of what men might say, to flee with you to your kinsman across the sea.' 'Trust me and come,' said Hereward, whose young blood kindled with a sudden nobleness. ' Trust me and I will treat you like my sister, like my queen. By the holy rood above I will swear to be true to you.' 'I do trust you, but it cannot be. Here is money for you in plenty to hire a passage if you need : it is no shame to take it from me. And now one thing more. Hei'e is a cord — you must bind aldwin of j\lons. He had married one of his daughters, Matilda, to William of Normandy, afterwards the Conqueror ; and another, Judith, to 96 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Tosti Godwinsson, the son of the great Earl Godwin of England. She afterwards married Welf, Duke of Bavaria : whereby, it may be, the blood of Baldwin of Flanders runs in the veins of Queen Victoria. And thus there were few potentates of the north more feared and respected than Baldwin, the good-natured Earl of Flanders. But one sore thorn in the side lie had, which other despots after him shared with him, and had even worse success in extracting ;— namely, the valiant men of Scaldmariland, which we now call Holland. Of them hereafter. At the moment of Hereward's arrival he was troubled with a lesser thorn, the Count of Guisnes (seemingly that INIanasses whom Richard of Ely confounds with the chatelain, or other lawful commander, of St. Oraer), who would not pay him up certain dues, and otherwise acknowledge his sovereignty. Therefore when the chatelain of St. Omer sent him word to Bruges that a strange Viking had landed with his crew, calling liimself Harold Naemansson, and offering to take service with him, he returned for answer that the said Harold might make proof of his faith and prowess upon the said count, in which, if he acquitted himself like a good knight, Baldwin would have further dealings with him. So the chatelain of St. Omer, with all his knights and men- at-arms, and Hereward with his sea-cocks, marched north-west up to Guisnes, with little Arnoul cantering alongside in high glee, for it was the first war he had ever seen. And they came to the castle of Guisnes, and summoned the count, by trumpet and herald, to pay or fight. "Whereon, the count preferring the latter, certain knights of his came forth and challenged tlie knights of St. Omer to fight them man to man. Whereon tliere was the usual splintering of lances and slipping up of horses, and hewing at heads and shoulders so well defended in mail that no one was much hurt. The archers and arbalisters, meanwhile, amused themselves by shooting at the castle walls, out of which they chipped several small pieces of stone. And when they were all tired they drew off on both sides, and went in to dinner. At which Hereward's men, who were accustomed to a more serious fashion of fighting, stood by, mightily amused, and vowing it was as pretty a play as ever they saw in their lives. The next day the same comedy was repeated. 'Let me go in against those knights, sir chatelain,' asked Hereward, who felt tlie lust of battle tingling in him from head to heel ; 'and try if I cannot do .somewliat towards deciding all this. If we figlit no faster than we did yesterday our beards will be grown down to our knees before we take Guisnes.' ' Let my Viking go ! ' cried Arnoul. ' Let me see him fight ! ' as if he had been a pet game-cock or bull-dog. VII AT THE AVAR AT GUISNES 97 'You can break a lance, fine sir, if it please you,' said the chatelain. ' I break more than lances,' quoth Hereward, as he cantered off. 'You,' said he to his men, 'draw round hither to the left ; and when I drive the Frenchmen to the right, make a run for it, and get between them and the castle gate ; and we will try the Danish axe against tlieir horses' legs.' Then Hereward spurred his horse, shouting ' A Wake ! A Wake ! ' and dashed into the press ; and therein did mightily, like any Turpin or Roland, till he saw lie on the ground, close to the castle gate, one of the chatelain's knights with four Guisnes knights around him. At them he rode, and slew them every one ; and mounted the wounded Fleming on his own horse and led him across the field, though the archers shot sore at him from the wall. And wlien the press rode at him, his Danish men got between them and the castle, and made a stand to cover liim. Then the Guisnes knights rode at them scorn- fully, crying— 'What footpad-churls have we here, wlio fancy they can face horsed knights 1 ' But they did not know the stuff" of tlie Danish men ; who all shouted 'A Wake! A Wake!' and turned the lances' points with their targets, and hewed off" the horses' heads, and would have hewed off" the riders' likewise, had not Hereward bidden them give quarter, according to the civilised fashion of France and Flanders. Whereon all the knights who were not taken rode right and left, and let them pass through in peace, with several prisoners, and him whom Hereward had rescued. At which little Arnoul was as proud as if he had done it liimself ; and the chatelain sent word to Baldwin that the new- comer was a prudhomme of no common merit ; while the lieart of the Count of Guisnes became as water ; and his knights, both those who were captives and those who were not, complained indignantly of the unchivah'ous trick of the Danes. How villainous for men on foot, not only to face knights, but to bring them down to their own standing ground by basely cutting off" their horses' heads ! To which Hereward answered, that he knew the rules of chivalry as well as any of them : but he was hired, not to joust at a tournament, but to make the Count of Guisnes pay his lord Baldwin, and make him pay he would. The next day lie bade liis men sit still and look on, and leave him to himself. And when the usual 'monomachy' began, he singled out the burliest and boldest knight whom he saw, rode up to him lance point in air, and courteously asked him to come and be killed in fair fight. The knight being, says the chronicler, 'magnificent in valour of soul and council of war, and held to be as a lion in fortitude throughout the army,' and seeing that 11 H. T. w. 98 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Hei-eward was by no means a large or a heavy man, replied as courteously, that he should have great pleasure in trying to kill Hereward. On which they rode some hundred yards out of the press, calling out that they were to be left alone by both sides, for it was an honourable duel; and, turning their horses, charged. After which act they found themselves and then- horses all four in a row, sitting ' on their hind-quarters on the ground, amid the fragments of their lances. ' Well ridden ! ' sliouted they both at once, as they leaped up laugliing, and drew their swords. After which they hammered away at each other merrily in the devil's .smithy. The sparks flew ; the iron rang ; and all men stood still to see that gallant fight. So they watclied and cheered, till Hereward struck his man such a blow under the ear, that he dropped, and lay like a log. ' I think I can carry you,' quoth Hereward, and picking him up, he threw him over his shoulder, and walked towards his men. ' Bear and bullock ! ' shouted they in delight, laughnig at the likeness between Hereward's attitude and that of a bear wad- dhng off on his hind legs with his prey in his arms. 'He should have killed his bullock outright before he went to carry him. Look there ! ' And the knight, awakening from his swoon, struggled violently (says the cln^onicler) to escape. But Hereward, though the smaller, was the stronger man ; and crushing him in his arms, walked on steadily. ' Kniglits'to the rescue ! Hoibricht is taken ! ' shouted they of Guisnes, galloping towards him. ' A AVake ! a Wake ! To me Vikings all ! ' shouted Hereward. And the Danes leapt up, and ran towards him, axe in hand. The chatelain's knights rode up likewise ; and so it befell that Hereward carried liis prisoner safe into camp. 'And wlio are you, gallant knight ?' asked he of his prisoner. ' Hoibricht, nephew of Eustace, Count of Guisnes.' ' So I suppose you will be ransomed. Till then Armourer ! ' And the hapless Hoibricht found himself chained and fettered, and sent off to Hereward's tent, under the custody of Martm Liglitfoot. . ' Tlie next day,' says the chronicler, ' the Count of Guisnes, stupefied witli grief at the loss of his nephew, sent the due honour and service to his prince, besides gifts and hostages.' And so ended the troubles of Baldwin and Eustace of Guisnes. VIII THE ART TO WIN HEREWARD S LOVE 99 CHAPTER VIII how a fair lady exercised the mechanical art to win hereward's love In an upper room of lier mother's house in St. Omer sat the fair Torfrida, alternately looking out of the window and at a book of mechanics. In the garden outside, the wryneck (as it is his fashion in May) was calling Pi-ioi-pi among the gooseberry bushes, till the cob- walls rang again. In the book was a Latin recipe for drying the poor wryneck, and using him as a philtre which should compel the love of any person desired. ]\Iechanics, it must be understood, in those days were considered as identi- cal with mathematics, and those again with astrology and magic ; so that the old chronicler, who says that Torfrida was skilled in the ' mechanic art,' uses the word in the same sense as does the author of the History of Ramsey^ who tells us how a certain holy bishop of St. Dunstan's party, riding down to Corfe through the forest, saw the wicked queen-mother Elfrida (her who had St. Edward stabbed at Corfe Gate) exercising her ' mechanic art ' under a great tree ; in plain English, perform- ing heathen incantations ; and how, when she saw that slie was discovered, she tempted him to deadly sin ; but when she found him proof against allurement, she had him into her bower ; and there the enchantress and her ladies slew him by thrusting red-hot bodkins under his arms, so that the blessed man was martyred without any sign of wound. Of all which let every man believe as much as he list. Torfrida had had peculiar opportunities of learning mechanics. Tlie fairest and richest damsel in St. Omer, she had been left early by her father an orphan, to the care of a superstitious mother, and of a learned uncle, the Abbot of St. Bertin. Her mother was a Provengale, one of those Arlesiennes whose dark Greek beauty still shines, like diamonds set in jet, in the doorways of the quaint old city. Gay enough in her youtli, she had, like a true southern woman, taken to superstition in her old age ; and spent her days in the churches, leaving her daughter to do and learn what she would. Torfrida's nurse, moreover, was a Lapp woman, carried off in some jiirating foray, and skilled in all tlie sorceries for which the Lapps were famed throughout the North. Her uncle, partly from good-nature, partly from a pious liope that she might enter religion, and leave her wealth to the Church, had made her his pupil, and taught her the mysteries of books ; and slie had proved to be a strangely apt scholar. Grammar, rhetoric, Latin prose and poetry, such as were tauglit in those days, she mastered ere she was gi'own up. Then she fell upon romance ; and Charlemagne and his Paladins, the heroes of Troy, Alexander and his generals, peopled her imagin- 100 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. atioii. She had heard, too, of the great necromancer Virgilius (for into such the middle age transformed the poet), and, her fancy ah^eady excited by her Lapp nurse's occult science, she began eagerly to court forbidden lore. Forbidden, indeed, was the magic by the Church ; but as a reality, not as an imposture. Those whose consciences were tough and their faith weak, had little scruj^le in applying to a witch, and asking help from the powers below, when the saints above were slack to hear them. Churchmen, even, were bold enough to learn the mysteries of nature, algebra, judicial as- trology, and the occult powers of herbs, stones, and animals, from the Mussulman doctors of Cordova and Seville ; and, like Pope Gerbert, mingle science and magic, in a fashion excusable enough in days when true inductive science did not exist. Nature had her miraculous powers — how far good, how far evil, who could tell ? The belief that God was the sole maker and ruler of the universe was confused and darkened by the cross -belief tliat the material world had fallen under the dominion of Satan and his demons ; that millions of spirits, good and e\dl in every degree, exercised continually powers over crops and cattle, mines and wells, storms and lightning, health and disease. Riches, honours, and royalties, too, were under the command of the jjowers of darkness. For that gener- ation, which was but too apt to take its Bible in hand upside down, had somehow a firm faith in the word of the devil, and believed devoutly his somewhat startling assertion, that the kingdoms of tlie world were his, and the glory of them ; for to him they were delivered, and to whomsoever he would he gave them : while it had a proportionally weak faith in our Lord's answer, that they were to worship and serve the Lord God alone. How far these powers extended, how far they might be counteracted, how far lawfully employed, were questions which exercised the minds of men, and produced a voluminous litera- ture for several centuries, till the search died out, for very weari- ness of failure, at the end of the seventeenth century. The Abbot of St. Bertin, therefore, did not hesitate to keep in his private libi^ary more than one volume which he would not have willingly lent to the simple monks under his charge ; nor to Torf rida either, had she not acquired so comi^lete a command over the good old man, that he could deny her nothing. So she read of Gerbert, Pope Silvester II, who had died only a generation back ; how (to quote William of Malmesbury) 'he learned at Seville till he surj^assed Ptolemy with the astrolabe, Alcandrus in astronomy, and Julius Firmicus in judicial astrology ; how he learned what the singing and flight of birds portended, and acquired tlie art of calling up spirits from hell ; and, in short, whatever — hurtful or healthful — human curiosity had discovered, besides the lawful sciences of arithmetic and astronomy, music and geometry ; ' how he acquired from the VIII THE ART TO WIN HEREWARD'S LOYE 101 Saracens the abacus (a counting table) ; how he escaped from the Moslem magician, his tutor, by making a compact with the foul fiend, and putting himself beyond the power of magic, by hang- ing himself under a wooden bridge, so as to touch neither earth nor water ; how he taught Robert King of France, and Kaiser Otto III, surnamed ' The wonder of the world ' ; how he made an hydraulic organ which played tunes by steam, standing even then in the cathedral of Rheims ; how he discovered in the Campus Martius at Rome wondrous treasures, and a golden king and queen, golden courtiers and guards, all lighted by a single carbuncle, and guarded by a boy with a bent bow, who, when Gerbert's servant stole a golden knife, shot an arrow at that carbuncle ; and all was darkness, and yells of demons. All this Torfrida had read ; and read, too, how Gerbert's brazen head had told him that he should be pope, and not die till he had sung mass at Jerusalem ; and how both had come true — the latter in mockery ; for he was stricken with deadly sickness in Rome, as he sang mass at the church called Jeru- salem, and died horribly, tearing himself in pieces. Which terrible warning had as little eftect on Torfrida as other terrible warnings have on young folk, who are minded to eat of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. So Torfrida beguiled her lonely life in that dull town, look- ing out over dreary flats and muddy dykes, by a whole dream- world of fantastic imaginations, and was ripe and ready for any wild deed which her wild brain might suggest. Pure she was all the while, generous, and noble -heai-ted ; with a deep and sincere longing — as one soul in ten thousand has — after knowledge for its own sake ; but ambitious exceed- ingly, and that not of monastic sanctity. She laughed to scorn the notion of a nunnery, and laughed to scorn equally the notion of marrying any knight, however much of a prudhomme, whom she had yet seen. Her uncle and Marquis Baldwin could have between tliem compelled her, as an orphan heiress, to marry whom they liked. But Torfrida had as yet managed both the abbot and the marquis successfully. Lances had been splintered, helmets split, and more than one life lost in her honour ; but she had only, as the best safeguard she could devise, given some hint of encouragement to one Ascelin, a tall knight of St. Valeri, the most renowned and courtly bully of tliose parts, by bestow- ing on him a scrap of ribbon, and bidding him keep it against all comei's. By this means she insured the personal chastisement of all other youths who dared to lift their eyes to her, wliile she by no means Ijound herself to her spadassin of St. Valeri. The method was rough ; but so was the time, and what better could a poor lady do in days wlien no man's life, or woman's honour, was safe, unless (as too many were forced to do) she retired into a cloister, and got from the Church that peace which this world certainly could not give, and, happily, dared not take away? 102 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. The arrival of Hereward and liis men had, of course, stirred the great current of her life, and, indeed, that of St. Omer, usually as stagnant as the dykes round its wall. Who the un- known champion Avas (for his name of Naemans-son showed that he was concealing something at least) — whence he had come, and what had been his previous exploits, busied all the gossips of the town. Would he and his men rise and plunder the abbey? Was not the chatelain mad in leaving young Arnoul with him all day ? Madder still, in taking him out to battle against the Count of Guisnes ? He might be a spy, the avant-courier of some great invading force. He was come to spy out the nakedness of the land, and would shortly vanish, to return with Harold Hardraade of Norway, or Sweyn of Den- rnai-k, and all their hosts. Nay, was he not Harold Hardraade himself in disguise 1 And so forth. All wliich Torf rida heard, and thought within herself that, be he who he might, she should like to look on him again. Then came the news how, the very first day that he had gone out against tlie Count of Guisnes, he had gallantly rescued a wounded man. A day or two after came fresh news of some doughty deed ; and then another and another. And when Hereward returned, after a week's victorious fighting, all St. Omer was in the street to stare at him Then Torfrida heard enough, and, had it been possible, more than enough, of Hereward and his prowess. And wlien they came riding in, the great marquis at the head of them all, with Robert le Frison on one side of him, and on the other Hereward, as fresh as flowers in I\Iay, Torfrida looked down on him out of her little lattice in the gable, and loved him, once and for all, with all her heart and soul. And Hereward looked up at her and her dark blue eyes and dark raven locks ; and thought her the fairest thing that he had ever seen, and asked who she might be, and heard ; and as he heard, he forgot all about tlie Sultan's daughter, and the pi'incess of Constantinople, and the fairy of Brocheliaunde, and all the other pretty birds wJiich were still in the bush about the wide world : and thought for many a day of nought but the pretty bird which he held (so conceited was he of his own i^owers of winning her) there safe in hand in St. Omer. So he cast about to see her, and to win her love. And she cast about to see him, and to win his love. But neither saw the otlier for awhile ; and it might have been better for one of them had tliey never seen each other again. If Torfrida could have foreseen, and foreseen, and fore- seen : why, if she were true woman, she would have done exactly what she did, and taken the bitter with the sweet, tlie unknown witli the known, as we all must do in life, unless we wish to live and die alone. IX AT THE WAR IN SCALDMARILAND 103 CHAPTER IX HOW HEEEWARD WENT TO THE WAR IN SCALDMARILAND It has been shown how the Count of Guisnes had been a thorn in the side of Baldwin of Lille, and how that thorn was drawn out by Hereward. But far sharper thorns in his side, which had troubled many a count before, and were destined to trouble others afterwards, were those unruly Zeelanders, or Frisians, who dwelt in Scaldmariland, ' the land of the meres of the Scheldt.' Beyond the vast forests of Flanders, in morasses and alluvial islands whose names it is impossible now to verify, so much has the land changed, both by inunda- tions and by embankments, by the brute forces of nature and the noble triumi^hs of art, dwelt a folk, poor and savage ; living mostly, as in Caesar's time, in huts raised above the sea, on j^iles or mounds of earth ; often without cattle or seed- held ; half savage, half heathen : but free. Free, with the divine instinct of freedom, and all the self - help and energy which spring thereout. They were a mongrel race ; and, as most mongrel races are (when sprung from parents not too far apart in blood), a strong race ; the remnant of those old Frisians and Batavians, who had defied, and all but successfully resisted, the power of Rome ; mingled with fresh crosses of Teutonic blood from Frank, Sueve, Saxon, and tlie otlier German tribes, who, after the fall of the Roman Emjiire, had swept across the land. Tlieir able modern historian has well likened their first struggle — that between Civilis and the Romans, to their last — that between William the Silent and tlie Spaniard. It was, without doubt, tlie foreshadow of their whole history. They were distinguished, above most Eui^opean races, for sturdy in- dependence, and for what generally accompanies it — sturdy common sense. They could not understand why they should obey foreign Frank rulers, whetlier set over them by Dagobert or by Cliarlemagne. They could not understand why they were to pay tithes to foreign Frank priests, who had forced on them, at the sword's point, a religion Avhich they only half believed and only half understood. Many a true holy man preached to them to the best of his powers : l)ut the cross of St. Boniface had too often to follow the sword of Charles Martel ; and for every Frisian who was converted another was killed. ' Free Frisians,' nevertheless, they remained, at least in name and in their statute book, 'as long as the wind blows out of the clouds and the world stands.' The feudal system never 104 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. took root in their soil.^ If a Frank count was to govern them, lie must govern according to their own laws. Again and again they rebelled, even against that seemingly light rule. Again and again they brought down on themselves the wrath of their nominal sovereigns, the counts of Flanders ; then of the kaisers of Germany ; and, in the thirteenth century, of the Inquisition itself. Then a crusade was preached against them as 'Stad- ings,' heretics who paid no tithes, ill-used monks and nuns, and worshipped (or were said to worship) a black cat and the foul fiend among the meres and fens. Conrad of Marpurg, the brutal Director of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, burnt them at his wicked will, extirpating, it may be, hei'esy, but not the spirit of the race. That spirit, crushed down and seemingly enslaved during the middle age, under Count Dirk and his descendants, still lived : destined at last to conquer. They were a people who had determined to see for themselves and act for themselves in the universe in which they found themselves ; and, moreover (a necessary corollary of such a resolution), to fight to the death against any one who interfered with them in so doing. Again and again, therefore, the indomitable spirit rose, founding free towns with charters and guilds ; embanking the streams ; draining the meres ; fighting each other and the neighbouring princes ; till, in their last great struggle against the pope and Spain, they rose once and for all, ' Heated hot with burning fears, And bathed in baths of hissing tears, And battered with the strokes of doom To shape and use,' as the great Protestant Dutch Piepublic. A noble errand it had been for such a man as Hereward to help those men toward freedom, instead of helping Frank counts to enslave them ; — men of his own blood, with laws and customs like those of his own Anglo-Danes, living in a land so exactly like his own that every mere and fen and wood reminded him of the scenes of his boyhood. The very names of the two lands were alike — ' Holland,' the hollow land — the one of England, the other of Flanders. But all this was hidden from Hereward. To do as he would be done by was a lesson which he had never been taught. If men had invaded his land, he would have cried, like the Frisians whom he was going to enslave, ' I am free as long as the wind l)lows out of the clouds ! ' and died where he stood. But that was not tlie least reason why he should not invade any other man's land, and try whether or not he, too, would die where he stood. To him these Frieslanders were simply savages, probably heathens, who would not obey their lawful lord, a gentleman ^ Motley, Pdsc of tlie Dutch Hepuhlic. IX AT THE WAR IN SCALDMARILAND 105 and a Christian ; besides, renown, and possibly a little plunder, might be got by beating them into obedience. He knew not what he did ; and knew not, likewise, that as he had done to others, so would it be done to him. Baldwin had at that time made over his troublesome Hol- landers to his younger son Eobert, the Viking Avhom little Arnoul longed to imitate. Florent, Count of Holland, and vassal of the great marquis, had just died, leaving a pretty young widow, to whom the Hol- landers had no mind to pay one stiver more than they were forced. All the isles of Zeeland, and the counties of Eonham and Alost, were doing that which was right in the sight of their own eyes, and finding themselves none the worse therefor ; though the Countess Gertrude, doubtless, could buy fewer silks of Greece or gems of Italy. But to such a distressed lady a champion could not long be wanting. Robert had been driven out of Spain by the ]\Ioors with fearful loss, and, in a second attempt, wrecked witli all his fleet as soon as he got out of port. He then, it would seem, started in palmer's guise, nomi- nally for Jerusalem, but really for Byzant. For, according to Lambert of Aschaftenbourg, certain Norman Vikings had offered to make him Kaiser of Greece, and more than rival of Robert Guiscard in his new Italian kingdom. But tlie existing Greek kaiser, hearing of the plot, commanded him to be slain as soon as he set foot on shore. To avoid which end the disap- pointed palmer wended homeward once more, and resolved to cliange thenceforth the salt water for the fresh, and leave the swan's -path for that of the humble ducks and geese of Holland. So he rushed to avenge the wrongs of the Countess Gertrude ; and liis father, whose good sense foresaw that the fiery Robert would raise storms upon his path — happily for his old age he did not foresee the worst — let him go, with his blessing. Then Robert gathered to him valiant ruffians, as many as he could find ; and when he heard of the Viking who had brought Eustace of Guisnes to reason, it seemed to him that he was a man who would do his work. And when the great marquis came down to St. Omer to receive the homage of Count Eustace of Guisnes, Robert came thither too, and saw Hereward. ' You have done us good service, Harold Naemansson, as it pleases you to be called,' said Baldwin, smiling. 'But some man's son you are, if ever I saw a gallant knight, earl-born by his looks as well as his deeds.' Hereward Ijowed. ' And for me,' said Robert, ' Naemansson or earl's son, here is my Viking's welcome to all Vikings like myself.' And he held out his hand. Hereward took it. ' You failed in Galicia, beausire, only because your foes were 106 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. a hundred to one. You will not fail where you ai'e going, if (as I hear) they ai-e but ten to one.' Eobert laughed, vain and gratified. 'Then you know where I have been, and where I am going ? ' ' Why not 1 A.s you know well, we Vikings are all brothers ; and all know each other's counsel, from ship to ship, and port to port.' Then the two young men looked each other in the face, and each saw that the other was a man who would suit liim. ' Skall to the Viking ! ' cried Eobert, aping, as was his fancy, the Norse rovers' slang. ' Will you come with me to Holland ? ' 'You must ask my young lord there,' and he pointed to Arnoul. ' I am his man now, by all laws of honour.' A flush of jealousy passed over Robert's face. He, haplessly for himself, thought that he had a grievance. The rights of jirimogeniture—' droits d'ainesse' — were not re- spected in the family of the Baldwins as they should have been, had prudence and common sense had their way. No sacred or divine right was held to be conferred by the fact of a man's being the first-born son. As among the Jews of old, the ' Lord's anointed ' was usually rather a younger son of talent and virtue ; one born, not according to the flesh, but according to the spirit, like David and Solomon. And so it was in other realms besides Flanders during the middle age. The father handed on the work — for ruling was hard work in those days— to the son most able to do it. Therefore we can believe Lambert of Aschaffenbourg when he says that iia Count Bald- win's family for many ages the son wlio pleased his father most took his father's name, and was hereditary prince of all Flanders ; while the other brothers led an inglorious life of vassalage to him. But we can conceive, likewise, that such a method would give rise to intrigues, envyings, calumnies, murders, fratricidal civil wars, and all the train of miseries which for some years after this history made infamous the house of Baldwin ; as they did many another royal house, till they were stopped by the gradual adoption of the rational rule of primogeniture. So Ptobert, who might have been a daring and useful friend to his brother, had he been forced to take for granted from birth that he was nothing, and his brother all in all —as do all younger sons of English noblemen, to their infinite benefit — held himself to be an injured man for life, because his father called his first-born Baldwin, and promised him the succession— which indeed he had worthily deserved, according to the laws of Mammon and this world, by bringing into the family such an heiress as Richilda, and such a dowry as Mons. But Piobert, wlio thought himself as good as his brother (tliough he was not such, save in valour), nursed black envy IX AT THE WAR IIST SCALDM ARIL AND 107 in his heart. Hard it was to him to hear his elder brother called Baldwin of Mons, when he himself had not a foot of land of his own. Hai'der still to hear him called Baldwin the Good, when he felt in himself no title whatsoever to that epithet. Hardest of all to see a beautiful boy grow up as heir both of Flanders and of Hainault. Had he foreseen whither that envy would liave led him ; had he foreseen the hideous and fratricidal day of February 22, 1071, and that fair boy's golden locks rolling in dust and blood — the wild Viking would have crushed the growing snake within his bosom ; for he was a knight and a gentleman. But it was hidden from his eyes. He had to ' dree his weird ' ; to com- mit great sins, do great deeds, and die in his bed, mighty and honoured, having children to his heart's desire, and leaving the rest of his substance to his babes. Heaven help him and the like of him ! He turned to young Arnoul — ' Give me your man, boy ! ' Arnoul pouted. He wanted to keep his Viking for himself, and said so. ' He is to teach me to go leding, as the Norsemen call it, like you.' Robert laughed. A hint at his piratical attempts pleased his vanity, all the more because they had been signal failures. 'Lend him me, then, my pretty nephew, for a month or two, till he has conquered these Zeeland frogs for me ; and tlien, if you will go leding with him ' ' I hope you may never come back,' thought Robert to him- self ; but he did not say it. ' Let the knight go,' quoth Baldwin. 'Let me go with him, then.' ' No, by all saints ! ' quoth the marquis, ' I cannot have you poked through with a Zeeland pike, or rotted with a Zeeland ague.' Arnoul pouted still. 'Abbot, wliat hast thou been at with the boy? He thinks of nought but blood and wounds, instead of books and prayers. He is gone mad after this — this knight.' 'The abbot,' said Hereward, 'knows by hearing of his ears, tliat I bid liim bide at home, and try to govern lands in peace, like liis father and you, lord marquis.' 'Eh?' Tlie abbot told honestly what had passed between Hereward and the lad, as tlicy rode to St. Bertin. Baldwin was silent, thinking, and smiling jollily, as was the wont of the Debonair. ' You are a man of sense, beausire. Come with me,' said he at last. And Baldwin, Hereward and Robert went into an inner room. 108 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' Sit down on the settle by me.' ' It is too great an honour.' ' Nonsense, man ! If I be who I am, I know enough of men to know that I need not be ashamed of having you as bench- fellow. Sit down.' Hereward obeyed, of course. ' Tell me who you are.' Hereward looked out of the corners of his eyes, smiling and perplexed. ' Tell me and Robert who you are, man ; and be done with it. I believe I know already. I have asked far and wide of chap- men, and merchants, and wandering knights, and pirate rascals — like yourself.' ' And you found that I was a pirate rascal 1 ' ' I found a pirate rascal who met you in Ireland, three years since, and will swear that if you have one gray eye and one blue ' ' As he has,' quoth Robert. ' That I am a wolf's head, and a robber of priests, and an Esau on the face of the earth ; every man's hand against me and mine— for I never take but Avhat I give— against every man.' ' That you are the son of my old friend Leofric of Chester ; and the hottest -hearted, shrewdest -headed, hardest -handed Berserker in tlie Nortli Seas. You killed Gilbert of Ghent's bear, Siward Digre's cousin. Don't deny it.' ' Don't hang me, or send me to the Westminster miracle- worker to be hanged, and I will confess.' ' 1 1 Every man is welcome who comes hither with a bold hand and a strong heart. " The Refuge of Outlaws " they call Flanders ; I suppose because I am too good-natured to turn rogues out. So do no harm to mine, and mine shall do no harm to you.' Baldwin's words were true.^ He found houseroom for every- body, helped everybody against everybody else (as will be seen), and yet quarrelled with nobody— at least in his old age— by the mere virtue of good-nature. So Hereward went off" to exterminate the wicked Hollanders, and revenge the wrongs of the Countess Gertrude. 1 Eltgiva Emma, between Ethelred's ruin and her marriage with Canute ; Sweyn Godwinsson when outlawed by Edward the Confessor, and after them, as will be seen, every one who, however fallen, seemed strong enough to rise again some day, took refuge one after another with Baldwin. See, for the history of him and his times, IL Kcrvyn de Lettenhoven. X HOW HEREWARD WON THE MAGIC ARMOUR 109 CHAPTER X HOW HEREWARD WON THE MAGIC ARMOUR ToRFRlDA had special opportunities of hearing about Herewai'd ; for young Arnoul was to her a pet and almost a foster-brother, and gladly escaped from the convent to tell lier the news. He had now had his first taste of the royal game of war. He had seen Hereward figlit by day, and heard him tell stories over the camp fire by night. Hereward's beauty, Hereward's prowess, Hereward's songs, Hereward's strange adventures and wanderings, were for ever in the young boy's mouth ; and he spent hours in helping Torfrida to guess who the great unknown might be ; and then went back to Hereward, and artlessly told him of his beautiful friend, and how they had talked of him, and of nothing else ; and in a week or two Here- ward knew all about Torfrida ; and Torfrida knew — what filled her heart with joy — that Hereward was bound to no lady-love, and owned (so he had told Arnoul) no mistress save the sword on liis thigh. Whereby there had grown up in the hearts of both of them a mutual interest, which easily became the parent of love. When Baldwin the great marquis came to St. Omer, to re- ceive the homage of Eustace of Guisnes, young Arnoul ran into Torfrida's chamber in great anxiety. Would his grandfather approve of what he had done ? Would he allow his new friend- shi}) with the unknown 1 ' What care 1 1 ' said Torfrida. ' But if your friend wishes to Jiave the marquis's favour, he would be wise to trust him, at least so far as to tell his name.' _ 'I have told him so. I have told him that you would tell him so.' ' 1 1 Have you been talking to him about me ? ' 'Why not?' 'That is not well done, Arnoul, to talk of ladies to men whom they do not know.' Arnoul looked uji, puzzled and pained ; for she spoke hauglitily. ' I know naught of your new friend. He may be a low-born man, for anything that I can tell.' ' He is not ! He is as noble as I am. Everything he says and does — every look — shows liis birth.' ' You are young — as you have shown by talking of me to him. But I have given you my advice ; ' and she moved listlessly away. 'Let him tell your grandfather wlio he is, or remain suspected.' The boy went away sadly. 110 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Early the next morning he burst into Torfrida's room as she was dressing her hair. ' How now 1 Are these manners for the heir of Flanders ? ' ' He has told all ! ' ' He has ! ' and she started and dropt her comb. ' Pick up that comb, girl. You need not go away. I have no secrets with young gentlemen.' ' I thought you would be glad to hear,' said Arnoul. ' 1 1 What can I want in the matter, save that your grand- father should be satisfied that you are entertaining a man worthy to be your guest ? ' 'And he is worthy : he has told my grandfather who he is.' ' But not you 1 ' ' No. They say I must not know yet. But this I know, that they welcomed him, when he told them, as if he had been an earl's son ; and that ho is going with my uncle Robert against the Zeelanders.' ' And if he be an earl's son, how comes he here, wandering with rough seamen, and hiding his honest name 1 He must have done something of which he is ashamed.' 'I shall tell you nothing more.' ' What care I ? I can find out by art magic if I like.' ' I don't believe all that. Can you find out, for instance, what he has on his throat ? ' ' A beard.' ' But what is under that beard ? ' A goitre.' ' You are laughing at me.' 'I shall laugh at any one who challenges me to find out any- thing so silly, and so unfit.' ' I shall go.' ' Go then.' For she knew very well that lie would come back again. 'Nurse,' said Torfrida to the old Lapp woman, when they were alone, 'find out for me what is the name of this strange champion, and what he has beneath his beard.' ' Beneath his beard 1 ' ' Some scar, I supi)ose, or secret mark. I must know. You will find out for your Torfrida, will you not, nurse?' ' I will make a charm that will bring him to you, were all the icebergs of Quenland between you and him ; and then you can see for yourself.' ' No, no, no ! not yet, nurse ! ' and Torfrida smiled. ' Only find me out that one thing : that I must know.' And yet why she wanted to know, she could not tell herself. The old woman came back to her ere she went to bed. 'I have found it out, all and more. I know where to get scarlet toadstools; and I put the juice in his men's ale ; they are laughing and roaring now, merry-mad every one of them.' X HOW HEREWARD WON THE MAGIC ARMOUR 111 ' But not he r _ _ 'No, no. He is with the marquis. But in madness comes out truth ; and that long hook-nosed body-varlet of his has told us all.' And she told Torfrida who Hereward was, and the secret mark. ' There is a cross upon his throat, beneath his chin, pricked in after their English fashion.' Torfrida started. ' Then— then the spell will not work upon him ; the Holy Cross will tui-n it off.' 'It must be a great cross and a holy one that will turn off my charms,' said the old hag, with a sneer, ' wiiatever it may do against yours. But on the back of his hand — that will be a mark to know him by — there is pricked a bear — a white bear that he slew.' And she told the story of the fairy beast, which Torfrida duly stored up in her heart. ' So he has the cross on his throat,' thought Torfrida to her- self. ' Well, if it keep off my charm, it will keep oti' others — that is one comfort ; and one knows not what fairies, or witches, or evil creatures, he may meet with in the forests and the fens.' The discovery of Hereward's rank did not, doubtless, lessen Torfrida's fancy for him. 81ie was ambitious enougli, and proud enough of her own lineage, to be full glad that her heart had strayed away — as it must needs stray somewhere — to the son of the third greatest man in England. As for his being an outlaw, that mattered little. He might be inlawed, and rich and power- ful, any day in those uncertain topsy-turvy times ; and for the present, his being a wolf's head only made him the more inter- esting to her. Women like to pity their lovers. Sometimes — may all good beings reward them for it — they love merely because they pity. And Torfrida found it pleasant to pity the insolent young coxcomb, who certainly never dreamed of jjitying himself. When Hereward went home that niglit, he found the abbey of St. Bertin in horrible confusion. His men were groujied out- side the gate, chattering like monkeys ; the porter and the monks from inside entreating them vainly to come in and go to bed (|uietly. But they would not. They vowed and swoi'e that a great gulf had opened all down the road, and that one step more would tumble them in headlong. They manifested the most aflection- ate solicitude for the monks, warning them, on their lives, not to step across the threshold, or they would be swallowed (as i\Iartiii, wlio was the maddest of the lot, j)hrased it) with Korah, Datlian, and Abiram. In vain Hereward stormed ; assured them that the supposed abyss was nothing but tlie gutter ; proved the fact by kicking" Martin over it. The men determined to 112 IIEREWARD THE AVAKE cuai'. believe their own eyes, and after awhile fell asleep in heaps in the roadside, and lay tliere till morning, when they woke, de- claring, as did the monks, that they had been all bewitched. They knew not — and hapj^ily the lower orders both in England and on the Continent do not yet know — the potent virtues of that strange fungus, with which Lapps and Samoiedes have, it is said, practised wonders for centuries past. The worst of tlie matter was, that Martin Lightfoot, who had drunk most of the poison, and had always been dreamy and uncanny, in spite of his shrewdness and humour, had from that day forward something very like a bee in his bonnet. But before Count Robert and Hereward could collect suffi- cient troops for the invasion of Holland, another chance of being slain in fight arose, too tempting to be overlooked, namely, the annual tournaments at Pons and Poitiers,^ where all the noblest knights of France would assemble, to win their honour and ladies' love by hewing at each other's sinful bodies. Thither, too, over three hundred and fifty miles of bad road, the best knights of Flanders must needs go ; and with them Hereward. Though no knight, he was allowed in Flanders, as he had been in Scotland, to take his place among that honourable company. For thougli lie still refused the honour of knighthood, on the ground that he had as yet done no deed deserving thereof, he was held to have deserved it again and again, and all the more from his modesty in declining it. So away they all went to Poitiers, a right gallant meinie ; while Torfrida watched them go from the lattice window. And when they had passed down the street, tramping and gingling and caracoling, young Arnoul ran into the house with eyes full of tears, because he was not allowed to go likewise ; and with a message for Torfrida from no other than Hereward. ' I was to tell you this and no more : that if he meets your favour in the field, he that wears it will have hard work to keep it.' Torfrida turned pale as ashes ; first with wild delight, and then with wild fear. ' Ha — does he know who — Sir Ascelin 1 ' 'He knows well enough. Why not? Every one knows. Are you afraid that he is not a match for that great ox ? ' ' Afraid ? Who said I was afraid ? Sir Ascelin is no ox either ; but a courteous and gallant knight.' ' You are as pale as death ; and Sir ' 'Never mind what I am,' said she, putting her hands over the boy's eyes, and kissing him again and again, as a vent for her joy. The next few days seemed years for length ; but she could wait. She was sure of him now. She needed no charms. ' Per- ^ ' Apud Pontes et Pictaviam.' — Pons in Xaintonge. X HOAV HEREAVARD WOI^ THE MAGIC ARMOUR 113 liaps,' thouglit she, as she looked in the glass, ' I was my own charm.' And indeed she had a fair right to say so. At last news came. Torfrida was sitting over her books ; her mother, as usual, was praying in the churches ; when the old Lapp nurse came in. A knight was at tlie door. He said his name was Siward the White, and he came from Hereward. From Hereward ! He was at least alive ; he might be wounded, though ; and she rushed out of the chamber into the hall, looking more beautiful than ever ; her colour heightened by the quick beating of her heart ; her dark hair, worn loose and long, after the fashion of those days, streaming around her and beliind her. A handsome young man stood in the doorway, armed from head to foot. 'You are Siward, Hereward's nephew?' He bowed assent. She took liim by the hands, and, after the fashion of those days, kissed him on the small space on either cheek wliich was left bare between the nose-piece and the chain- mail. ' You are welcome. Hereward is — alive ? ' ' Alive and gay, and all the more gay at being able to send to the Lady Torfrida by me something which was once hers, and now is liers once more.' And he drew from his bosom the ribbon of the knight of St. Valeri. She almost snatched it from his hand, in her delight at re- covering her favour. ' How — where — did he get this ? ' ' He saw it, in the thick of the tournament, on the helm of a Icnight who, he knew, had vowed to maim liim or take his life ; and, wishing to give him a chance of f ultilling his vow, rode him down, horse and man. The knight's French friends attacked us in force, and we Flemings, with Hereward at our head, beat them off , and overthrew so many, that we are almost all liorsed at the Frenchmen's expense. Three more knights, with tlieir horses, fell before Hereward's lance.' ' And what of this favour ? ' ' He sends it to its owner. Let her say what shall be done with it.' Torfrida was on the point of saying, 'He lias won it, let him wear it for my sake.' But slie paused. Slie longed to see Here- ward face to face ; to speak to him, if but one word. If she allowed him to wear the favour, she must at least have the l^leasui'e of giving it with her own hands. And she jDaused. 'And he is killed?' 'Who? Hereward?' ' Sir Ascelin.' 'Only bruised ; but lie shall l)e killed, if you will.' I ]I. T. w. 114 HEREWABD THE WAKE chap. 'God forbid!' ' Then,' said the knight, mist.aking her meaning, ' all I have to tell Hereward is, it seems, that he has wasted his blow. He will return, therefore, to the knight of St. Valeri his horse, and, if the Lady Torf rida chooses, the favour which he has taken by- mistake from its rightful owner.' And he set his teeth, and could not prevent stamping on the ground, in evident passion. There was a tone, too, of deep disappointment in his voice, which made Torfrida look keenly at him. Why should Here- wai-d's nepliew feel so deeply about that favour ? And as she looked— could that man be the youtli Siward 1 Young he was, but surely thirty years old at least. His face could hardly be seen, hidden byhelmet and nose-piece above, and mailed up to the mouth below. But his long moustache was that of a grown man ; his vast breadth of shoulder, his hard hand, his sturdy limbs— these surely belonged not to the slim youth whom she had seen from her lattice riding at Hereward's side. And as she looked, she saw upon his hand the bear of which her nurse had told her. 'You are deceiving me ! ' and she turned hrst deadly pale, and then crimson. ' You— you are Hereward himself ! ' ' 1 1 Pardon me, my lady. Ten minutes ago I should have been glad enough to liave been Hereward. Now I am tliankful enougli that I am only Siward ; and not Hereward, who wins for himself contempt by overthrowing a knight more fortunate than he.' And he bowed, and turned away to go. ' Hereward ! Hereward ! ' and in her passion she seized him by both his hands. ' I know you ! I know that device upon your hand. At last ! at last ! My hero, my Paladin ! How I have longed for this moment ! How I have toiled for it, and not in vain! Alas, alas !— what am I saying?' And she tried, in her turn, to escape from Hereward's mailed arms. ' Then you do not care for that man ? ' 'For him? Here, take my favour, wear it before all the world, and guard it as you only can ; and let all know that Torfrida is your love.' And with hands trembling with passion she bound the ribbon round his helm. ' Yes ! I am Hereward,' he almost shouted ; ' the Berserker, the brain-hewer, the land-thief, the sea-tliief, the feeder of wolf and raven— Aoi ! Ere my beard was grown, I was a match for giants. How much more now tliat I am a man whom ladies love 1 Many a champion has quailed before my very glance. How much more now that I wear Torfrida's gift ? Aoi ! ' Torfrida has often heard that wild battle-cry of Aoi! of which the early minstrels were so fond— with whicli the great poet who wrote tlie Song of Roland ends every paragraph ; which has now fallen (displaced by our modern Hurrali) to be merely a sailor's call or hunter's cry. But she shuddered as she X HOAV HEREWARD AVOX THE MAGIC ARMOUR 115 lieard it close to her ears ; and saw, from the flasliing eye and dilated nostril, the temper of the man on whom she had thrown herself so utterly. She laid her hand upon his lips. 'Silence ! silence for pity's sake. Remember that you are in a maiden's liouse ; and tliink of her good fame.' Hereward collected liimself instantly, and then, holding her at arm's length, gazed upon her. ' I was mad a moment. But is it not enough to make me mad to look at you 1 ' ' Do not look at me so, I cannot bear it,' said she, hanging- down her head. ' You forget that I am a poor weak girl.' 'Ah! we are rough wooers, we sea-rovers. We cannot pay glozing French compliments like your knights here, who fawn on a damsel with soft words in the hall, and will kiss the dust off their queen's feet, and die for a hair of their goddess' eyebrow ; and then if they find her alone in the forest, show themselves as very ruffians as if they were Paynim Moors\ We are rougli, lady, we English : but those who trust us find us true.' ' And I can trust you ? ' she asked, still trembling. 'On God's cross there round your neck,' and he took her crucifix and kissed it. 'You only I love, you only I will love, and you will I love in all honesty, before the angels of heaven, till we be wedded man and wife. Who but a fool would soil the flower which he means to wear before all the world 1 ' 'I knew Hereward was noble! I knew I liad not trusted liim in vain ! ' 'I kept faith and honour with the princess of Cornwall, when I had her at my will, and shall I not keep faith and honour with you 1 ' ' The princess of Cornwall 1 ' asked Torf rida. 'Do not be jealous, fair queen. I brought her safe to her betrothed ; and wedded she is, long ago. I will tell you that story some day. And now — I must go.' ' Not yet ! not yet ! I have something to — to show you.' She motioned him to go up the narrow stairs, or rather ladder, which led to the upper floor, and then led him into her chamber. A lady's chamber was then, in days when privacy was little cared for, her usual reception-room ; and the bed, which stood in an alcove, served as a common seat for her and her guests. But Torfrida did not ask him to sit down. Slie led the way onward towards a door beyond. Hereward followed, glancing with awe at the books, parch- ments, and strange instruments whicli lay on the table and the flooi". The old Lapp nurse sat in tlie window, sewing busily. She looked up, and smiled meaningly. But as she saw Torfrida unlock the fartlier door with one of the keys which hung at her girdle, she croaked out : 116 HEREWARD THE WAKE . chap. ' Too fast ! Too fast ! Trust lightly, and repent heavily.' ' Trust at once, or trust never,' said Torf rida, as she oj^ened the door. Hereward saw within rich dresses hung on perches round the wall, and chests barred and padlocked. 'These are treasures,' said she, 'which many a knight and nobleman has coveted. By cunning, by flattery, by threats of force even, have they tried to win what lies here — and Torf rida Iierself, too, for tlie sake of her wealth. But thanks to the abbot, my uncle, Torfrida is still her own mistress, and mistress of the wealth which her forefathers won by sea and land far away in the East. All here is mine— and if you be but true to me, all mine is yours. Lift the lid for me, it is too heavy for my arms.' Hereward did so ; and saw within golden cups and bracelets, hoi'ns of ivory and silver, bags of coin, and among them a mail shirt and helmet, on which he fixed at once silent and greedy eyes. She looked at his face askance, and smiled. ' Yes, these are more to Hereward's taste than gold and jewels. And he shall have them. He shall have them as a proof that if Torfrida has set her love upon a worthy knight, she is at least worthy of him ; and does not demand without being able to give in return.' And she took out the armour and held it up to him. ' This is the work of dwarfs or enchanters ! This was not forged by mortal man ! It must have come out of some old cavern, or dragon's hoard ! ' said Hereward, in astonishment at the extreme delicacy and slightness of the mail-rings, and the richness of the gold and silver with which both hauberk and helm were inlaid. ' Enchanted it is, they say ; but its maker, who can tell ? My ancestor won it, and by the side of Charles Martel. Listen, and I will tell you how. ' You have heard of fair Provence, where I spent my youth ; the land of the sunny south ; the land of the fig and the olive, the mulberry and the rose, the tulip and the anemone, and all rich fruits and fair flowers, — the land where every city is piled with temples, and theatres, and towers as high as heaven, which the old Romans built with their enchantments, and tormented the blessed martyrs therein.' ' Sun in heaven ! How beautiful you are ! ' cried Hereward, as her voice shaped itself into a song, and her eyes flashed, at the remembrance of her southern home. Torfrida was not altogether angry at finding that he was thinking of her, and not of her words. 'Peace, and listen. You know how the Paynim held that land — the Saracens, to Avhom Mahound taught all tlie wisdom of Solomon — as tliey teach us in turn,' she added in a lower voice. X HOW HEREWARD WON THE MAGIC ARMOUR 117 'And how Cliarles and his Paladins' [Charles ]\Iartel and Charlemagne were perpetually confounded in the legends of the time] 'drove them out, and conquered the country again for God and His Mother.' 'I have heard ' but he did not take his eyes off her face. 'They were in the amphitheatre at Aries, the Saracens, where the blessed martyr St. Trophimus had died in torments ; they had set up their idol of Mahound, and turned the place into a fortress. Charles burned it over their heads : you see — I have seen — the blackened walls, the bloodstained marbles, to this day. Then they fled into the plain, and there they turned and fought. Under Montmajour, by the hermit's cell, they fought a summer's day, till they were all slain.^ There was an Emir among them, black as a raven, clad in magic armour. All lances turned from it, all swords shivered on it. He rode through the press without a wound, while every stroke of his scimitar shore off a head of horse or man. Charles himself rode at him, and smote him with his hammer. They heard the blow in Avignon, full thirty miles away. The flame flashed out from the magic armour a fathom's length, blinding all around ; and wlien they recovered their sight, the enchanter was far away in the battle, killing as he went. 'Then Charles cried, "Who will stop that devil, whom no steel can wound 1 Help us, O blessed martyr St. Trophimus, and save the soldiers of the cross from shame ! " ' Then cried Torf rid my forefather — " What use in crying to St. Trophimus ? He could not help himself when the Paynim burnt him : and how can he lielp us ? A tough arm is worth a score of martyrs here." ' And he rode at that Emir, and gript him in his arms. They both fell, and rolled together on the ground : but Toi-frid never loosed his hold till he had crushed out his unbaptized soul, and sent it to join Mahound in hell. 'Then he took his armour, and brought it home in triumph. But after awhile he fell sick of a fever ; and the blessed St. 1 I have followed the old legends, as Torfrida would have heard them ; and they are not altogether to be disbelieved. The Churcli of the Holy Cross, perhaps the most beautiful Romanesque .building in Europe, is said to date not from the year 739, but from 1019 and from Pons de Marignan, Bishop of Aries. But the rock graves round — some of them very old, tliough not those of ' primitive Christians ' — indicate a religio loci, which must have been the cause, not the consequence, of the church. Probably an older building had existed on the site. And certainly, if the monks of Montmajour liad invented both legend and place, they would have rather cliosen for the latter St. Trophimus' cave in the hill above, which is surely, deducting the Romanesque additions, one of the earliest of Cliristian monuments. Moreover, the very name Montmajour, the ' Mayor's Blount,' points to Charles Martel as the Iiero of the isolated hill forming so strong a military position iu the wide plain. 118 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Tropliimus appeared to ]iim, and told him that it was a punish- ment for his blasphemy in the battle. So he repented, and yowed to serve the saint all his life. On which he was healed instantly, and fell to religion, and went back to Montmajour : and there he was a hermit in the cave under the rock, and tended the graves hewn in the living stone, where his old comrades, the Paladins who were slain, sleep side by side round the Church of tlie Holy Cross. But the armour he left here ; and he laid a curse upon it, that whosoever of his descendants should lose tliat armour in fight, should die childless, without a son to wield a sword. And therefore it is that none of my ancestors, valiant as they have been, have dared to put this harness on tiieir backs.' And so ended a story, which Torfrida believed utterly, and Hereward likewise. 'And now, Hereward mine, dare you wear that magic armour, and face old Torfrid s curse ? ' ' What dare I not T ' Think. If you lose it, in you your race must end.' ' Let it end. I accept the curse.' And he put the armour on. But lie trembled as he did it. Atheism and superstition go too often hand -in- hand ; and godless as he was, sceptical of Providence itself, and much more of the help of saint or angel, still the curse of the old warrior, like the malice of a witch or a demon, was to him a thing possible, probable, and formidable. Torfrida looked at him in pride and exultation. 'It is yours — the invulnerable harness! Wear it in the forefront of the battle ! And if weapon wound you through it, may I, as punishment for my lie, suffer the same upon my tender body— a wound for every wound of yours, my knight ! ' ^ And after that they sat side by side, and talked of love with all honour and honesty, never Jieeding the old hag, who crooned to herself in her barbarian tongue — ' Quick thaw, long frost, Quick jo}', long jmin, Soon found, soon lost, You will take your gilt again.' ' 'Volo enim in nieo tale quid nunc 2>erpeti corpore semel, quicquid eas ferrei vel e metallo excederet.' XI HOW HE WAS TAKEN FOR A MAGICIAN 119 CHAPTER XI HOW THE HOLLANDERS TOOK HEREWARD FOR A MAGICIAN Of this weary Holland war whicli dragged itself on, campaign after campaign, for several years, what need to tell? There was, doubtless, the due amount of murder, plunder, burning, and worse ; and the final event was certain from the beginning. It was a struggle between civilised and disciiDlined men, armed to the teeth, and well furnished with ships and military engines, against poor simple folk in 'coats stiffened with tar and rosin, or in very short jackets of hide ' (says the chronicler), ' who fought by threes, two with a hooked lance and three darts each, and between them a man with a sword or an axe, who lield his shield before those two ; — a very great multitude, but in com- position utterly undisciplined,' who came down to the sea-coast, with carts and waggons, to carry off the spoils of the Flemings, and bade them all surrender at discretion, and go home again after giving up Count Robert and Hereward, with the ' tribunes of the brigades,' to be put to death — as valiant South Sea islanders might have done : and then found themselves as sheep to the slaughter before the cunning Hereward, whom they esteemed a magician on account of his craft and his invulnerable armour. So at least says Richard of Ely, who tells long confused stories of battles and campaigns, some of them without due regard to chronology ; for it is certain that the brave Zeelanders could not on Robert's first landing have ' feared lest they should be conquered by foreigners, as they had heard the English were by the French,' inasmuch as that event had not then happened. And thus much of the war among the meres of Scheldt. CHAPTER XII HOW HEREWARD TURNED BERSERKER Torfrida's heart misgave her that first night as to the effects of her exceeding frankness. Her pride in the first place was some- what wounded ; she liad dreamed of a knight who would worship her as his queen, hang on lier smile, die at her frown ; and she had meant to l)ring Hereward to her feet as such a slave, in boundless gratitude ; but liad he not rather held his own, and brought her to his feet, by assuming her devotion as his right? And if lie assumed that, how far could slie trust him not to abu.se liis claim ? Was he quite as perfect, seen close, as seen afar off? And now that the intoxication of that meeting had 120 HEREAVARD THE WAKE chap. passed off, she began to remember more than one little fault which she would have gladly seen mended. — Certain rough- nesses of manner whicli contrasted unfavourably with the polisli (merely external though it was) of the Flemish and Norman knights ; a boastful self-sufficiency, too, which bordered on the ludicrous at whiles even in lier partial eyes ; which would be a matter of open laughter to the knights of the court. Besides, if they laughed at him, they would laugh at her for choosing him. And then wounded vanity came in to help wounded pride ; and she sat over the cold embers till almost dawn of day, her head between her hands, musing sadly, and half wishing that the irrevocable yesterday had never come. But when, after a few months, Hereward returned from his first campaign in Holland, covered witli glory and renown, all smiles, and beauty and health, and good-humour, and gratitude for the magic armour which had preserved him unhui't, then Torfrida forgot all her fears, and thought herself the happiest maid alive for four-and-twenty hours at least. And tlien came back, and after that again and again, the old fears. Gradually she found out that the sneers which she had heard at English barbarians were not altogether without ground. Not only had her lover's life been passed among half-brutal and wild adventurers ; but, like the rest of his nation, he had never felt the influence of that classic civilisation without which good manners seem, even to this day, almost beyond the reach of the Western races. Those among Avhom she had been brought up, whether soldiers or clerks, were probably no nobler or purer at heart— she would gladly have believed them far less so — than Hereward ; but the merest varnish of Romai:i culture had given a charm to their mannei's, a wideness of range to their thoughts, which Hereward had not. Especially when he had taken too much to drink — which he did, after the Danish fashion, far oftener than the I'est of Robert's men — he grew rude, boastful, quarrelsome. He would chant his own doughty deeds ; and gab (as the Norman word was) in painful earnest, while they gabbed only in sport, and outvied each other in impossible fanfarronades, simply to laugh down a fashion which was held inconsistent witli tlie modesty of a true knight. Bitter it was to her to hear him announce to the company, not for the first or second time, how he had slain the Cornish giant, whose height increased by a foot at least every time he was mentioned ; and then to hear him answered by some smart, smooth -shaven youth, who, with as much mimicry of his manner as he dared to assume, boasted of having slain in Araby a giant with two heads, and taken out of Ins two moutlis tlie two halves of the princess whom he was devouring, which being joined together afterwards by the prayers of a holy hermit, were delivered back safe and sound to her father tlie King of Antioch. And more bitter still was it to hear Hereward XII HOW HEREWARD TURNED BERSERKER 121 angrily dispute the story, unaware (at least at first) that he was being laughed at. Then she grew sometimes cold, sometimes contemptuous, sometimes altogether fierce ; and shed bitter tears in secret, when she was comi^limented on the modesty of her young But Torfrida was a brave maiden ; and what was more, she loved him with all her heart. Else v/hy endure bitter words for his sake 1 And she set herself to teach and train the wild out- law into her ideal of a very jDerfect knight. She talked to him of modesty and humility, the root of all virtues ; of chivalry and self-sacrifice ; of respect to the Aveak, and mercy to the fallen ; of devotion to God, and awe of His commandments. She set before him the example of ancient heroes and philosophers, of saints and martyrs ; and as much awed him by her learning, as by the new world of higher and purer morality, which was opened for the first time to the wandering Viking. He, for his part, drank it all in. Tauglit by a woman who loved him, he could listen to humiliating truths, which he would have sneered at, had they come from the lips of a hermit or a priest. Often he rebelled ; often he broke loose, and made her angry, and himself ashamed : but the spell was on him — a far surer, as well as purer spell than any love-potion of which foolish Torfrida had ever dreamed — the only spell which can really civilise man — that of woman's tact and woman's purity. Nevertheless there were relapses, as was natural. The wine at Robert the Prison's table was often too good ; and then Here- ward's tongue was loosed, and Torfrida justly indignant. And one evening there came a very serious relapse, out of which arose a strange adventure. It befell that the great marquis sent for his son to Bruges, ere he set out for anotlier campaign in Holland ; and made him a great feast, to which he invited Torfrida and her mother. For Adela of France, the queen countess, liad lieard so mucli of Torfrida's beauty, tliat she must needs have her as one of her bower - maidens ; and her mother, who was an old friend of Adela's, of course was highly honoured by such a promotion for her daughter. So they went to Bruges, and Hereward and liis men went with them ; and they feasted, and harped, and sang ; and the saying was fulfilled — ' 'Tis merry in the liall AVhon beards wag all.' But the only beard which wagged in that hall was Hereward's ; for tlie Flemings, like the Normans, prided themselves on their civilised and smooth-shaven chins, and lauglied (behind his back) at Hereward, who prided himself on keeping his beautiful Eng- 122 IIEREWARD THE WAKE chap. lish beard, with locks of gold which, like his long golden liair, were combed and curled daily, after the fashion of the Anglo- Danes. After a while, Hereward's beard began to wag somewhat too fast, as he sat by Torfrida's side. For some knight near began to tell of a wonderful mare called Swallow, which was to be found in one of the islands of the Scheldt, and was famous through all the countiy round ; and insinuated, moreover, that Hereward might as well have brought that mare home with him as a trophy. To which Hereward answered, in his boasting vein, that he would bring home that mare, or aught else that he had a liking to. 'You will find it not so easy. Her owner, they say, is a mighty strong churl of a horse-breeder, Dirk Hammerhand by name ; and as for cutting his throat, that you must not do; for he has been loyal to Countess Gertrude, and sent her horses whenever she needed.' * One may pick a fair quarrel with him nevertheless.' ' Then you must bide such a bullet as you never abode before. They say his arm has seven men's strength ; and whosoever visits him, he challenges to give and take a blow : but no man that has taken a blow as yet, has ever needed another.' ' Hereward will have need of his magic liead-piece, if he tries that adventure,' quoth another. 'Ay,' retorted the first speaker ; 'but the helmet may stand the rap well enough, and yet the bi'ains inside be the worse.' 'Not a doubt. I knew a man once, who was so strong that he would shake a nut till the kernel went to powder, and yet never break the shell.' ' That is a lie ! ' quoth Hereward. And so it was, and told purposely to make him expose himself. Whereon high words followed, which Torfrida tried in vain to stop. Hereward was flushed with ire and scorn. ' Magic armour, forsooth ? ' cried he at last. ' What care I for armour or for magic 1 I will wager to you ' — 'my armour,' he was on the point of saying, but he checked himself in time — ' any horse in my stable, that I go in my shirt to Scaldmariland, and bring back that mare single-handed.' ' Hark to the Englishman ! He has turned Berserker at last, like his forefathers. You will surely start in a pair of hose as well, or the ladies will be shamed ? ' And so forth, till Torfrida was purple with shame, and wished herself fathoms deep ; and Adela of France called sternly from the head of the table to ask what the wrangling meant. ' It is only the English Berserker, the Lady Torfrida's cham- pion,' said some one in his most courteous tone, ' who is not yet as well acquainted with the customs of knighthood as that fair lady hopes to make him hereafter.' XII HOAV HEREWARD TURNED BERSERKER 123 'Torfrida's clianipion ?' asked Adela, in a tone of surprise, if not scorn. * If any knight quarrels with my Hereward, he quarrels with Robert himself ! ' thundered Count Robert. ' Silence ! ' And so the matter was hushed up. The banquet ended ; and they walked out into the garden to cool their heads, and play at games, and dance. Torfrida avoided Hereward : but he, with the foolish per- tinacity of a man who knows he has had too much wine, and yet pretends to himself that he has not, would follow her, and speak to her. She turned away more than once. At last she was forced to speak to him. ' So ! You have made me a laughing-stock to these knights. You have scorned at my gifts. You have said — and before these men, too — that you need neither helm nor hauberk. Give me them back, then, Berserker as you are, and go sleep off your wine.' ' That will I,' laughed Hereward boisterously. 'You are tipsy,' said she, 'and do not know what you say.' * You are angry, and do not know what you say. Hearken, proud lass. I will take care of one thing, and that is, that you shall speak the truth.' ' Did I not say that you were tipsy ? ' ' Pish ! You said that I was a Berserker. And truth you shall speak ; for baresark I go to-morrow to the war, and bare- sark I win that mai'e or die.' ' That will be very ht for you.' And the two turned haughtily from each other. Ere Torfrida went to bed that night, there was a violent knocking. Angry as she was, she was yet anxious enough to liurry out of her chamber, and open the door lierself. Martin Lightfoot stood there with a large leather mail, whicli he flung at her feet somewhat unceremoniously. 'There is some gear of yours,' said he, as it clanged and rattled on the floor. ' What do you mean, man 1 ' ' Only that my master bid me say that he cares as little for liis own life as you do.' And he turned away. She caught him l^y the arm — 'What is the meaning of this? What is in tliis mail V 'You should know best. If young folks cannot be content when they are well off", tliey will go farther and fare worse,' says Martin Lightfoot. And he slipt from her grasp and fled into the niglit. She took the mail to her room and opened it. It contained the magic armour. All her anger was melted away. She cried ; she blamed her- self. He would be killed ; liis blood would be on her head. 124 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. She would liave carried it back to him with lier own hands ; she would have entreated him on her knees to take it back. But how face the courtiers ? and how find him ? Very probably, too, he was by that time hopelessly drunk. And at that thoua:ht she drew herself into herself, tried to harden her heart again, and went to bed, but not to sleep. Bitterly she cried as she thought over the old hag's croon — ' Quick joy, long pain, You will take your gift again. ' It might have been five o'clock the next morning when the clarion rang down the street. She sprang up and drest herself quickly ; but never more carefully or gaily. She heard the tramp of horse-hoofs. He was moving a-tield early, indeed. Should she go to the window to bid him farewell ? Should she hide herself in just anger ? She looked out stealthily through the blind of the little window in the gable. There rode down the street Robert le Frison infull armour, and behind him, knight after knight, a wall of shining steel. But by his side rode one bare-headed, his long yellow curls fioating over his shoulders. His boots had golden spurs, a gilt belt held up his sword ; but his only dress was a silk shirt and silk hose. _ He laughed and sang, and made his horse caracol, and tossed his lance in the air, and caught it by the point, like Taillefer at Hastings, as lie passed under the window. She threw open the blind, careless of all appearances. She would have called to him : but the words choked her ; and Avhat should she say ? He looked up boldly, and smiled. 'Farewell, fair lady mine. Drunk I was last night, but not so drunk as to forget a promise.' And he rode on, while Torf rida rushed away and broke into wild weeping. CHAPTER XIII HOW HEREWAKD WON MARE SWALLOW On a bench at the door of his highroofed wooden house sat Dirk Hammerhand, the richest man in Walcheren. From within the house sounded the pleasant noise of slave- women, grinding and chatting at the handquern ; from without, the pleasant noise of geese and fowls without number. And as he sat and drank his ale, and watched the herd of horses in the fen, he thought him- self a happy man, and thanked his Odin and Thor that, owing to his princely supplies of horses to Countess Gertrude, Robert the Frison and his Christian Franks had not yet harried him to the bare walls, as they would probably do ere all was over. XIII HOW HEREWARD WON IMARE SWALLOW 125 As he looked at the horses, some half mile off, he saw a strange stir amon^- them. They began whinnying and pawing round a fourfooted tiling in the midst, which might be a badger, or a wolf — tliough both were very uncommon in that pleasant isle of Walcheren ; but which plainly had no business there. Whereon he took up a mighty staft", and strode over the fen to see. He found neither wolf nor badger : but to his exceeding sur- prise, a long lean man, clothed in ragged horse-skins, whinnying and neighing exactly like a horse, and then stooping to eat grass like one. He advanced to do the first thing that came into his head, namely, to break the man's back with his staff, and ask him afterwards who he might be. But ere he could strike, the man or horse kicked up with its hind legs in his face, and then springing on to the said hind legs ran away with extraordinary swiftness some fifty yards ; after which it went down on all fours and began grazing again. ' Beest thou man or devil 1 ' cried Dirk, somewhat frightened. The thing looked up. The face at least was human. ' Art thou a Christian man 1 ' asked it in bad Frisian, inter- mixed with snorts and neighs. ' What's that to thee 1 ' growled Dii^k ; and began to wish a little that he was one, having heard that the sign of the cross was of great virtue in driving away fiends. ' Thou art not Christian. Thou believest in Thor and Odin 1 Then there is hope.' ' Hope of what 1 ' Dirk was growing more and more fright- ened. ' Of her, my sister ! Ah, my sister, can it be that I shall find thee at last, after ten thousand miles, and seven years of woeful wandering ? ' ' I have no man's sister here. At least, my wife's brother was killed ' 'I speak not of a sister in woman's shape. Mine, alas ! — O woeful prince, O more woeful princess — eats the herb of the field somewhere in the shape of a mare, as ugly as she was once beautiful, but swifter than the swallow on the wing.' 'I've none such here,' quoth Dirk, thoroughly frightened, and glancing uneasily at mare Swallow. 'You have not? Alas, wretched me! It was prophesied to me by the witch that I should find her in the field of one who worshipped the old gods ; for liad she come across a holy priest, she had been a woman again, long ago. Whither must I wander afresh ! ' And the thing began weeping bitterly, and then ate more grass. ' I — that is — thou poor miserable creature,' said Dirk, half pitying, half wisliing to turn the subject ; 'leave off making a beast of thyself awliile, and tell mc who thou art.' ' I have made no beast of myself, most noble earl of the 126 IIEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Frisians, for so you doubtless are. I was made a beast of — a liorse of, by an enchanter of a certain land, and my sister a mare.' 'Thou dost not say so ! ' quoth Dirk, who considered such an event quite possible. ' I was a prince of the county of Alboronia, which lies between Cathay and the Mountains of the Moon, as fair once as I am foul now, and only less fair than my lost sister ; and by the enchantments of a cruel magician we became what we are.' ' But thou art not a horse, at all events ? ' ' Am I not ? Thou knowest, then, more of me than I do of myself,' and it ate more grass. ' But hear the rest of my story. My hapless sister was sold away with me to a merchant : but I, breaking loose from him, tied until I bathed in a magic fountain. At once I recovered my man's shape, and was rejoicing therein, when, out of the fountain rose a fairy more beautiful than an elf, and smiled uj^on me with love. ' She asked me my story, and I told it. And when it was told — " Wretch ! " she cried, " and coward, who hast deserted thy sister in her need. I would have loved thee, and made thee immortal as myself : but now thou shalt wander ugly and eating grass, clothed in the horse-hide which has just dropped from thy limbs, till thou shalt find thy sister, and bring her to bathe, like thee, in this magic well." ' ' All good spirits help us ! And you are really a prince 1 ' 'As surely,' cried the thing with a voice of sudden rapture, ' as that mare is my sister ; ' and he rushed at mare Swallow. ' I see, I see, my mother's eyes, my father's nose ' 'He must have been a chuckle -headed king that, then,' grinned Dirk to himself. ' The mare's nose is as big as a buck- basket. But how can she be a princess, man — prince I mean ? she has a foal running by her hei'e.' 'A foal?' said the thing solemnly. ' Let me behold it. Alas, alas, my sister ! Thy tyrant's threat has come true, that thou shouldst be his bride whether thou wouldst or not. I see, I see in the features of thy son his hated lineaments.' 'Why he must be as like a horse, then, as your father. But this will not do, Master Horse-man ; I know tliat foal's pedigree better than I do my own.' ' Man, man, simple though honest ! — Hast tliou never heard of the skill of the enchanters of the East ? How they transform their victims at night back again into human shape, and by day into the shape of beasts again ? * ' Yes — well — I know that ' ' And do you not see how you are deluded ? Every night, doubt not, that mare and foal take their human shape again ; and every night, perhaps, that foul enchanter visits in your fen, perhaps in your very stable, his wretched bride restored (alas, only for an hour !) into her human shape.' xiir HOW HEREWARD AVON MARE SWALLOW 127 'An enchanter in my stable? That is an ugly guest. But no. I've been into the stables fifty times, to see if that mare was safe. Mare was mare, and colt was colt, Mr. Prince, if I have eyes to see.' 'And what are eyes against enchantments? The moment you opened the door, the spell was cast over them again. You ought to thank your stars that no worse has haj^pened yet ; that the enchanter, in fieeing, has not wrung your neck as he went out, or cast a spell on you, which will tire your barns, lame your geese, give your fowls the pip, your horses the glanders, your cattle the murrain, your childi-en St. Vitus' dance, your wife the creeping palsy, and yourself the chalk- stones in all your fingers.' ' All saints have mercy on me ! If the half of this be true, I wall turn Christian. I Avill send for a priest, and be baptized to-morrow ! ' ' O my sister, my sister ! Dost thou not know me ? Dost thou answer my caresses with kicks ? Or is thy heart, as well as thy body, so enchained by that cruel necromancer, that thou preferrest to be his, and scornest thine own salvation, leaving me to eat grass till I die ? ' ' I say, prince — I say — what would you have a man to do ? I bought the mare honestly, and I have kept her well. She can't say aught against me on that score. And wliether she be princess or not, I'm loth to part witli her.' ' Keep her then, and keep with lier the curse of all the saints and angels. Look down, ye holy saints' (and the thing poured out a long string of saints' names), ' and avenge this catliolic princess, kept in vile durance by an unbaptized heathen ! May his ' ' Don't, don't ! ' roared Dirk. ' And don't look at me like that' (for he feared the evil eye), ' or I'll brain you with my staff ! ' ' Fool ! If I have lost a horse's figure, I have not lost his swiftness. Ere thou couldst strike, I should have run a mile and back, to curse thee afresh.' And the thing ran round him, and fell on all fours again, and ate grass. ' Mercy, mercy ! And tliat is more than I ever asked yet of man. But it is hard,' growled he, 'that a man sliould lose his money, because a rogue sells him a princess in disguise.' 'Tlien .sell her again ; sell her, as thou valuest thy life, to the first Cin-istian man thou meetest. And yet no. What matters ? Ere a month be over, the seven years' enchantment will have passed ; and she will return to her own shape, with her son, and vanish from thy farm, leaving thee to vain repentance ; whereby thou wilt l^^th lose thy money and get her curse. Farewell, and my malison alnde with thee ! ' And the thing, without another word, ran right away, neighing as it went, leaving Dii-k in a state of al)ject terror. He went home. He cursed the mare, he cursed the man who 128 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. sold her, lie cursed the day he saw her, he cursed the day he was born. He told his story with exaggerations and confusions in l^lenty to all in the liouse ; and terror fell on them likewise. No one, that evening, dared go down into the fen to drive the horses up ; while Dirk got very drunk, went to bed, and trembled there all night (as did the rest of the household), expecting the enchanter to enter on a flaming fire-drake, at every howl of the wind. Tlie next morning, as Dirk was going about his business with a doleful face, casting stealthy glances at the fen, to see if the mysterious mare was still there, and a chance of his money still left, a man rode up to the dooi". He was poorly clothed, with a long rusty sword by his side. A broad felt hat, long boots, and a haversack behind his saddle, showed him to be a traveller, seemingly a horse dealer ; for there followed him, tied head and tail, a brace of sorry nags. ' Heaven save all here,' quoth he, making the sign of the ci'oss. ' Can any good Christian give me a drink of milk ? ' ' Ale, if thou wilt,' said Dirk. ' But what art thou, and whence ? ' On any other day he would have tried to coax his guest into trying a bufiet with him for his horse and clothes : but this morning his heart was heavy with the thought of the enchanted mare, and he welcomed the chance of selling her to the stranger. 'We are not very fond of strangers about here, since these Flemings have been harrying our borders. If thou art a spy, it will be worse for thee.' 'I am neither spy nor Fleming, but a poor servant of the Lord Bishop of Utrecht's, buying a garron or two for his lord- ship's priests. As for these Flemings, may St. John Baj^tist save from them both me and you. Do you know of any man who has horses to sell hereabouts ? ' ' There are horses in the fen yonder,' quoth Dirk, who knew that churchmen were likely to give a liberal price, and pay in good silver. ' I saw them as I rode up. And a fine lot they are : but of too good a stamp for my short purse, or for my holy master's riding, — a fat priest likes a quiet nag, my master. 'Humph. Well, if quietness is what you need, there is a mare down there, that a child might ride with a thread of wool. But as for price And she has a colt, too, running by her.' ' Ah ? ' quoth the horseman. ' Well, your Walcheren folk make good milk, that's certain. A colt by her ? That's awk- ward. My lord does not like young liorses ; and it would be troublesome, too, to take the thing along with me.' The less anxious the dealer seemed to buy, the more anxious grew Dirk to sell ; but he concealed his anxiety, and let the stranger turn away, thanking him for his drink. xiii HOW HEREWARD WON MARE SWALLOW 129 ' I say ! ' lie called after him. ' You might look at her, as you ride past the lierd.' The stranger assented ; and they went down into the fen, and looked over the precious mare, whose feats were afterwards sung by many an English fireside, or in the forest beneath the hollins green, by such as Eobin Hood and his merry men. The ugliest as well as the swiftest of mares she was, say the old chroniclers ; and it was not till tlie stranger had looked twice at her, that he forgot her great chuckle-head, greyhound ilanks, and drooping hindquarters, and began to see the great length of those same quarters, the thighs let down into the hocks, the compact loin, the extraordinary girth through the saddle, the sloping shoulder, the long arms, tlie flat knees, the large well-set hoofs, and all the other points which showed her strength and speed, and justified her fame. ' She might carry a big man like you through the mud,' said he carelessly ; ' but as for pace, one cannot expect that with such a chuckle-liead. And if one rode her through a town, the boys would call after one, _" All head and no tail." Why, I can't see her tail for her croup, it is so ill set on.' ' 111 set on, or none,' said Dirk_ testily, ' don't go to speak against her pace till you have seen it. Here, lass ! ' Dirk was in liis heart rather afraid of the princess ; but he was comforted when she came up to him like a dog. ' She's as sensible as a woman,' said he ; and then grumbled to himself, 'may be slie knows I mean to part with her.' ' Lend me your saddle,' said he to the stranger. The stranger did so ; and Dirk, mounting, galloped her in a ring. There was no doubt of her powers as soon as she began to move. ' I hope you won't remember this against me, madam,' said Dirk, as soon as he got out of the stranger's hearing. ' I can't do less than sell you to a Christian. And certainly I have been ' as good a master to you as if I'd known who you were ; but if you wish to stay with me, you've only to kick me oft", and say so ; and I'm yours to command.' ' Well, she can gallop a bit,' said tlie stranger, as Dirk pulled her up and dismounted ; ' but an ugly brute she is, nevertheless, and such an one as I should not care to ride, for I am a gay man among the ladies. However, what is your price ? ' Dirk named twice as much as he would have taken. ' Half that, you mean.' And the usual haggle began. ' Tell thee what,' said Dirk at last. ' I am a man who has his fancies ; and this shall be her price : half thy bid, and a box on the ear.' The demon of covetousness had entered Dirk's heart. What if he got the money, brained, or at least disabled tlie stranger, and so had a chance of selling the mare a second time to some fresh comer 1 K H. T. W. 130 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' Tliou art a strange fellow,' quoth the horse-dealer, ' But so be it.' Dirk chuckled. 'He does not know,' thought he, 'that he has to do with Dirk Hammerhand,' and he clenched his fist in anticipation of his rough joke. 'There,' quoth the stranger, counting out the money care- fully, ' is thy coin. And there — is thy box on the ear.' And with a blow which rattled over the fen, he felled Dirk Hammerhand to the ground. He lay senseless for a moment, and then looked wildly round. ' Villain ! ' groaned he. ' It was I who was to give the buffet, not thou ! ' ' Art mad ? ' asked the stranger, as he coolly picked up the coins, which Dirk had scattered in his fall. ' It is the seller's business to take, and the buyer's to give.' And while Dirk roared in vain for help, he leapt on Swallow, and rode off" shouting, ' Aha ! Dirk Hammerhand ! So you thought to knock a hole in my skull, as you have done to many a better man than your- self? He must be a luckier man than you who catches The Wake asleep. I shall give your love to the enchanted prince, my faithful serving man, whom they call Martin Lightfoot.' Dick cursed the day he was born. Instead of the mare and colt, he had got the two wretched garrons which the stranger had left, and a face which made him so tender of his own teeth, that he never again offered to try a buffet with a stranger. CHAPTER XIV HOW HEREWARD RODE INTO BRUGES LIKE A BEGGARMAN The spring and summer had passed, and the autumn was almost over, when great news came to the court of Bruges, where Torfrida was now a bower-maiden. The Zeelanders had been beaten till they submitted ; at least for the present. There was peace, at least for the present, through all the isles of Scheldt ; and more than all, the lovely Countess Gertrude had resolved to reward her chamj^ion by giving him her hand, and the guardianship of her lands and her infant son. And Hereward 1 From him, or of him, there was no word. That he was alive and fighting was all the messenger could say. T]ien Robert came back to Bruges, with a gallant retinue, leading home his bride. And there met him his father and mother, and his brother of Mons, and Richilda the beautiful and terrible sorceress — who had not yet stained her soul with those crimes which she expiated by fearful joenances in after years, XEV HOW HERE\YARD RODE INTO BRUGES 131 when young Arnoul, the son for whom she had sold her soul, lay dead upon the battlefield which was to have made him a mighty prince. And Torf rida went out with the nobles to meet Count Eobert, and looked for Hereward, till her eyes were ready to fall out of her head. But Hereward was not with them. ' He must be left behind, commanding the army,' thought she. * But he might have sent one word ! ' There was a great feast that day, of course ; and Torf rida sat thereat : but she could not eat. Nevertheless she was too proud to let the knights know what was in her heart ; so she chatted and laughed as gaily as the rest, watching always for any word of Hereward. But none mentioned his name. The feast was long ; the ladies did not rise till nigh bedtime ; and then the men drank on. They went up to the queen -countess' chamber, where a solemn undressing of that royal lady usually took place. The etiquette was this. The queen-countess sat in her chair of state in the midst, till her shoes were taken off, and her hair di'essed for the night. Eight and left of her, according to their degrees, sat the other great ladies ; and behind each of them, where they could find jjlaces, the maidens. It was Torfrida's turn to take off" the royal shoes ; and she advanced into the middle of the semicircle, slippers in hand. ' Stop there ! ' said the countess-queen. Wliereat Torf rida stopjoed, very much frightened. 'Countesses and ladies,' said the mistress, 'there are, in Pro- vence and the South, what I wish there were here in Flanders — courts of love, at which all offenders against the sacred laws of Venus and Cupid are tried by an assembly of their peers, and punished according to their deserts.' Torfrida turned scarlet. ' I know not why we, countesses and ladies, should have less knowledge of the laws of love than those gayer dames of the Soutli, whose blood runs — to judge by her dark hair — in the veins of you fair maid.' There was a silence. Torfrida was the most beautiful woman in the room ; more beautiful tlian even Eicliilda the terrible ; and therefore there were few but were glad to see her — as it seemed — in trouble. Torfrida's mother began whimpering, and praying to six or seven saints at once. But nobody marked lier — possibly not even the saints ; being preoccupied with Torfrida. 'I hear, fair maid — for that you are that I will do you the justice to confess — that you are old enough to be married this four years since.' Torfrida stood like a stone, frightened out of her wits, j)lenti- ful as they were. ' Why are you not married 1 ' There was, of course, no answer. 132 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' I hear that knights have fought for you ; lost their lives for you.' ' I did not bid them,' gasped Torfrida, longing that the floor would open and swallow up the queen-countess and all her kin and followers, as it did for the enemies of the blessed Saint Dun- stan, while he was arguing with them in an upper room at Calne. ' And that the knight of St. Valeri, to whom you gave your favour, now lies languishing of wounds got in your cause.' ' I— I did not bid him tight,' gasped Torfrida, now wishing that the floor would open and swallow up herself. 'And that he who overthrew the knight of St. Valeri — to whom you gave that favoui', and more ' ' I gave him nothing a maiden might not give,' cried Torfrida, so fiercely that the queen-countess recoiled somewhat. ' I never said that you did, girl. Your love you gave him. Can you deny that V Toi-frida laughed bitterly : her Southern blood was rising. ' I put my love out to nurse, instead of weaning it, as many a maiden has done before me, and thought no harm. When my love cried for hunger and cold, I took it back again to my own bosom ; and whether it has lived or died there, is no one's matter but my own.' ' Hunger and cold 1 I hear that him to whom you gave your love, you drove out to the cold, bidding him go fight in his bare shirt, if lie wished to win your love.' 'I did not. He angered me— He ' and Torfrida found herself in the act of accusing Hereward. She stopped instantly. ' What more, your highness ? If this be true, what more may not be true of such an one as I ? I submit myself to your royal grace.' 'She has confessed. What punishment, ladies, does she deserve? Or, ratlier, what punishment would her cousins of Provence inflict, did we send her southward, to be judged by their courts of love ? ' One lady said one thing, one another. Some spoke cruelly, some worse than cruelly, for they were coarse ages, tlie ages of faith ; and ladies said things then in open company which gentlemen would be ashamed to say in pi-ivate now. ' Marry her to a fool,' said Richilda, at last, bitterly. 'That is too common a misfortune,' answered the lady of France. ' If we did no more to her, she might grow as proud as her betters.' Adela knew that her daughter-in-law considered her husband a fool ; and was somewhat of the same opinion, though she hated Ilicliilda. ' No,' said she ; ' we will do more. We will marry her to the first man who enters the castle.' Torfrida looked at her mistress to see if she were mad. But XIV HOW HEREWARD RODE IXTO BRUGES 133 the countess -queen was serene and sane. Then Torfrida's Southern heat and northern courage burst forth. ' You ? marry ? me ? to 1 ' said she slowly, with eyes so fierce and lips so livid, that Adela herself quailed. There was a noise of shouting and laughing in the court below, which made all turn and listen. The next moment a serving-man came in, puzzled, and in- clined to laugh. ' May it please your highness, here is the strangest adventure. There is ridden into tlie castle-yard a beggarman with scarce a shirt to his back, on a great ugly mare with a foal running by her ; and a fool behind him carrying lance and shield. And he says that he is come to fight any knight of the court, ragged as he stands, for the fairest lady in the court, be she who she may, if she have not a wedded husband already.' ' And what says my lord marquis 1 ' ' That it is a fair challenge and a good adventure ; and that fight he shall, if any man will answer his defiance.' ' And I say, tell my lord marquis that fight he shall not ; for he shall have the fairest maiden in this court for the trouble of carry- ing her away, and that I, Adela of France, will give her to him. So let tliat beggar dismount, and be brought wp hither to me.' There was silence again. Torfrida looked round her once more to see whether or not she was dreaming, and whether there was one human being to whom she could appeal. Her mother sat praying and weeping in a corner. Torfrida looked at her with one glance of scorn, which she confessed and repented, with bitter tears, many a year after, iii a foreign land ; and then turned to bay with tlie spirit of her old Paladin an- cestor, who choked the Emir at Montmajour. Married to a beggar ! It was a strange accident, and an ugly one, and a great cruelty and wrong. But it was not impossible hardly improbable, in days when the capi-ice of the strong created accidents, and when cruelty and wrong went for nothing, even with very kindly honest folk. So Torfrida faced the danger, as she would liave faced tliat of a kicking horse or a flooded ford ; and, like the nut-brown bride, ' She pulled out a little penknife, That was both keen and sharp,' and considered that the beggarman could wear no armour, and that she wore none either. For if she succeeded in slaying that beggarman, she miglit need to slay herself after, to avoid being — according to the fashion of those days — burnt alive. So when the arras was drawn back, and that beggarman came into the room, instead of sliricking, fainting, hiding, or turning, slie made tliree steps straight toward him, looking liim in the face like a wild cat at bay. Then slie threw up her arms, and fell U2wn his neck. 134 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. It was Herewarcl himself. Filthy, ragged : but Hereward. His shirt was brown with gore, and torn with wounds ; and througli its rents showed more than one hardly healed scar. His hair and beard was all in elf-locks ; and one heavy cut across the head had shorn not only hair, but brain-pan very close. But Hereward it was ; and regardless of all beholders, she lay upon his neck, and never stirred nor spoke. ' I call you to witness, ladies,' cried the queen-countess, ' that I am guiltless. She has given herself to this beggarman of her own free will. What say you ? ' And she turned to Toi-f rida's mother. Torfrida's mother only pi^ayed and whimpered. ' Countesses and ladies,' said the queen-countess, ' there will be two weddings to-morrow. The first will be that of my son Robert and my pretty Lady Gertrude here. The second will be that of my pretty Torfrida and Hereward.' 'And the second bride,' said the Countess Gertrude, rising and taking Torfrida in her arms, ' will be ten times prettier than the first. There, sir, I have done all you asked of me. Now go and wash yourself.' ' Hereward,' said Torfrida, a week after, ' and did you never change your shirt all that time ? ' ' Never. I kept my promise.' ' But it must have been very nasty.' ' Well, I bathed now and then.' ' But it must have been very cold.' ' I am warm enough now.' ' But did you never comb your hair, either ? ' 'Well, I won't say that. Travellers find strange bedfellows. But I had half a mind never to do it at all, just to spite you.' ' And what matter would it have been to me ? ' ' Oh ! none. It is only a Danish fashion we have of keeping clean.' ' Clean ? You were dirty enough when you came home. How silly you were ! If you had sent me but one word ! ' ' You would have fancied me beaten, and scolded me all over again. I know your ways now, Torfrida.' CHAPTER XV HOW EARL TOSTI GODWINSSON CAME TO ST. OMEE, The winter passed in sweet madness ; and for the first time in her life Torfrida regretted the lengthening of the days, and the flower- ing of the primroses, and the return of the now needless wryneck ; for they warned her that Hereward must forth to the wars in Scaldmariland, which had broken out again, as was to be expected, as soon as Count Robert and his bride had turned their backs. XV HOW EARL TOSTI GODWINSSON CAME TO ST. O.AIER 135 And Hereward, likewise for the first time in his life, was loth to go to war. He was, doubtless, rich enough in this world's goods. Toririda herself was rich, and seems to have had the disposal of her own property ; for her mother is not mentioned in connection therewith. Hereward seems to have dwelt in her house at St. Omer as long as he remained in Flanders. He had probably amassed some treasure of his own by the simple, but then most aristocratic, method of plunder. He had, too, probably, grants of land in Holland from the Fi'ison, the rents whereof were not paid as regularly as might be. Moreover, as ' Magister Militum,' ' Master of the Knights,' he had, it is likely, pay as well as honour. And he approved himself worthy of his good fortune. He kept forty gallant housecarles in his liall all the winter, and Torfrida and her lasses made and mended their clothes. He gave large gifts to the Abbey of St. Bertin ; and had masses sung for the souls of all whom he had slain, according to a rough list which he furnished — bidding the monks not to be chary of two or three masses extra at times, as his memory was short, and he might have sent more souls to purgatory than he had recollected. He gave great alms at his door to all the poor. He befriended, especially, all shipwrecked and needy mariners, feeding and clothing them, and begging their freedom as a gift from Baldwin. He feasted the knights of the neighbourhood, who since his Baresark campaign, had all vowed him the most gallant of warriors, and since his accession of wealth, the most courteous of gentlemen ; and all went merrily, as it is written, ' As long as thou dost well unto thyself, men will speak well of thee.' So he would have fain stayed at home at St. Omer ; but he was Robert's man, and his good friend likewise ; and to the wars he must go forth once more ; and for eight or nine weary months Torfrida was alone, but very happy, for a certain reason of her own. At last the short November days came round, and a joyful woman was fair Torfrida, when Martin Lightfoot ran into the hall, and throwing himself down on the rushes like a dog, announced tliat Hereward and his men would be home before noon, and then fell fast asleep. There was bustling to and fro of her and her maids, decking of the hall in the best hangings, strewing of fresh rushes, to the dislodgment of Martin, setting out of boards and trestles, a,nd stoops and mugs thereon ; cooking of victuals, broaching of casks ; and, above all, for Hereward's self, heating of mucli water, and setting out, in the inner chamber, of the great bath-tub and bath- sheet, which was the special delight of a hero fresh from war. And by mid-day the streets of St. Omei' rang witli claidc, and tramp, and trumpet-blare, and in marched Hereward ;iiul all his men, and swung round through the gateway into the court, where Torfrida stood to welcome them, as fair as day, a silver 136 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. stirrup-cup in her hand. And while tlie men were taking off their harness and dressing their horses, she and Hereward went in together, and either took such joy of the other, that a year's parting was forgot in a minute's meeting. ' Now ! ' cried she, in a tone half of triumph, half of tender- ness ; ' look there ! ' 'A cradle? And a baby?' ' Your baby.' 'Is it a boy ? ' asked Hereward, who saw in his mind's eye a thing which would grow and broaden at his knee year by year, and learn from him to ride, to shoot, to fight. ' Happy for him if he does not learn worse from me,' thought Hereward, with a sudden movement of humility and contrition, which was surely marked in heaven ; for Torfrida marked it on earth. But she mistook its meaning. ' Do not be vexed. It is a girl.' ' Never mind.' As if it was a calainity over which lie was bound to comfort the mother. ' If she is half as beautiful as you look at this moment, what sj^lintering of lances there will be about her ! How jolly, to see the lads hewing at each other, while our daughter sits in the pavilion as Queen of Love ! ' Torfrida laughed. ' You think of nothing but fighting, bear of the North Seas.' ' Every one to his trade. Well, yes, I am glad that it is a girl.' ' I thought you seemed vexed. Why did you cross yourself ? ' ' Because I thought to myself, how unfit I was to bring up a boy to be such a knight as — as you would have him ; — how likely I was, ere all was over, to make him as great a rufiian as myself.' ' Hereward ! Hereward ! ' and she threw her arms round his neck for the tenth time. ' Blessed be you for those words ! Those are the fears which never come true, for they bring down from heaven the grace of God, to guard the humble and contrite heart from that which it fears.' ' Ah, Torfrida, I wish I were as good as you ! ' 'Now — my joy and my life, my hero and my scald — I have great news for you, as well as a little baby. News from England.' 'You, and a baby over and above, are worth all England to me.' ' But listen. Edward the king is dead.' ' Then there is one fool less on earth ; and one saint more, I suppose, in heaven.' 'And Harold Godwinsson is king in his stead. And he has married your niece Aldytha, and sworn friendship with her brothers.' ' I expected no less. Well, every dog has his day.' 'And his will be a short one. William of Normandy has sworn to drive him out.' XV HOW EARL TOSTI GODWINSSON CAME TO ST. OMER 137 ' Then he will do it. And so the poor little Swan-neck is packed into a convent, that the houses of Godwin and Leofric may rush into each other's arms, and perish together ! Fools, fools, fools ! I will hear no more of such a mad world. My queen, tell me about your sweet self. What is all this to me 1 Am I not a wolf's head, and a landless man 1 ' ' O my king, have not the stars told me that you will be an earl and a ruler of men, when all your foes are wolves' heads as you are now ? And the weird is coming true already. Tosti Godwinsson is in the town at this moment, an outlaw and a wolf's head himself.' Hereward laughed a great laugh. 'Aha ! Every man to his riglit place at last. Tell me about that, for it w^ill amuse me. I have heard nought of him since he sent the king his Hereford thralls' arms and legs in the pickle-barrels ; to show him, he said, that there was plenty of cold meat on his royal demesnes.' 'You have not heard, then, how he murdered, in his own chamber at York, Gamel Ormsson and Ulf Dolfinsson?' ' That poor little lad 1 Well, a gracious youth was Tosti, ever since he went to kill his brother Harold with teeth and claws, like a wolf ; and as he grows in years, he grows in grace. But what said Ulf 's father and the Gospatrics ? ' 'They were I know not where. But old Gospatric came down to Westminster, to demand law for his grand-nephew's blood.' 'A silly thing of the old thane, to walk into the wolf's den.' 'And so he found. He was stabbed there, three days after Christmastide, and men say that Queen Edith did it for love of Tosti, her brother. Then Dolfin and the Gospatrics took to sea, and away to iScotland ; and so Tosti rid himself of all the good blood in the north, except young Waltheof Siwardsson, whose turn, I fear, will come next.' 'How comes he here, then?' ' The northern men rose at that, killed his servant at York ; took all his treasures ; and marched down to Northampton, plundering and burning. They would have marched on London town, if Harold had not met them tliei'e from the king. There they cried out against Tosti, and all liis taxes, and his murders, and his changing Canute's laws, and would have your nephew ^lorcar for their earl. A tyrant they would not endure. Free they were born and bred, they said, and free they would live and die. Harold must needs do justice, even on his own brother.' ' Esj^ecially when he knows that that brother is his worst foe.' ' Harold is a better man than you take him for, my Hereward. But be that as it may, ^lorcar is earl ; and Tosti outlawed, and here in St. Omer, with wife and child.' 138 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' ^ly nephew Earl of Northumbria ! As I might have been, if I had been a wiser man.' ' If you had, you would never have found me.' ' True, my queen ! They say heaven tempers the wind to the shorn lamb ; but it tempers it too, sometimes, to the hobbled ass ; and so it has done by me. And so the rogues have fallen out, and honest men may come by their own. For as the northern men have done by one brother, so will the eastern men do by the other. Let Harold see how many of those fat Lincoln- shire manors, which he has seized into his own hands, he holds by this day twelve months. But what is all this to me, my queen, while you and I can kiss, and laugh the world to scorn ? ' ' This to you, beloved, that, great as you are, Torf rida must have you greater still ; and out of all this coil and confusion you may win something, if you be wise.'_ 'Sweet lips, be still ; and let us play instead of plotting.' 'And this, too — you shall not stop my mouth— that Harold Godwinsson has sent a letter to you.' 'Harold Godwinsson is my very good lord,' sneered Here- ward. ' And this it said, with such praises and courtesies concerning you as made my wife's heart beat higli with pride — "If Here- ward Leofricsson will come home to England, he shall have his rights in law again, and his manors in Lincolnshire, and a thaneship in East Anglia, and manors for his men-at-arms ; and if that be not enough, he shall have an earldom, as soon as there is one to give." ' ' And what says to that Torf rida, Hereward's queen 1 ' ' You will not'be angry if I answered the letter for you ? ' ' If you answer it in one way — no. If another — yes.' Torf rida trembled. Then she looked Hereward full in the face witli her keen clear eyes. ' Now shall I see whether I have given myself to Hereward in vain, body and soul, or whether I have trained him to be my true and perfect knight.' ' You answered, then,' said Hereward, ' thus— — ' ' Say on,' said she, turning her face away again. ' Hereward Leofricsson tells Harold Godwinsson that he is his equal, and not his man ; and that he will never put his Jiands between the hands of a son of Godwin. An Etheling born, a king of the house of Cerdic, outlawed him from_ his right, and none but an Etheling born shall give him his right again.' 'I said it, I said it. Those were my very words!' and Torf rida burst into tears, while Hereward kissed her, almost fawned upon her, calling her his queen, his saga-wife, his guardian angel. ' I was sorely tempted,' sobbed she. ' Sorely. To see you rich XV HOW EARL TOSTI GODWINSSON CAME TO ST. OMER 139 and proud upon your own lands, an earl, may be— may be, I thought at whiles, a king. But it could not be. It did not stand with honour, my hero— not with honour.' ' Not with honour. Get me gay garments out of the chest, and let us go royally, and royally feast my jolly riders.' 'Stay awhile,' said she, kissing his head as she combed and curled his long golden locks, and her own raven ones, hardly more beautiful, fell over them and mingled with_them._ 'Stay awhile, my pride. There is another spell in the wind, stirred up by devil or witch-wife, and it comes from Tosti Godwinsson.' ' Tosti, the cold-meat butcher 1 What has he to say to me ? ' 'This— "If Hereward will come with me to William of Normandy, and help us against Harold the perjured, then will William do for him all that Harold would have done, and more beside." ' ' And what answered Torf rida ? ' ' It was not so said to me that I could answer. I had it by a side wind through the Countess Judith.' ^ ' And she had it from her sister Matilda.' 'And she, of course, from Duke William himself.' ' And what would you have answered, if you had answered, pretty one 1 ' ' Nay, I know not. I cannot be always queen. You must be king sometimes.' Torfrida did not say that this latter offer had been a much sorer temptation than the former. ' And has not the base-born Frenchman enough knights of his own, that he needs the help of an outlaw like me 1 ' ' He asks for help from all the ends of tlie earth. He has sent that Lanfranc to the pope ; and there is talk of a sacred banner, and a crusade against England.' ' The monks are with him, then 1 ' said Hereward. ' That is one more count in their score. But I am no monk. I have shorn many a crown, but I have kept my own hair as yet, you see.' ' I do see,' said she, playing with his locks. 'But— but he wants you. He has sent for Angevins, Poitevins, Bretons, Flemings — promising lands, rank, money, what not. Tosti is recruiting for him here in Flanders now. He will soon be off to the Orkneys, I suspect, or to Sweyn in Denmark, after Vikings.' ' Here ? Has Baldwin promised him men 1 ' ' What could the good old man do ? He could not refuse his own son-in-law. This, at least, I know, that a messenger has gone off to Scotland, to Gilbert of Ghent, to bring or send any bold Flemings who may prefer fat England to lean Scotland.' ' Lands, rank, money, eh ? So he intends that the war should 1 Tosti's wife. Earl Baldwin's daughter, sister of Matilda, William the Conqueror's wife. 140 HEREWARD -THE WAKE chap. pay itself — out of English purses. What answer would you have me make to tliat, wife mine ! ' ' The Duke is a terrible man. What if he conquers ? And conquer he will.' ' Is that written in your stars ? ' ' It is, I fear. And if we have the pope's blessing, and the pope's banner Dare we resist tlie Holy Father ? ' ' Holy stepfather, you mean ; for a stepfather he seems to prove to merry England. But do you really believe that an old man down in Italy can make a bit of rag conquer by saying a few prayers at it ? If I am to believe in a magic flag, give me Harold Hardraade's Landcyda, at least, with Harold and his Norsemen behind it.' ' William's French are as good as those Norsemen, man for man ; and horsed withal, Hereward.' ' Tliat may be,' said he, half testily, with a curse on the tanner's grandson and his French popinjays, ' and our English- men are as good as any two Norsemen, as the Norse themselves say.' He could not divine, and Torf rida liardly liked to explain to him, the glamour which the Duke of Normandy had cast over her, as the representative of chivalry, learning, civil- isation, a new and nobler life for men than the world had yet seen ; one which seemed to connect the young races of EurojDe with the wisdom of the ancients and the magic glories of old Imperial Rome. ' You are not fair to that man,' said she, after a while. ' Here- ward, Hereward, have I not told you how, though body be strong, mind is stronger ? That is what that man knows ; and tlierefore he has prospered. Therefore his realms are full of wise scholars, and thriving schools, and fair minsters, and his men are sober, and wise, and learned like clerks ' 'And false like clerks, as he is himself. Schoolcraft and honesty never went yet together, Torfrida ' ' Not in me ? ' ' You are not a clerk : you are a woman, and more than woman ; you are an elf, a goddess ; there is none like you. But hearken to me. This man is false. All the world knows it.' 'He promises, they say, to govern England justly as King Edward's heir, according to the old laws and liberties of the realm.' ' Of course. If he does not come as the old monk's heir, how does he come at all ? If he does not promise our — their, I mean, for I am no Englishman — laws and liberties, who will join liim? But his riders and hirelings will not fight for nothing. They must be paid with English land, and English land they will have, for they will be his men, whoever else are not. They will be his darlings, his housecarles, his hawks to sit on his fist and fly at his game ; and English bones will be picked clean to feed them. And you would have me help to do that, Torfrida ? Is XV HOW EARL TOSTI GODWINSSON CAME TO ST. OMER 141 that the honour of which you spoke so boldly to Harold God- winsson 1 ' Torf rida was silent. To have brought Herewai'd under the influence of Williana was an old dream of hers. And yet she was proud at the dream being broken thus. And so she said — ' You are right ! It is better for you — it is better than to be William's darling, and the greatest earl in his court — to feel that you are still an Englishman. Promise me but one tiling, that you will make no fierce or desperate answer to the duke.' ' And why not answer the tanner as he deserves 1 ' ' Because my art, and my heart too, tells me that your for- tunes and his are linked together. I have studied my tables, but they would not answer. Then I cast lots in Virgilius ' ' And what found you there 1 ' asked he anxiously. 'I opened at the lines — ' " Pacem me exanimis et Martis sorte peremptis, Oratis? Equidem et vivis concedere vellem." ' ' And what means that 1 ' ' That you may have to pray him to pity the slain ; and have for answer, that their lands may be yours if you will but make peace with liim. At least, do not break hopelessly with that man. Above all, never use that word concerning him which you used just now ; the word which he never forgives. Re- member what he did to them of Alenqon, when they hung raw hides over the wall, and cried, "Plenty of work for the tanner ! " ' 'Let him pick out the prisoners' eyes, and chop oif their hands, and shoot them into the town from mangonels. I know , him : but he must go far and thrive well ere I give him a chance of doing that by the Wake.' * Hereward, Hereward, my own ! Boast not, but fear God. Who knows, in such a world as this, to what end we may come? Night after night I am haunted with spectres, eyeless, hand- less ' ' This is cold comfort for a man j ust out of hard fighting in the ague-fens ! ' She threw her arms round him, and held him as if she would never let him go. 'When you die, I die. And you will not die: you will be great and glorious, and your name will be sung by scald and minstrel through many a land, far and wide. Only, be not rash. P>e not high-minded. Promise me to answer this man wisely. The more crafty lie is, tlie more crafty must you be likewise.' ' Let us tell this miglity hero then,' said Hereward, trying to laugh away lier fears^and perhaps liis own, 'that while he has the Holy Father on liis side, he can need no help from a poor sinful worm like me.' ' Hereward, Hereward ! ' 142 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. 'Why, is there aught about liides in that?' ' I want — I want an answer which may not cut off all hope in case of the worst.' ' Then let us say boldly, " On the day that William is king of all England, Hereward will come and put his hands between his, and be his man." ' That message was sent to William at Rouen. He laughed— 'It is a fair challenge from a valiant man. The day shall come when I will claim it.' Tosti and Hereward passed that winter in St. Omer, living in the same street, passing each other day by day, and never spoke a word one to the other. Robert the Frison heard of it, and tried to persuade Here- ward. ' Let him purge himself of the murder of Ulf the boy, son of my friend Dolfin ; and after that of Gamel, son of Orm ; and after that again of Gospatric, my father's friend, whom his sister slew for his sake : and then an honest man may talk with him. Were he not my good lord's brother-in-law, as he is, more's the pity, I would challenge him to fight a Voutrance, with any weapons he might choose.' ' Heaven protect him in that case,' quoth Robert the Frison. ' As it is, I will keep the peace. And I will see that my men keep the peace, though tliere are Scarborough and Bamborough lads among them, who long to cut his throat upon the streets. But more I will not do.' So Tosti sulked through the winter at St. Omer. Suddenly he turned traitor (no man knows why) to his good brother-in- law and new ally, William of Normandy ; and went off to get help from Sweyn of Denmark, and, failing that, from Harold Hardraade of Norway. But how he sped there must be read in the words of a cunninger saga-man than this chronicler.; even in those of the Icelandic Homer, Snorro Sturleson. CHAPTER XVI HOW HEREWARD AVAS ASKED TO SLAY AN OLD COMRADE In those days Hereward went into Bruges, to Marquis Baldwin, about his business. And as he walked in Bruges street, he met an old friend, Gilbert of Ghent. He had grown somewhat stouter, and somewhat grayer, in the last ten years : but he was as hearty as ever, and as honest, according to his own notions of honesty. He shook Hereward by both liands, clapt him on the back, swore witli many oaths that he had heard of his fame in all lands, tliat he always said tliat lie would turn out a champion and a gallant knight, and had said it long before he killed the XVI HOW HE WAS ASKED TO SLAY AN OLD COMRADE 143 bear. As for killing it, it was no more than he exiDCcted, and nothing to what Herewaixl had done since, and would do yet. Wherefrom Hereward opined that Gilbert had need of him. They chatted on : Hereward asking after old friends, and sometimes after old foes, whom he had long since forgiven ; for though he always avenged an injury, he never bore malice for one : a distinction less common now than then, when a man's honour, as well as his safety, depended on his striking again when he was struck. ' And how is little Alf trvida ?— Big she must be now 1 ' asked he at last. ' The fiend fly away with her — or rather, would that he had flown away with her, before ever I saw the troublesome jade. Big ? She is grown into the most beautiful lass that ever was seen — which is, what a young fellow, like you, cares for ; and more trouble to me than all my money, whicli is what an old fellow, like me, cares for. It is partly about her that I am over here now. Fool that I was, ever to let a jDrincess into my house ; ' and Gilbert swore a great deal. ' How was she a princess 1 1 forget,' said Hereward, who cared nothing about the matter. 'And how came she into your liouse ? I never could understand that, any more than how the bear came there.' ' Ah ? As to the bear, I have my secrets, which I tell no one. He is dead and buried, thanks to you.' ' And I sleep on his skin every night.' ' You do, my little champion ? AVell — warm is the bed that is well earned. But as for her ; — see here, and I'll tell you. She was Gospatric's ward and kinswoman — how, I do not rightly know. But this I know, that she comes from Uchtx^ed, the earl whom Canute slew, and that she is heir to great estates in Northumberland. ' 'Gospatric, that fought at Dunsinane ?' * Yes, not the old thane, his uncle, Avhom Tosti has murdered : but Gospatric, King Malcolm's cousin, Doltin's father. Well, she was his ward. He gave me her to keep, for he wanted her out of harm's way — the lass having a bonny dower, lands and money — till he could marry her up to one of his sons. I took her : but of course I was not going to do otlier men's work for nought ; so I would have married her up to my poor boy, if he had but lived. But lie would not live, as you knoAv. Then I would have married her to you, and made you my heir, I tell you honestly, if you had not flown off, like a hot-headed young springald as you were tlien.' ' You were very kind. But how is she a princess 1 ' 'Princess? Twice over. Her father was of higli l)lood among tlie Saxons ; and if not, are not all the Gospatrics Etliel- ings ? Their grandmother, Uchtred's wife, was Ethelred Evil- 144 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Counsel's daughter ; and I have heard that this girl's grandfather was his son — but died young — or was killed. Who cares ? ' ' Not I,' quoth Hereward. 'Well — Gospatric wants to marry her to Dolfin, his eldest son.' ' Why, Dolfin had a wife when I was at Dunsinane.' ' But she is dead since, and young Ulf, her son, was murdered l^y Tosti last winter.' ' I know.' 'Whereupon Gospatric sends to me for the girl and her dowry. What was I to do ? Give her up ? Little it is, lad, that I ever gave up, after I had it once in my grip, or I should be a poorer man than I am now. Have and hold, is my rule. What should I do 1 What I did. I was coming hither on business of my own, so I put her on board sliip, and half her dower — where the other half is, I know ; and man must draw me with wild horses _ before he finds out :— and came here to my kinsman, Baldwin, to see if he had any proper young fellow to whom we might marry the lass, and so go shares in her money and the family connection. Could a man do more wisely 1 ' ' Impossible,' quoth Hereward. But see how a wise man is lost by fortune. When I come here, wliom should I find but Dolfin himself ? The rogue had scent of my plan, all the way from Dolfinston there, by Peebles. He hunts me out, the hungry Scotch wolf ; rides for Leith, takes ship, and is here to meet me, having accused me before Baldwin as a robber and a ravisher, and offered to prove his right to the jade on my body in single combat.' ' The villain ! ' quoth Hereward. ' There is no modesty left on earth, nor prudence either. To come here, where he might have stumbled on Tosti, who murdered his son, and who would surely do the like by him himself. Lucky for him that Tosti is off to Norway on his own errand.' ' Modesty and prudence ! None nowadays, young sire ; nor justice either, I think ; for when Baldwin hears us both — and I told my story as cannily as I could — lie tells me that he is very sorry for an old vassal and kinsman, and so forth, — but I must either disgorge or tight.' ' Then fight,' quoth Hereward. ' Per se aut per campionem, — that's the old law, you know.' ' Not a doubt of it.' ' Look you, Hereward. I am no coward, nor a clumsy man of my hands.' ' He is either fool or liar who says so.' ' But see. T find it hard work to hold my own in Scotland now. Folks don't like me, or trust me ; I can't say why.' ' How unreasonable ! ' quoth Hereward. 'And if I kill this youth, and so have a blood-feud with Gospatric, I have a hornet's nest about my ears. Not only he XVI HOW HE WAS ASKED TO SLAY AN OLD COilRADE 145 and his sons — who are masters of Scotch Northumberland ^ — but all his cousins — King Malcolm, and Donaldbain, and, for aught I know, Harold and the Godwinssons, if he bid them take up the quarrel. And, besides, that Dolfin is a big man. If you cross Scot and Saxon, you breed a very big man. If you cross again with a Dane or a Norseman, you breed a giant. His grandfather was a Scots prince, his grandmother an English princess, his mother a Norse princess, as you know — and how big he is, you should remember. He weighs half as much again as I, and twice as much as you.' ' Butchers count by weight, and knights by courage,' quoth Hereward. ' Very well for you, who are young and active : but I take him to be a better man than that ogre of Cornwall, whom they say you killed.' ' What care 1 1 Let him be twice as good, I'll try him.' ' Ah ! I knew you were the old Hereward still. Now hearken to me. Be my champion. You owe me a service, lad. Fight that man. Challenge him in open field. Kill him, as you are sure to do. Claim the lass, and win her — and then we will part her dower. And (though it is little that I care for young lasses' fancies), to tell you truth, she never favoured any man but you.' Hereward started at the snare which had been laid for him ; and then fell into a very great laughter. ' My most dear and generous host : you are the wiser, the older you grow. A plan worthy of Solomon ! Y^ou are rid of Sieur Dolfin without any blame to yourself.' 'Just so.' ' While I win the lass ; and, living here in Flanders, am tolerably safe from any blood-feud of the Gospatrics.' 'Just so.' ' Perfect : but there is only one small hindrance to the plan ; and that is that I am married already.' Gilbert stopped short, and swore a great oath. ' But,' he said after a while, ' does that matter so much after aiir ' Very little, indeed, as all the world knows, if one has money enough, and power enough.' ' And you liave both, they say.' ' But, still more unhappily, my money is my wife's.' 'Peste!' 'And more unhappily still, I am so foolishly fond of lier, that I would sooner liave her in her smock, than any other woman with half England for a dower.' 'Then I suppose I must look out for another champion.' 'Or save yourself the trouble, by being — just as a change — an honest man.' ^ Between Tweed and Forth. L ir. T. w. 146 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' I believe you are right,' said Gilbert, laughing ; ' but it is hard to begin so late in life.' ' And after one has had so little practice.' ' Aha ! Thou art the same merry dog of a Hereward. Come along. But could we not poison this Doltin after all 1 ' To which proposal Hereward gave no encouragement. 'And now, my tres beau sire, may I ask you, in return, what business brings you to Flanders 1 ' ' Have I not told you ? ' ' No, but I have guessed. Gilbert of Ghent is on his way to William of Normandy.' 'Well. Why not?' ' Why not ?— certainly. And lias brouglit out of Scotland a few gallant gentlemen and stout housecarles of my acquaint- ance.' Gilbert laughed. 'You may well say that. To tell you the truth, we have flitted, bag and baggage. I don't believe that we have left a dog behind.' 'So you intend to "colonise" in England, as the learned clerks would call it ? To settle ; to own land ; and enter, like the Jews of old, into goodly houses which you builded not, farms which you tilled not, wells which you digged not, and orchards which you planted not ? ' ' Why, what a learned clerk you are yourself ! That sounds like Scripture.' ' And so it is. I heard it in a French priest's sermon whicii he preached here in St. Omer a Sunday or two back, exhorting all good Catholics, in the pope's name, to enter upon the bar- barous land of England, tainted with the sin of Simon Magus, and expel thence the heretical priests, and so forth ; promising them that they should have free leave to cut long thongs out of otiier men s hides.' Gilbert chuckled. ' You laugh. The priest did not ; for after sermon I went up to him, and told how I was an Englishman, and an outlaw, and a desperate man, who feared neither saint nor devil ; and if I heard such talk as that again in St. Omer, I would so shave the speaker's crown that he should never need razor to his dying day.' ' And what is that to me ? ' said Gilbert, in an uneasy, half- defiant tone ; for Hereward's tone had been more than half- defiant. ' This. That there are certain broad lands in England, which were my father's, and are now my nephews' and my mother's, and some wliicli should of right be mine. And I advise you, as a friend, not to make entry on those lands, lest Hereward in turn make entry on you. And who is he that will deliver you out of my hand 1 ' XVI HOW HE WAS ASKED TO SLAY AN OLD COMRADE 147 ' God and His saints alone, thou fiend out of tlie pit,' quotli Gilbert, laughing. But he was growing warm, and began to tutoyer Hereward. ' I am in earnest, Gilbert of Ghent, my good friend of old time.' 'I know thee well enough, man. Why, in the name of all glory and plunder, art thou not coming with us 1 They say William has offered thee the earldom of Nortliumberland.' ' He has not. And if he had, it is not his to give. And if it were, it is by right neither mine, nor my nephews', but Wal- theof Siwardsson's. Now hearken unto me ; and settle it in your minds, thou and William both, that your quarrel is against none but Harold and the Godwinssons, and their men of Wessex : but that if you go to cross the Watling Street, and meddle with the free Danes, who are none of Harold's men ' ' iStay. Harold has large manors in Lincolnshire, and so has Edith liis sister, and what of them, Sieur Hereward 1 ' ' Tliat the man who touches them, even though the men on them may fight on Harold's side, liad better have put his head into a hornet's nest. Unjustly were they seized from their true owners by Harold and his fathers ; and the holders of them will owe no service to him a day longer than they can help : but will, if he fall, demand an earl of their own race, or tight to the death.' ' Best make young Waltheof earl, tlien.' ' Best keep thy foot out of them, and the foot of any man for whom thou carest. Now good-bye. Friends we are, and friends let us be.' 'Ah, that thou wert coming to England ! ' ' I bide my time. Come I may, when I see fit. But whether I come as friend or foe depends on that of which I have given thee fair warning.' So they parted for the time. It will be seen hereafter, how Gilbert took his own advice about young Waltheof : but did not take Hereward's advice about the Lincoln manors. In Baldwin's hall that day, Hereward met Dolfin ; and when the magnificent young Scot sprang to him, embraced him, bewailed his murdered boy, talked over old passages, compli- mented him on his fame, lamented that he himself had won no sucli honours in the field, Hereward felt much more inclined to fight for liim than against him. Presently the ladies entered from the bower adjoining tlie liall. A buzz of expectation I'ose from all the knights, and Alftruda's name was whispered round. Slie came in ; and Hereward saw at the first glance tliat Gilbert had for once in his life spoken truth. So beautiful a damsel he had never beheld ; and as slie swept down toward him, he for one moment forgot Torfrida, and stood spell-bound like the rest. 148 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Her eye caught his. If his face showed recognition, hers showed none. The remembrance of their early friendship, of her deliverance from the monster, had plainly passed away. 'Fickle, ungrateful things, these women,' thought Hereward. She passed him close. As she did so, she turned her head, and looked him full in the face one moment, haughty and cold. ' So you could not wait for me ? ' said she, in a quiet whisper, and went on straight to Dollin, who stood trembling with ex- pectation and delight. She put her hand into his. ' Here stands my champion,' said she. ' Say, here kneels your slave,' cried the Scot, dropping to the pavement a true Highland knee. Whereon forth twanged a harp, and Dolfin's minstrel sang, in most melodious Gaelic — ' Strong as a horse's hock, shaggy as a stag's brisket, Is the knee of the young torrent-leaper, the pride of the house of Crinan. It bent not to Macbeth tlie accursed, it bends not even to Malcolm the Anointed, But it bends like a harebell — who shall blame it ? — before the breath of beauty. ' Which magnificent effusion being mterpi-eted by Hereward for the instruction of the ladies, procui'ed for the red-headed bard more than one handsome gift. A sturdy voice arose out of the crowd. 'The lady, my lord marquis, and knights all, will need no champion as far as I am concerned. When one sees so fair a pair together, what can a knight say, in the name of all knight- hood, but that the heavens have made them for each other, and that it were sin and shame to sunder them ? ' The voice was that of Gilbert of Ghent, who, making a virtue of necessity, walked up to the pair, his weather-beaten countenance wreathed into what were meant for paternal smiles. ' Why did you not say as much in Scotland, and save me all this trouble ? ' pertinently asked the plain-spoken Scot. 'My lord prince, you owe me a debt for my caution. With- out it, the fair lady had never known the whole fervency of your love ; nor these noble knights and yourself the whole evenness of Count Baldwin's justice.' Alftruda turned her head away half contemptuously ; and as she did so, she let her hand drop listlessly from Dolfin's grasp, and drew back to the other ladies. A suspicion crossed Hereward's mind. Did she really love the prince 1 Did those strange words of hers mean that she had not yet forgotten Hereward himself ? However, he said to himself that it was no concern of his, as it certainly was not : went home to Torfrida ; told her every- XVII NEWS FROM STANFORD BRIGG AND HASTINGS 149 thing that had happened ; laughed over it with her ; and then forgot Alftruda, Dolfin, and Gilbert in the prospect of a gi-eat campaign in Holland. CHAPTER XVII HOW HEREWAED TOOK THE NEWS FROM STANFORD BRIGG AND HASTINGS After that, news came thick and fast. News of all the fowl of heaven flocking to the feast of the great God, that they might eat the flesh of kings, and captains, and mighty men, and horses, and them that sit on them, and the flesh of all men, both bond and free. News true, news half true, news false. News from Rome, how England, when conquered, was to be held as a fief of St. Peter, and spiritually, as well as temporally, enslaved. News how the Gonfanon of St. Peter, and a ring with a bit of St. Peter himself enclosed therein, had come to Rouen, to go before the Norman host as the ark went before tliat of Israel. Then news from the North. How Tosti had been to Sweyn, and bid him come back and win the country again, as Canute liis uncle had done ; and how the cautious Dane had answered that he was a much smaller man than Canute ; that he had enough to hold his own against the Norsemen, and could not afford to throw for such high stakes as his mighty uncle. Then news how Tosti had been to Norway, to Harold Hard- raade, and asked him why he had been fighting fifteen years for Denmark, when England lay open to him. And how Harold of Norway had agreed to come ; and how he had levied one-half of the able-bodied men in Norway ; and how he was gathering a mighty fleet at Solundir, in tlie mouth of the Sogne Fiord. Of all this Hereward was well informed ; for Tosti came back again to St. Omer and talked big. But Hereward and he had no dealings with each other. But at last, when Tosti tried to entice some of Hereward's men to sail with him, Hereward sent him word that if he met him, he would kill him in the streets. Then Tosti, who (tliough he wanted not for courage) knew that he was no match for Hereward, went off" to Bruges, leaving his wife and family behind ; gatliered sixty shijis at Ostend ; went off' to the Isle of Wight ; and forced the landsfolk to give liim money and food. Then Harold of England's fleet, which was watching the coast against the Normans, drove him away ; and he sailed off" north, full of black rage against his brother Harold and all Englishmen, and bui'ned, plundered, and mur- dered, along tlie coast of Lincolnshire, out of brute si^ite to the Danes who had exjDelled him. 150 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Then came news liow lie had got into the Humber ; how Morcar and Edwin with the Northumbrians had driven him out ; and how he had gone ofi' to Scotland to meet Harold of Norway ; and how he had jout his hands between Harold's, and become his man. And all the while the Norman camp at St. Pierre-sur-Dive grew and grew ; and all was ready, if the wind would but change. And so Hereward looked on, helpless, and saw these two great storm-clouds growing — one from north, and one from south — to burst upon his native land. Two invasions at the same moment of time ; and these no mere Viking raids for plunder, but deliberate attempts at con- quest and colonisation, by the two most famous captains of the age. What if both succeeded 1 What if the two storm-clouds swept across England, each on its own path, and met in the midst, to hurl their lightnings into each other ? A fight be- tween William of Normandy and Harold of Norway, on some mooi"land in Mercia — that would be a battle of giants ; a sight at which Odin and the gods of Valhalla would rise from their seats, and throw away the mead-horn, to stai-e down on the deeds of heroes scarcely less mighty than themselves. Would that neither might win ! Would that they would destroy and devour, till there was none left of Frenchmen or of Norwegians ! So sung Hereward, after his heathen fashion : and his house- carles applauded the song. But Torfrida shuddered. 'And what will become of the poor English in the mean- time?' 'They have brought it on themselves,' said Hereward bitterly. ' Instead of giving tlie crown to the man who should have had it — to Sweyn of Denmark — they let Godwin put it on the head of a drivelling monk : and as they sowed, so will they reap.' But Hereward's own soul was black within him. To see these mighty events passing, as it were, within reach of liis hand — and he unable to take his share in them — For what share could he take? That of Tosti Godwinsson against his own nephews ? That of Harold Godwinsson, the usurper ? That of the tanner's grandson against any man ? Ah, that he had been in England ! Ah, that he had been where he might have been, where he ought to have been, but for his own folly — high in power in his native land ; perhaps a great earl ; per- haps commander of all the armies of the Danelagh. And bitterly he cursed his youthful sins, as he rode to and fro almost daily to the port, asking for news, and getting often only too much. For now came news that the Norsemen liad landed in Humber ; that Edwin and Morcar were beaten at York ; that Hardraade and Tosti were masters of the North. XVII NEWS FROM STANFORD BRIGG AND HASTINGS 151 And with that, news that by the virtue of the relics of St. Valeri, which had been brought out of their shrine to frighten the demons of the storm, and by the intercession of the blessed St. Michael, patron of Normandy, the winds had changed, and William's whole armament had crossed the Channel, landed upon an undefended shore, and fortified themselves at Pevensey and Hastings. And then followed a fortnight of silence and torturing suspense. Hereward could liardly eat, drink, sleep, or speak. He answered Torfrida's consolations curtly and angrily, till she betook herself to silent caresses, as to a sick animal. But she loved him all the better for his suUenness ; for it showed that his English heart was wakening again, sound and strong, At last news came. He was down as usual at the port. A ship had just come up the estuary. A man just landed stood on tlie beach, gesticulating, and calling in an unknown tongue to tlie bystanders, who laugiied at him, and seemed inclined to misuse him. Hereward galloped down the beach. ' Out of the way, villains ! Why, man, you are a Norseman ! ' 'Norseman am I, jarl , Thord Gunlaugsson is my name; and news I bring for the Countess Judith (as the French call her) that shall turn her golden hair to snow : — yea, and all fair lasses' hair from Lindesness to Lofibden.' ' Is the earl dead 1 ' ' And Harold Sigurdsson.' Hereward sat sijent, appalled. For Tosti he cared not. _ But Harold Sigurdsson, Harold Hardraade, Harold the Viking, Harold the Varanger, Harold the Lionslayer, Harold of Con- stantinople, the bravest among champions, the wisest among kings, the cunningest among minstrels, the darling of the Vikings of the north ; the one man whom Hereward had taken for his pattern and his ideal, the one man under whose banner lie would have been proud to fight — the earth seemed empty, if Harold Hardraade were gone. 'Thord Gunlaug.sson,' cried he at last, ' or whatever be thy name, if thou hast lied to me, I will draw thee with wild horses.' ' Would God that I did lie ! I saw him fall with an arrow through his tliroat. Then Jarl Tosti took the Land-ravager and held it up till he died. Then Eystein Orre took it, coming up hot from the ships. And then he died likewise. Then they all died. We would take no quarter. We threw off our mail, and fought baresark, till all were dead together.' ^ ' How earnest thou, then, hither ? ' 1 For the details of tlii.s battle, sec Snorro Stuileson ; or the admirable description in Bulwer's Harold. 152 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' Styi'kai" the marshal escaped in the night, and I with him, and a few more. And Styrkar bade me bring the news to Flanders, to the countess, while he took it to Olaf Haroldsson, who lay off in the ships.' ' And thou shalt take it. Martin ! get this man a horse. A horse, ye villains, and a good one, on your lives ! ' 'AndTostiisdead?' ' Dead like a hero. Harold oflered him quarter — offered him liis earldom, they say : even in the midst of battle : but he would not take it. He said he was the Sigurdsson's man now, and true man he would be.'- ' Harold offered him 1 — What art babbling at ? Who fought you?' ' Harold Godwinsson, the king.' 'Where?' 'At Stanford Brigg, by York town.' ' Harold Godwinsson slew Harold Sigurdsson ? After this wolves may eat lions ! ' ' The Godwinsson is a gallant fighter and a wise general, or I had not been here now.' ' Get on thy horse, man ! ' said he, scornfully and impatiently, ' and gallop, if thou canst.' 'I have ridden many a mile in Ireland, earl, and have not forgotten my seat.' ' Thou hast, hast thou ? ' said Martin ; ' thou art Tliord Gun- laugsson of Waterford.' ' That am I. How knowest thou me, man ? ' 'I am of Waterford. Thou hadst a slave lass, once, I think ; Mew : they called lier ]\Iew, her skin it was so white.' 'What's that to thee?' asked Thord, turning on him savagely. ' I meant no harm. I saw her at Waterford when I was a boy, and thought her a fair lass enough, that is all.' And ]\Iartin dropped into the rear. As tliey rode side by side, Hereward got more details of the fight. ' I knew it would fall out so. I foretold it ! ' said Thord. ' I had a dream. I saw us come to English land, and fight ; and I saw the banners floating. And before the English army was a great witchwife, and rode upon a wolf, and he had a corpse in his bloody jaws. And when he had eaten one up, she threw him another, till he liad swallowed all.' ' Did she throw liim thine 1 ' asked Martin, who ran holding by the stirrup. ' That did she, and eaten I saw myself. Yet here I am alive.' 'Tlien thy di^eams were naught.' 'I do not know that. The wolf may liave me yet.' ' I fear thou art fey.' ^ ^ Propliesyiiig liis own death ; literally 'fated.' XVII NEWS FROM STANFORD BRIGG AND HASTINGS 153 ' What the devil is that to thee if I be ?' 'Naught. But be comforted. I am a necromancer ; and this I know by my art, that the weapon that will slay thee was never forged in Flanders here.' 'There was another man had a dream,' said Thord, tui'ning from Martin angrily. ' He was standing in the king's ship, and he saw a great witchwife with a fork and a trough stand on the island. Aiid he saw a fowl on every ship's stem, a raven, or else an eagle ; and he heard the witchwife sing an evil song.' ^ By this time they were in St. Omer. Hereward rode straight to the Countess Judith's house. _ He never had entered it yet ; and was likely to be attacked if he entered it now. But when the door was opened, he thrust in with so earnest and sad a face that the servants let him pass, though not without growling and motions as of getting their weapons. ' I come in peace, my men, I come in peace : this is no time for brawls. Where is the steward, or one of the countess' ladies ? — Tell her, madam, that Hereward waits her commands, and entreats her, in the name of St. Mary and all saints, to vouchsafe him one word in private.' The lady hurried into the bower. The next moment Judith hurried out into the hall, her fair face blanched, her fair eyes wide with terror. Hereward fell on his knee. ' What is this ? It must be bad news if you bring it.' ' Madam, the grave covers all feuds. Earl Tosti was a very valiant hero ; and would to God that we had been friends ! ' She did not hear the end of the sentence : but fell back with a shriek into the women's arms. Hereward told them all that they needed to know of that fratricidal strife ; and then to Thord Gunlaugsson — ' Have you any token that this is true ? Mind what I warned you, if you lied ! ' 'This have I, jarl and ladies,' and he drew from liis bosom a reliquaiy. ' Ulf the marshal took this off the jarl's neck, and bade me give it to none but his lady. Therefore, with your pardon, sir jarl, I did not tell you that I had it, not knowing whether you were an honest man.' ' Thou hast done well ; and an honest man thou shalt find me, though no jarl as yet. Come home, and I will feed thee at my own table ; for I liave been a sea-rover and a Viking myself.' They left the reliquary with the ladies, and went. ' See to this good man, jMartin.' 'That will I, as the apple of my eye.' And Hereward went into Torfrida's room. ' For these two dreams, see Siiorro Sturleson. 154 HEREAVARD THE WAKE chap. ' I have news, news ! ' 'So have I.' ' Harold Hardraade is slain, and Tosti too ! ' 'Where? how?' ' Harold Godwinsson slew them by York.' ' Brother has slain brother ? O God that died on cross ! ' murmured Torf rida, ' when will men look to Thee, and have mercy on their own souls ? But Hereward — I have news — news more terrible by far. It came an hour ago. I have been dread- ing your coming back.' 'Say on. If Harold Hardraade is dead, no worse can happen.' ' But Harold Godwinsson is dead ! ' ' Dead ! _ Who next ? William of Normandy ? The world seems coming to an end, as the monks say it will soon.' ^ ' A great battle has been fought at a place they call Heath- held.' 'Close by Hastings? Close to the landing-place? Harold must have flown thither back from York. What a captain the man is, after all ! ' 'Was. He is dead, and all the Godwinssons ; and England lost.' If Torfrida had feared the effect of her news, her heart was lightened at once as Hereward answered haughtily — ' England lost ? Sussex is not England, nor Wessex either, any more than Harold was king thereof. England lost ? Let the tanner try to cross the Watling Street, and he will find out that he has another stamp of Englishman to deal with.' 'Hereward, Hereward, do not be unjust to the dead. Men say — the Normans say — that they fought like heroes.' 'I never doubted that : but it makes me mad — as it does all eastern and northern men — to hear these Wessex churls and Godwinssons calling themselves all England.' Torfrida shook her head. To her, as to most foreigners, Wessex and the south-east counties were England ; the most civilised ; the most French ; the seat of royalty ; having all the prestige of law, and order, and wealth. And she was shrewd enough to see, that as it was the part of England which had most sympathy with French civilisation, it was the very part Avhere the Frenchman could most easily gain and keep his liold. The event proved that Torfrida was right : but all she said was, ' It is dangerously near to France, at least.' 'It is that. I would sooner see 100,000 French north of the Humber, than 10,000 in Kent and Sussex, where he can hurry over supplies and men every week. It is the starting-point for liim, if he means to conquer England piecemeal.' ' And he does.' 1 There was a general rumour abroad that the end of the world was at hand ; for the ' one thousand years ' of jirophecy had exphed. XVII NEWS FROM STANFORD BRIGG AND HASTINGS 155 ' And he shall not ! ' and Hereward started up, and walked to and fro. 'If all the Godsvinssons be dead, there are Leofricssons left, I trust, and 8iward's kin, and the Gospatrics in Northum- bria. Ah ! Where were my nephews in the battle ? Not killed too, I trust?' ' They were not in the battle.' ' Not with their new brother-in-law 1 Much he has gained by throwing away the Swan-neck, like a base traitor as he was, and marrying my pretty niece. But where were they ? ' ' No man knows clearly. They followed him down as far as London, and then lingered about the city, meaning no man can tell wliat : but we shall hear — and, I fear, hear too much — before a week is over.' ' Heavens ! this is madness, indeed. This is the way to be eaten up one by one. Neither to do the thing, nor leave it alone. If I had been there ! If I had been there ' ' You Avould have saved England, my hero ! ' and Torfrida believed her own words. ' I don't say that. Besides, I say that England is not lost. But there were but two things to do : either to have sent to William at once, and offered him the crown, if he would but guarantee the Danish laws and liberties to all north of the Watling Street ; and if he would, fall on the Godwinssons them- selves, by fair means or foul, and send their heads to William.' 'Or what?' ' Or have marched down after him, with every man they could muster, and tlirown themselves on the Frenchman's flank in the battle — or between him and the sea, cutting him ofT from Fivince — or — Oh, that I had but been there, what things could I have done ! — And now these two wretched boys have fooled away their only chance ' ' Some say that they hoped for the crown themselves.' ' Which ? Not both ? Vain babies ! ' and Hereward laughed bitterly. ' I suppose one will murder the other next, in order to make himself the stronger by being the sole rival to the tanner. The midden cock sole rival to the eagle ! Boy Waltheof will set up his claim next, I presume, as Siward's son ; and then Gos- patric, as Ethelred Evil-Counsel's great-grandson : and so fortli, uikI so forth, till they all eat each other up, and the tanner's grandson eats the last. What care I ? Tell me about the battle, my lady, if you know aught. That is more to my way than their statecraft.' And Torfrida told him all she knew of the great figlit on Heathfield Down, which men call Senlac, and the battle of Hastings. And as slie told it, in her wild eloquent fashion, Hereward's face reddened, and his eyes kindled. And when she told of the last struggle round the Dragon ^ standard ; of Harold's ' I have dared to differ from the excellent antlionties wlio say that the standard was that of a Fighting Man, because tlic Bayeux Tapestry repre- 156 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. mighty figure in the front of all, hewing with his great double- headed axe, and then rolling in gore and agony, an arrow in his eyeball ; of the last rally of tlie men of Kent ; of Gurth, the last defender of the standard, falling by William's sword ; of the standard hurled to the ground, and the popish Gonfanon planted in its place — Then Hereward's eyes, for the first and last time for many a year, were flushed with noble tears ; and springing up, he cried, ' Honour to the Godwinssons ! Honour to the southern men ! Honour to all true English hearts ! Why was I not there, to go with them to Valhalla 1 ' Torfrida caught him round the neck. ' Because you are here, my hero, to free your country from her tyrants, and win yourself immortal fame.' ' Fool that I am, I verily believe I am crying.' ' Those tears,' said she, as she kissed them away, ' are more precious to Torfrida than the spoils of a hundred fights, for they tell me that Hereward still loves his country ; still honours virtue, even in a foe.' And thus Torfrida — whether from a woman's sentiment of pity, or from a woman's instinctive abhorrence of villany and wrong, had become there and then an Englishwoman of the English, as she proved by strange deeds and sufferings for many a year. ' Where is that Norseman, ]\Iartin?' asked Hereward that night ere he went to bed. ' I want to hear more of poor Hardraade.' 'You can't speak to him now, master. He is sound asleep this two hours, and warm enough, I will warrant.' 'Where?' ' In the great green bed with blue curtains, just above the kitchen.' ' What nonsense is this 1 ' ' The bed where you and I shall lie some day ; and the kitchen to which we shall be sent down to turn our own spits, unless we mend our manners mightily.' Hereward looked at the man. Madness glared unmistakably in his eyes. ' You have killed him ! ' 'And buried him, cheating the priests.' ' Traitor ! ' cried Hereward, seizing him. ' Take your hands off my throat, master. He was only my father.' Hereward stood shocked and puzzled. After all, the man sents the last struggle as in front of a Dragon standard, whicli must be — as is to be expected — the old standard of Wessex, the standard of English royalty. That Haiold had also a Fighting Man standard, and that it was sent by William to the pope, there is no reason to doubt. But if the Bayeux Tapestry be correct, the fury of the fight for the standard Avould be explained. It would be a fight for the very symbol of King Edward's dynasty. xviii HOW EARL GODWIN'S WIDOW CAME TO ST. OMER 157 was No-man's-tnan, and would not be missed ; and Martin Light- foot, letting alone his madness, was as a third hand and foot to him all day long. So all he said was, ' I hope you have buried him well and safely?' ' You may walk your bloodhound over his grave to-morrow without finding him.' And where he lay. Here ward never knew. But from that night Martin got a trick of stroking and patting his little axe, and talking to it as if it had been alive. CHAPTER XVIII HOW EARL Godwin's widow came to st. omer It would be vain to attempt even a sketch of the reports which came to Flanders from England during the next two years ; or of the conversations which ensued thereon between Baldwin and his courtiers, and between Hereward and Torfrida. Two reports out of three were doubtless false ; and two conversations out of three founded on those false reports. It is best, therefore, to interruj^t the thread of the story by some small sketch of the state of England after the battle of Hastings, that so we may at least guess at the tenor of Here- ward and Torfrida's counsels. William had, as yet, conquered little more than the south of England : hardly, indeed, all that ; for Herefordshire, Worcester- shire, and the neighbouring parts, which had belonged to Sweyn, Harold's brother, were still insecure ; and the noble old city of Exeter, confident in her Roman walls, did not yield till two years after, in a.d. 1068. North of his conquered territory, Mercia stretched almost across England, from Chester to the Wash, governed by Edwin and Morcar. Edwin called himself Earl of Mercia, and held the Danish burghs. On the extreme north-west, the Roman city of Chester was his ; while on the extreme south-east (as Domesday- book testifies), Morcar still held large lands round Bourne and throughout the south of Lincolnsliire, besides calling himself the Earl of Nortliuiubria. Tlie young men seemed the darlings of the half Danish Northmen. Chester, Coventry, Derby, "Not- tingham, Leicester, Stamford, a chain of fortified towns sti-etch- ing across England, were at tlieir command ; Blethyn, prince of North Wales, was their nephew. Northumbria, likewi.se, was not yet in AVilliam's hands. In- deed it was in no man's hands, since the free Danes north of the Humber had expelled Tosti, putting Morcar in his place. Morcar, instead of residing in his earldom of Northumbria, had made one Oswulf his deputy : but he had rivals enough. 158 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. There was Gospati-ic, claiming through liis grandfather Uchtred, and strong in the protection of his cousin Malcolm, King of Scotland ; there was young Waltheof, ' the forest thief,' — or rather, perhaps, 'the thief of slaughter,' who had been born to Si ward Biorn in his old age, just after the battle of Dunsinane ; a tine and gallant young man, destined to a swift and sad end. William sent to the Northumbrians one Copsi, a thane of mark and worth, as his procurator, to expel Oswulf. Oswulf and the land folk answered by killing Copsi, and doing every man that vvliich was right in his own eyes. William determined to propitiate the young eai'ls. Perhaps he intended to govern the centre and north of England through them, as feudal vassals ; and hoped meanwhile to pay his Nor- man conquerors sufficiently out of the forfeited lands of Harold, and those who had fought by his side at Hastings. It was not his policy to make himself, much less to call himself, the conqueror of England. He claimed to be its legitimate sovereign, deriv- ing from his cousin Edward the Confessor ; and whosoever would acknowledge him as such, had neither right nor cause to fear. Tlierefore he sent for tlie young eai'ls. He courted Waltheof, and more, really loved him. He promised Edwin his daughter in marriage. Some say it was Constance, afterwards married to Alan Fergant, of Brittany : but it may also have been the beautiful Adelaide, who, none knew why, early gave up the world, and died in a convent. Be that as it may, the two young people saw each, and loved each other at Ilouen, whither William took Waltheof, Edwin, and his brother ; as honoured guests in name ; in reality as hostages likewise. With the same rational and prudent policy, William respected the fallen royal families, both of Harold and of Edward ; at least, he warred not against women ; and the wealth a,nd influ- ence of the great English ladies was enormous. Edith, sister of Harold, and widow of the Confessor, lived in wealth and honour at Winchester. Gyda, Harold's mother, retained Exeter and her land. Aldytha,^ or Elfgiva, widow of Harold, lived rich and safe in Chester. Godiva the countess owned, so anti- quarians say, manors from Cheshire to Lincolnshire, which would be now yearly worth the income of a great duke. Agatha the Hungarian, widow of Edmund the outlaw, dwelt at Romsey in Hampshire, under William's care. Her son Edgar Etheling, the rightful heir of England, was treated by William not only with courtesy, but with attection ; and allowed to rebel, when he did rebel, with impunity. For the descendant of Ptollo, the heathen Viking, had become a civilised chivalrous Christian knight. His mighty forefather would have split the Etheling's skull with his own axe. A Frank king would have 1 See her liistory, told, as none other can tell it, in Bnhver's Harold. XVIII HOW EARL GODWIN'S WIDOW CAME TO ST. O:\IER 159 shaved the young man's head, and immured him in a monastery. An eastern sultan would have thrust out his eyes, or strangled him at once. But William, however cruel, however unscrupu- lous, had a knightly heart, and somewhat of a Christian con- science ; and his conduct to his only lawful rival is a noble trait amid many sins. So far all went well, till William went back to France ; to be likened, not as his ancestors, to the gods of Valhalla, or the barbarous and destroying Vikings of mythic ages, but to Csesar, Pompey, Vespasian, and civilised and civilising heroes of classic Rome. But while he sat at the Easter Feast at Fecamp, displaying to Franks, Flemings, and Bretons, as well as to his own Nor- mans, the treasures of Edward's palace at Westminster, and ' more English wealth than could be found in the whole estate of Gaul' ; while he sat there in his glory, with his young dupes, Edwin, Morcar, and Waltheof, by his side ; having sent Harold's banner in triumph to the pojDe, as a token that he had con- quered the Church as well as the nation of England ; and having founded abbeys as thank - ofierings to Him who had seemed to prosper him in his great crime : at that very hour the hand-writing was on the wall, unseen by man ; and he, and his policy, and his race, were weighed in the balance, and found wanting. For now broke out in England that wrong -doing wliich endured as long as she was a mere appanage and foreign farm of Norman kings, whose hearts and homes were across the seas in France. Fitz-Osbern, and Odo the warrior-prelate, William's lialf- brother, had been left as his regents in England. Little do they seem to have cared for William's promise to the English people that they were to be ruled still by the laws of Edward the Confessor, and tliat where a grant of land was made to a Norman he was to hold it as the Englishman had done before him, with no heavier burdens on himself, but with no heavier burdens on the poor folk who tilled the land for him. Oppres- sion began, lawlessness, and violence ; men were ill-treated on the highways ; and women — what was worse- — in their own homes ; and the regents abetted the ill-doers. ' It seems,' says a most impartial liistorian,^ ' as if the Normans, released from all authority, all restraint, all fear of retaliation, determined to reduce the English nation to servitude, and drive them to despair.' In the latter attempt they succeeded but too soon ; in the former, they succeeded at last : but tiiey paid dearly for their success. Hot young Englishmen began to emigrate. Some went to the court of Constantinople, to join the Varanger guard, and ' The late Sir F. Palgrave. 160 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. have tlieir chance of a Polotaswarf like Harold Hardraade. Some went to Scotland to Malcolm Cannioi^e, and brooded over return and revenge. But Harold's sons went to their father's cousin, Ulfsson of Denmark, and called on him to come and re- conquer England in the name of his uncle Canute the Great ; and man.y an Englishman went with them. These things Gospatric watched, as earl (so far as he could make any one obey him in the utter subversion of all order) of the lands between Forth and Tyne. And he determined to flee, ere evil befell him, to his cousin Malcolm Canmore, taking with him Mai"lesweyn of Lincolnshire, who had fought, it is said, by Harold's side at Hastings, and young Waltheof of York. But, moreover, having a head, and being indeed, as his final success showed, a man of ability and courage, he deter- mined on a stroke of policy, wliich had incalculable after-effects on the history of Scotland. He persuaded Agatha the Hun- garian, Margaret and Christina her daughters, and Edgar the Etheling himself, to flee with him to Scotland. How he con- trived to send them messages to Romsey, far south in Hamp- shire ; how tliey contrived to escape to the Humber, and thence up to the Forth ; this is a romance in itself, of which tlie chroniclers have left hardly a hint. But the thing was done ; and at St. Margaret's Hope, as tradition tells, tlie Scottish king met, and claimed as his unwilling bride, that fair and holy maiden who was destined to soften his fierce passions, to civilise and purify his people, and to become — if all had their just dues — the true patron saint of Scotland. Malcolm Canmore promised a mighty army; Sweyn a mighty fleet. And meanwhile, Eustace of Boulogne, tlie Confessor's brother-in-law, himself a Norman, rebelled at the head of the down-trodden men of Kent ; and the Welshmen were harry- ing Herefordshire with fire and sword, in revenge for Norman ravages. But as yet the storm did not burst. William returned, and with him something like order. He conquered Exeter ; he de- stroyed churches and towns to make his New Forest. He brought over his Queen Matilda with pomp and great glory ; and with her, the Bayeux Tapestry which she had wrought with her own hands ; and meanwhile Sweyn Ulfsson was too busy threatening Olaf Haroldsson, the new King of Norway, to sail for England ; and the sons of King Harold of England had to seek help from the Irish Danes ; and, ravaging the country round Bristol, be beaten off" by the valiant burghers with heavy loss. So the storm did not burst ; and need not have burst, it may be, at all, had William kept his plighted word. But he would not give his fair daughter to Edwin. His Norman nobles, doubtless, looked upon such an alliance as debasing to a civil- ised lady. In their eyes, the Englishman was a iDai-barian ; XVIII HOW EARL GODWIN'S WIDOW CAME TO ST. OMER 161 and though tlie Norman might well marry the Englishwoman, if she had beauty or wealth, it was a dangerous precedent to allow the Englishman to marry the Norman woman, and that woman a princess. Besides, there were those who coveted Edwin's broad lands ; Roger de ]\Iontgomery, who already (it is probable) held part of them as Earl of Shrewsbury, liad no wish to see Edwin the son-in-law of his sovereign. Be the cause what it may, William faltered, and i-efused ; and Edwin and Morcar left the court of Westminster in wrath. Waltheof followed them, having discovered — what he was weak enough continually to forget again — the treachery of the Norman. The young earls went off— one midlandward, one northward. The people saw their wrongs in those of their earls, and the rebel- lion burst forth at once ; the Welsli under Blethyn, and the Cumbrians under Malcolm and Donaldbain, giving their help in the struggle. It was the year 1069 ; a more evil year for England than even the year of Hastings. The rebellion was crushed in a few months. The great general marched steadily north, taking the boroughs one by one, storming, burning, sometimes, whole towns, massacring or mutilating young and old, and leaving, as he went on, a new portent, a Norman donjon — till then all but unseen in England — as a place of safety for liis garrisons. At Oxford (sacked horribly, and all but destroyed), at Warwick (destroyed utterly), at Nottingham, at Stafford, at Shrewsbury, at Cambridge, on the huge barrow whicli overliangs tlie fen ; and at York itself, which had opened its gates, trembling, to the great Norman strategist — at eacli doomed borough rose a castle, with its tall square tower witliin, its bailey around, and all the appliances of that ancient Iloman science of fortification, of which the Danes, as well as the Saxons, knew nothing. Their struggle had only helped to tighten their bonds ; and what wonder ? There was among them neither unity, nor plan, nor governing mind and will. Hereward's words had come true. The only man, save Gospatric, who had a head in England, was Harold Godwinsson : and he lay in Waltham Abbey, wliile the monks sang masses for liis soul. Edwin, IMorcar, and Waltheof trembled before a genius superior to their own— a genius, indeed, which had not its equal in Christendom. They came in, and begged grace of the king. They got it. But Edwin's earldom was forfeited, and he and his brotlier became, from thenceforth, desperate men. IMalcolm of Scotland trenil)led likewise, and asked for peace. The clans, it is said, rejoiced thereat, having no wish for a war which could buy tlicm neitlier spoil nor land. Malcolm sent aml)assadors to William, and took (at least for his Cumbrian lands on this side the border) that oatli of fealty to tlie 'Basi- leus of Britain,' which more than one Scottish king and kinglet M II. r. \v. 162 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. had taken before — with the secret proviso (which, during the middle ages, seems to have been thoroughly understood in such cases by both parties), that he should be William's man just as long as William could compel him to be so, and no longer. Then came cruel and unjust confiscations. Ednoth the standard-bearer had fallen at Bristol, fighting for William against the Haroldssons : yet all his lands were givenaway to Normans. Edwin and Morcar's lands were parted likewise ; and — to specify cases which bear especially on the history of Hereward — Oger the Briton got many of Morcar's manors round Bourne, and Gilbert of Ghent many belonging to Marle- sweyn about Lincoln city. And so did that valiant and crafty knight find his legs once more on other men's ground, and re- appears in monkish story as the most devout and pious earl, Gilbert of Ghent.' What followed, Hereward must have heard not from_ flying rumours ; but from one who had seen, and known, and judged ofall.i For one day, about this time, Hereward was riding out of the gate of St. Omer, when the porter appealed to him. Begging for admittance were some twenty women, and a clerk or two ; and they must needs see the chatelain. The chatelain was away. What should he do ? Hereward looked at the party, and saw, to his surprise, that they were Englishwomen ; and that two of them were women of rank, to judge from the rich materials of their travel-stained and tattered garments. The ladies rode on sorry country gar- rons, plainly hired from the peasants who drove them. The rest of the women had walked ; and weary and footsore enough they were. ' You are surely Englishwomen ? ' asked he of the foremost as he lifted his cap. The lady bowed assent, beneath a heavy veil._ 'Then you are my guests. Let them pass in.' And Here- ward threw himself off" his horse, and took the lady's bridle. ' Stay,' she said, with an accent half Wessex, half Danish. ' I seek the Countess Judith, if it will please you to tell me where she lives.' ' The Countess Judith, lady, is no longer in St. Omer. ^ Since her husband's death, she lives with her mother at Bruges.' The lady made a gestui^e of disappointment. ' It were best for you, therefore, to accept my hospitality, till such time as I can send you and your ladies on to Bruges.' ' I must first know who it is who oflers me hospitality.' This was said so proudly, that Hereward answered proudly enough in return — ' I am Hereward Leof ricsson, whom his foes call Hereward 1 Far Gyda's coming to St. Omer that year, see Ordcricus Vitalis. XVIII HOW EARL GODWIN'S WIDOW CAME TO ST. OMER 163 the outlaw ; and his friends, Hereward the master of knights.' She started, and threw her veil back, looking intently at him. He, for his part, gave but one glance : and tlien cried — ' Mother of heaven ! You are the great countess ! ' ' Yes, I was that woman once, if all be not a dream. I am now I know not what, seeking hospitality — if I can believe my eyes and ears — of Godiva's son.' ' And from Godiva's son you shall have it, as though you were Godiva's self. God so deal with my mother, madam, as I will deal with you.' ' His father's wit, and his mother's beauty ! ' said the great countess, looking upon him. ' Too, too like my own lost Harold ! ' 'Not so, my lady. I am a dwarf compared to him.' And Hereward led the garron on by the bridle, keejDing his cap in hand, while all wondered who the dame could be, before whom Here- ward the champion would so abase himself. ' Leofric's son does me too much honour. He has forgotten, in his chivalry, that I am Godwin's widow.' ' I have not forgotten that you are Sprakaleg's daughter, and niece of Canute, king of kings.-^ Neither have I forgotten tliat you are an English lady, in times in which all English folk are one, and all old English feuds are wiped away.' ' In English blood. All ! if these last words of yours were true, as you, perhaps, might make them true, England might be saved even yet.' , 'Saved?' ' If there were one man in it, who cared for aught but him- self.' Hereward was silent and thoughtful. He had sent Martin back to his house, to tell Torfrida to prepare bath and food ; for the Countess Gyda, witli all her train, was coming to be her guest. And when they entered the court, Torfrida stood ready. Is this your lady 1 ' asked Gyda, as Hereward lifted her from her horse. ' I am his lady and your servant,' said Torfrida, bowing. 'Child ! cliild ! liow not to me. Talk not of servants to a wretched slave, who only longs to crawl into some hole and die, forgetting all she was, and all she had.' And the great countess reeled with weariness and woe, and fell upon Torfrida's neck. A tall veiled lady next her helped to support her ; and between them they almost carried her through the hall, and into Torfrida's best guest-chamber. And there they gave her wine, and comforted her, and let her weep awhile in peace. The second lady liad unveiled licrself, displaying a beauty ^ See note at end of this Chapter. 164 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. wliich was still brilliant, in spite of sorrow, liunger, the stains of travel, and moi'e than foi'ty years of life. ' She must be Gunhilda,' guessed Torfrida to herself, and not amiss. She offered Gyda a bath, which she accepted eagerly, like a true Dane. ' I liave not washed for weeks. Not since we sat starving on the Flat Holm there, in the Severn sea. I have become as foul as my own fortunes ; and why not ? It is all of a piece. Why should not beggars go unwashed 1 ' But when Torfrida offered Gunhilda the bath, she declined. ' I have done, lady, with such carnal vanities. What use in cleaning the body which is itself unclean, and whitening the outside of this sepulchre ? If I can but clean.se my soul tit for my heavenly Bridegroom, the body may become — as it must at last — food for worms.' 'She will needs enter religion, poor child,' said Gyda; 'and Avhat wonder ? ' ' I have chosen the better part, and it shall not be taken from me.' ' Taken ! Taken ! Hark to her. She means to mock me, the proud nun, with that same " taken." ' ' God forbid, mother ! ' 'Then why say taken, to me from whom all is taken? — Hus- band, sons, wealth, land, renown, power;— power which I loved, wretch that I was, as well as husband and as sons. Ah God ! the girl is right. Better to rot in the convent than writhe in the world. Better never to have had, than to have had and lost.' ' Amen ! ' said Gunhilda. ' " Blessed are the barren, and they that never gave suck," saith the Lord.' ' No ! Not so ! ' cried Torfrida. ' Better, countess, to have had and lost, than never to have had at all. The glutton was right, swine as he was, when he said that not even heaven could take from him the dinners he had eaten. How much more we, if we say, not even heaven can take from us the love wherewith we have loved 1 Will not our souls be richer thereby through all eternity 1 ' ' In purgatory ? ' asked Gunhilda. 'In purgatory, or where else you will. I love my love ; and though my love ])rove false, he has been true ; though he trample me under foot, he has held me in his bosom ; though he kill me, he has lived for me. Better to have been his but for one day, than never to have been his at all. What I have had will still be mine, when that which I have shall fail me.' 'And you would buy short joy with lasting woe?' ' That would I, like a brave man's child. I say — The present is mine, and I will enjoy it as greedily as a child. Let the moi*- row take thought for the things of itself.— Countess, your bath is ready.' XVIII HOW EARL GODWIN'S WIDOW CAME TO ST. OMER 165 Nineteen years after, when the great conqueror lay, tossing with agony and remorse, upon his dying bed, haunted by the ghosts of his victims, the clerks of St. Saviour's in Bruges city were putting up a leaden tablet (which remains, they say, unto this very day) to the memory of one whose gentle soul had gently passed away. ' Charitable to the poor, kind and agree- able to lier attendants^, courteous to strangers, and only severe to herself,' Gunhilda had lingered on in a world of war and crime ; and had gone, it may be, to meet Torfrida beyond the grave, and there finish their doubtful argument. The countess was served with food in Toi-frida's chamber. Hereward and his wife refused to sit, and waited on her standing. 'I wish to show these saucy Fleming.?,' said he, 'that an English princess is a princess still in the eyes of one more nobly born than any of tliem.' But after she had eaten, she made Torfrida sit before her on the bed, and Hereward likewise ; and began to talk ; eagerly, as one who had not unburdened her mind for many weeks ; and eloquently too, as became Sprakaleg's daughter and Godwin's wife. She told them how she had fled from the storm of Exeter, with a troop of women who dreaded the brutalities of the Nor- mans.' How tliey had wandered up througli Devon, found fishers' boats at Watchet in Somersetshire, and gone off to the little desert island of the Flat Holm, in hopes of there meeting with the Irish fleet which her sons, Edmund and Godwin, were bringing against tlie West of England. How the fleet had never come, and tliey had starved for many days ; and how she had bribed a passing merchantman to take her and her wretched train to the land of Baldwin the Debonnaire, who might have pity on her for the sake of his daughter Judith, and Tosti her husband, who died in his sins. And at his name her tears began to flow afresh : fallen in his overweening pride, — like Sweyn, like Harold, like herself 'The time was, when I would not weep. If I could, I would not. For a year, lady, after Senlac, I sat like a stone. I liardened my heart like a wall of Ijrass against God and man. Then, there upon the Flat Holm, feeding on shell-fish, listening to the wail of the sea-fowl, looking outside across the wan water for the sails which never came, my heart broke down a moment. And I heard a voice crying, " Tliere is no lielj) in man, go thou to God." And I answered — That were a beggar's trick, to go to God in need wlien I went not to Him in plenty. No. Without God I planned, and without Him I must fail. Without Him I went into the battle, and witliout Flim I must bide the brunt. ^ To do William justice, he would not allow his iiieu to enter the city while they were hloodhot ; and so prevented, as far as he could, the ex- cesses which Gyda had feared. 166 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. And at best — Can He give me back my sons ? And I hardened my heart again like a stone, and shed no tear till I saw your fair face this day.' 'And now,' she said, turning sharply on Hereward, 'what do you do here 1 Do you not know that your nephews' lands are parted between grooms from Angers and scullions from Nor- mandy 1 ' ' So much the worse for both them and the grooms.' 'Sirr ' You forget, lady, that I am an outlaw.' ' But do you not know that your mother's lands are seized likewise V ' She will take refuge with her grandsons, who are, as I hear, again on good terms with their new master, showing thereby a most laudable and Christian spirit of foi'giveness.' 'On good terms? Do you not know, then, that they are figliting again, outlaws, and desperate at the Frenchman's treachery ? Do you not know that they have been driven out of York, after defending tlie city street by street, house by house j Do you not know that there is not an old man nor ;a child in arms left in York ; and that your nephews, and the few figliting men who were left, went down the Humber in boats, and north to Scotland, to Gospatric and Waltheof 1 Do you not know that your mother is left alone — at Bourne, or God knows where — to endure at the hands of Norman rufiians what thou- sands more endure ? ' Hereward made no answei', but played with his dagger. 'And do you know that England is ready to burst into a blaze,_ if there be one man wise enough to put the live coal into the right place ? That Sweyn Ulffson my nephew, or Asbiorn his brother, will surely land there within the year with a mighty host ? And that if there be one man in England of wit enough, and knowledge enough of war, to lead the armies of England, the Frenchman may be driven into the sea is there any here who understands English ? ' ' None but ourselves.' 'And Canute's nephew sit on Canute's throne?' Hereward still played with his dagger. 'Not the sons of Harold, then ? ' asked he after a while. ' Never ! I promise you that — I, Countess Gyda, their grand- motlier.' 'Wliy promise me, of all men, O great lady ?' ' Because — I will tell you after. But this I say, my curse on the_ grandson of mine who shall try to seize that fatal crown, which cost the life of my fairest, my noblest, my wisest, my bravest ! ' Hereward bowed liis head, as if consenting to the praise of Harold. But he knew who s^ooke ; and he was thinking within XVIII HOW EARL GODWIN'S WIDOW CAME TO ST. OMER 167 himself : ' Her curse may be on liim who shall seize, and yet not on him to whom it is given.' ' All that they, young and unskilful lads, have a right to ask is, their father's earldoms and their father's lands. Edwin and Morcar would keep their earldoms as of right. It is a pity that there is no lady of the house of Godwin, whom we could honour by offering her to one of your nephews, in return for tlieir nobleness in giving Aldytha to my Harold. But this foolish girl here refuses to wed ' 'And is past forty,' thought Hereward to himself. 'However, some plan to join the families more closely to- gether might be thought on One of the young earls might marry Judith here. Waltheof would have Northumbria, in right of his father, and ought to be well content — for although she is somewhat older than he, she is joeerlessly beautiful — to marry your niece Aldytha.' ' And Gospatric ? ' ' Gospatric,' she said, with a half -sneer, ' will be as sure, as he is able, to get something worth having for himself out of any medley. Let him have Scotch Northumbria, if he claim it. He is more English than Dane : he will keep those northern English more true to us.' ' But what of Sweyn's gallant holders and housecarles, who are to help to do this mighty deed ? ' ' Senlac left gaps enough among the noblemen of the South, which they can till up, in the place of the French scum who now riot over Wessex. And if that should suffice, what higher honour for me, or for my daughter the queen, than to devote our lands to the heroes who have won them back for us ? ' Hereward hoped inwardly that Gyda would be as good as her word ; for her greedy grasp had gathered to itself, before the battle of Hastings, no less than six -and -thirty thousand acres of good English soil. ' I have always heard,' said he, bowing, ' that if the Lady Gyda had been born a man, England would have had another all- seeing and all - daring statesman, and Earl Godwin a rival, instead of a helpmate. Now I believe what I have heard.' But Torfrida looked sadly at the countess. There was some- thing pitiable in the sight of a woman ruined, bereaved, seem- ingly hopeless, portioning out the very land from which she was a fugitive • una])le to restrain the passion for intrigue which had been tne toil and the bane of her sad and splendid life. ' And now,' she went on, ' surely some kind saint brought me, even on my hrst landing, to you of all living men.' ' Doubtless the blessed St. Bertin, beneath Avhose shadow we repose here in peace,' said Hereward somewhat drily. ' I will go barefoot to his altar to-morrow, and offer my last jewel,' said Gunliilda. ' You,' said Gyda, without noticing her daughter, ' are above 168 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap, all men the man who is needed.' And she began praising Here- ward's valour, liis fame, his eloquence, liis skill as a general and engnieer ; and when he suggested, smiling, that he was an exile and an outlaw, she insisted that he was all the fitter from that very fact. He had no enemies among the nobles. He had been mixed up in none of the civil wars and blood feuds of the last fifteen years. He was known only as that which he was, the ablest English captain of his day— the only man who could cope with William, the only man whom all parties in England would alike obey. And so, with flattery as well as with truth, she persuaded, if not Here ward, at least Torfrida, that he was the man destined to free England once more ; and that an earldom— or anything which he chose to ask— would be the sure reward of his assist- ance. Torfrida,' said Hereward that night, ' kiss me well ; for you will not kiss me again for a while.' 'Whatr ' I am going to England to-morrow.' 'Alone?' ' Alone. I and Martin to spy out the land ; and a dozen or so of housecarles to take care of the ship in harbour.' ^ But you have promised to fight the Viscount of Pinkney.' ' I will be back again in time for him. Not a word— I must go to England, or go mad.' ' But Countess Gyda ? Who will squire her to Bruges ? ' ' You and the rest of my men. You must tell her all. She has a woman's heart, and will understand. And tell Baldwin I shall be back within the month, if I am alive on land or water.' I Hereward, Hereward, the French will kill you ! ' 'Not while I have your armour on. Peace, little fool ! Are you actually afraid for Hereward at last ? ' ' Oh, heavens ! when am I not afraid for you 1 ' and she cried herself to sleep upon his bosom. But she knew that it was the right, and knightly, and Christian thing to do. Two days after, a longship ran out of the Aa, and sailed away north. Note. — I give so much of the pedigree of the Countess Gyda as may serve to explain lier connection with tlio Royal House of Denmark. XIX HOW HE CLEARED BOURISTE OF FRENCHMEN King HARALD Bluetooth. • 169 King SWEYN Forkbeard. CANUTE the Great, etc. I I EsTRiD — Earl Ulf. I I Thyra, m. Styrbiorn. I Thorkill Sprakaleg. I I Gyda — Earl Godwin. I K. SWEYN. BiORN, Asbiorn, murdered by sacked SwEYN GoDWiNSSON, his Cousin. Peterborough. SWEYN (Outlawed). HAROLD, m. Algitha, d. of Algar. I Gyda, m. WALDEMAR, k. of Russia (froin wliom derive, by the Mother's side), WALDEMAR L, King of Denmark. I K. ERIC Glippinc. The House of Oldenburg. I The House of Glucksburg. I Eadgitha, m. Edward tlie Confessor. I I Leofwin. Gyrth. (Killed at Hastings.) GUNHILDA. (A Nun.) TOSTIO. m. Judith of Flanders. SCULO, from whom derive HAKON the Old, etc. Kings of Norway. Katil Krok, founded a noble family in Halogaland. ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS OF WALES. Langebek (in his Scriptores Rerum Danicarum) tries ingenious!}^ enough to rationalise the mythic pedigree of Earl Siward Digre, by making the Fairy Bear identical with Styrbiorn, Spratling his son with Thorkill Sprakaleg, and Biorn Bearsson, father of Siward, a brother of Earl Ulf and Countess Gyda. But if so, Ulf and Gyda would have been notoriously of the House of the Bear, and famous, like Siward, for their pointed ears. Besides, Siward would thus have been the nephew of Countess Gyda and Earl Godwin, a fact which is mentioned by no chronicler, and which is in- admissible on account of Siward's age. His pedigree is altogether mythical, and best left in the fairyland whence it sprung. CHAPTER XIX HOW HEEEWARD cleared BOURNE OF FRENCHMEN It may have been well a week after, that Hereward came from the direction of Bo.ston, with Martin runninp: at hi.s heels. A.S Hereward rode along the summer wold the summer sun sank low, till just before it went down he came to an island of small enclosed tield.s, liigli l)anks, elm ti-ees, and a farm inside; one of those mo.st ancient holdings of the Soutliern and Eastern Counties, still to be distinguished, by their huge banks and dykes 170 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. full of hedgerow timber, from the more modern corn-lands out- side, which were in Hereward's time mostly common pasture- land or rough fen. ' This should be Azerdun,' said he ; ' and there inside, as I live, stands Azer getting in his croj^s. But who has he with him V With tlie old man were some half-dozen men of his own rank ; some helping the serfs with might and main ; one or two stand- ing on the tojo of the banks, as if on the look-out; but all armed cap-a-pie. ' His friends are helping him to get them in,' quoth Martin, ' for fear of the rascally Frenchmen. A pleasant and peaceable country we have come back to.' ' And a very strong fortress are they holding,' said Hereward, 'against either French horsemen or French arrows. How to dislodge those six fellows without six times their number, I do not see. It is well to recollect that.' And so he did ; and turned to use again and again, in after years, the strategic capabilities of an old-fashioned English farm. Hereward spurred his horse up to the nearest gate, and was instantly confronted by a little fair-haired man, as broad as he was tall, who heaved up a long twybill, or double axe, and bade him, across the gate, go to a certain place. 'Little Winter, little Winter, my chuck, my darling, my mad fellow, my brother-in-arms, my brother in robbery and murder, are you grown so honest in your old age that you will not know little Hereward the wolf's head 1 ' ' Hereward ! ' shrieked the doughty little man. ' I took you for an accursed Norman in those outlandish clothes ; ' and lift- ing up no little voice, he shouted — ' Hereward is back, and Martin Lightf oot at his heels ! ' The gate was thrown open, and Hereward all but jDulled off his horse. He was clapped on the back, turned round and round, admired from head to foot, sliouted at by old companions of his boyhood, nauglity young housecarles of his old troop, now settled down into honest thriving yeomen, hard working and hard fighting, who had heard again and again, with pride, his doughty doings over sea. There was Winter, and Gwenoch, and Gery, Hereward's cousin — ancestor, it may be, of the ancient and honourable 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 1 ' All looked each at the other, and were silent. * You are too late, young lord,' said Azer. 'Too late?' XIX HOW HE CLEARED BOURNE OF FRENCHMEN 171 ' The Frenchman 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. She fled to Bourne a while ago out of ShroiDsliire. All her lands in tliose parts are given away to Frenchmen. Even Coventry minster was not safe for her ; so hither she came : but even here the French villains have found her out. Three days ago some five-and-twenty French marched into the place.' ' And you did not stop them 1 ' 'Young sii', 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 liim ;' 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 The Wake, as hundreds have followed him already, if he will only go before 1 ' ' 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 liim. ' Saddle, lads, and go with liim, 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, past the crossways, and along the Water-gang and the high earth-banks of his ancient home. Above them he could see the great hall, its narrow windows all ablaze with light. With a bitter growl he turned back, 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 tliere still.' .' We will try ; ' and Martin knocked at the door. 172 HERE^yARD THE WAKE chap. Tlie wicket was opened, but not the dooi* ; and through the wicket window a surly voice asked who was there. 'Who lives here?' ' Pery, son of Surturbrand. Who art thou who askest 1 ' ' 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 thy money ; ' and the wicket was shut. IMartin pulled out his axe, and drove the panel in. 'What art doing? We shall rouse the town,' said Hereward. 'Let be ; these are no French, but honest English, who 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 vip above,' said Martin, in a voice of feigned terror, ' take us in for the love of tlie Virgin and all saints, or murdered we shall be ere morning light.' 'Thou hast no call to stay in the town, man, unless thou 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 thou be a Cliristian man, thou wilt take me in and let me go off safe ere morning light.' 'From Flanders !' And the man turned and seemed to con- sult those within. At length the door was slowly opened, and Pery appeared, his double axe over his shoulder. ' If thou be from Flanders, come in in God's name ; but be quick, ere those Frenchmen get wind of thee.' 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 recognised at once. Over the peat fire 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 1 ' 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 api^roaching 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.' XIX HOW HE CLEARED BOURNE OF FRENCHMEN 173 '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 Pery. '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?' Hereward declined ; he liad a vow, he said, not to eat or drink but once a day, till he had fulfilled a quest whereon he was bound. His hosts eyed him, not without some lingering- suspicion, but still with admiration and respect. His splendid armour and weapons, as well as the golden locks which fell far below his shoulders, and conveniently hid a face which he did not wish yet to have recognised, showed him to be a man of the highest rank ; wliile the palm of his small hand, as hard and bony as any woodman's, proclaimed him to be no novice of a fighting man. The strong Flemish accent wliich both he and Martin Lightfoot had assumed prevented the honest English- men from piercing his disguise. They watched him, while he in turn watched them, struck by their uneasy looks and sullen silence. ' We are a dull company,' said he after a while courteously enough. ' We used to be told in Flanders that there were none such stout drinkers and none such jolly singers as you gallant men of the Danelagli liere.' 'Dull times make dull company,' said one, 'and no offence to you, sir kniglit.' 'Are you such a stranger,' asked Pery, 'that you do not know what has haiDpened in this town during the last three days?' ' No good, I will warrant, if you have Frenchmen in it.' ' Why was not Hereward here ? ' wailed the old man in the corner. ' It never would have happened if he had been in the town.' ' What ? ' asked Hereward, trying to command himself. 'What has happened,' said Pery, 'makes a free Englishman's blood l)oil to tell of. Here, sir knight, three days ago, comes in this Frenclanan with some twenty ruflians of his own, and more of one Taillebois', too, to see him safe ; says that this new king, this base-born Frenchman, has given away all Earl Morcar's lands, and that Bourne is liis ; kills a man or two ; upsets the women ; gets drunk, ruffles and roysters ; breaks into my lady's bower, calling her to give up her keys ; and when she gives tliem, will have all her jewels too. She faces the rogues like a brave princess ; and two of the hounds lay liold of her, and say that she shall ride tlu'ougli Bourne as she rode through Coventry. The boy Godwin — he that was the great 174 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. earl's godson, our last Jiope, the last of our house— draws sword on them ; and he, a boy of sixteen summers, kills them botli out of hand. The rest set on him, cut his head off, and there it sticks on the gable spike of the hall to this hour. And do you ask, after that, why free Englishmen are dull company 1 ' ' And our turn will come next,' growled some one. ' The turn will go all round ; no man's life or land, wife or daughters, will be safe soon for these accursed Frenchmen, unless, as the old man says. Here ward comes back.' Once again the old man wailed out of the chimney-corner : 'Why did they ever send Hereward away? I warned the good earl, I warned my good lady, many a time, to let him sow his wild oats and be done with them, or tliey might need him some day when they could not find him. He was a lad ! He was a lad ! ' and again he whined, and sank into silence. Hereward heard all this dry-eyed, hardening his heart into a great resolve. ' This is a dark story,' said he calmly ; ' and it would behove me as a gentleman to succour this distressed lady, did I but know Iiow. Tell me what I can do now, and I will do it.' ' Your health ! ' cried one. ' You speak like a true knight.' ' And he looks the man to keep his word, I'll warrant him,' spoke another. ' He does,' said Pery, shaking his head : ' nevertheless, if any- thing could have been done, sir, be sure we would have done it : but all our armed men are scattered up and down the country, eacli taking care, as is natural, of liis own cattle and his own women. There are not ten men-at-arms in Bourne this night ; and what is worse, sir, as you may guess, who seem to have known war as well as I, there is no man to lead them.' Here Hereward was on the point of saying, ' And what if I led you?'— on the point, too, of discovering himself: but he stopped short. Was it fair to involve this little knot of gallant fellows in what might be a hopeless struggle, and to have all Bourne burned over their heads ere morning by the ruffian Frenchmen ? ISTo; his mother's quarrel was his own private quarrel. He would go alone and see the strength of the enemy ; and after that, may be, he would raise the country on them : or — and half a dozen plans suggested themselves to his crafty brain as he sat brooding and scheming; then, as always, utterly self- confident. He was startled by a burst of noise outside — music, laughter, and shouts. 'There,' said Pery bitterly, 'are those Frenchmen, dancing and singing in the hall, with my Lord Godwin's head above them ! ' And curses bitter and deep went round the room. They sat sullen and silent it may be for an hour or more : only moving when, at some fresh outbreak of revelry, the old man XIX HOW HE CLEARED BOURNE OF FRENCHMEN 175 started from his doze and asked if that was Hereward coming. ' And who is this Hereward of wliom you speak ? ' said Here- ward at last. ' We thought you might know him, sir knight, if you come from Flanders, as you say you do,' said three or four voices in a surprised and surly tone. ' Certainly I know such a man ; if he be Hereward the wolf's head, Hereward the outlaw, Hereward the Wake, as they call him. And a good soldier he is, though he be not yet made a knight ; and married, too, to a rich and fair lady. I served under this Hereward a few months ago in the Zeeland war, and know no man whom I would sooner follow.' 'Nor I either,' chimed in Martin Lightfoot from the other end of the table. ' Nor we,' cried all the men-at-arms at once, each vieing with the other in extravagant stories of their hero's jDrowess, and in asking the knight of Flanders whether they were true or not. To avoid oti'ending them, Hereward was forced to confess to a great many deeds which he had never done : but he was right glad to find that his fame had reached his native place, and that he could count on the men if he needed them. ' But who is this Hereward,' said he, ' that he should have to do with your town here ? ' Half a dozen voices at once told him his own story. 'I always heard,' said he drily, 'that that gentleman was of some very noble kin ; and I will surely tell him all that has befallen here as soon as I return to Flanders.' At last they grew sleepy. The men went out and brought in bundles of sweet sedge, spread them against the wall, and pre- pared to lie down, each with his weapon by his side. But when they were lain down, Hereward beckoned to him Pery and Martin Lightfoot, and went out into the back yard, under the pretence of seeing to his horse. 'Pery Surturbrandsson,' said he, 'thou seemest to be an honest man, as we in foreign parts hold all the Danelagh folk to be. Now it is fixed in my mind to go up, and my servant with me, to yon liall, and see what those French upstarts are about. Wilt thou trust me to go, without my fleeing back here if I am found out, or in any way bringing thee to harm by mixing thee up in my private matters ? And wilt thou, if I do not come back, keep for thine own the horse which is in thy staljle, and give moreover this purse and this ring to thy lady, if thou canst find means to see her face to face ; and say thus to her — that he that sent that purse and ring may be found, if he be alive, at St. Omer, or with Baldwin, Marquis of Flanders ; and that if he be dead (as he is like enough to be, his trade being nought but war) she will still find at St. Omer a home and wealth and friends, till these evil times be overpast 1 ' 176 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. As Hereward hud spoken witli some slight emotion, he had dropped unawares his assumed Flemish accent, and had spoken in broad burly Lincolnshire ; and therefore it was that Pery, wlio had been staring at him by tlie moonlight all the while, said, when he was done, tremblingly — 'Either you are Hereward, or you are his double-gangei'. You speak like Hereward, you look like Hereward. Just wliat Hereward would be now, you are. You are, my lord, whom men call Wake ; and you cannot deny it.' 'Pery, if thou knowest me, speak of me to no living soul, save to thy lady my mother ; and let me and my serving -man go free out of thy yard gate. If I ask thee before morning to open it again to me, thou wilt know tliat there is not a Frenchman left in the Hall of Bourne.' Pery tlirew his arms round liim, and embraced him silently. 'Get me only,' said Hereward, 'some long woman's gear and black mantle, if thou canst, to cover this bright armour of mine.' Pery went off in silence as one stunned ; brought the mantle ; and let them out of the yard gate. In ten minutes more, the two had waded tlie Water-gang, scrambled the dyke and its palisade, and stood under the gable of the great hall. Not a soul was stirring outside. The serfs were all cowering in their huts like so many rabbits in their burrows, listening in fear to the revelry of their new tyrants. The night was dark : but not so dark that Hereward could not see between him and the sky his brother's long locks floating in the breeze. ' That I must have down, at least,' said he, in a low voice. 'Then liere is wherewithal,' said Martin Lightfoot, as he stumbled over something. ' The drunken villains have left the ladder in the yard.' Hereward raised the ladder, took down the head, and wrapped it in the cloak ; and ere he did so, he kissed the cold forehead. How he had hated that boy ! Well, at least he had never wil- fully harmed him— or the boy him either, for that matter. And now he had died like a man, killing liis foe. He was of the true old blood after all. And Hereward felt that he would have given all that he had, save liis wife or his sword-hand, to have that boy alive again, to pet him, and train him, and teach him to fight at his side. Then he slijoped round to one of the narrow unshuttered windows and looked in. The hall was in a wasteful blaze of light ; a wliole month's candles burning in one night. The table was covered with all liis father's choicest plate ; the wine was running waste upon tlie floor ; the men were lolling at the table in every stage of drunkenness ; the loose women, camp- followers, and suchlike, were almost as drunk as their masters ; and at the table-head, most drunk of all, sat, in Earl Leofric's seat, the new Lord of Bourne. XIX HOW HE CLEARED BOURNE OF FRENCHMEN 177 Herewarcl could scarce believ^e his eyes. He was none other than Gilbert of Ghent's stout Flemish cook, whom he had seen many a time in Scotland. Hereward turned from the window in disgust : but looked again as he heard words which roused his wrath still more. For in the open space nearest tlie door stood a gleeman, a dancing, harping, foul-mouthed fellow, wlio was showing off' ape's tricks, jesting against the English short coats — a continual source of insult among the long-robed French — and shuffling about in mockeries of English dancing. At some particularly coarse jest of his, the new Lord of Bourne burst into a roar of admiration. 'Ask what thou wilt, fellow, and thou shalt have it. Thou wilt find me a better master to thee than ever was Morcar, the English barbarian.' The scoundrel, say the old chroniclers, made a request con- cerning Hereward's family wliich cannot be printed here. Hereward ground his teeth. 'If thou livest till morning light,' said he, ' I will not.' The last brutality awoke some better feeling in one of the girls — a large coarse Fleming, who sat by the new lord's side. ' Fine words,' said she, scornfully enough, ' for the sweepings of Norman and Flemish kennels. You forget that you left one of this very Leofric's sons behind in Flanders, who would besom you all out if he was here before the morning's dawn.' ' Hereward?' cried the cook, striking her down with a drunken blow ; ' the scoundrel who stole the money which the Frisians sent to Count Baldwin, and gave it to his own troops ? We ai'e safe enough from him at all events ; he dare not show his face on this side the Alps, for fear of the gallows.' Hereward had heard enough. He sli^^ped down from the window to ^lartin, and led him round the house. 'Now then, down with the ladder quick, and dash in the door. I go in : stay thou outside. If any man passes me, see that he pass not tliee.' Martin chuckled a ghostly laugh as he^elped the ladder down. In another moment the door was burst in, and Hereward stood upon the threshold. He gave one war-shout of — A Wake ! A Wake ! and then rushed forward. As he passed the gleeman, he gave him one stroke across the loins ; the wretch fell shrieking. And then began a murder grim and great. They fought witli ale-cups, with knives, with benches : but, drunken and unarmed, tliey were liewn down like sheep. Fifteen Normans, says the chronicler (wlio gives minute details of tlie whole scene), were in tlie hall when Hereward burst in. When the sun rose there were fff teen heads upon the gable. Escape had been impossible, ^lartin had laid the ladder across the door ; and the few who escaped the master's terrible sword stumbled over it, to be brained by the man's not less terrible axe. N H. T. w. 178 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Then Herewarcl took up liis brother's head, and went in to his mother. The women in the bower opened to him. They had seen all that passed from the gallery above, which, as usual, hidden by a curtain, enabled the women to watch unseen wliat passed in the hall below. The Lady Godiva sat crouched together, all but alone — for her bower-maidens had fled or been carried off long since — upon a low stool beside a long dark thing covered with a i)a\\. So utterly crushed was she, that slie did not even lift up her head as Hereward entered. He placed his ghastly burden reverently beneath the pall, and then went and knelt before his mother. For a while neither spoke a word. Then the Lady Godiva suddenly drew back her hood, and dropping on her knees, tlirew her arms round Hereward's neck, and wejjt till she could weep no more. ' Blessed strong arms,' sobbed she at last, ' around me ! To feel something left in the world to protect me ; something left in the world which loves me.' ' You forgive me, mother 1 ' 'You forgive me? It was I, I who was in fault- — I, who should liave clierished you, ray strongest, my bravest, my noblest — now my all.' 'No, it was all my fault ; and on my head is all this misery. If I had been here, as I ought to have been, all this might have never happened.' ' You would only have been murdered too. No : thank God you were away ; or God would have taken you with the rest. His arm is bared against me, and His face turned away from me. All in vain, in vain ! Vain to have washed my hands in innocency, and worshipped Him niglit and day. Vain to have builded minsters to His honour, and heaped the shrines of His saints with gold. Vain to have fed the hungry, and clothed the naked, and washed tlie feet of His poor, that I might atone for my own sins, and tlie sins of my house. This is His answer. He has taken me up, and dashed, me down : and nought is left, but, like Job, to abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes — of, I know not what — I know not what — I know not what — unless it be that poor Algar held some Church lands ; I forget where they are, now, tliough I warned him often of them. My brains are broken, good saints. I forget— would that I could forget more— and poor Morcar held them till this ruin. Is it that, Hereward ? The fatlier takes God's lands ; tlie son will not restore them : a dark crime — who shall atone for that ?— though it is but a few acres — a few acres — after all •' And so she sobbed on, like any child. ' We will make them up, mother, we will make them up twice over. But never say that God has deserted you. See, He has XIX HOW HE CLEARED BOURNE OF FRENCHMEN 179 sent you me ! ' said Hereward, wondering to find himself, of all men on eai'th, preaching consolation. ' Yes, I have you ! Hold me. Love me. Let me feel that one thing loves me upon earth. I want love ; I must ha\e it : and if God, and His mother, and all the saints refuse their love, I must turn to the creature, and ask it to love me, but for a day.' ' For ever, mother.' ' You will not leave me 1 ' ' If I do. I come back, to finish what I have begun.' ' More blood ? O God ! Hereward, not that ! Let us return good for evil. Let us take up our crosses. Let us bear our sin. Let us humble ourselves under God's hand, and flee into some convent, and there die praying for our country and our kin.' ' Men must watch while women pray. I will take you to a minster — to Peterborough.' ' No, not to Peterborough ' 'But my uncle Brand is abbot there, they tell me, now this four years ; and that rogue Herluin prior in his place.' ' Brand is dying : dying of a broken heart, like me. The Frenchman lias given his abbey to one Thorold, the tyrant of Malmesbury — a Frenchman like himself. No, take me where I shall never see a French face. Take me to Crowland— and him with me — where I shall see nought but English faces, and hear English chants, and die a free Englishwoman under St. Guthlac's wings.' ' Ah ! ' said Hereward bitterly, ' St. Guthlac is a right Englishman, and will have some sort of fellow-feeling for us ; while St. Peter, of course, is somewhat too fond of Rome and those Italian monks. Well — blood is thicker than water ; so I hardly blame the blessed Apostle.' ' Do not talk so, Hereward.' ' Much the saints have done for us, mother, that we are to be so very respectful to their higli mightinesses. I fear that, if this Frenchman goes on with his plan of thrusting his monks into our abbeys, I shall have to do more even for St. Guthlac, than ever he did for me. Do not say more, mother. This night lias made Hereward a new man. Now, prepare '—and slie knew what he meant—' and gather all your treasures ; and we will start for Crowland to-morrow afternoon.' 180 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. CHAPTER XX HOW HEREWARD WAS MADE A KNIGHT AFTER THE FASHION OF THE ENGLISH A WILD night was that in Bourne. All the folk, free and unfree, man and woman, were out on the streets, asking the meaning of those terrible shrieks, followed by a more terrible silence. At last Hereward strode down from the hall, his drawn sword in his hand. 'Silence, good folks, and hearken to me, once and for all. There is not a Frenchman left alive in Bourne. If you be the men I take you for, there shall not be one left alive between Wash and Huraber. Silence, again ! ' — as a herce cry of rage and joy arose, and men rushed forward to take him by the hand, women to embrace him. 'This is no time for compliments, good folks, but for quick wit and quick blows. For the law we tight, if we do figlit ; and by the law we must work, fight or not. Where is the lawman of the town 1 ' ' I was lawman last night, to see such law done as there is left,' said Pery. ' But you are lawman now. Do as you will. We will obey you.' ' You shall be our lawman,' shouted many voices. ' I ? Who am I ? Out of -law, and a wolf's head.'_ ' We will put you back into your law, — we will give you your lands in full busting.' ' Never mind a husting on my behalf. Let us have a husting, if we have one, for a better end and a bigger than that. Now, men of Bourne, I have put the coal in the bush. Dare you blow the fire till the forest is aflame from south to north 1 I have fought a dozen of Frenchmen. Dare you fight Taillebois and Gilbert of Ghent, with William Duke of Normandy at their back? Or will you take me, liere as I stand, and give me up to them as an outlaw and a robber, to feed the crows outside the gates of Lincoln 1 Do it, if you will. It will be the wiser plan, my friends. Give me up to be judged and hanged ; and so purge yourselves of the villainous murder of Gilbert's cook — your late lord and master.' ' Lord and master ? We are free men ! ' sliouted the holders, or yeomen gentlemen. 'We hold our lands from God and the sun.' ' You are our lord,' shouted the socmen, or tenants. ' Who but you ? We will follow, if you will lead ! ' ' Hereward is come home ! ' cried a feeble voice behind. ' Let me come to him. Let me feel him.' And tlirougli the crowd, supported by two ladies, tottered the mighty form of Surturbrand the blind Viking. XX HOW HEREWARD WAS MADE A KNIGHT 181 ' Hereward is come,' cried he, as he folded his master's son in his arms. ' Ahoi ! he is wet with blood ! Ahoi ! he smells of blood ! Ahoi ! the ravens will grow fat now, for Hereward is come home ! ' Some would have led the old man away : but he thrust them off fiercely. ' Ahoi ! come wolf ! Ahoi ! come kite ! Ahoi ! come erne from off the fen ! You followed us, and we fed you well, when Swend Forkbeard brought us over the sea. Follow us now, and we will feed you better still, with the mongrel Frenchers who scoff at the tongue of their forefathers, and would rob their nearest kinsman of land and lass. Ahoi ! Swend's men ! Ahoi ! Canute's men ! Vikings' sons, sea-cocks' sons. Berserkers' sons all ! Split up the war-arrow, and send it round : and the curse of Odin on every man that will not pass it on ! A war-king to- morrow, and Hildur's game next day, that the old Surturbrand may fall like a free holder, axe in hand, and not die like a cow in the straw which the Frenchman lias spared him.' All men were silent, as the old Viking's voice, cracked and feeble when he began, gathered strength from rage, till it rang through the still night air like a trumpet blast. ■The silence was broken by a long wild cry from the forest, which made the women start, and catch their children closer to them. It was the howl of a wolf. ' Hark to the witch's horse ! Hark to the son of Fenris, how he calls for meat ! Are ye your father's _ sons, ye men of Bourne ? They never let the gray beast call in vain.' Hereward saw his opportunity, and seized it. He well knew that there were those in the crowd, as there must needs be in all crowds, who wished themselves well out of the business ; who shrank from the thought of facing the Norman barons, much more tlie Norman king ; who were ready enough, had the tide of ifeeling begun to ebb, to blame Hereward for rashness, even though they might not have gone so far as to give him up to the Normans ; who would have advised some sort of compromise, pacifying half-measui'e, or otlier weak plan for escaping present danger by future destruction. But three out of four there were good men and true. The savage chant of tlie old barbarian might have startled them somewhat, for they were tolerably orthodox Christian folk. But tliere was sense, as well as spirit, in his savageness ; and they growled applause as he ceased. Hereward heard, and cried : ' The Viking is right ! So speaks the spirit of our fathers ; and we must .show ourselves their true sons. Send round the war-arrow, and death to the man who does not pass it on ! Better die bravely together than falter and part company, to be hunted down one by one by men who will never forgive us as long as we have an acre of land for them to seize. Pery, son of Surturbrand, you are the lawman. Put it to the vote ! ' 182 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. 'Send round tlie war-arrow,' shouted Pery liimself ; and if there was a man or two wlio shrank from the proposal, they found it prudent to shout as loudly as did the rest. Ere the morning liglit, the war-arrow was split into four splinters, and carried out to the four airts, through all Kes- teven. If the splinter were put into the house-father's hand, he must send it on at once to the next freeman's house. If he were away, it was stuck into his house-door, or into his great chair by the fireside, and woe to him if, on liis return, he sent it not on likewise. All through Kesteven went that night the arrow-splinters, and with them the whisper, ' The Wake is come again ' ; till, before mid-day, there were fifty well-armed men in the old camping-held outside the town, and Hereward har- anguing them in words of fire. A chill came over them, nevertheless, when he told them that he must at once return to Flanders. ' But it must be,' he said. He had promised his good lord and sovereign, Baldwin of Flanders, and his word of lio'nour he must keep. _ Two visits he must pay ere he went ; and then to sea. But within the year, if he were alive on ground, he would return, and witli him ships and men, it might be wath Sweyn and all the power of Denmark. Only let them hold their own till the Danes should come, and all would be well. So would they show that they were free Englishmen, able to hold England against Frenchmen and all strangers. And whenever he came back lie would set a light to Toft, Manthorpe, and Witham-on-the-hill. They were his own farms, or should have been ; and better they should burn tlian Frenchmen hold them. They could be seen far and wide over the Bruneswold and over all the fen ; and then all men might know for sure that the Wake was come again. ' And nine-and-forty of them,' says the chronicler, ' he chose to guard Bourne ' (seemingly the lands which had been his nephew Morcar's) till he should come back and take them for himself. His own lands of Witham, Toft, and Manthorpe, Gery his cousin should hold till his return ; and they should send what they could off" them to Lady Godiva at Crowland. Then they went down to the water and took barge, and laid the corpse therein ; and Godiva and Hereward sat at the dead lad's head ; and Winter steered the boat and Gwenoch took the stroke-oar. And they rowed away for Crowland, by many a mere and many an ea ; through narrow reaches of clear brown glassy water ; between the dark-green alders ; between the pale-green reeds ; where the coot clanked, and the bittern boomed, and the sedge-bird, not content with its own sweet song, mocked the notes of all the birds around ; and then out into the broad lagoons, where hung motionless, high over head, hawk beyond hawk, buzzard beyond Ijuzzard, kite beyond kite, as far as eye XX HOW HEREWARD WAS MADE A KNIGHT 183 could see. Into the air, as they rowed on, whirred up great skeins of wild fowl innumerable, with a cry as of all the bells of Crowland, or all tlie hounds of the Bruneswold ; while clear above all their noise sounded the wild wliistle of the curlews, and the trumpet note of the great white swan. Out of the reeds, like an arrow, shot the peregrine, singled one luckless mallard from the flock, caught him up, struck him stone dead with one blow of his terrible heel, and swept his prey with him into the reeds again. ' Death ! death ! death ! ' said Lady Godiva, as the feathers fluttered down into the boat and rested on the dead boy's pall. ' War among man and beast ; war on earth ; war in air ; war in the water beneath ' as a great pike rolled at his bait, sending a shoal of white tish flying along the surface. ' And war, says Iioly writ, in heaven above. O Thou who didst die to destroy death, when will it all be over ? ' And thus they glided on from stream to stream, until they came to the sacred isle of ' the inheritance of the Lord, the soil of St. ^Nlary and St. Bartliolomew ; the most holy sanctuary of St. Guthlac and his monks ; the minster most free from worldly servitude ; the si:)ecial almshouse of tlie most illustrious kings ; the sole place of refuge for any one in all tribulations ; the perpetual abode of the saints ; the possession of religious men, especially set apart by the Common Council of the king- dom ; by reason of the frequent miracles of the most holy Confessor, an ever-fruitful mother of camphire in the vineyards of Engedi ; and by reason of the privileges granted by the kings, a city of grace and safety to all who repent.' As they drew near, they passed every minute some fisher's log canoe, in which worked with net or line the criminal who had saved his life by fleeing to St. Guthlac, and becoming liis man forthwith ; the slave who had fled from his master's cruelty ; and here and there in those evil days, the master who had fled from the cruelty of Frenchmen, who would liave done to him as he had done to others. But there all old grudges were put away. They had sought the peace of St. Guthlac ; and there- fore they must keep his peace ; and get their living from the fish of the five rivers, within tlie bounds whereof was peace, as of their own quiet streams ; for the abbot and St. Guthlac were the only lords thereof, and neither summoner nor sheriff of the king, nor armed force of knight or earl, could enter there. At last they came to Crowland minster : a vast range of high-peaked buildings, founded on piles of oak and alder driven into tlie fen — itself built almost entirely of timber from the Bruneswold; barns, granaries, stables, workshops, stranger's hall, fit for the boundless hospitality of Crowland ; infirmary, refectory, dormitory, libraiy, al^bot's lodgings, cloisters ; with the great minster towering uj), a steep pile, half wood, half 184 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. stone, with narrow round-headed windows, and leaden roofs; and, above all, the great wooden tower, from which, on higli days, chimed out the melody of the seven famous bells, whicli had not their like in English land. Guthlac, Bartholomew, and Bettelm were the names of the biggest, Turketul and Tatwin of the middle, and Pega and Bega of the smallest. So says Ingulf, who saw them a few years after jiouring down on his own head in streams of melted metal. Outside the minster walls were the cottages of the corrodiers, or folk who, for a corrody, or life pittance from the abbey, had given away their lands ;^ beyond them again the natural park of grass, dotted with mighty oaks and ashes ; and beyond all those, cornlands of inexhaustible fertility, broken up by the good Abbot Egelric some hundred years iDefore, from which, in times of dearth, the monks of Crowland fed the peoj^le of all tlie neighbouring fens. They went into the great courtyard. All men were quiet, yet all men were busy ; baking and brewing, carpentering and tailoring, in the workshops ; reading and writing in the cloister ; praying and singing in the church ; and teaching the children in the schoolhouse. Only the ancient sempects — some near upon a hundred and fifty years old — wandered where they would, or basked against a sunny wall, like autumn flies ; each with a young monk to guide liim, and listen to his tattle of old days. For, said the laws of Turketul the good — ' Nothing disagreeable about the affairs of the monastery shall be men- tioned in their presence. No person sliall presume in any way to offend them : but wath the greatest peace and tranquillity they shall await their end.' So while the world outside raged, and fought, and conquered, and plundered, they within the holy isle kept up some sort of order, and justice, and usefulness, and love to God and man. ^ This fashion of corrody was one which brought much land to monks and grudging to lieirs-at-law. As an instance — Geoffrey de Brachecourt and his wife, a few years after, gave (with consent of Alan de Morton, his nephew and heir, and Gilbert of Ghent, his feudal lord) his township of Brachecurt or Brathwaite to the Cistercian monks of Vauldey, now Grims- thorpe Park, on the following conditions. That his wife should have clothing of bluet and lambs' skins ; and he of grising or halbergit and lambs' skins ; and that their food should be such as the monks had. Their two servants were to fare the same as those of the brotherhood. The opinion of Alan de Morton concerning such a bargain may be guessed, at least by those who are aware that it was made for the puri^ose of escaping certain j-ears of purgatory, i.e. of burning alive in the next world. When we talk of the piety of our ancestors in giving lands to the Church, we should always remember that this was what their piety too often signified. When we complain of the squires, in Edward the Sixth's time, for taking back the treasures and lands of the monasteries, we should remember that they had been got from those squires' forefathers on such grounds as these, and no other. XX HOW HEREWARD WAS MADE A KNIGHT 185 And about the yards, among the feet of tlie monks, hopped the sacred ravens, descendants of those wlio brouglit back the gloves at St. Guthlac's bidding ; and overhead, under all the eaves, built tlie sacred swallows, the descendants of those who sat and sang upon St. Guthlac's shoulders ; and when men marvelled thereat, lie the holy man replied, 'Know that they who live the holy life draw nearer to the birds of the air, even as they do to the angels in heaven.' And Lady Godiva called for old Abbot Ulfketyl, the good and brave ; and fell upon his neck, and told him all her tale ; and Ulfketyl wept upon her neck, for they were old and faith- ful friends. And they passed into the dark cool church, where, in the crypt under the high altar, lay the thumb of St. Bartholomew, which old Abbot Turketul used to carry about, that he might cross himself with it in times of danger, tempest, and lightning ; and some of the hair of St. ]\Iary, queen of heaven, in a box of gold ; and a bone of St. Leodegar of Aquitaine ; and some few remains, too, of the holy bodies of St. Guthlac, and of St. Bettelm, his servant, and St. Tatwin, who steered liim to Crow- land, and St. Egbert his confessor, and St. Cissa the anchorite, and of the most holy virgin St. Etheldreda, and many more. But little of them remained since Sigtryg and Bagsac's heathen Danes had heaped them pell-mell on the floor, and burned the church over them and the bodies of the slaughtered monks. The plunder which was taken from Crowland on that evil day lay, and lies still, with the plunder of Peterborough and many a minster more, at the bottom of the Ouse at Huntingdon Bridge. But it had been more than replaced by the piety of the Danish kings and nobles ; and above the twelve white bearskins which lay at the twelve altars blazed, in the light of many a wax candle, gold and jewels inferior only to those of Peterborough and Coventry. And there in the nave they buried the lad Godwin, with chant and dirge ; and when the funeral was done, Hereward went up toward the high altar, and bade Winter and Gwenoch come with him. And there he knelt, and vowed a vow to God and St. Guthlac and the Lady Torfrida, his true love, never to leave from slaying while there was a Frenchman left alive on English ground. And Godiva and Ulfketyl heard his vow, and shuddered : but they dared not stop him, for they too had English hearts. And Winter and Gwenoch heard it, and repeated it word for word. Then he kissed his mother, and called Winter and Gwenoch, and went fortli. He would he back again, he said, on the tliird day. Then those three went to Peterborough, and asked for Abbot 186 HEREWARD THE WAKE cuap. Brand. And the monks let them in ; for the fame of their deed had passed through the forest, and all the French had fled. And old Brand lay back in his great armchair, his legs all muffled up in furs, for he could get no heat ; and hy him stood Herluin the jDrior, and wondered when he would die, and Thorold take his place, and they should drive out the old Gregorian chants from the choir, and have the new Norman chants of Robert of Fecamp, and bring in French -Roman customs in all things, and rule the English boors with a rod of iron. And old Brand knew all tliat was in his heart, and looked up like a patient ox beneath the butcher's axe, and said, 'Have patience with me, brother Herluin, and I will die as soon as I can, and go where there is neither French nor English, Jew nor Gentile, bond nor free, but all are alike in the eyes of Him who made them.' But when he saw Hereward come in, he cast the mufflers off him, and sprang up from his chair, and was young and strong in a moment, and for a moment. And he threw his arms round Hereward, and wept upon his neck, as his mother had done. And Hereward wept upon his neck, though he had not wept upon his mother's. Then Brand held him at arms' length, or thought he held liim ; for he was leaning on Hereward, and tottering all the while ; and extolled him as the champion, the warrior, the stay of his house, the avenger of his kin, the hero of whom he had always prophesied that his kin would need him, and that then he would not fail. But Hereward answered liim modestly and mildly : ' Speak not so to me and of me, uncle Brand. I am a very foolish, vain, sinful man, who have come through great adven- tures, I know not how, to great and strange happiness ; and now again to great and strange sorrows ; and to an adventure greater and stranger than all that has befallen me from my youth up until now. Therefore make me not proud, uncle Brand, but keep me modest and lowly, as befits all true knights and penitent sinners ; for they tell me that God resists the proud, and giveth grace to the humble. And I have that to do which do I cannot, unless God and His saints give me grace from this day forth.' Brand looked at him, astonished ; and then turned to Herluin. ' Did I not tell thee, i^rior 1 This is the lad wliom you called graceless and a savage ; and see, since he has been in foreign lands, and seen the ways of knights, he talks as clerkly as a Frenchman, and as piously as any monk.' 'The Lord Hereward,' said Herluin, 'has doubtless learned much from the manners of our nation which he would not liave XX HOW IIEREWARD WAS MADE A KNIGHT 187 learned in England. I rejoice to see him returned so Christian and so courtly a knight.' ' The Lord Hereward, Prior Herluin, has learnt one thing in his travels — to know somewhat of men and the hearts of men, and to deal with them as they deserve of him. They tell me that one Thorold of ^Nlalmesbury — Tliorold of Fecamp, the minstrel, he that made the song of Roland — that he desires this abbey.' ' I have so heard, my lord.' 'Then I command— I, Hereward, Lord of Bourne — that this abbey be held against him and all Frenchmen, in the name of Swend Ulfsson, King of England, and of me. And he that admits a Frenchman therein, I will shave his crown for him so well, that he shall never need razor more. This I tell thee ; and this I shall tell thy monks before I go. And unless you obey the same, my dream will be fulfilled ; and you will see Goldenborough in a light low, and yourselves burning in the midst tliereof.' ' Swend Ulfsson 1 Swend of Denmark ? What words are these 1 ' cried Brand. ' You will know within six months, uncle.' ' I shall know better things, my boy, before six months are out.' ' Uncle, uncle, do not say that.' 'Why not? If this mortal life be at best a prison and a grave, what is it worth now to an Englishman 1 ' ' More than ever ; for never had an Englishman such a chance of showing English mettle, and winning renown for the English name. Uncle, you must do something for me and my comrades ere we go.' 'Well, boy?' _ ' Make us knights.' ' Knights, lad ? I thought you had been a belted knight this dozen years ? ' ' I might have been made a knight by many, after the French fashion, many a year agone. I miglit have been knight when I slew the white bear. Ladies have prayed me to be knighted again and again since. Something kept me from it. Perhaps' (with a glance at Herluin) 'I wanted to show that an English squire could be the rival and the leader of French and Flemish knights.' ' And thou hast shown it, brave lad,' said Brand, clapping his great hands. 'Perhaps I longed to do some mighty deed at last, which would give me a right to go to the bravest knight in all C^hristendom, and say, Give me the accolade, then ! Thou only art worthy to knight as good a man as thyself.' ' Pride and vainglory,' said Brand, shaking his head. 'But now I am of a sounder mind. I see now why I was 188 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. kept from being knighted — till I had done a deed worthy of a true knight ; till I liad mightily avenged the wronged, and mightily succoured the oppressed ; till I had purged my soul of my enmity against my own kin, and could go out into the world a new man, with my mother's blessing on my head.' 'But not of the robbery of St. Peter,' said Herluin. The French monk wanted not for moral courage : no French monk did in those days. And he proved it by those words. ' Do not anger the lad, prior ; now, too, above all times, when his heart is softened towards the Lord.' 'He has not angered me. The man is right. Here, lord abbot and sir prioi", is a chain of gold, won in the wars. It is worth fifty times the sixteen pence which I stole, and which I repaid double. Let St. Peter take it, for the sins of me and my two comrades, and forgive. And now, sir prior, I do to thee what I never did for mortal man. I kneel and ask thy forgive- ness. Kneel, Winter ! Kneel, Gwenoch ! ' And Hereward knelt. Herluin was of double mind. He longed to keep Hereward out of St. Peter's grace. He longed to see Hereward dead at his feet : not because of any personal hatred, but because he foresaw in him a terrible foe to the Norman cause. But he wished, too, to involve Abbot Brand as much as possible in Hei'eward's rebel- lions and misdeeds, and above all, in the master-offence of knighting him ; for for that end, he saw, Hereward was come. Moreovei", he was touched with the sudden frankness and humility of the famous champion. So he answered mildly — ' Verily, thou hast a knightly soul. May God and St. Peter so forgive thee and thy companions as I forgive thee, freely and from my heart.' ' Now,' cried Hereward ; ' a boon ! A boon ! Knight me and these my fellows, uncle Brand, this day.' Brand was old and weak ; and looked at Herluin. ' I know,' said Hereward, ' tliat the French look on us English monk-made knights as spurious and adulterine, unworthy of the name of knight. But, I hold — and what churchman will gainsay me? — that it is nobler to receive sword and belt from a man of God than from a man of blood like one's self; for the fittest man to consecrate the soldier of an earthly king is the soldier of Christ the King of kings.' ' ' He speaks well,' said Herluin. ' Abbot, grant him his boon.' ' Who celebrates high mass to-morrow ? ' 'Wilton the priest, the monk of Ely,' said Herluin, aloud. 'And a very dangerous and stubborn Englishman,' added he to himself. ' Good. Then this night you shall watch in the church. To- morrow, after the Gospel, the thing shall be done as you will.' ^ Almost word for word from the Life of Hercivard. XX HOW HEREWARD WAS MADE A KNIGHT 189 Tliat night two messengers, knights of the abbot, galloped from Peterborough. One rode to Ivo Taillebois at Spalding, to tell him that Hereward was at Peterborough ; and that he must try to cut him off upon the Egelric's road, the causeway which one of the many abbots Egelric had made, some thirty years before, through Deeping Fen to Spalding, at an enormous expense of labour and of timber. The other knight rode south, along the Roman road to London, to tell King William of the rising of Kesteven, and all the evil deeds of Hereward and of Brand. And old Brand slept quietly in his bed, little thinking on what errands his prior had sent his knights. Hereward and his comrades watched that night in St. Peter's church. Oppressed with weariness of body and awe of mind, they heard the monks drone out their chants through the misty gloom ; they confessed the sins — and they were many — of their past wild lives. They had to summon up within themselves courage and strength henceforth to live, not for themselves, but for the fatherland which they hoped to save. They prayed to all the heavenly powers of that Pantheon which then stood between man and God, to help them in the coming struggle : but ere the morning dawned they were nodding, unused to any long strain of mind. Suddenly Hereward started, and sprang up, with a cry of fire. 'What? Where?' cried his comrades; while the monks ran up. ' The minster is full of flame. No use, too late, you cannot put it out. It must burn.' ' You have been dreaming,' said one. ' I have not,' said Hereward. ' Is it Lammas night 1 ' ' What a question ! It is the vigil of the Nativity of St. Peter and St. Paul.' ' Thank heaven ; I thought my old Lammas night's dream was coming true at last.' Herluin heard, and knew what he meant. After which Hereward was silent, filled with many thoughts. The next morning, before the high mass, those three brave men walked up to the altar ; laid thereon their belts and swords ; and then knelt humbly at the foot of the steps till the Gospel was finished. Tlien came down from the altar Wilton of Ely, and laid on each man's bare neck the bare blade, and bade him take back his sword in the name of God and of St. Peter and St. Paul, and use it like a true knight, for a terror and punishment to evil- doers, and a defence for women and orphans, and the poor and the oppressed, and the monks the servants of God. And then the monks girded each man with his belt and sword once more. And after mass was sung, they rose, each feeling himself— and surely not in vain — a better man. 190 HEREAVARD THE WAKE chap. At least this is certain, that Hereward would say to liis dying day, how he had often proved that none would tight so well as those who had received their sword from God's knights tlie monks. Therefore he would have, in after years, almost all his companions kniglited by the monks ; and he brought into Ely with liim that same good custom which he had learnt at Peter- borough, and kept it up as long as he held the isle. Tlien lie said — ' Have you monks a limner liere, who can paint for me 1 ' That can I,' said Wilton of Ely. ' Then take my shield, and raze from it this bear which I carry ' Wilton brouglit pencil and paint, and did so. ' Now, paint me in a W, that shall stand for Wake ; and make it— make it out of tlie knots of a monk's girdle, for a sign that I am a monk's knight, and not a king's ; and that I am the champion of the monks of England against the monks of France, from this time forth for evermore.' Wilton did it ; and made out of two monks' girdles none other than the after-famous Wake knot. J Now do the same by Winter and Gwenoch's shields. Monks' knights are we ; and monks' l^attles we will tight.' _' You must have a motto to match witlial, my good lord,' said Wilton, throwing his English heart into the work. 'What better tlian my own name— Wake? These are times in which good Englishmen must not sleep— and sleep I will not, trust me ; nor mine either.' ' Vigila, that will be in Latin.' ' Ay — let us have Latin ; and show these Frenchmen that we are clerks and gentlemen, as well as they.' 'Vigila . . . et Ora,' said the monk solemnly, 'Watcli and pray ; lest thou enter into temptation.' ' Watch— and pray. Thou speakest like a man of God,' said Hereward, half sadly. 'Thou hast said : so be it. God knows, I have need of that, too, if only I knew how. But I will watch, and my wife shall pray ; and so will the work be well parted between us.' And so was born the Wake motto and the Wake knot. It was late when they got back to Crowland. The good abbot received them witli a troubled face. 'As I feared,_my lord, you have been too liot and hasty. The French have raised the country against you.' ' I liave raised it against them, my lord.' ' But we have news that Sir Frederick ' ' And who may he be ? ' ' A very terrible Goliath of these French ; old and crafty ; a brother of old Earl Warrenne of Norfolk, wliom God confound. And he has sworn to have your life, and has gathered kniglits and men-at-arms at Lynn in Norfolk.' XXI HOW IVO TAILLEBOIS MARCHED OUT OF SPALDING 191 'Very good ; I will visit him as I go home, lord abbot. Not a word of this to any soul.' ' I tremble for thee, thou young David.' ' One cannot live for ever, my lord. Farewell.' A week after a boatman brought news to Crowland how Sir Frederick w^as sitting in liis inn at Lynn, when there came in one with a sword, and said, ' I am Hereward the Wake. I was told that thou didst desire greatly to see me ; therefore I am come, being a courteous knight,' and therewith smote off his head. And when the knights and others would have stopped him, he cut his way through them, killing some three or four at each stroke, himself unhurt ; for he was clothed from head to foot in magic armour, and whosoever smote it, their swords melted in their hands. And so gaining the door, he vanished in a great cloud of sea-fowl, that cried for ever ' The Wake is come again.' And after that the fen-men said to each other, that all the birds upon the meres cried nothing save 'The Wake is come again.' And so, already surrounded with myth and mystery, Here- ward flashed into the fens and out again, like the lightning brand, destroying as he passed. And the hearts of all the French were turned to water ; and the land had peace from its tyrants for many days. CHAPTER XXI HOW IVO TAILLEBOIS MARCHED OUT OF SPALDING TOWN A PROUD man was Ivo Taillebois, as he rode next morning out of Spalding town, with hawk on fist, hound at heel, and a dozen men-at-arms at his back, who would, on due or undue cause shown, hunt men while he hunted game. An adventurer from Anjou, brutal, ignorant, and profligate — low-born, too (for his own men whispered, behind his back, that he was no more than liis name hinted, a wood-cutter's son), he still had his deserts. Valiant he was, cunning, and skilled in \var. He and his troop of Angevine ruttiers had fought like tigers by William's side at Hastings ; and he liad been rewarded with many a manor which had been Earl Algar's, and should now have been Earl Edwin's, or Morcar's, or, it may be, Here- ward's own. ' A fat land and fair,' said he to himself ; ' and, after I have hanged a few moi-e of these barbarians, a peaceable fief enough to liand down to the lawful lieirs of my body, if I had one. I must marry. Blessed Virgin ! this it is to serve and honour your gracious glory, as I have always done according to my poor humility. Who would have thought that Ivo Taillebois would ever rise so high in life, as to be looking out for a wife — and that a lady, too ? ' 192 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Then thought he over the peerless beauties of the Lady Lucia, Edwin and Morcar's sister, ahiiost as fair as that hapless aunt of liers, Aldytha, King Harold's widow. Eddeva faira, Eddeva pulcra, stands her name in Domesday-book ; known, even to her Norman conquerors, as the beauty of her time, as Godiva her mother had been before her. Scarcely less beautiful was Lucia, as Ivo had seen her at William's court, half-captive and half- guest : and lie longed for her ; love her he could not. ' I have her father's lands,' quoth he ; ' what more reasonable than to have the daughter, too? And have lier I will, unless the Mamzer, in his present merciful and political mood, makes a countess of her, and marries her up to some Norman coxcomb, with a long pedigree — invented the year before last. _ If he does throw away his daughter on that Earl Edwin, in his fancy for petting and patting these savages into good humour, he is not likely to throw away Edwin's sister on a Taillebois. Well. I must put a spoke in Edwin's wheel. It will not be difficult to make him or Morcar, or both of them, traitors once more and for ever. We must have a rebellion in these parts. I will talk about it to Gilbert of Ghent. We must make these savages desperate, and William furious, or he will be soon giving tliem back their lands, besides asking them to court : and then how are valiant knights like us, who have won England for him, to be paid for their trouble? No, no. We must have a fresh rebellion, and a fresh confiscation, and then when English lasses are going cheap, perhaps the Lady Lucia may fall to my share.' And Ivo Taillebois kept his word ; and without difficulty, for he had many to help him. To drive the English to desperation, and to get a pretext for seizing their lands, was the game which the Normans played, and but too well. As he rode out of Spalding town, a man was being hanged on the gallows there permanently provided. That was so common a sight, that Ivo would not have stopped, had not a priest, who was comforting the criminal, run forward and almost thrown himself under the horse's feet. ' ]\Iercy, good my lord, in the name of God and all His saints.' Ivo went to ride on. ' Mercy ! ' and he laid hands on Ivo's bridle. ' If he took a few pike out of your mere, remember that the mere was his, and liis father's before him ; and do not send a sorely tempted soul out of the world for a paltry fish.' ' And where am I to get fish for Lent, sir priest, if every rascal nets my waters, because his father did so before him ? Take your hand off my bridle, or, par le splendour Dex ' (Ivo thought it fine to use King William's favourite oath), ' I will hew it ofi'.' The priest looked at him, with something of honest fierce- ness in his eyes ; and dropping the bridle, muttered to himself XXI HOW lA^O TAILLEBOIS MARCHED OUT OF SPALDING 193 in Latin : ' Tiie bloodthirsty and deceitful man shall not live out lialf his days. Nevertheless, my trust shall be in Thee, O Lord.' .' What art muttering, beast ? Go home to thy wife ' (wife was by no means the word which Ivo used), ' and make the most of lier, before I rout out thee and thy fellow-canons, and put in good monks from Normandy in the place of your drunken English swine. Hang him ! ' shouted he, as the bystanders fell on their knees before the tyrant, crouching in terror, every woman for her husband, every man for wife and daughter. ' And hearken, you fen-frogs all. Whoso touches pike or eel, swimming or wading fowl, within these meres of mine without my leave, I will hang him as I hanged this man ; as I hanged four brothers in a row on Wrokesham Bridge but last week.' ' Go to Wrokesham Bridge and see,' shouted a shrill cracked voice from behind the crowd. All looked round ; and more than one of Ivo's men set up a yell, the hangman loudest of all. ' That's he, the heron again ! Catch him ! Stop him ! Shoot him ! ' But that was not so easy. As Ivo pushed his horse through the crowd, careless of whom he crushed, he saw a long lean figure flying througli the air seven feet aloft, his heels higher than his head, on the fartlier side of a deep broad ditch ; and, on the nearer side of the same, one of his best men lying stark, with a cloven skull. ' Go to Wrokesham ! ' shrieked the lean man, as he rose, and showed a ridiculously long nose, neck, and legs (a type still not uncommon in the fens), a quilted leather coat, a double-bladed axe slung over his shoulder by a thong, a round shield at his back, and a pole three times as long as himself, which he dragged after him, like an unwieldy tail. ' The heron, the heron ! ' shouted the English. ' Follow him, men, heron or hawk ! ' shouted Ivo, galloping his horse ujd to the ditch, and stopping short at fifteen feet of water. ' Shoot, some one ! Where are the bows gone 1 ' The heron was away two hundred yards, running, in spite of his pole, at a wonderful pace, before a bow could be brought to bear. He seemed to expect an arrow, for he stopped, glanced his eye round, threw himself flat on his face, with his sliield, not over his body, but over iiis bare legs ; sprang up as the shaft stuck in the ground beside him ; ran on ; planted his pole in the next dyke, and flew over it. In a few minutes he was beyond pursuit and Ivo turned, breathless with rage, to ask who he was. 'Alas, sir, lie is tlie man who set free the four men at Wrokes- ham Bridge last week.' ' Set free ! Are they not hanged and dead ? ' II. T. w. 104 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' We— we dare not tell you. But he came upon us ' ' Single-handed, you cowards 1 ' ' Sir, he is not a man, but a witch or a devil. He asked us what we did there. One of our men laughed at his long neck and legs, and called him Heron. " Heron I am," says he, " and strike like a heron, right at the eyes," and with that he cuts the man over the face with his axe, and laid him dead, and then anotlier and another.' ' Till you all i-an away, villains.' ' We gave back a step — no more. And he freed one of those four, and he again the rest ; and then they all set on us, and went to hang us in their own stead.' ' When there were ten of you, I thought.' ' Sir, as we told you, he is no mortal man, but a liend.' ' Beasts, fools Well, I have hanged this one, at least ! ' growled Ivo, and then rode sullenly on. ' Wlio is this fellow ? ' cried he to the trembling English. 'Wulfric Baher, Wulfric the Heron, of Wrokesham in Norfolk.' ' Aha ! And I hold a manor of his,' said Ivo to himself. 'Look you, villains, this fellow is in league with you.' A burst of abject denial followed. ' Since the French — since Sir Frederick, as they call him, drove him out of his Wrokesham lands, he wanders the country, as you see ; to-day here : but heaven only knows where he will be to-morrow.' 'And finds, of course, a fi'iend everywhere. Now march ! ' and a string of threats and curses followed. It was hard to see why Wulfric should not have found friends ; as he was simply a small holder, or squire, driven out of house and land, and turned adrift on the wide world, for the offence of having fought in Harold's army at the battle of Hastings. But to give him food or shelter was, in Norman eyes, an act of rebellion against the rightful King William ; and Ivo rode on, boiling over with righteous indignation, along the narrow drove which led towards Deeping. A pretty lass came along the drove, driving a few sheep before her, and spinning as she walked. ' Whose lass are you ? ' shouted Ivo. 'The abbot's of Crowland, please your lordship,' said she, trembling. ' Much too pretty to belong to monks. Chuck her up behind you, one of you.' Tlie shrieking and struggling girl was mounted behind a horseman, and bound ; and Ivo rode on. A woman ran out of a turf-hut on the drove .side, attracted by the girl's cries. It was her mother. ' My lass ! Give me my lass, for the love of St. Mary and all saints ! ' And she clung to Ivo's bridle. He struck her down, and rode on over her. XXI HOAV IVO TAILLEBOIS MARCHED OUT OF SPALDING 195 A man cutting sedges in a punt in the lode alongside looked up at the girl's shrieks, and leapt on shore, scythe in hand. ' Father ! father ! ' cried she. ' I'll rid thee, lass, or die for it,' said he, as he sprang up the drove-dyke, and swept right and left at tlie horses' legs. The men recoiled. One horse went down, lamed for life ; another staggered backwards into the fartlier lode, and was drowned. But an arrow went through the brave serf's heart, and Ivo rode on, cursing more bitterly than ever, and com- forted himself by flying his hawks at a covey of partridges. Soon a group came along the drove which promised fresh sport to the man-hunters : but as the foremost person came up, Ivo stopped in wonder at the shout of — ' Ivo ! Ivo Taillebois ! Halt and have a care ! The English are risen, and we are all dead men ! ' The words were spoken in French, and in French Ivo answered, laughing : ' Thou art not a dead man yet, it seems, Sir Robert ; art going on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, that thou comest in this fashion 1 Or dost thou mean to return to Anjou as bare as thou camest out of it ? ' For Sir Robert had, like Edgar in Shakespeare's Leay; 're- served himself a blanket, else had they all been shamed.' But very little more did either he, his lady, and his three child- ren wear, as they trudged along the drove, in even poorer case than that Robert of Coningsby, Who came out of Normandy, With his wife Tiffany, And his maid Maupas, And his dog Hardigras. 'For the love of heaven and all chivalry, joke me no jokes, Sir Ivo : but give me and mine clothes and food. The bar- barians rose on us last night — with Azer, the ruffian who owned ray lands, at their head ; and drove us out into the night as we are, bidding us carry the news to you, for your turn would come next. There are forty or more of them in West Deeping now, and coming eastward, they say, to visit you, and what is more than all, Hereward is come again.' ' Hereward ? ' cried Ivo, who knew that name full well. Whereon Sir Robert told him the terrible tragedy of Bourne. 'Mount the lady on a horse, and wrap her in my cloak. Get that dead villain's clothes for Sir Robert as we go back. Put your horses' heads about and ride for Spalding.' ' Wliat shall we do with the lass V 'We cannot be burdened with the jade. She has cost us two good horses already. Leave her in the road, bound as she is, and let us see if St. Guthlac her master will come and untie her.' 196 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. So they i*ode back. Coming from Deeping two hours after, Azer and his men found tlie girl on the road, dead. ' Another count in the long score,' quoth Azer. But wlien, in two hours more, they came to Spalding town, they found all the folk upon the street, shouting and praising the host of heaven. There was not a Frenchman left in the town. For when Ivo returned home, ere yet Sir Rebert and his family were well clothed and fed, there galloped into Spalding from the north. Sir Ascelin, whilome of St. Valeri, nephew and man of Thorold, would-be abbot of Peterborough. ' Not bad news, I hope 1 ' cried Ivo, as Ascelin clanked into the hall. ' We have enough of our own. Here is all Kesteyen, as the barbarians call it, risen, and tliey are murdering us right and left.' ' Worse news than that,, Ivo Taillebois ' — ' sir,' or '_ sieur,' Ascelin was loth to call him, being himself a man of family and fashion ; and holding the nouveaux venus in deep contempt. ' Worse news than that. The North has risen again, and pro- claimed Prince Edgar king.' ' A king of words ! What care I, or you, as long as the Mamzer, God bless him, is a king of deeds ? ' 'They have done their deeds, though, too. Gospatric and Marlesweyn are back out of Scotland. They attacked liobert de Comines^ at Durham, and burnt him in his own house. There was but one of his men got out of Durham to tell the news. And now they have marched on York ; and all the chiefs, they say, have joined them — Ai-chill the thane, and Edwin and Morcar, and Waltheof too, the young traitors.' ' Blessed virgin ! ' cried Ivo, ' thou art indeed gracious to thy most unworthy knight ! ' ' What do you mean 1 ' 'You will see some day. Now, I will tell you but one word. When fools make hay, wise men build ricks. This rebellion — if it had not come of itself, I would have roused it. We wanted it, to cure William of this just and benevolent policy of his, which would have ended in sending us back to France, as poor as we left it. Now, what am I expected to do? What says Gilbert of Ghent, the wise man of Lie — nic — what the pest do you call that outlandish place, which no civilised lips can pro- nounce 1 ' ' Lie nic-cole V replied Ascelin, who, like the rest of the French, never could manage to say Lincoln. ' He says, " March to me, and with me to join the king at York."' ' Then he says well. These fat acres will be none the leaner, if I leave the finglish slaves to crop them for six months. Men ! arm and hoi'se Sir Ilobert of Deeping. Then arm and horse yourselves. We march north in half an hour, bag and baggage, ^ Ancestor of the Comyns of Scotland. XXII HOW HEREWARD SAILED FOR ENGLAND 197 scrip and scrippage. You are all bachelors, like me, and travel light. So off with you ! Sir Ascelin, you will eat and drink 1 ' 'That will!.' ' Quick, then, butler ; and after that pack up the English- man's plate-chest, which we inherited by right of fist- — the only plate, and the only title-deeds I ever possessed.' 'Now, Sir Ascelin' — as the three knights, the lady, and the poor children ate their fastest — ' listen to me. The art of war lies in this one nutshell — to put the greatest number of men into one place at one time, and let all other places shift ; so striking swiftly, and striking heavily. That is the rule of our liege lord King William ; and by it he will conquer England, or the world, if he will ; and while he does that, he shall never say that Ivo Taillebois stayed at home to guard his own manors, while he could join his king, and win all the manors of England once and for all.' ' Pardex ! whatever men may say of thy lineage or thy virtues, they cannot deny this, that thou art a most wise and valiant captain.' 'That am I,' quoth Taillebois, too much pleased with the praise to care about being tutoye by a younger man. ' As for my lineage, my lord the king has a fellow-feeling for upstarts ; and the woodman's grandson may very well serve the tanner's. Now, men ! is the litter ready for the lady and children 1 I am sorry to rattle you about thus, madame ; but war has no cour- tesies, and march I must.' And so the French went out of Spalding town. ' Don't be in a hurry to thank your saints ! ' shouted Ivo to his A'ictims. ' I shall be back this day three months ; and then you shall see a row of gibbets all the way from here to Deeping, and an Englishman hanging on every one.' CHAPTER XXII HOW HEREWARD SAILED FOR ENGLAKD ONCE AND FOR ALL So Hereward fought the Viscount of Pinkney, wlio liad the usual luck which befell those who crossed swords with liim, and plotted meanwhile with Gyda and the Countess Judith. Abbot Egelsin sent them news from King Sweyn in Denmark ; soon Judith and Tosti's two sons went themselves to Sweyn, and helped the plot and the fitting out of the armament. News they had from England in plenty, by messengers from Queen Matilda to the sister who was intriguing to dethrone her husband, and by private messengers from Durham and from York. lialdwin, the debonnaire marquis, had not lived to see tliis fruit of his long eft'orts to please everybody. He had gone to his rest the year before ; and now tliere ruled in Bruges liis son. 198 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Baldwin the Good, ' Count Palatine,' as he styled himself, and his wife Richilda, the Lady of Hainault. They probably cared as little for the success of their sister Matilda, as tliey did for that of their sister Judith ; and followed out — Baldwin at least — the great marquis's plan of making Flanders a retreat for the fugitives of all the countries round. At least, if (as seems) Sweyn's fleet made the coast of Flanders its rendezvous and base of operations against King William, Baldwin oflered no resistance. So the messengers came, and the plots went on. Great was the delight of Hereward and the ladies when they heard of the taking of Durham and York ; but bitter their suriDrise and rage when they heard that Gospatric and the confederates had pro- claimed Atheling king. ' Fools ! they will ruin all ! ' cried Gyda. ' Do they expect Sweyn Ulfsson, wlio never moved a finger yet, unless he saw that it would pay hina within the hour, to spend blood and treasure in putting that puppet boy upon the throne instead of himself?' ' Calm yourself, great countess,' said Hereward, with a smile. 'The man who puts liim on the throne will find it very easy to take him off again wlien he needs.' ' Pish ! ' said Gyda. ' He must put him on the throne first. And how will he do that ? Will the men of the Danelagh, much less the Northumbrians south of Tyne, ever rally round an Atheling of Cerdic's house ? ' ' Those between Tyne and Forth will join him,' said Hereward. ' Tliey are Saxons like himself.' ' And who are they, that three-fourths of England should be scorned for their sake ? If tlieir cousins of Wessex, with my boys at their head, could not face this Frenchman, how will they ? It is in my blood and my kin, in the Danelagh and the Danes, that the strengtli of England lies, and not in a handful of Scotcli earls, backed by a barbarian like Malcolm. If the boy Edgar be Gospatric's cousin, or Malcolm's brother-in-law, what is that to England, or indeed to them 1 The boy is a mere stalking-horse, behind which each of these greedy chiefs expects to get back his own lands in tlie north ; and if they can get them back by any other means, well and good. Mark my words, Sir Hereward, that cunning Frencliman will treat with tliem one by one, and betray them one by one, till there is none left.' How far Gyda was right will be seen hereafter. But a less practised diplomat than the great countess might have specu- lated reasonably on such an event. The connection between Scotch and English royalty was, at the moment, most harmful to England. But more harmful far would it have been, had the Danish invasion succeeded ; had England been parted, perhaps for ever, from the ruling houses of Scotland, and become a iiiere appanage of the Scandinavian kings. XXII HOW HEREWARD SAILED FOR ENGLAND 199 Then came darker news. As Ivo had foreseen, and as Ivo had done his best to bring about, William dashed on York, and drove out the confederates with terrible slaughter, profaned the churches, plundered the town. Gospatric and the earls retreated to Durham ; the Atheling, more cautious, to Scotland. Then came a strange story, worthy of the grown children who, in those old times, bore the hearts of boys with the ferocity and intellect of men. A great fog fell on the Frenchmen as they struggled over the Durham moors. The doomed city was close beneath them ; they heard Wear roaring in his wooded gorge. But a darkness, as of Egypt, lay upon them : ' neither rose any from his place.' Then the Frenchman cried, ' This darkness is from St. Cuth- bert himself. We have invaded his holy soil. Who has not heard how none who offend St. Cuthbert ever went unpunished ? how palsy, blindness, madness, fall on those who dare to violate his sanctuary 1 ' And the French turned and fled before the face of St. Cuth- bert ; and William went down to Winchester angry and sad, and then went off to Gloucestershire, and hunted — for whatever befell, he still would hunt — in the forest of Dean. And still Sweyn and his Danes had not sailed ; and Hereward walked to and fro in his house impatiently, and bided his time. In July Baldwin died. Arnoul, the boy, was Count of Flan- ders, and Richilda, his sorceress-mother, ruled the land in his name. She began to oppress the Flemings — not those of French Flander.s, round St. Omer, but those of Flemish Flanders, toward the north. They threatened to send for Robert the Frison to right them. Hereward was perplexed. He was Robert the Frison 's friend, and old soldier. Richilda was Torfrida's fiiend ; so was, still more, the boy Arnoul ; which party should he take ? Neither, if he could help it. And he longed to be safe out of the land. And at last his time came. Martin Lightfoot ran in, breath- less, to tell how the sails of a mighty fleet were visible from the Dunes. 'Here?' cried Hereward. 'What are the fools doing down here, wandering into the very jaws of the wolf ? How will they land here ? They were to have gone straight to the Lincolnshire coast. God grant this mistake be not the first of dozens ! ' Hereward went into Torfrida's bower. 'This is an evil business. The Danes are here, where they have no business, instead of l)f'ing off Scheldtmouth, as I entreated them. But go we must, or be for ever shamed. Now, true wife, are you ready ? Dare you leave home, and kin, and friends, once and for all, to go, you know not whither, with one who may be a gory corpse by this day week 1' ' I dare,' said she. 200 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. So tliey went down the Aa by night, with Torfrida's mother, and the cliild, and all their jewels, and all they had in the world. And their hovisecarles went with tliem, forty men, tried and trained, who had vowed to follow Hereward I'ound the world. And there were two longships ready, and twenty good mariners in each. So when the Danes made the South Foreland the next morning, they were aware of two gallant ships bearing down on them, with a strange knot embroidered on their sails. A i^roud man was Hereward that day, as he sailed into the midst of the Danish fleet, and up to the royal ships, and shouted — ' I am Hereward the Wake, and I come to take service under my rightful lord, Sweyn, King of England.' ' Come on board, then ; well do we know you, and right glad we are to have The Wake with us.' And Hereward laid his ship's bow upon the quarter of the royal ship (to lay alongside was imiDossible, for fear of breaking cars), and came on board. ' And thou art Hereward ? ' asked a tall and noble warrior. ' I am. And thou art Sweyn Ulfsson, the king ? ' ' I am Jarl Asbiorn, his brother.' ' Then where is the king 1 ' ' ' He is in Denmark, and I command his fleet ; and with me Canute and Harold, Sweyn's sons, and jarls and bishops enough for all England.' This was spoken in a somewhat haughty tone, in answer to the look of suri:)rise and disappointment which Hereward had, unawares, allowed to pass over his face. 'Thou art better than none,' said Hereward. 'Now, hearken, Asbiorn the jarl. Had Sweyn been here, I would have put my hand between his, and said in my own name, and that of all the men in Kesteven and the fens, Sweyn's men we are, to live and die ! But now, as it is, I say for me and them, thy men we are, to live and die, as long as thou art true to us.' ' True to you I will be,' said Asbiorn. ' Be it so,' said Hereward. ' True we shall be, whatever betide. Now, whither goes Jarl Asbiorn, and all his great meinie ? ' ' We purpose to try Dover.' ' You will not take it. The Frenchman has strengthened it with one of his accursed keeps, and without battering engines you may sit before it a month.' ' WJiat if I ask you to go in thither yourself, and try the mettle and the luck wliich, they say, never failed Hereward yet?' ' I should say that it was a child's trick to throw away against a i^altry stone wall the life of a man who was ready to raise for you, in Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire, live times as many men as you will lose in taking Dover.' 'Hereward is right,' said more than one jarl. 'We shall need him in his own country.' xxii HOW HEREWARD SAILED FOR ENGLAND 201 'If you are wise, to that country you yourselves will go. It is ready to receive you. This is ready to oppose you. You are attacking the Frenchman at his strongest jDoint, instead of his weakest. Did I not send again and again, entreating you to cross from Scheldtmouth to the Wash, and send me word that I might come and raise the Fen-men for you, and then we would all go north together ? ' I have heard, ere now,' said Asbiorn haughtily, ' that Here- ward, though he be a valiant Viking, is more fond of giving advice than of taking it.' Hereward was about to answer very fiercely. If he had, no one would have thought any harm, in those plain-spoken times. But he was Avise ; and restrained himself, remembering that Torf rida was there, all but alone, in tlie midst of a fleet of savage men ; and that beside, he had a great deed to do, and must do it as he could. So he answered — 'Asbiorn the jarl has not, it seems, heard this of Hereward : that because he is accustomed to command, he is also accustomed to obey. What thou wilt do, do, and bid me do. _ He that quarrels with his captain, cuts his own throat and his fellows' too.' 'Wisely spoken !' said the jarls ; and Hereward went back to his sliip. 'Torfrida,' said he bitterly, 'the game is lost before it is begun.' ' God forbid, my beloved ! What words are these ? ' ' Sweyn — fool that he is with his over-caution — always the same— has let the prize slip from between his fingers. He has sent Asbiorn instead of himself.' ' But why is that so terrible a mistake ? ' 'We do not want a fleet of Vikings in England, to plunder the French and English alike. We want a king, a king, a king !' and Hereward stamped with rage. 'And instead of a king we have this Asbiorn — all men know him — greedy, and false, and weak-headed. Here he is going to be beaten ofi' at Dover ; and then, 1 suppose, at the next port ; and so forth, till the whole season is wasted, and the ships and men lost by driblets. Pray for us to God and His saints, Torfrida, you who are nearer to heaven than I ; for we never needed it more.' So Asbiorn went in ; tried to take Dover ; and was beaten off" with heavy loss. Then tlie jarls bade him take Hereward's advice. But he would not. So he went round the Foreland, and tried Sandwich — as if, landing there, he would have been safe in marching on London, in the teeth of the elite of Normandy. But he was beaten oft' there witli more loss. Then, too late, he took Hereward's advice — or, rather, lialf of it — and sailed north ; but only to commit more follies. 202 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. He dai'ed not enter the Thames. He would not go on to the Wasli ; but he went into the Orwell, and attacked Ipswich, plundering right and left, instead of proclaiming King Sweyn, and calling the Danish folk around him. They naturally enough rose ; and, like valiant men, beat him off ; while Here- ward lay outside the river mouth, his soul within him black with disappointment, I'age, and shame. He would not go in. He would not tight against his own countrymen. He would not helj) to turn the whole plan into a marauding raid. And he told Jarl Asbiorn so, so fiercely, that his life would have been in danger, had not the force of his arm been as much feared as the force of his name was needed. At last they came to Yarmouth. Asbiorn would needs land there, and try Norwich. Herewai'd was nigh desperate : but he hit upon a plan. Let Asbiorn do so, if he would. He himself would sail round to the Wash, raise the Fen-men, and march eastward at their head through Norfolk to meet him. Asbiorn himself could not refuse so rational a proposal. All the jarls and bishops approved loudly ; and away Hereward went to the Wash, his heart well- nigh broke, foreseeing nothing but evil. CHAPTER XXIII HOW HEREWARD GATHERED AN ARMY The voyage round the Norfolk coast was rough and wild. Torfrida was ill ; the little girl was ill ; the poor old mother was so ill that she could not even say her prayers. Packed uncomfortably under the awning on the poop, Torfrida looked on from beneath it upon the rolling water-waste, with a heart full of gloomy forebodings, and a brain whirling with wild fancies. The wreaths of cloud were gray witches, hurrying on with the ship to work her woe ; the low red storm-dawn was streaked with blood ; the water which gurgled all night under the lee was alive witli hoarse voices ; and again and again she started from fitful slumber to clasp the child closer to her, or look up for comfort to the sturdy figure of her husband, as he stood, like a tower of strength, steering and commanding, the long night through. Yes ; on him she could depend. On his courage, on his skill. And as for his love, had she not that utterly ? and what more did woman need 1 But she was going, she scarce knew whither ; and she scarce knew for what. At least, on a fearful adventure, which might have a fearful end. She looked at the fair child, and reproached herself for a moment ; at the poor old mother, whining and mumbling, her soft southern heart quite broken by the wild XXIII HOW HEREWARD GATHERED AN ARMY 203 chill northern sea-breeze ; and reproached herself still more. But was it not her duty ? Him she loved, and his she was ; and him she must follow, over sea and land, till death ; and if l^ossible, beyond deatli again for ever. For Jiis sake she would slave. For his sake she would be strong. If ever there rose in her a home-sickness, a regret for leaving Flanders, and much more for that sunnier south wliere she was born, he at least should never be saddened or weakened by one hint of her sad- ness and weakness. And so it befell that, by the time they made the coast, she had (as the old chronicler says) ' altogether conquered all womanly softness.' And yet she shuddered at the dreary mud-creek into which they ran their ships, at the dreary flats on which they landed shivering, swept over by the keen north-east wind. A lonely land ; and within, she knew not what of danger, it might be of hideous death. But she would be strong : and when they were all landed, men, arms, baggage, and had pitched the tents which the wise Herewai'd had brought with them, she rose up like a queen, and took her little one by the hand, and went among the men, and spoke : ' Housecarles and mariners ! You are following a great captain upon a great adventure. How great he is you know as well as I. I have given him myself, my wealth, and all I liave ; and have followed him I know not whither, because I trust him utterly. Men, trust him as I trust him, and follow him to the death.' 'That we will!' ' And men, I am here among you, a weak woman, trying to be brave for his sake — and for yours. Be true to me, too, as I have been true to you. For your sake have I worked hard, day and night, for many a year. For you I have baked, and brewed, and cooked, like any poor churl's wife. Is there a garment on your backs whicli my hands have not mended ? Is there a wound on your limbs which my hands have not salved ? Oh, if Torfrida has been true to you, promise me this day that you will be true men to her and hers • that if — which Heaven for- bid — aught should befall him and me, you will protect this my poor old mother, and this my child, who has grown up amongst you all — a lamb brought up within the lion's den. Look at her, men, and promise me, on the faith of valiant soldiers, that you Avill be lions on lier behalf, if she shall ever need you. Promise me, that if you have but one more stroke left to strike on earth, you will strike it to defend the daughter of Hereward and Torfrida from cruelty and shame.' The men answered with a shout which rolled along the fen, and startled the wild fowl up from far-off pools. They crowded round their lady ; they kissed her hands ; they bent down and kissed their little playmate ; and swore — one by God 204 IIEREWARD THE WAKE chap. and His apostles, and the next by Odin and Thor — that she should be a daughter to each and every one of them, as long as they could grip steel in hand. Then (says the chronicler) Hereward sent on spies, to see whether the Frenchmen were in the land, and how folks fared at Holbeach, Spalding, and Bourne. The two young Siwards, as knowing the country and the folk, pushed forward, and with them Martin Lightfoot, to bring back news. Martin ran back all the way from Holbeach, tlie very first day, with right good tidings. There was not a Frenchman in the town. Neither was there, they said, in Spalding. Ivo Taillebois was still away at the wars, and long might he stay. So forward they marclied, and everywhere the landsfolk were tilling the ground in peace ; and wlien they saw that stout array, they hurried out to meet the troops, and burdened them with food, and ale, and all they needed. And at Holbeach, and at Spalding, Hereward split up the war-arrow, and sent it through Kesteven, and south into the Cambridge fens, calling on all men to arm, and come to him at Bourne, in the name of Waltheof and Morcar the earls. And at every farm and town he blew the war -horn, and summoned every man who could bear arms to be ready, against the coming of the Danish host from Norwich. And so through all the fens came true what the wild fowl said upon the meres, that The Wake was come again. And when he came to Bourne, all men were tilling in peace. The terror of The Wake had fallen on the Frenchmen ; and no man had dared to enter on liis inheritance, or to set a French foot over the threshold of that ghastly hall, above the gable whereof still grinned tlie fifteen heads ; on the floor whereof still spread the dark stains of blood. Only Gery dwelt in a corner of the house, and with liim Leofric, once a roystering Jiousecarle of Hereward's youth ; now a monk of Crowland, and a deacon, whom Lady Godiva had sent thither that he might take care of her poor. And there Gery and Leofric had kept house, and told sagas to each other over the beech-log fire night after night ; for all Leofric's study was, says the chronicler, ' to gather together for the edification of his hearers all the acts of giants and warriors out of the fables of the ancients, or from faithful report ; and to commit them to writing, that he might keep England in mind thereof.' Which Leofric was afterwards ordained priest, probably in Ely, by Bishop Egelwin of Durham ; and was Hereward's chaplain for many a year. Then Hereward, as he had promised, set fire to the three farms close to the Bruneswold ; and all his outlawed friends, lurking in the forest, knew by that signal that Hereward was come again. So they cleansed out the old house, though they XXIII HOW HEREWARD GATHERED AN ARMY 205 did not take down the heads from off the gable • and Torfrida went about the town, and about it, and confessed that England was after all a pleasant place enough. And they were as happy, it may be, for a week or two, as ever they had been in their lives. ' And now,' said Torfrida, ' while you see to your army, I must be doing ; for I am a lady now, and mistress of great estates. So I must be seeing to the poor.' ' But you cannot speak their tongue.' ' Can I not ? Do you think that in the face of coming to England, and fighting here, and plotting here, and being, may be, an earl's countess, I have not made Martin Lightfoot teach me your English tongue, till I can speak it as well as you ? I kept that hidden as a surprise for you, that you might find out, when you most needed, how Torfrida loved you.' 'As if I had not found out already ! O woman, woman ! I verily believe that God made you alone, and left the devil to make us butchers of men.' Meanwhile went round through all the fens, and north into the Bruneswold, and away again to Lincoln and merry Sher- wood, that The Wake was come again. And Gilbert of Ghent, keeping Lincoln Castle for the Conqueror, was perplexed in mind, and looked well to gates, and bars, and sentinels ; for Hereward sent him at once a message, that forasmuch as he had forgotten his warning in Bruges street, and put a rascal cook into his mother's manors, he should ride Odin's horse on the highest ash in the Bruneswold. On which Gilbert of Ghent, inquiring what Odin's horse might be, and finding it to signify the ash tree whereon, as sacred to Odin, thieves were hanked by Danes and Norse, made answer : That he Gilbert had not imt his cook into Bourne, nor other- wise harmed Hereward or his. That Bourne had been seized by the king himself, together with Earl Morcar's lands in those parts, as all men knew. That the said cook so pleased the king with a dish of stewed eel-pout, which he served up to him at Cambridge, and which the king had never eaten before, that the king begged the said cook of him Gilbert and took him away ; and that after, so he heard, the said cook had begged the said manor of Bourne of the king, without the knowledge or consent of him Gilbert. That he therefore knew nought of the matter. That if Hereward meant to keep the king's peace, he might live in Bourne till Doomsday, for aught he Gilbert cared : but that if he and his men meant to break the king's peace, and attack Lincoln city, he Gilbert would nail their skins to the door of Lincoln Cathedral, as they used to do by the heathen Danes in old time. And that, therefore, they now understood each other. At which Hereward laughed, and said that they had done that for many a year. 206 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. And now poured into Bourne from every side brave men and true, some great holders dispossessed of their land ; some the sons of holders who were not yet dispossessed ; some Morcar's men, some Edwin's, who had heen turned out by the king ; and almost all of them, probably, blood relations of Hereward's, or of King Harold's, or of each other. To him came ' Guenoch and Alutus Gurgan, foremost in all valour and fortitude, tall and large, and ready for work,' and Avith them their three nephews, Godwin Gille, 'so called be- cause he was not inferior to that Godwin Guthlacsson who is preached much in the fables of the ancients,' and ' Douti and Outi, the twins, alike in face and manners'; and Godric, the knight of Corby, nephew of the ' Count of Warwick, and thus, pi-obably, Hereward's first cousin or nephew ' ; and Tosti of Dave- nesse, his kinsman ; and Azer Vass, whose father had possessed Lincoln Tower ; and Leof win Moue — that is, the scythe, so called 'because when he was mowing all alone, and twenty country folk set on him with pitchforks and javelins, he slew and wounded almost every one, sweeping his scythe among them as one that moweth'; and Wluncus the Blackface, so called because he once blackened his face with coal, and came unknown among the enemy, and slew ten of them with one lance ; and ' Turbertin, a great-grandson (?) of Earl Edwin ' ; and Leofwin Prat (perhaps the ancestor of the ancient and honourable house of Pratt of Ptyston), so called from his ' Prtet ' or craft, ' because he had often escaped cunningly when taken by the enemy, having more than once killed his keepers ' ; and the steward of Drayton ; and Thurkill and Utlamhe, i.e. the outlaw, Hereward's cook ; and Oger, Hereward's kinsman ; and ' Winter and Liveret, two very famous ones' ; and Kandal the Seneschal of Kamsey — ' he was the standard bearer ' ; and Wulf ric the Black and Wulf ric the White ; and Hugh the Norman, a priest ; and Wulfard, his brother ; and Tosti and Godwin of Pvothwell ; and Alsin and Hurkill ; and Hugh the Breton, who was Hereward's chaplain; and Whishaw, his brother, ' a magnificent knight, which two came with him from Flanders '; — and so forth : — names merely, of whom naught is known, save, in a few cases, from Domesday- book, the manors which they held. But honour to their very names. Honour to the last heroes of the old English race. These valiant gentlemen, with the housecarles whom, more or fewer, they would bring with them, constituted a formidal:)le force, as after years proved well. But having got his men, Hereward's first care was, doubtless, to teach them that art of war of which they, like true Englishmen, knew nothing. The art of war has changed little, if at all, by the introduc- tion of gunpowder. The campaigns of Hannibal and Ctesar succeeded by the same tactics as those of Frederic and Welling- ton ; and so, as far as we can judge, did those of the master- general of his age, William of Normandy. XXIII HOW HEREAVARD GATHERED AN ARMY 207 But of those tactics the English knew nothing. Their armies were little more than tumultuous levies, in which men marched and fought under local leaders, often divided by local jealousies. The commissariats of the armies seem to have been so worth- less that they had to plunder friends as well as foes as they went along ; and with plunder came every sort of excess — as when the Northern men, marching down to meet Harold God- winsson, and demand young Edwin as their earl, laid waste, seemingly out of mere brute wantonness, the country round Xorthampton, which must have been in Edwin's earldom, or at least in that of his brother Morcar. And even the local leaders were not over-well obeyed. The reckless spirit of personal in- dependence, especially among the Anglo-Danes, prevented any- tliing like discipline, or organised movement of masses ; and made every battle degenerate into a confusion of single com- bats. But Hereward had learned that art of war which enabled the Frencli to crush piecemeal, with their inferior numbers, the vast but straggling levies of the English. His men, mostly outlaws and homeless, kept together by the pressure from without, and free from local jealousies, resembled rather an army of professional soldiers than a country posse comitatus. And to the discipline which he instilled into them ; to his ability in marching and manoeuvring troops ; to his care for their food and for their transport ; possibly also to his training them in that art of fighting on horseback in which the men of Wessex, if not the Anglo-Danes of the East, are said to have been quite unskilled — in short, to all that he had learned as a mercenary under Robert the Frison, and among the highly civilised warriors of Flanders and Normandy, must be attributed the fact that he and liis little army defied for years the utmost efforts of the Frenchmen ; appearing and disappearing with such strange swiftness, and conquering against such strange odds, as enshrouded the guerilla captain in an atmosphere of myth and wonder, only to be accounted for, in the mind of French as well as English, hj the supernatural counsels of his sorceress wife. But Hereward grew anxious and more anxious as days and weeks went on, and yet there was no news of Asbiorn and his Danes at Norwich. Time was precious. He had to march his little army to the Wash, and then transport it by boats — no easy matter — to Lynn in Norfolk, as his nearest point of attack. And as the time went on, Earl Warren and Italph de Guader would have gathered their forces between him and tlie Danes ; and a landing at Lynn miglit become impossible. Meanwliile there were bruits of great doings in the north of Lincolnshire. Young Earl Waltheof was said to be there, and Edgar the Atheling witli him : but what it portended, no man knew. Morcar was said to have raised tl>e centre of ]\Iercia, and to be near Stafford ; Edwin to have raised the Welsh, and 208 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. to be at Chester with Aldytha liis sister. And Here ward sent spies along the Ermine Street — tlie only road, tlien, toward the north-west of England — and spies northward along tlie Roman road to Lincoln, But the former met tlie French in force near Nottingham, and came back much faster than they went. And tlie latter stumbled on Gilbert of Ghent, riding out of Lincoln to Folkingham, and had to flee into the fens, and came back much slower than they went. At last news came. For into Bourne stalked Walfric the Heron, with axe, and bow, and leaping-pole on shoulder ; and an evil tale he brought. The Danes had been beaten utterly at Norwich. Ralph de Guader and his Frenchmen had fought like lions. They had killed many Danes in the assault on the castle. They had sallied out on them as they recoiled ; and driven them into the river, drowning many more. The Danes had gone down the Yare again, and out to sea northward, no man knew whither. He, the Heron, prowling about the fenlands of Norfolk, to pick off straggling Frenchmen and look out for the Danes, had heard all the news from the landsf oik. He had watched the Danish fleet along the shore as far as Blakeney. But when they came to the isle, they stood out to sea, right north-west. He, the Heron, believed that they were gone for Humber Mouth. After a while, he had heard how Hereward was come again, and had sent round the war-arrow ; and it seemed to him that a landless man could be in no better company ; wherefore he had taken boat, and come across the deep fen. And there he was, if they had need of him. ' Need of you 1 ' said Hereward, wlio had heard of the deed at Wrokesham Bridge. ' Need of a hundred like you. But this is bitter news.' And he went in to ask counsel of Torfrida, ready to weep with rage. He had disappointed — deceived his men. He had drawn them into a snare. He had promised that the Danes should come. How should lie look them in the face ? ' Look them in the face ? Do that at once : now : without losing a moment. Call them together and tell them all. If their hearts are staunch, you may do great things without the traitor earl. If their hearts fail them, you would have done nothing with them worthy of yourself, had you had Norway as well as Denmark at your back. At least, be true with them, as your only chance of keeping them true to you.' ' Wise, wise wife,' said Hereward, and went out and called his band together, and told them every word, and all that had passed since he left Calais Straits. 'And now I have deceived you, and entrapped you, andl have no right to be your captain more. He that will depart in peace, let him depart, before the Frenchmen close in on us on every side and swallow us up at one mouthful.' xxiii HOW HEREWARD GATHERED AX ARMY 209 Not a man answered. ' I say it again : He that will depart, let him depart.' They stood thoughtful. Eanald of Ramsey, drove the Wake-knot banner firm into the earth, tucked up his monk's frock, and threw his long axe over his shoulder, as if prejDaring for action. Winter spoke at last. 'If all go, there are two men hei'e who stay, and fight by Hereward's side as long as there is a Frenchman left on English soil ; for they have sworn an oath to heaven and to 8t. Peter, and that oath will they keep. What say you, Gwenoch, knighted with us at Peterborough 1 ' Gwenoch stepped to Hereward's side. ' None shall go ! ' shouted a dozen voices. ' With Hereward we will live and die. Let him lead us to Lincoln, to Notting- ham — where he will. We can save England for ourselves with- out the help of Danes.' ' It is well for one at least of you, gentlemen, that you are in this pleasant mind,' quoth Ranald the monk. ' Well for all of us, thou valiant purveyor of beef and beer.' 'Well for one. For the first man that had turned to go, I would have brained him witli this axe.' 'And now, gallant gentlemen,' said Hereward, 'we must take new counsel, as our old has failed. Whither shall we go ? For stay here, eating up the country, we must not do.' 'They say that Waltheof is in Lindsey, raising the landsfolk. Let us go and join him.' ' We can at least find what he means to do. There can be no better counsel. Let us march. Only we must keep clear of Lincoln as yet. I hear that Gilbert has a strong garrison there ; and we are not strong enough yet to force it.' So they rode north, and up the Roman road toward Lincoln, sending out spies as they went ; and soon they had news of Waltheof. News, too, that he was between them and Lincoln. ' Then the sooner we are with him, the better : for he will find himself in trouble ere long, if old Gilbert comes up with him. So run your best, footmen, for forward we must get.' And as they came up the Roman road, they were aware of a great press of men in front of them, and hard fighting toward. Some of the English would have spurred forward at once. But Hereward held them back with loud reproaches. 'Will you forget all I have told you in the first skirmish, like so many dogs when they see a bull ? Keep together for five minutes more. The pot will not be cool before we get our sup of it. I verily believe that it is Waltheof : and that Gilbert has caught him already.' As he spoke, one part of the combatants broke up, and fled right and left ; and a knight in full armour galloped furiously down the road right at them, followed by two or three more. P H. T. w. 210 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' Here comes some one very valiant or very much afeard,' said Herewaixl, as the horseman rode right upon him, shouting: ' I am the king ! ' 'Tiie king?' roared Hereward, and dropping liis lance, spurred his horse forward, kicking his feet clear of the stiri-ups. He caught the knight round tlie neck, dragged him over his horse's tail, and fell with him to the ground. TJie armour clashed ; the sparks flew from the old gray Roman flints ; and Hereward, rolling over once, rose, and knelt upon his prisoner. ' William of Normandy ! yield or die ! ' The knight lay still and stark. ' liide on ! ' cried Hereward from the ground, ' Ride at them and strike liard ! You will soon find out which is which. This booty I must pick for myself. What are you doing 1 ' roared he after his knights. 'Spread oti' the road, and keep your line, as I told you, and don't override each other ! Curse the hot-headed fools ! The French will scatter them like sparrows. Run on, men-at-arms, to stop the French if we are broken. And don't forget Guisnes field and the horses' legs. Now, king, are you come to life yet ? ' ' You have killed him,' quoth Leofric the deacon, whom Here- ward had beckoned to stop with him. ' I hope not. Lend me a knife. He is a much slighter man than I fancied,' said Hei'eward, as they got his helmet off. And when it was off, both started and stared. For they had uncovered, not the beetling brow, Roman nose, and firm curved lip of the Ulysses of the middle age, but the face of a fair lad, with long straw - coloured hair, and soft blue eyes staring into vacancy. ' Wlio are you ? ' shouted Hereward, saying very bad words, ' who come here, aping the name of king 1 ' 'Mother! Christina! Margaret! Waltheof Earl !' moaned the lad, raising his head and letting it fall again. ' It is the Atheling ! ' cried Leofric. Hereward rose, and stood over the boy. ' Ah ! what was I doing to handle him so tenderly ? I took him for the Mamzer, and thought of a king's ransom.' ' Do you call that tenderly 1 You have nigh pulled the boy's head off.' ' Would that I had ! Ah ! ' went on Hei-eward, apostrophis- ing the unconscious Atheling, 'ah, that I had broken that white neck once and for all ! To have sent thee feet fore- most to Winchester, to lie by thy grandfathers and great- grandfathers, and then to tell Norman William that he must fight it out henceforth not with a straw malkin like thee, which the very crows are not afraid to perch on, but with a cock of a very different hackle, Sweyn Ulfsson, King of Denmark.' And Hereward drew Brain-biter. XXI I r HOW HERE WARD GATHERED AN ARMY 211 ' For mercy's sake ! you will not harm the lad 1 ' ' If I were a wise man now, and hard-hearted as wise men should be, I should — I should ' and he played the point of the sword backwards and forwards, nearer and nearer to the lad's throat. ' Master ! master ! ' cried Leofric, clinging to his knees ; ' by all the saints ! What would Our Lady in heaven say to such a deed 1 ' ' Well, I suppose you are right. And I fear what our lady at home might say likewise : and we must not do anything to vex hei', you know. Well, let us do it handsomely, if we must do it. Get water somewhere, in his helmet. No, you need not linger. I will not cut his throat before you come back.' Leofric went off in search of water ; and Hereward knelt with the Atheling's head on his knee, and on his lip a sneer at all things in heaven and earth. To have that lad stand between him and all his projects ; and to be forced, for honour's sake, to let him stand ! But soon his men returned, seemingly in high glee, and other knights with them. ' Hey, lads ! ' said he, ' I aimed at the falcon and shot the goose. Here is Edgar Atheling prisoner. Shall we put him to ransom ? ' ' He has no money, and Malcolm of Scotland is much too wise to lend him any,' said some one. And some more rough jokes passed. ' Do you know, sirs, that he who lies there is your king 1 ' asked a very tall and noble-looking kniglit. ' That do we not,' said Hereward sharply. ' There is no king in England this day, as far as I know. And there will be none north of the Watling Street till he be chosen in full busting, and anointed at York, as well as at Winchester or London. We have had one king made for us in the last forty years, and we intend to make the next ourselves.' ' And who art thou, who talkest so bold of king-making 1 ' ' And who art thou, who askest so bold who I am ? ' ' I am Waltheof Siwardsson, the earl, and yon is my army behind me.' ' And I am Hereward Leof ricsson, the Wake, and yon is my army behind me.' If the two champions had flown at each other's throats, and their armies had followed their examjjle, simi:)ly as dogs fly at each other they know not why, no one would have been astonished in those unhappy times. But it fell not out upon that wise ; for Waltheof, leaping from liis horse, pulled off his helmet, and seizing Hereward by both hands, cried : ' Blessed is the day which sees again in England Hereward, 212 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. who has upheld throughout all lands and seas the honour of English chivalry ! ' ' And blessed is the day in which Hereward meets the head of the house of Siward where he should be, at the head of his own men, in his own earldom. When I saw my friend, thy brother Asbiorn Bulax, brought into the camp at Dunsinane with all his wounds in front, I wept a young man's tears, and said, " There ends the glory of the White-Bears' house ! " But this day I say — The White-Bears' blood is risen from the grave in Waltheof Siwardsson, who with his single axe kept the gate of York against all the army of the French ; and who shall keep against them all England, if he will be as wise as he is brave.' Was Hereward honest in his words ? Hardly so. He wished to be honest. As he looked upon that magnificent young man, he ho]Ded and trusted that his words were true. But he gave a second look at the face, and whispered to himself, ' Weak, weak. He will be led by priests : perhaps by William himself. I must be courteous : but confide 1 must not.' The men stood round, and looked with admiration on the two most splendid Englishmen then alive. Hereward had taken oif his helmet likewise, and the contrast between the two was as striking as the completeness of each of them in his own style of beauty. It was the contrast between the slow-hound and the deer-hound : each alike high-couraged and high-bred ; but the former short, sturdy, cheerful, and sagacious ; the latter tall, stately, melancholy, and not over wise withal. Waltheof was a full head and shouldei-s taller than Hereward. He was one of tlie tallest men of his generation, and of a strength which would have been gigantic, but for the too great length of neck and limb, which made him loose and slow in body, as he was somewhat loose and slow in mind. An old man's child, although that old man was one of the old giants, there was a vein of weakness in him, which showed in the arched eyebrow, the sleepy pale blue eye, the small soft mouth, the lazy voice, the narrow and lofty brain over a shallow brow. His face was not that of a warrior, but of a saint in a painted window ; and to his own place he went, and became a saint, in his due time. But that he could out-general William ; that he could even manage Gospatric and his intrigues, Hereward expected as little, as that his own nephews Edwin and jMorcar could do it. 'I have to thank you, noble sir,' said Waltheof languidly, 'for sending your knights to our rescue when we were really hard bestead — I fear much by our own fault. Had they told me whose men they were, I should not have spoken to you so rougldy as I fear I did.' 'There is no offence. Let Englishmen speak their minds, as long as Englisli land is above sea. But how did you get into trouble, and with whom ? ' Waltheof told him how he was going round the country, rais- XXIII HOW HEREWARD GATHERED AiN" ARMY 213 ing forces in the name of the Atheling, when, as they were straggling along the Roman road, Gilbert of Ghent had dashed out on them from a wood, cut their line in two, driven Waltheof one way, and the Atheling another ; so that the Atheling had only escaped by riding, as they saw, for his life. ' Well done, old Gilbert ! ' laughed Here ward. ' You must be- wai-e, my lord earl, how you venture within reach of that old bear's paw.' 'Bear? By the by, Sir Hereward,' asked Waltheof, whose thoughts ran loosely right and left, ' tliey told me that you carried a white bear on your banner : but I only see a knot.' ' Ah ? I have jjarted with my old bear, all save his skin ; for keeping which, by the by, your house ought to have a blood feud against me. I slew your great-uncle, or cousin, or some other kinsman, at Gilbert's house in Scotland long ago ; and since then I sleep on his skin every night, and used to carry his picture in my banner all day.' 'Blood -feuds are solemn things,' said Waltheof, frowning. ' Karl killed my grandfatlier Aldred at the battle of Settrington, and his four sons are with the army at York now ' ' For the love of all saints and of England, do not think of avenging that ! Every man must now put away old grudges, and remember that he has but one foe, William and his French- men.' 'Very nobly spoken. But those sons of Karl — and I think you said you had killed a kinsman of mine V ' It was a bear, lord earl, a great white bear. Cannot you understand a jest 1 Or are you going to take up tlie quarrels of all white bears that are slain between here and Iceland ? You will end by burning Crowland minster tlien ; for there are twelve of your kinsmen's skins there, which Canute gave forty years ago.' ' Burn Crowland minster 1 St. Guthlac and all saints forbid ! ' said Waltheof, crossing himself devoutly. ' Are you a monk-monger into the bargain, as well as a dolt ? A bad prospect for us, if you are,' said Hereward to liimself. ' Ah, my dear lord king ! ' said Waltheof, ' and you are recovering ? ' ' Somewhat,' said the lad, sitting up, ' under the care of this kind knight.' ' He is a monk. Sir Atheling, and not a kniglit,' said Here- ward. ' Our fen-men can wear a mail-shirt as easily as a frock, and handle a twybill as neatly as a breviary.' Waltheof shook his head. ' It is contrary to the canons of Holy Church.' 'So are many things that are done in England just now. Need has no master. Now, sir earl and Sir Atheling, what are you going to do ? ' Neither of them, it seemed, very well knew. They would go 214 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. to York if they could get there, and join Gospatric and Marle- sweyn. And certainly it was the most reasonable thing to be done. ' But if you mean to get to York, you must march after another fashion than this,' said Hereward. ' See, sir earl, why you were broken by Gilbert ; and why you will be broken again, if this order holds. If you march your men along one of these old Roman streets ■ By St. Mary, these Romans had more wits than we ; for we have spoilt the roads they left us, and never made a new one of our own — ■ — ' ' They were heathens and enchanters,' — and Waltheof crossed himself. ' And conquered the world. Well — if you march along one of these streets, you must ride as I rode, when I came up to you. You must not let your knights go first, and your men-at- arms straggle after in a tail a mile long, like a scratch pack of hounds, all sizes except each others'. You must keep your foot- men on the high street ; and make your knights ride in two bodies, right and left, upon the wold, to protect their flanks and baggage.' ' But the knights will not. As gentlemen, they have a right to the best ground.' ' Then they may go to , whither they will go, if the French come upon them. If they are on the flanks, and you are attacked, then they can charge in right and left on the enemy's flank, while the footmen make a stand to cover the waggons.' 'Yes — that is very good; I believe that is your French fashion V 'It is the fashion of common sense, like all things which succeed.' ' But, you see, the knights would not submit to ride in the mire.' ' Then you must make them. What else have they horses for, while honester men than they trudge on foot ?' 'Make them?' said Waltheof, with a shrug and a smile. ' They are all free gentlemen, like ourselves.' 'And, like ourselves, will come to utter ruin, because every one of them must needs go his own way.' 'I am glad,' said Waltheof, as they rode along, 'that you called this my earldom. I hold it to be mine of course, in right of my father : but the landsfolk, you know, gave it to your nephew Morcar.' 'I care not to whom it is given. I care for the man who is on it, to raise these landsfolk, and make them fight. You are here : therefore you are earl.' ' Yes, the powers that be are ordained by God.' 'You must not strain tliat text too far, lord earl; for the only power that is, whom I see in England — worse luck for it — is William the Mamzer.' XXI II HOW HEREWARD GATHERED AN ARMY 215 ' So I have often thouglit.' 'You have? As I feared !' (To himself) 'The pike will have you again, gudgeon ! ' ' He has with him the Holy Father at Rome, and therefore the Blessed Apostle St. Peter of course. And — is a man right in the sight of heaven, who resists them ? I only say it — but where a man looks to the salvation of his own soul— he must needs think thereof seriously at least.' ' Oh, are you at that ? ' thought Hereward. ' Tout est perdu. The question is, earl,' said he aloud, ' simply this. How many men can you raise oft" this shire 1 ' 'I have raised— not so many as I could wish. Harold and Edith's men have joined me fairly well : but your nephew, Morcar's ' ' I can command them. I have half of them here already.' 'Then — then we may raise the rest V ' That depends, my lord earl, for whom we fight ! ' ' For whom ? — I do not understand.' ' Whether we fight for that lad — child Edgar — or for Sweyn of Denmark, the rightful king of England.' ' Sweyn of Denmark ! Wlio should be the rightful king, but the heir of the blessed St. Edward ? ' ' Blessed old fool ! He has done harm to us enough on earth, without leaving us his second-cousin's aunt's malkins to harm us after he is in heaven.' ' Sir Hereward, Sir Hereward, I fear thou art not as good a Christian as so good a kniglit should be.' ' Christian or not, I am as good a one as my neighbours. I am Leofric's son. Leofiic put Hardicanute on the throne ; and your father, who was a man, helped him. You know what has befallen England, since we Danes left the Danish stock at Godwin's bidding, and put our necks under the yoke of Wessex monks and monk -mongers. You may follow your father's track, or not, as you like. I shall follow my father's, and fight for Sweyn Ulffsson, and no man else.' And I,' said WaltheofF, 'shall follow the anointed of the Lord.' 'The anointed of Gospatric and two or three boys!' said Hereward. 'Knights! Turn your horses' heads. Plight about face all ! We are going back to the Bruneswold, to live and die free Danes.' And to Waltlieof's astonishment, wlio had never before seen discipline, the kniglits wlieeled round ; the men-at arms followed them ; and Waltlieof and the Atheling were left to themselves on Lincoln Heath. 216 HEREWARD THE WAKE ciiAi-. CHAPTER XXIV HOW ARCHBISHOr ALDKED DIED OF SORROW In the tragedies of the next few months Hereward took no part ; but they must be looked at near, in order to understand somewliat of the men who were afterwards mixed up with him for weal and woe. When William went back to the South, the confederates, child Edgar the Atheling, Gospatric, and their friends, had come south again from Durham. It was undignified ; a con- fession of weakness. If a Frenchman had likened them to mice coming out when the cat went away, none could blame him. But so they did ; and Asbiorn and his Danes, landing in Humber-moutli, ' were met (says the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle) by cliild Edgar and Earl Waltheof and Marlesweyn, and Earl Gospatric with tlie men of Northumberland, riding and marching joyfully with an immense army ; ' not having the spirit of prophecy, or foreseeing those things which were coming on the earth. To them repaired Edwin and Morcar, the two young earls ; Arkill and Karl, ' the great thanes ' ; or at least the four sons of Karl — for accounts ditfer ; and what few else of the northern nobility Tosti had left unmurdered. The men of Northumberland received the Danes with open arms. They would besiege York. They would storm tlie new French keep. They would proclaim Edgar king at York. In that keep sat two men, one of wliom knew his own mind, the otlier did not. One was William Malet, knight, one of the heroes of Hastings, a noble Norman, and chatelain of York castle. The otlier was Archbishop Aldred. Aldred seems to have been a man like too many more — pious, and virtuous, and harmless enough, and not without worldly prudence : but his prudence was of that sort which will surely swim with the stream, and ' honour the powers tliat be,' if they bebut prosperous enough. For after all, if success be not God, it is like enough to Him in some men's eyes to do instead. So Archbishop Aldred had crowned Harold Godwinsson, Avlien Harold's star was in the ascendant.^ And who but Arclibisliop Aldred should crown William, when his star liad cast Harold's down from heaven 1 He would have crowned Satanas himself, had he only proved himself king de facto — as he asserts himself to be dejtire — of this wicked world. So Aldred, who had not only crowned William, but sup- ^ So says Florence of Worcester. The Norman chroniclers impute the act to Stigand. XXIV HOW ARCHBISHOP ALDRED DIED OF SORROW 217 ported liis power north of Humber by all means lawful, sat in York keep, and looked at William Malet, wondering what he would do. Malet would hold out to the last. As for the new" keep, it was surely impregnable. The old walls — the Eoman walls on which had floated tlie flag of Constantino the Great — were surely strong enough to keep out men without battering-rams, balistas, or artillery^ of any kind. What mattered Asbiorn's two hundred and forty ships, and their crews of some ten or fifteen thousand men 1 What mattered the tens of thousands of northern men, with Gospatric at their head ? Let them rage and rob round tlie walls. A messenger had galloped in from William in the Forest of Dean, to tell Malet to hold out to the last. He had galloped out again, bearing for answer, that the Normans could hold York for a year. But the Archbishop's heart misgave him, as from north and south at once came up the dark masses of two mighty armies, broke into columns, and surged against every gate of the city at the same time. They had no battering train to breach the ancient walls : but they had — and none knew it better than Aldred — hundreds of friends inside, who would throw open to them the gates. One gate he could command from the castle towei'. His face turned pale as he saw a mob of armed townsmen rushing down the street towards it ; a furious scuffle with the French guards ; and then, through the gateway, the open champaign beyond, and a gleaming wave of axes, helms, and spears, jDOuring in and u]:» the street. 'Tlie traitors!' he almost shrieked, as he turned and ran down the ladder to tell Malet below. Malet was firm, but pale as Aldred. 'We must fight to the last,' said he, as he hurried down, commanding his men to sally at once en masse and clear ♦the city. The mistake was fatal. The French were entangled in the narrow streets. The houses, shut to them, were opened to the English and Danes ; and, overwhelmed from above, as well as in front, the greater pai-t of the French garrison perished in the first fight. The remnant were shut up in the castle. The Danes and the English seized the liouses round, and shot from the windows- at every loophole and embrasure where a French- man showed himself. '8hoot fire upon the houses ! ' said Malet. ' You will not burn York ? O God ! is it come to this ? ' 'And why not York town, or York minster, or Home itself Avith the i)ope inside it, rather than yield to barbarians 1 ' Archbishop Aldred went into his room, and lay down on his ^ Artilleiy is licrc used in its old English meaning for any kind of v.-arlike en'rinc. Cf. 1 Samuul .\x. 40. 218 IIEREWARD THE WAKE chap. bed. Outside was the roar of the battle ; and soon, louder and loudei', the roar of Hame. Tliis was the end of his timeserving and king-making. And he said many prayers, and beat his breast ; and then called to his clia plain for clothes, for he was very cold. 'I have slain my own sheep,' he moaned, 'slain my own sheep ! ' His chaplain hapt him up in bed, and looked out of the window at the fight. There was no lull, neither was there any great advantage on either side. Only from the southward he could see fresh bodies of Danes coming across the plain. ' The carcase is liere, and the eagles are gathered together. Fetch me the Holy Sacrament, chaplain, and God be merciful to an unfaithful shepherd.' Tlie chaplain went. 'I have slain my own sheep,' moaned the archbishop. 'I have given them up to the wolves — given mine own minster, and all the treasures of the saints, and — and — I am very cold.' When the chaplain came back with the blessed Sacrament, Archbishop Aldred was more than cold ; for he was already dead and stift'. But William IMalet would not yield. He and his Frenchmen fought day after day, with the energy of despair. They asked leave to put forth the body of the archljishop ; and young Waltheof, who was a pious man, insisted that leave should be given. So the archbishop's coffin was thrust fortli of the castle-gate, and the monks from the abbey came and bore it away, and buried it in the cathedral-church. And then the fight went on, day after day ; and more houses burned, till York was all aflame. On the eighth day the minster was in a liglit low over Archbishop Aldred's new-made grave. All was burnt ; minster, churches, old Roman palaces, and all the glories of Constantino the Great and the mythic past. The besiegers, hewing and hammering gate after gate, had now won all Ijut the keep itself. Then Jilalet's heart failed him. A wife he had, and children ; for their sake he turned coward ; and fled by night, with a few men-at-arms, across the burning ruins. Then, into what once was York, the confederate earls and thanes marched in triumi^h, and i:)roclaimed Edgar king — a king of dust and ashes. And where were Edwin and Morcar the meanwhile 1 It is not told. Were they struggling against William at Stafford, or helping Edric the Wild and liis Welshmen to besiege Chester ? Probal:)ly they were aiding the insurrection, if not at these two points, still at some other of their great earldoms of Mercia and Chester. They seemed to triumph for a while : during the autumn of 1069 the greater part of England seemed lost to William. Many Normans packed up their plunder and went back to France ; and those whose hearts were too stout to XXV HOW HE FOUND A WISER MAN THAN HIMSELF 219 return showed no mercy to the English, even as William showed none. To crush the heart of the people by massacres, and mutilations, and devastations, was the only hope of the invader : and thoroughly he did his work whenever he had a chance. CHAPTER XXV HOW HBEEWARD FOUND A WISER MAN IN ENGLAND THAN HIMSELF There have been certain men so great, that he who describes them in words — much more pretends to analyse their inmost feelings — must be a very great man himself, or incur the accusa- tion of presumption. And such a great man was William of Normandy — one of those unfathomable master-personages, who must not be rashly dragged on any stage. The genius of a Bulwer, in attempting to draw him, took care with a wise modesty not to draw him in too much detail : to confess always that there was much beneath and behind in William's character, which none, even of his contemporaries, could guess. And still more modest than Bulwer is this chronicler bound to be. But one may fancy, for once in a way, what William's thoughts were, when they brouglit him the evil news of York. For we know what his acts were ; and he acted up to his thoughts. Hunting he was, they say, in the Forest of Dean, when first he heard that all England, north of the Watling Street, had broken loose, and that he was king of only half the isle. Did he — as when, hunting in the Forest of Rouen, he got the news of Harold's coronation — play with his bow, stringing and unstringing it nervously, till he had made up his mighty mind ? Then, did he go home to his lodge, and there spread on the rough oak board a parchment map of England, which no child would deign to learn from now, but was then good enough to guide armies to victory, because the eyes of a great general looked upon it 1 As he pored over tlie map, by tlie light of a bog-deal torch or rush candle, what would he see upon it 1 Three separate blazes of insurrection, from north-west to east, along the Watling >Street. At Chester, Edric, ' the wild Thane,' who, according to Domesday-book, had lost vast lands in Slu'opshire ; Algitha, Harold's widow ; and Blethwallon and all his Welsh ; ' the white mantles' swarming along Chester streets, not as usually, to tear aTid ravage like the wild cats of their own rocks, but fast friends by blood with Aldytha, ouce their queen on Pen- 220 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. iiiaenmawr.^ Edwin, the young earl, Algitha's brother, Here- ward's nephew — he must l)e with them too, if he were a man. Eastward, round Stafford, and the centre of Mercia, another blaze of furious English valour. Morcar, Edwin's brother, must be there, as their earl, if he too was a man. Then in the fens and Kesteven. What meant this news, that Hereward of St. Omer was come again, and an army with him ? That he was levying war on all Frenchmen, in the name of Svveyn, King of Denmark and of England ? He is an outlaw, a desperado, a boastful swash-buckler, thought William, it may be, to himself. He found out, in after years, that he had mis- taken liis man. And north, at York, in the rear of those three insurrections, lay Gospatric, Waltheof, and Marlesweyn, with the Northum- brian host. Durham was lost, and Comyn burnt therein But York, so boasted William Malet, could hold out for a year. He should not need to hold out for so long. And last, and worst of all, hung on the eastern coast the mighty fleet of Sweyn, who claimed England as liis of right. The foe whom he had most feared ever since he set foot on English soil, a collision with whom had been inevitable all along, was come at last : but where would he strike his blow ? William knew, doubt it not, that the Danes had been defeated at Norwich : he knew, doubt it not, for his spies told him everything, that they had purposed entering the Wash. To prevent a junction between them and Hereward was impossible. He must prevent a junction between them and Edwin and Morcar. He determined, it seems — for he did it — to cut the English line in two, and marched upon Stafford as its centre. But all records of these campaigns are fragmentary, confused, contradictory. The Normans fought, and had no time to write history. Tlie English, beaten and crushed, died and left no sign. The only chroniclers of the time are monks. And little could Ordericus Vitalis, or Florence of Worcester, or he of Peterborough, faithful as lie was, who lilled up the sad pages of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle — little could they see or understand of the masterly strategy which was conquering all England for Norman monks, in order that they, following the army like black ravens, miglit feast tliemselves upon the prey which others won for tliem. To them the death of an abbot, the squabbles of a monastery, the journey of a prelate to Ptome, are more important tlian the manceuvres which decided the life and freedom of tens of tiiousands. So all we know is, that William fell upon Morcar's men at Stafford, and smote them with a great destruction ; rolling tlie ^ See the admirable description of the tragedy of Penmaenmawr, in Bulwer's Harold. XXV HOAV HE FOUXD A WISER MAN THAN HIMSELF 221 fugitives west and east, toAvard Edwin, perhaps, at Chester, certainly toward Hereward in the fens. At Stafford met him the fugitives from York, j\Ialet, his wife, and children, with the dreadful news that the Danes had joined Gospatric, and that York was lost. William burst into fiendish fury. He accused the wretched men of treason. He cut off tlieir hands, thrust out their eyes ; threw Malet into jDrison, and stormed on northward. He lay at Pontefract for three Aveeks. The bridges over the Aire were broken down. But at last he crossed and marched on York, No man opposed him. The Danes were gone down to the Humber. Gosijatric and Waltheof's hearts had failed them ; and they had retired before the great captain. Florence of Worcester says that William bought Earl Asbiorn off, giving him much money, and leave to forage for his fleet along the coast. Doubtless William would have so done if he could. Doubt- less the angry and disappointed English raised such accusations against the earl, believing them to be true. But is not the simpler cause of Asbiorn's conduct to be found in the plain facts ? — That he had sailed from Denmark to put Sweyn, his brother, on the throne. He found on his arrival that Gospatric and Waltheof had seized it in the name of Edgar Atheling. What liad he to do more in England, save what he did ? — go out into the Humber, and winter safely there, waiting till Sweyn should come with reinforcements in the spring 1 Then William had his revenge : he destroyed, in the language of Scripture, 'the life of the land.' Far and wide the farms were burnt over their owners' heads, the growing crops upon the ground ; the horses were houghed, the cattle driven off; while of human deatli and misery tliere was no end. Yorkshire and much of the neighbouring counties lay waste for the next nine years. It did not recover itself fully till several genera- tions after. The Danes had boasted that they would keep their Yule at York. William kept his Yule there instead. He sent to Win- chester for the regalia of the Confessor ; and in the midst of the blackened ruins, while the English for miles around wandered starving in the snows, feeding on carrion, on rats and mice, and at last upon each otiier's corpses, he sat in his royal roljes, and gave away the lands of Edwin and Morcar to his liegemen. And thus, like the Romans, from whom lie deiived both his strategy and his civilisation, he ' made a solitude, and called it peace.' He did not give away Waltheof's lands ; and only part of Gospatric's. He wanted Gospatric ; he loved Waltheof, and wanted him likewise. Therefore through the desert which he himself had made he 222 IIEREWARD THE WAKE chap. forced his way up to the Tees a second time, over snow-covered moors ; and this time 8t. Cuthbert sent no fog, being satisfied presumably with William's orthodox attachment to St. Peter and Rome ; so the Conqueror treated quietly with Waltheof and Gospatric, who lay at Durham. Gospatric got an earldom, from Tees to Tyne ; and paid down for it much hard money and treasure ;— bought it, in fact, he said. Waltheof got back his earldom, and much of Morcar's. From the fens to the Tees was to be liis province. And then, to the astonishment alike of Normans and English, and, it may be, of himself, he man-ied Judith, the Conqueror's niece ; and became once more William's loved and trusted friend — or slave. It seems inexplicable at first sight. Inexplicable, save as an instance of that fascination which the strong sometimes exer- cise over the weak. Then William turned south-west. Edwin, wild Edric, the dispossessed thane of Shropshire, and the wilder Blethwallon and his Welshmen, were still harrying and slaying. They had just attacked Shrewsbury. William would come upon them by a way they thought not of. So over the backbone of England , by way probably of Halifax or Huddersfield ; through pathless moors and bogs, down towards the jDlains of Lancashire and Cheshire, he pushed over and on. His soldiers from the plains of sunny France could not face the cold, the rain, the morasses, the hideous gorges, the valiant peasants — still the finest and shrewdest race of men in all England — who set upon them in wooded glens, or rolled stones on them from the limestone crags. They prayed to be dismissed, to go home. ' Cowards might go back,' said William ; ' he should go on.' If he could not ride, he would walk. Whoever lagged, he would be foremost. And cheered by his example, the army at last debouched upon the Cheshire fiats. Then he fell upon Edwin, as he had fallen upon Morcar. He drove the wild Welsh through the pass of Mold, and up into their native hills. He laid all waste with fire and sword for many a mile, as Domesday -book testifies to this day. He strengthened the walls of Chester; trampled out the last embers of rebellion ; and went down south to Salisbury, King of England once again. Why did he not push on at once against the one rebellion left alight, that of Hereward and his fen-men ? It may be that he understood him and them. It may be that he meant to treat with Sweyn, as he had done, if tlie story be true, with Asbiorn. It is more likely that he could do no more ; tliat his army, after so swift and long a campaign, required rest. It may be that the time of service of many of his mercenaries XXV HOW HE FOUND A WISER MAN THAN HIMSELF 223 was expired. Be that as it may, lie mustered them at Old Sarum — the Roman British burgli whicli still stands on the down side— and rewarded them, according to their deserts, from the lands of tlie conquered English. How soon Hereward knew all this, or how he passed the winter of 1070-71, we cannot tell. But to him it must have been a winter of bitter perplexity. It was impossible to get information from Edwin ; and news from York was almost impossible to get ; for Gilbert of Ghent stood between him and it. He felt himself now pent in, all but trapped. Since he had set foot last in England ugly things had risen up, on which he had calculated too little, namely, Norman castles. A whole ring of tliem in Norfolk and Suffolk cut him off from the south. A castle at Cambridge closed the soutli end of the fens ; anotlier at Bedford, the western end ; while Lincoln castle to the north cut him off from York. His men did not see the difficulty ; and wanted him to march towards York, and clear all Lindsey and right up to the Humber. Gladly would he have done so, when he heard that the Danes Avere wintering in the Humber. 'But how can we take Lincoln castle without artillery or even a battering-ram V ' Let us march past it, then, and leave it behind.' 'Ah, my sons,' said Hereward, laughing sadly, 'do you sup- pose that the Mamzer spends Ids time— and Englishmen's life and labour — in heaping up those great stone mountains, that you and I may walk past them ? They are put there just to prevent our walking past, unless we choose to liave the garrison sallying out to attack our rear, and cut us off from home, and carry off our women into the bargain, when our backs are turned.' The English swore, and declared that they had never thought of that. ' No. We drink too much ale on this side of the Channel, to think of that — or of anything beside.' ' But,' said Leofwin Prat, ' if we have no artillery, we can make some.' 'Spoken like yourself, good comrade. If we only knew how.' ' I know,' said Torf rida. ' I have read of such things in books of the ancients, and I have watched them making continually — I little knew wjiy, or that I should ever turn engineer.' 'What is there that you do not know?' cried they all at once. And Torfrida actually sliowed herself a fair practical engineer. But where was iron to come from 1 Iron for catapult-springs, iron for ram-heads, iron for bolts and bars ? 224 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' Torf I'ida,' said Hereward, 'you are wise. Can you use the divining rod ? ' ' Why, my knight 1 ' ' Because there might be iron-ore in the wolds ; and if you could find it by the I'od, we miglit get it up and smelt it.' Torfrida .said humbly that she would try ; and walked with the divining rod between her pretty lingers for many a mile in wood and wold, wherever the ground looked red and rusty. But she never found any iron. ' We must take the tires ofi" the cart-wheels,' said Leofwin Prat. ' But how will the carts do without ? For we shall want them if we marcli.' ' In Provence, whei'e I was born, the wheels were made out of one round piece of wood. Could we not cut wheels like them 1 ' asked Torfrida. ' You are the wise woman as usual,' said Hereward. Torfrida burst into a violent flood of tears, no one knew why. There came over her a vision of the creaking carts, and the little sleek oxen, dove -coloured and dove-eyed, with their canvas mantles tied neatly on to keep off heat and flies, lounging on with their light load of vine and olive-twigs beneath the blazing southern sun. When should she see the sun once more ? She looked up at the brown branches overhead, howling in the December gale, and down at the brown fen below, dying into mist and darkness as the low December sun died down ; and it seemed as if her life was dying down witli it. There would be no more sun, and no more summers, for her upon this earth. None certainly for her poor old mother. Her southern blood was chilling more and more beneath the bitter sky of Kesteven. The fall of the leaf had brought with it rheumatism, ague, and many miseries. Cunning old leech-wives treated the French lady with tonics ; mugwort, and bogbean, and good wine enow. But, like David of old, she got no heat ; and before Yule-tide came, she had prayed lierself safely out of this world, and into the woi'ld to come. And Torfrida's heart was the more light when she saw her go. She was absorbed utterly in Hereward and his plots. She lived for nothing else, hardly even for her cliild ; and clung to her husband's fortunes all the more flercely, the more desperate they seemed. So that small band of gallant men laboured on, waiting for the Danes, and trying to make artillery and take Lincoln keep. And all tlie while, so unequal is fortune Avhen Clod wills — throughout the Southern Weald, from Hastings to Hind-head, every copse glared with charcoal heaps, every glen was burrowed with iron diggings, every hammer-pond stamped and gurgled XXV HOW HE FOUND A WISER MAN THAN HIMSELF 225 night and day, smelting and forging English iron, whei'ewith the Frenchmen might slay Englishmen. William — though perhaps he knew it not liimself — had, in securing Sussex and Surrey, secured the then great ironlield of England, and an unlimited supply of weajjons : and to that cir- cumstance, it may be, as much as to any other, the success of his campaigns may be due. It must have been in one of these December days that a handful of knights came through the Bruneswold, mud and blood-bespattered, urging on tired horses, as men desperate and foredone. And the foremost of them all, when he saw Hereward at the gate of Bourne, leaped down, and threw his arms round his neck, and burst into bitter weeping. ' Hereward, I know you, though you know me not. I am your nephew, Morcar Algarsson ; and all is lost.' As the winter ran on, other fugitives came in, mostly of rank and family. At last Edwin himself came, young and fair, like Llorcar ; he who should have been the Conqueror's son-in- law ; for whom his true-love pined, as he pined, in vain. Where were Sweyn and his Danes ? Whither should they go till he came ? ' To Ely,' answered Hereward. Whether or not it was his wit which lirst seized on the military capabilities of Ely is not told. Leofric the deacon, who is likely to know best, says that there were men already there holding out against William ; and that they sent for Hereward. But it is not clear from his words, whether they were fugitives, or merely bold Abbot Thurstan and his monks. It is but probable, nevertheless, that Hereward, as the only man among the fugitives who ever showed any ability whatso- ever, and who was also the only leader (save Morcar) connected with the fen, conceived the famous ' Camp of Refuge,' and made it a formidable fact. Be that as it may, Edwin and Morcar went to Ely ; and there joined an Earl Tosti (according to Richard of Ely), unknown to history ; a Siward Barn, ' the boy or the chieftain,' who had been dispossessed of lands in Lincolnshire ; ^ and other valiant and noble gentlemen — the last wrecks of the ^ Ordericus Vitalis says that lie and his brother Aldred were ' sons of Ethelgar, the late king's grandson.' In another place he makes Etlielgar a ' cousin of King Edward.' Mr. Forester, in his notes to Ordericus Vitalis, says (with probability) that the ' late king ' may have been Edward the Elder, who had a son named Ailward Snow, whose son Algar (Ethelgar) was probably the father of Siward Barn and Aldred, as well as of Brihtric, who had the largest possessions in Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, and Shropshire. If so, we have a fresh illustration of the fact that the lands of England had, before the Conquest, been accumulated in the hands of an aristocracy numerically small, and closely interrelated in blood ; a state of things sufficient in itself to account for tlie easy victory of the French. Q H. T. w. 226 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. English aristocracy. And there they sat in Abbot Thurstan's hall, and waited for Sweyn and the Danes. But the worst Job's messenger who, during that evil winter and_.spring, came into the fen, was Bishop Egelwin of Durham. He it was, most probably, who brought the news of Berkshire laid waste with fire and sword. He it was, most certainly, who brought the worse news still, that Gospatric and Waltheof were gone over to the king. He was at Durham, seemingly, when he saw that, and fled for his life, ere evil overtook him : for to yield to William that brave bishop had no mind. But when Here ward heard that Waltheof was married to the Conqueror's niece, he smote liis hands together, and cursed him, and the mother who bore him to Siward the Stout. ' Could thy father rise from the grave he would split thy craven head in the very lap of the Frenchwoman.' ' A hard lap will he find it, Hereward,' said Torf rida. ' I know her — wanton, false, and vain. Heaven grant he do not rue the day he ever saw her ! ' 'Heaven grant he may rue it ! Would that her bosom were knives and tish hooks, like that of the statue in the fairy tale. See what he has done for us ! He is earl, not only of his own lands, but of poor Morcar's too, and of half his earldom. He is Earl of Huntingdon, of Cambridge, they say— of this ground on which we stand. What right have I here now ? How can I call on a single man to arm, as I could in Morcar's name ? I am an outlaw here, and a robber ; and so is every man with me. And do you think that William did not know that ? He saw well enough what he was doing when he set up that great brainless idol as earl again. He wanted to split up the Danish folk, and he has done it. The Northumbrians will stick to Waltheof. They think him a mighty hero, because he held York gate alone with his own axe against all the French.' ' Well, that was a gallant deed.' ' Pish ! we are all gallant men, we English. It is not courage that we want, it is brains. So the Yorkshire and Lindsey men, and the Nottingham men too, will go with Waltheof. And round here, and all through the fens, every coward, every prudent man even — every man who likes to be within the law, and to feel his head safe on his shoulders — no blame to him — will draw off from me for fear of this new earl, and leave us to end as a handful of outlaws. I see it all. And William sees it all. He is wise enough, the Mamzer, and so is his father Belial, to whom he will go home some day. Yes, Torfrida,' he went on after a joause, more gently, but in a tone of exquisite sadness, ' you are right, as you always are. I am no match for that man. I see it now.' 'I never said that. Only — — ' ' Oi^ly you told me again and again that lie was the wisest man on earth.' XXVI HOW HEREWARD FULFILLED HIS WORDS 2-27 ' And yet, for that very reason, I bade you win glory without end by defying tlie wisest man on earth.' ' And do you bid me do it still 1 ' ' God knows wliat I bid,' said Torf rida, bursting into tears. ' Let me go pray, for I never needed it more.' Hereward watched her kneeling, as he sat moody, all but desperate. Then he glided to her side and said gently : ' Teach me how to pray, Torf rida. I can say a pater or an ave. But that does not comfort a man's heart, as far as I could ever find. Teach me to pray, as you and my mother pray.' And she put her arms round the wild man's neck, and tried to teach him, like a little child. CHAPTER XXVI HOW HEREWARD FULFILLED HIS WORDS TO THE PRIOR OF THE GOLDEN BOROUGH In tlie course of that winter died good Abbot Brand. Hereward went over to see him, and found him moaning to liimself texts of Isaiah, and confessing the sins of his people. 'Woe to the vineyard that bringetli forth wild grapes. Woe to those that join house to house and field to field — like us, and the Godwinssons, and every man that could— till we stood alone in the land. Many houses, great and fair, shall he without in- habitants. It is all foretold in holy writ, Hereward, my son. Woe to those who rise early to fill themselves with strong drink, and the tabret and harp are in their feasts : but they regard not the works of tlie Lord. Therefore my people are gone into captivity, because they have no knowledge. Ah — those French- men have knowledge, and too much of it : wliile we have brains filled with ale instead of justice. Therefore hell hath enlarged herself, and opened her mouth without measure and all go down into it, one by one. And dost thou think thou slialt escape, Hereward, thou stout-hearted 1 ' ' I neither know nor care : but this I know, tliat whitherso- ever I go, I sliall go sword in hand.' ' They that take the sword shall perish by the sword,' said Brand, and blessed Hereward and died. A week after came news that Thorold of [Malmesbury was coming to take the abbey of Peterborough, and had got as far as Stamford, with a riglit royal train. Then Hereward sent Abbot Thorold word tliat if he or liis Frenchmen put foot into Peterborough, he Hereward would burn it over their heads. And tliat if he rode a mile beyond Stamford town, he sliould walk into it barefoot in liis shirt. Whereon Thorold abode at Stamford, and kept up liis spirits by singing the song of Poland, wliicli some say he himself composed. 228 HEREWARD THE WAKE chai'. A week after that, and tlie Danes were come. A mighty fleet, with Sweyn Ulftsson at their liead, went up the Ouse towards Ely. Anotlier, with Asbiorn at their head, having joined them off tlie mouth of the Humber, sailed (it seems) up the Nene. All the chivalry of Denmark and Ireland was come ; and with it all the chivalry, and the unchivalry, of the Baltic shores.— Vikings from Jomsburg and Arkona, Gott- landers from Wisby ; and witli them their lieathen tributaries, "Wends, Fnins, Esthonians, Courlanders, Russians from Novo- gorod and the heart of Holmgard, Letts who still offered, in the forest of Eugen, human victims to the four-headed Swantowit ; foul hordes in sheepskins and primeval filth, who might have been scented from Hunstanton Ness ever since their ships had rounded the Skaw. Hereward hurried to them with all his men. He was anxious, of course, to prevent their plundering the landsfolk as they went— aiid that the savages from the Baltic shore would certainly do, if they could, however reasonable the Danes, Ork- neymen, and Irish Ostmen might be. Food, of course, they must take where they could find it ; but outrages were not a necessary, though a too common, adjunct to the process of emptying a farmer's granaries. He found the Danes in a dangerous mood ; sulky and dis- gusted, as they had good right to be. They liad gone to the Humber, and found nothing but ruin ; the land waste ; the French holding both the shores of tlie Humber ; and Asbiorn cowering in Humber-mouth, liardly able to feed his men. They had come to conquer England, and nothing was left for them to conquer but a few peat -bogs. Then they would have what there was in them. Every one knew that gold grew up in England out of the ground, wherever a monk put his foot. And they would plunder Crowlaud. Their forefathers had done it, and had fared none the worse. English gold they would have, if they could not get fat English manors. ' No ! not Crowland ! ' said Hereward. Any place but Crow- land, endowed and honoured by Canute the Great— Crowland, whose abbot was a Danish nobleman, whose monks were Danes to a man, of their own flesh and blood. Caimte's soul would rise up in Valhalla and curse them, if they took the value of a penny from St. Guthlac. St. Guthlac was their good friend. He would send them bread, meat, ale, all they needed but woe to the man who set foot upon his ground Hereward sent off" messengers to Crowland, warning all to be ready to escape into the fens ; and entreating Ulfketyl to empty his storehouses into his barges, and send food to the Danes ere a day was past. And Ulfketyl worked hard and well, till a string of barges wound its way through the fens, laden with beeves and bread, and ale-barrels in plenty ; and with monks too, who welcomed the Danes as their brethren, talked to them XXVI HOW HEREWARD FULFILLED HIS WORDS 229 in their own tongue, blessed them in St. Gutlilac's name as the saviours of England ; and then Avent liome again, chanting so sweetly their thanks to heaven for their safety, that the wild Vikings were awed, and agreed that St. Guthlac's men were wise folk and open-hearted, and that it was a shame to do them harm. But plunder they must have. 'And plunder you shall have !' said Hereward, as a sudden thought struck him. ' I will show you the way to the Golden Borough — the richest minster in England ; and all the treasures of the Golden Borough shall be yours, if you will treat English- men as friends, and spare the people of the fens.' It was a great crime in the eyes of men of tliat time. A great crime, taken simply, in Hereward's own eyes. But necessity has no law. Something the Danes must have, and ought to have ; and St. Peter's gold was better in their purses, than in that of Thorold and his French monks. So he led them up the fens and rivers, till they came into the old Nene, which men call Catwater and jMuscal now. As he passed Nomanslandhirne, and the mouth of the Por- sand river, he trembled, and trusted that the Danes did not know that they were within thi-ee miles of St. Guthlac's sanc- tuary. But they went on ignorant, and up the Muscal till they saw St. Peter's towers on the wooded rise, and behind them the great forest which is now Milton Pai'k. There were two parties in Peterborough minster ; a smaller faction of stout-hearted English ; a larger one which favoured William and the French customs, with Prior Herluin at their head. Herluin wanted not for foresight, and he knew that evil was coming on him. He knew that the Danes were in the fen. He knew that Hereward was with them. He knew that they had come to Crowland. Hereward could never mean to let them sack it. Peterborough must be their point. And Herluin set his teeth, like a bold man determined to abide the worst, and barred and barricaded every gate and door. That niglit a hapless churchwarden — Ywar was his name — might liave been seen galloping through Milton and Castor Hanglands, and on by Barnack quarries over Southorpe heath, with saddlebags of huge size stutled with 'gospels, mass-robes, cassocks, and otlier garments, and such other small things as he could carry away.' And he came before day to Stamford, where Abbot Thorold lay at his ease in his inn with his hommes d'armes asleep in the hall. And the churchwarden knocked tliem up, and drew Abbot Thorold's curtains witli a face such as his wlio 'ih'ew Priam's curtain in tlie dfad of night, Anil would have told him, half his Troy was burred' ; and told Abbot Thorold tiiat the monks of Peterborough had 230 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. sent him ; and that unless he saddled and rode his best that niglit, with his nieinie of men-at-arms, his Golden Borough would be even as Troy town hj morning light. 'A moi honnnes d'armes ! ' shouted Thorold, as he used to shout whenever he wanted to scourge his wretched English monks at Malmesbury into some French fashion. The men leaped up and poured in, growling. ' Take me this monk, and kick him into the street for wak- ing me with such news.' 'But, gracious lord, the heathen will surely burn Peter- borough ; and folks said that you were a mighty man of war.' ' So I am ; but if I were lloland, Oliver, and Turpin rolled into one, how am I to fight Hereward and the Danes with forty men-at-arms ? Answer me that, thou dunder-headed English porker.' So Ywar was kicked into the cold, while Thorold raged up and down his chamber in mantle and slipi^ers, wringing his hands over the treasure of the Golden Borough, snatched from his fingers just as he was closing them upon it. That night the monks of Peterborougli praj'ed in the minster till the long hours passed into the short. The corrodiers, and servants of the monastery, fled from the town outside into the !Milton woods. The monks prayed on inside till an hour after matins. When the first fiusli of the summer's dawn began to show in the north-eastern sky, they heard, mingling with their own chant, another chant, which Peterborough had not heard since it was Medehampstead, three hundred years ago ; — the terrible Yvich-hey-saa-saa — the war-song of the Vikings of the north. Their chant stojiped of itself. With blanched faces and trembling knees, they fled, regardless of all discipline, up into the minster tower ; and from the leads looked out north-east- ward on the fen. The first rays of the summer sun^ were just .streaming over tlie vast sheet of emerald, and glittering ujoon the winding river ; and on a winding line, too, seemingly endless, of scarlet coats and shields, black hulls, gilded jooops and vanes and beak-heads, and the flash and foam of innumerable oars. And nearer and louder came the oar-roll, like thunder working up from tlie east ; and mingled with it, that grim yet laughing Heysaa, which besj^oke in its very note the revelry of slaughter. The ships had all their sails on deck. But as they came nearer, the monks could see the banners of the two foremost vessels. The one was the red and white of the terrible Dannebrog. The othei', the scarcely less terrible Wake-knot of Hereward. ' He will burn the minster ! He has vowed to do it. As a ^ 'Tliis befell on the fourth clay of the Nones of June.' So says the Anglo-Sa.xon Chronicle ; from wliich the details of the yack are taken. XXVI HOW HEREAVARD FULFILLED HLS WORDS 231 child he vowecl, and he must do it. In this very minster the fiend entered into him and possessed him ; and to this minster has the fiend brought him back to do his will. Satan, my brethren, having a special spite (as must needs be) against 8t. Peter, rock and pillar of the Holy Church, chose out and in- spired this man, even from his mother's womb, that he might be the foe and robber of St. Peter, and the hater of all who, like my humility, honour him, and strive to bring this English land in due obedience to that blessed Apostle. Bring forth the relics, my brethren. Bring forth, above all things, those filings of St. Peter's own chains, the special glory of our monastery — and perhaps its safeguard this day.' Some such bombast would any monk of tliose days have talked in like case. And yet, so strange a thing is man, he might have been withal, like Herluin, a shrewd and valiant man. Tliey brought out all the relics. They brought out the filings themselves, in a box of gold. They held them out over the walls at the ships, and called on all tlie saints to whom they belonged. But they stopped that line of scarlet, black, and gold, as much as their si^iritual descendants stop the lava-stream of Vesuvius, when they hold out similar matters at them, with a hope unchanged by the experience of eight hundred years. The Heysaa rose louder and nearer. The Danes were coming. And they came. And all the while a thousand skylarks rose from ofi" the fen, and chanted their own chant aloft, as if appealing to heaven against that which man's greed, and man's rage, and man's superstition, had made of this fair earth of God. The relics had been brought out : but, as they would not work, the only thing to be done was to put them back again and hide them safe, lest they should bow down like Bel and stoop like Nebo, and be caiTied, like them, into captivity themselves, being worth a very large sum of money in the eyes of the more Christian part of the Danish host. Then to hide the treasures as well as they could ; which (says the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle) they hid somewhere in the steeple. The Danes were landing now. The shout which they gave as they leaped on shore made the hearts of the poor monks sink low. Would they be murdered, as well as robbed 1 Perhaps not — probably not. Hereward would see to that. And some wanted to capitulate. Herluin would not liear of it. They were safe enough. St. Peter's relics might not have worked a miracle on the spot : but they must have done something. St. Peter had been appealed to on his honour, and on his honour he must surely take the matter up. At all events, the walls and gates were strong, and the Danes had no artillery. Let them howl and rage round the holy place, till Abbot Thorold and the French- men of the country rose and drove them to their ships. 232 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. In that last thought the cunning Frenchman was not so far wrong. The Danes pushed up through the little town, and to the minster gates : but entrance was impossible ; and they prowled round and round like raging wolves about a winter steading : but found no crack of entry. Prior Herluin grew bold ; and coming to the leads of the gateway tower, looked over cautiously, and liolding up a certain most sacred emblem — not to be profaned in these pages — cursed them in the name of his whole Pantheon. ' Alia, Herluin ? Are you there ? ' asked a short square man in gay armour. ' Have you forgotten the peatstack outside Bolldyke Gate, and how you bade light it under me thirty years since ? ' ' Thou art Winter 1 ' and the prior uttered what would be considered from any but a churchman's lips a blasphemous and bloodthirsty curse. ' Aha ? That goes like rain off a duck's back to one who has been a minster scholar in his time. You ! Danes ! Ostmen ! down ! If you shoot at that man, I'll cut your heads off. He is the oldest foe I have in tlie woi'ld, and the only one who ever hit me without my hitting him again ; and nobody shall touch him but me. So down bows, I say.' The Danes — humorous all of them — saw that there Avas a jest toward, and perhaps some earnest too, and joined in jeering the prior. Herluin had ducked his head behind the parapet ; not from cowardice, but simply because he had on no mail ; and might be shot any moment. But when he heard Winter forbid them to touch him, he lifted up his head, and gave his old pupil as good as he brought. With his sharp swift French priest's tongue he sneered, he jeered, he scolded, he argued ; and then threatened. Suddenly changing his tone, in words of real eloquence he appealed to the superstitions of his hearers. He threatened them with supernatural vengeance. He set before them all the terrors of the unseen world. Some of them began to slink away frightened. St. Peter was an ill man to have a blood feud with. Winter stood, laughing and jeering in return, for full ten minutes. At last — ' I asked, and you have not answered : have you forgotten the old peatstack outside Bolldyke Gate 1 For if you have. The Wake has not. He has piled it against the gate, and it should be burnt through by this time. Go and see.' Herluin disappeared with a curse. ' Now, you sea-cocks,' said Winter, springing up. ' We'll to the Bolldyke Gate, and all start fair.' Tlie Bolldyke Gate was on fire ; and more, so were the suburbs. There was no time to save them, as Hereward would gladly have done, for the sake of the corrodiers. They must XXVI HOW HEREWARD FULFILLED HIS WORDS 233 go :— on to the Bolldyke Gate. Who cared to put out flames behind him, with all the treasures of Golden IJorough before him ? In a few minutes all the town was alight. In a few minutes more, the monastery likewise. A fire is detestable enough at all times, but most detestable by day. At night it is customary ; a work of darkness which lights up the dark ; picturesque, magnificent, with a fitness Tartarean and diabolic. But under a glaring sun, amid green fields and blue skies, all its wickedness is revealed without its beauty. You see its works, and little more. The flame is hardly noticed. All that is seen is a canker eating up God's works, breaking the bones of its prey with a horrible cracking uglier than all stage-scene glares, cruelly and shamelessly under the very eye of the great, honest, kindly sun. And that felt Hereward, as he saw Peterborough burn. He could not put his thoughts into words, as men of tliis day can : so much the better for him, perhaps. But he felt all the more intensely — as did men of his day — the tilings he could not speak. All he said was, aside to Winter — ' It is a dark job. I wish it had been done in the dark.' And Winter knew what he meant. Then the men rushed into the Bolldyke Gate, while Hereward and Winter stood and looked with their men, whom they kept close together, waiting their commands. The Danes and their allies cared not for the great glowing heap of peat. They cared not for each other, hardly for themselves. They rushed into the gap ; they thrust the glowing heap inward through the gate- Avay with their lances ; tJiey thrust eacli other down into it, and trampled over them to fall themselves, rising scorched and withered, and yet struggling on toward the gold of the Golden Borough. One savage Lett caught another round the waist, and hurled him bodily into the fire, crying in his wild tongue — ' You will make a good stepping-stone for me.' 'That is not fair,' quoth Hereward, and clove him to the chine. It was wild work. But the Golden Borough was won. ' We must in now and save the monks,' said Hereward, and dashed over the embers. He was only just in time. In the midst of the great court were all the monks, huddled together like a flock of sheep, some kneeling, most weeping bitterly, after the fashion of monks. Only Herluin stood in front of them, at bay, a lofty crucifix in his hand. He had no mind to weep. But with a face of calm and })itter wi-ath, he ]ireferred words of peace and entreaty. They were what the time needed. Therefore they should be given. To-morrow he would write to Bishop Egelsin, to ex- communicate with bell, book, and candle, to the lowest pit of Tartarus, all who had done the deed. 234 HEREAVARD THE WAKE chap. But to-day he spoke them fair. However, his faii^ speeches profited little, not being understood by a horde of Letts and Finns, who howled and bayed at him, and tried to tear the crucifix from his hand : but feared ' The white Christ.' They were already gaining courage from their own yells ; in a moment more blood Avould have been shed, and then a general massacre must liave ensued. Hereward saw it, and shouting ' After me, Hereward's men ! A Wake ! A Wake ! ' swung Letts and Finns right and left like cornsheaves, and stood face to face with Herluin. An angry savage smote him on the hind head full with a stone axe. He staggered, and then looked round and laughed. ' Fool ! hast thou not heard that Hereward's armour was forged by dwarfs in the mountain-bowels ? Off', and hunt for gold, or it will be all gone.' The Finn, who was astonished at getting no more from his l)low than a few sparks, and expected instant death in return, took the hint and vanished jabbering, as did his fellows. ' Now, Herluin the Frenchman ! ' said Hereward. ' Now, Hereward the robber of saints ! ' said Herluin. It was a fine sight. The soldier and the churchman, the Englishman and the Frenchman, the man of the then world, and the man of the then Church, joitted fairly, face to face. Hereward tried for one moment to stare down Herluin. But those terrible eye-glances, before which Vikings had quailed, turned oft* harmless from the more terrible glance of the man who believed himself backed by the Maker of the universe, and all the hierarchy of heaven. A sharp, unlovely face it was ; though, like many a great churchman's face of those days, it was neither thin nor haggard : but rather round, sleek, of a pufty and unwholesome paleness. But there was a thin lip above a broad square jaw, which showed that Herluin was neitlier fool nor coward. 'A robber and a child of Belial thou hast been from thy cradle ; and a robber and a cliild of Belial tliou art now. Dare thy last iniquity. Slay the servants of St. Peter on St. Peter's altar, with thy worthy comrades, the heathen Saracens,^ and set up Mahound with them in tlie holy place.' Hereward laughed so jolly a laugh, that the prior was taken aback. ' Slay St. Peter's monks 1 Not even his rats ! I am a monk's, knight, as my knot testifies. There shall not a hair of your head be touched. Only, I must clear out all Frenchmen hence ; and all Englishmen likewise, as storks have chosen to pack with the cranes. Here, Hereward's men ! march these traitors and '' The Danes were continually mistaken by medifeval cliurclimen for Saracens, and the Saracens considered to be idolaters. A maumee, or idol, means a Mahomet. XXVI HOW HEREWARD FULFILLED HIS WORDS 235 their French prior safe out of the walls, and into Milton woods, to look after tlieir poor corrodiers.' ' Out of this place I stir not. Here I am ; and here I will live or die, as St. Peter shall send aid.' But as he spoke he was i^recipitated rudely forward, and liurried almost into Hereward's arms. The whole body of monks, when they heard Hereward's words, cared to hear no more : but, desperate between fear and joy, rushed forward, bearing away their prior in the midst. ' So go the rats out of Peterborough, and so is my dream ful- filled. Now for the treasure, and then to Ely.' But Herluin burst himself clear of the frantic mob of monks, and turned back on Hereward. ' Thou wast dubbed knight in that clmrch ! ' ' I know it, man, and that chui'ch and the relics of the saints in it are safe therefore. Hereward gives his word.' ' That — but not that only, if thou art a true knight, as thou holdest. Englishman.' Hereward growled savagely, and made an ugly step toward Herluin. That was a point which he would not have questioned. 'Then behave as a knight, and save, save' — as the monks dragged him away — 'save the hospice! There are women — ladies there ! ' shouted he, as he was borne oft'. They never met again on earth : but both comforted them- selves in after years, that two old enemies' last deed in com- mon had been one of mercy. Hereward uttered a cry of horror. If the wild Letts, even tlie Jomsburgers, had got in, all was lost. He rushed to the door. It was not yet burst : but a bench, swung by strong arms, was battering it in fast. ' Winter ! Gery ! Siwards ! To me, Hereward's men ! Stand back, fellows. Here are friends here inside. If you do not, I'll cut you down.' But in vain. The door was burst, and in poured the savage mob. Hereward, unable to stop them, headed them, or pre- tended to do so, with five or six of his own men round him, and went into the liall. On the rushes lay some half-dozen grooms. They were butchered instantly, simply because they were there. Hereward saw : but could not prevent. He ran as hard as he could to the foot of the wooden stair wliicli led to the upper floor. ' Guard the stair-foot. Winter ! ' and he ran up. Two women cowered upon the floor, shrieking and praying with hands clasped over tlieir heads. He .saw that the arms of one of them were of tlie most delicate whiteness, and judging lier to be the lady, bent over her. 'Lady ! you are safe. I will l)rotect you. I am Hereward.' She sprang up, and tlirew herself with a scream into his arms. 236 HEREAYARD THE WAKE chap. ' Hereward ! Hereward ! Save me. I am ' ' Alftruda ! ' said Hereward. It was Alftruda ; if possible more beautiful than ever. ' I have got you ! ' she cried. ' I am safe now. Take me away — Out of this liorrible place — Take me into the woods — Any- where — Only do not let me be burnt here — stifled like a i-at. Give me air ! Give me water ! ' and she clung to him so madly that Hereward, as he held her in his arms, and gazed on her extraordinary beauty, forgot Torfrida for the second time. But there was no time to indulge in evil thoughts, even had any crossed his mind. He caught her in his arms, and com- manding the maid to follow, hurried down the stair. Winter and the Siwards were defending the foot with swing- ing blades. The savages were howling round like curs about a bull ; and when Hereward appeared above with the women, thei^e was a loud yell of rage and envy. He should not have the women to himself — They would share the i^lunder equally — was sliouted in half a dozen barbarous dialects. ' Have you left any valuables in the chamber 1 ' whispered he to Alftruda. ' Yes, jewels — robes — Let tliem have all, only save me ! ' ' Let me pass ! ' roared Hereward. ' There is rich booty in the room above, and you may have it as these ladies' ransom. Them you do not touch. Back, I say, let me pass ! ' And he rushed forward. Winter and the housecarles formed round him and the women, and hurried down the hall ; while the savages hurried up the ladder, to quarrel over their spoil. They were out in the courtyard, and safe for the moment. But whither sliould he take her 1 ' To Earl Asbioi-n,' said one of the Siwards. But how to find him? ' There is Bishop Christiern ! ' And the bishop was caught and stopped. 'This is an evil day's work, Sir Hereward.' ' Then help to mend it by taking care of these ladies, like a man of God.' And he explained the case. 'You may come safely with me, my poor lambs,' said the bishop. ' I am glad to find something to do fit for a churchman. To me, my housecarles.' '^ But they were all off plundering. 'We will stand by you and the ladies, and see you safe down to the ships,' said Winter, and so they went ort". Hereward would gladly have gone with them, as Alftruda piteously entreated him. But he heard his name called on every side in angry tones. ' Who wants Hereward 1 ' ' Earl Asbiorn — Here he is.' 'Those scoundrel monks have hidden all the rtltar furniture. XXVI now HEREWARD FULFILLED HLS WORDS 237 If you wish to save them from being tortured to death, you had best tiiid it.' Hereward ran with liim into the cathedral. It was a hideous sight; torn books and vestments; broken tabernacle - work ; foul savages swarming in and out of every dark aisle and cloister, like wolves in search of prey ; five or six ruffians aloft upon the rood-screen ; one tearing the golden crown from the head of the crucifix, another the golden footstool from its feet.^ As Hereward came up, crucifix and man fell together, crash- ing upon the pavement, amid shouts of brutal laughter. He hurried past them, shuddering, into the choir. The altar was bare ; the golden pallium which covered it, gone. ' It may be in the crypt below. I suppose the monks keep their relics there,' said Asbiorn. ' No ! Not there. Do not touch tlie relics ! Would you have the curse of all the saints 1 Stay ! I know an old hiding-place. It may be there. Up into the steejile with me.' And in a chamber in the steejile they found the golden pall, and treasures countless and wonderful. 'We liad better keep the knowledge of this to ourselves awhile,' said Earl Asbiorn, looking with greedy eyes on a heap of wealth such as he had never beheld before. ' Not we ! Hereward is a man of his Avord, and we will share and share alike.' 'What will you?' And Asbiorn caught liim by the arm. 'This treasure belongs of riglit to Sweyn the king.' 'It belongs to St. Peter, who must lend it to-day to save the l^oor fen-men from robbers and ravishers ; and not to any king on earth. Take off thine hand, jarl, if thou Avouldst keep it safe on thy body.' Asbiorn drew back, gnashing his teetli with rage. To strike Hereward was more than he, or any Berserker in his host, dared to do : and besides, he felt that Hereward 's words were just. ' Hither ! ' shouted Hereward down the stair. ' Up liither, Vikings, Berserkers, and sea-cocks all ! Here, Jutlanders, Joms- burgers, Letts, Finns, witclies' sons and devils' sons all ! Here is gold, here is the dwarf's work, here is the dragon's hoard ! Come up and take your Polotaswarf ! You would not get a richer out of the kaiser's treasury. Here, wolves and ravens, eat gold, drink gold, roll in gold, and know that Herewax'd is a man of liis word, and pays his soldiers' wages royally.' They rushed up tlie narrow staii', trampling each other to death, and thrust Hereward and the earl, choking, into a corner. The room was so full for a few moments that some died in it. Hereward and Asbiorn, protected by their strong armour, forced their way to the narrow window, and breathed througli it, looking out upon the sea of flame below. ^ The crucifix was j^robably of the Greek pattern, in which the figure stood upon a fiat slab, projecting from tlic cross. 238 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. 'I am sorry for you, jarl,' said Hereward. 'But for tlie poor Englishmen's sake, so it must be.' 'King Sweyn shall judge of that. Why dost hold my wrist, man ? ' ' Daggers are apt to get loose in such a press as this.' 'Always The Wake,' said Asbiorn, with a forced laugh. 'Always The Wake. And as thou saidst, King Sweyn the just shall judge between us.' Jarl Asbiorn swung from him, and into the now thinning press. Soon only a few remained, to search, by the glare of the flames, for what their fellows might have overlooked. ' Now the play is played out,' said Hereward, 'we may as well go down and to our ships.' Some drunken ruffians would have burnt the church for mere mischief. But Asbiorn, as well as Hereward, stopped that. And gradually they got the men down to the ships ; some drunk, some struggling under plunder ; some cursing and quarrelling because nothing had fallen to their lot. It was a hideous scene : but one to which Hereward, as well as Asbiorn, was too well accustomed to see aught in it save an hour's inevitable trouble in getting the men on board. Tlie monks had all fled. Only Leofwin the Long was left, and he lay sick in the inflrmary. Whether he was burnt there- in, or saved by Hereward's men, is not told. And so was the Golden Borough sacked and burnt. Now then, wliither ? ' The Danes were to go to Ely and join the army there. Hereward would march on to Stamford ; secure the town if he could ; then to Huntingdon, to secure it likewise ; and on to Ely afterwards. 'You will not leave me among these savages V said Alftruda. ' Heaven forbid ! You shall come with me as far as Stamford, and then I will set you on your way.' ' My way 1 ' said Alftruda, in a bitter and hopeless tone. Hereward mounted her on a good horse, and rode beside her, looking — and he well knew it — a very perfect knight. Soon they began to talk. What had brought Alftruda to Peterborough, of all places on earth ? ' A woman's fortune. Because I am rich — and some say fair — I am a puppet, a slave, a prey. I was going back to my — to Dolfln.' ' Have you been away from him, then ? ' ' What 1 Do you not know ? ' 'How should I know, lady?' 'Yes, most true. How shoulcl Hereward know anything about Alftruda ? But I will tell you. Maybe you may not care to hear ? ' ' About you 1 Anything. I have often longed to know how — what you were doing.' XXVI HOAV HEREWARD FULFILLED HIS WORDS 239 ' Is it possible 1 Is there one human being left on earth who cares to hear about Alf truda ? Then listen. You know that when Gospatric fled to Scotland his sons went with him — young Gospatric, Waltheof,i and lie — Doliin. Ethelreda, his girl, went too — and she is to marry, they say, Duncan, ^Malcolm's eldest son by Ingebiorg. So Gospatric will find himself, some day, father-in-law of the King of Scots.' ' I will warrant him to find his nest well lined, wherever he be. But of yourself ? ' 'I refused to go. I could not face again that bleak black North. Besides — but that is no concern of Hereward's ' Hei'eward was on the point of saying, ' Can anything concern you, and not be interesting to me ? ' But she went on : ' I refused, and ' ' And he misused you 1 ' asked he fiercely. 'Better if he had. Better if he had tied me to his stirrup, and scourged me along into Scotland, than have left me to new dangers, and to old temptations.' 'What temptations V Alftruda did not answer : but went on — ' He told me in his lofty Scots' fashion, that I was free to do what I list. That he liad long since seen that I cared not for liim ; and that lie would find many a fairer lady in liis own land.' ' Tliere he lied. So you did not care for him ? He is a noble knight.' ' What is that to me 1 Women's hearts are not to be bought and sold with tlieir bodies, as I was sold. Care for him ? I care for no creature upon earth. Once I cared for Hereward, like a silly child. Now I care not even for him.' Herewai'd was sorry to hear that. Men are vainer than women ; just as peacocks are vainer than peahens ; and Here- ward was — alas far him ! — a specially vain man. Of course, for him to fall in love with Alftruda would have been a shameful sin ; he would not have committed it for all the treasures of Constantinople : but it was a not unpleasant thought that Alf- truda sliould fall in love with him. But he only said, tenderly and courteously — ' Alas ! poor lady ! ' 'Poor lady. Too true, that last. For whither am I going now 1 Back to that man once more.' 'ToDolfinr 'To my master, like a runaway slave. I went down south to Queen Matilda. I knew her well, and she was kind to me, as ' This Waltheof Gospatricssou must not be confounded with Waltheof Siwardsson, the young earl. He became a wild border chieftain, then Baron of Atterdale, and then gave Atterdale to liis sister, Queen Ethelreda, and turned monk, and at last abbot, of Crowland ; crawling home, poor fellow, like many another, to elie in peace in the sanctuary of the Danes. 240 HEREWARD THE WAKE chai-. she is to all things tli.at breathe. But now that Gospatric is come into the king's grace again, and has bought the earldom of Northumbria, from Tees to Tyne ' ' Bought the earldom 1 ' ' That has he ; and paid for it right heavily.' 'Traitor and fool! He will not keep it seven years. The Frenchman will pick a quarrel with him, and cheat him out of earldom and money too.' The which William did, within three years. ' May it be so ! But when he came into the king's grace, he must needs demand me back in his son's name.' 'What does Doltin want with you?' ' His father wants my money ; and stipulated for it with the king. And besides, I suppose I am a pretty plaything enough still.' 'You? You are divine, perfect. Dolfin is right. How could a man who had once enjoyed you, live without you?' Alftruda laughed, a laugh full of meaning : but what that meaning was Hereward could not divine. ' So now,' she said, ' what Hereward has to do, as a true and courteous knight, is to give Alftruda safe conduct, and, if he can, a guard ; and to deliver her up loyally and knightly to his old friend and fellow-warrior, Doltin Gospatricsson, earl of whatever he can lay hold of for the current month.' ' Are you in earnest V Alftruda laughed one of her strange laughs, looking straight before her. Indeed she had never looked Hereward in the face doring the whole ride. ' What are those open holes ? Graves ? ' ' They are Barnack stone quarries, which Waltheof the Wittol has just given away to Crowland. Better^ that, though, than keep them for his new French cousins to build castles withal' ' So ? Tliat is a pity. I thought they had been graves ; and then you might have covered me up in one of them, and left me to sleep in peace.' -, ^ ,, *,;. ■, ' Wiiat can I do for you, Alftruda, my old playfellow, Alftruda, whom I saved from the bear ? ' 'If Alftruda had foreseen the second monster into whose jaws she was to fall, she would have prayed you to hold that terrible hand of yours, which never since, men say, has struck without victory and renown. You won your first honour for my sake. But who am I now, that you should turn out of your glorious path for me ?' ■ i, , • i i ' I will do anything— anything. But why miscall this noble prince a monster ? ' ' If he were fairer than St. John, more wise than Solomon, and more valiant than King William, he is to me a monster ; for I loathe him, and I know not why. But do your duty as a knight, sir. Convey the lawful wife to her lawful spouse.' XXVI HOW HEREWARD FULFILLED HIS WORDS 241 'What cares an outlaw for law, in a land where law is dead and gone ? I will do what I — what you like. Come with me to Torfrida at Bourne ; and let me see the man who dares try to take you out of my hand.' Alftruda laughed again. ' Xo, no. I should interrupt the doves in their nest. Besides, tlie billing and cooing might make me envious. And I, alas ! who carry misery with me round the land, might make your Torfrida jealous.' Hereward was of the same opinion, and rode silent and thoughtful through the great Avoods which are now the noble piiik of Burghley. ' I have found it ! ' said he at last. ' Why not go to Gilbert of Ghent, at Lincoln ? ' ' Gilbert 1 Why should he befriend me ? ' 'He will do that, or anything else, which is for his own profit.' ' Profit 1 All the world seems determined to make profit out of me. I presume you would, if I had come with you to Bourne.' ' I do not doubt it. This is a very wild sea to swim in ; and a man must be forgiven if he catches at every bit of drift timber.' 'Selfishness, selfishness every whei'e; — and I suppose you expect to gain by sending me to Gillsert of Ghent?' 'I shall gain nothing, Alftruda, save the thought that you are not so far from me — from us — but that we can hear of you — send succour to you if you need.' Alftruda was silent. At last — ' And you think that Gilbert would not be afraid of angering the king?' 'He would not anger the king. Gilbert's friendship is more important to William, at this moment, than that of a dozen Gospatrics. He holds Lincoln town, and with it the key of Waltheof's earldom : and things may happen, Alftruda — I tell you : but if you tell Gilbert, may Hereward's curse be on you ! ' ' Not that ! Any man's curse save yours ! ' said she in so passionate a voice that a thrill of fire ran through Hereward. And he recollected her scoff at Bruges — ' So he could not wait for me?' And a storm of evil thoughts swept through him. ' Would to heaven ! ' said he to himself, crushing them gallantly down, 'I had never thought of Lincoln. But there is no other plan.' But he did not tell Alftruda, as he had meant to do, that she might see him soon in Lincoln castle as its conqueror and lord. He half hoped that when that day came, Alftruda might be somewhere else. 'Gilbert can say,' he went on, steadying himself again, 'that you feared to go north on account of the disturbed state of the R II. T. w. 242 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. country ; and that, as you had given yourself up to him of your own accord, he thought it wisest to detain you, as a hostage for Dolfin's allegiance.' ' He shall say so. I will make him say so.' ' So be it. Now, here we are at Stamford town ; and I must to my trade. Do you like to see fighting, Alftruda — the man's game, the royal game, the only game worth a thought on earth 1 For you are like to see a little in the next ten minutes.' ' I should like to see you fight. They tell me none is so swift and terrible in the battle as Hereward. How can you be other- wise, who slew the bear — when we were two happy children to- gether ? But shall I be safe ? ' ' Safe 1 of course,' said Hereward, who longed, peacock -like, to show ofi" his prowess before a lady who was — there was no denying it — far more beautiful than even Torfrida. But he had no opportunity to show off that prowess. For, as he galloped in over Stamford Bridge, Abbot Thorold galloped out at the opposite end of the town through Casterton, and up the Roman road to Grantham. After whom Hereward sent Alftruda (for he heard that Thorold was going to Gilbert at Lincoln) with a guard of knights ; bidding them do him no harm, but saying that Here- ward knew him to be a preux chevalier and lover of fair ladies ; that he had sent him a right fair one to bear him company to Lincoln ; and hoped that he would sing to her on the way the song of Roland. And Alftruda, who knew Thorold, went willingly, since it could no better be. After which, according to Gaimar, Hereward tarried three days at Stamford, laying a heavy tribute on the burgesses for harbouring Thorold and his Normans ; and also surprised at a drinking bout a certain special enemy of his, and chased him from room to room sword in hand, till he took refuge shamefully in an outhouse, and begged his life. And when his knights came back from Grantham, he marched to Bourne. ' The next night,' says Richard of Ely, or it may be -Leofric himself, ' Hereward saw in his dreams a man standing by him of inestimable beauty, old of years, terrible of countenance, in all the raiment of his ho(\y more splendid than all things which he had ever seen, or conceived in his mind ; who threatened him with a great club which he carried in his hand, and with a fearful doom, that he should take back to his church all that had been carried off the night before, and have them restored utterly, each in its place, if he wished to provide for the salva- tion of his soul, and escape on the spot a pitiable death. But when awakened, he was seized with a divine terror, and restored in the same hour all that he took away, and so departed, going- onward with all liis men.' So says the chronicler, wishing, as may be well believed, to XXVI HOW HEREWARD FULFILLED HLS WORDS 243 advance the glory of St. Peter, and to purge his hero's name from the stain of sacrilege. Besides, the monks of Peter borougli, no doubt, had no wish that the world should spy out their nakedness, and become aware that the Golden Borough was stripped of all its gold. Nevertheless, truth will out. Golden Borough was Golden Borough no more. The treasures were never restored ; they went to sea with the Danes, and were scattered far and wide — to Norway, to Ireland, to Denmark ; ' all the spoils,' says tlie Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, ' which reached the latter country, being the pallium and some of the slirines and crosses ; and many of tlie other treasures they brought to one of the king's towns, and laid thera up in the church. But one night, through their care- lessness and drunkenness, the church was burned, with all that was therein. Thus was the minster of Peterborough burned and pillaged. ]\ray Almighty God have pity on it in His great mercy. And thus Abbot Turold came to Peterborough. . . . When Bishop Egelric heard this, he excommunicated the men who had done this evil. There was a great famine this year.' Hereward, when blamed for the deed, said always that he did it ' because of his allegiance to the monastery.' And some of the treasure, at least, he must have surely given back, he so appeased the angry shade of St. Peter. For on that night, when marching past Stamford, he and his lost their way. ' To whom a certain wonder happened, and a miracle, if it can be said that such would be worked in favour of men of blood. For while in the wild night and dark they wandered in the wood, a huge wolf met them, wagging his tail like a tame dog, and went before them on a path. And they, taking the gray beast in the darkness for a wliite dog, cheered on each other to follow him to his farm, which ought to be hard by. And in the silence of the midnight, that they miglit see their way, suddenly candles appeared, burning and clinging to tlie lances of all tlie knights — not very bright, however : but like those wliicli the folk called candelfe nympharum — wills of the wisp. But none could pull them off, or altogether extinguish them, or throw them from their hands. And thus they saw their way, and went on, although astonished out of mind, with the wolf leading them until day dawned, and they saw, to their great astonishment, tliat he was a wolf. And as they questioned among themselves about what liad befallen, the wolf and the candles disappeared, and they came whither they had been minded, beyond Stamford town, thanking (iod, and wondering at what liad happened.' After which Hereward took Torfrida, and liis cliild, and all he had, and took ship at Bardeney, and went for Ely. Which when Earl Warrenne heard, he laid wait for him, seemingly near Littleport : but got notliing thei-eby, according to Richard of Ely, but the pleasure of giving and taking a great deal of bad language ; and (after his men had refused, reasonably enough. 244 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. to swim the O use and attack Hereward) an arrow, which Here- ward, niodicum se inc/uians, stoojiing forward, says the chronicler —who probably saw the deed— shot at him across the Ouse, as the earl stood cursing on the top of the dyke. Which arrow flew so stout and strong, that tiiough it sprang back from Earl Warrenne's hauberk, it knocked him almost senseless off" his horse, and forced him to defer his purpose of avenging Sir Frederic his brother. After wliich Hereward threw liimself into Ely, and assumed, by consent of all, the command of the English who were therein. CHAPTER XXVII HOW THEY HELB A GREAT MEETING IN THE HALL OF ELY There sat round the hall of Ely all the magnates of the east land and east sea. The abbot was on his high seat ; and on a seat higher than his, prepared specially, Sweyn Ulfsson, King of Denmark and England. By them sat the bishops, Egelwin the Englishman and Christiern tlie Dane ; Asbiorn ; tlie young Earls Edwin and Morcar, and Sweyn's two sons ; and, it may be, the sons of Tosti Godwinsson, and Arkill the great thane, and Siward Barn, and Hereward himself. Below them were knights. Vikings, captains, great liolders from Denmark, and the prior and inferior officers of Ely minster. And at the bottom of the misty hall, on the other side of the column of blue vapour which went trembling up from the great heap of burning turf amidst, were housecarles, monks, wild men from the Baltic shores, crowded together to hear what was done in that parliament of their betters. Tliey spoke like free Danes ; the betters from the upper end of the hall, but every man as he chose. They were in full Thing ; in parliament, as their forefathers had been wont to be for countless ages. Their House of Lords and their House of Commons were not yet deffned from each other : but they knew the rules of the house, the courtesies of debate ; and, by jDractice of free speech, had educated themselves to bear and forbear, like gentlemen. But the speaking was loud and earnest, often angry that day. 'What was to be done?' was the question before the liouse. 'That depended,' said Sweyn, the wise and prudent king, 'on what could be done by the English to co-operate with them.' And what that was has been already told. 'When Tosti Godwinsson, ye bishops, jarls, kniglits, and holders, came to me ffve years ago, and bade me take my rights in this land of England, I answered him that I had not wit enough to do the deeds which Canute my uncle did ; and so sat XXVII HOW THEY^ELD A GREAT MEETING 245 still in peace. I little thought that I should have lost in five years so much of those small wits to which I confessed, that I should come after all to take my rightful kingdom of England, and find two kings in it already, both moi'e to the English mind than I am. While William the Frenchman is king by the sword, and Edgar the Englishman king by i^roclamation of earls and thanes, there seems no room here for Sweyn, nephew of Canute, king of kings.' ' We will make room for you ! We will make a rid road from here to W^inchester ! ' sliouted the meeting, with one voice. ' It is too late. What say you, Hereward Leofricsson, who go for a wise man among men ? ' Hereward rose, and spoke gracefully, earnestly, eloquently : but he could not deny Sweyn's jolain words. ' The Wake beats about the bush,' said Jarl Asbiorn, rising when Hereward sat down. ' None knows better than he that all is over. Earl Edwin and Earl j\Iorcar, who should have helped us along Watling Street, are here fugitives. Earl Gos- patric and Earl Waltheof are William's men now, soon to raise the landsfolk against us. We had better go home before we have eaten up the monks of Ely.' Then Hereward rose again, and without an openly insvdting word poured forth his scorn and rage upon Asbiorn. Why had he not kept to the agreement which he and Countess Gyda had made with him through Tosti's sons ? Why had he wasted time and men from Dover to Norwich, instead of coming straight into the fens, and marching inland to succour Morcar and Edwin ? Asbiorn had ruined the plan, and he only, if it was ruined. 'And who was I, to obey The Wake?' asked Asbiorn fiercely. 'And who wert thou, to disobey me?' asked Sweyn in a tei'rible voice. ' Hereward is riglit. We shall see what thou sayest to all this, in full Thing at home in Denmark.' ^ Then Edwin rose, entreating peace. 'They were beaten. The hand of God was against them. Why should they struggle any more ? Or, if they struggled on, why should they involve the Danes in their own ruin 1 ' Then man after man rose, and spoke rough Danish common sense. They had come hither to win England. They had found it won already. Let tliem take what they had got from Peter- borougli, and go. Then Winter sprang up. ' Take tlio pay, and sail off with it, without liaving done the Avork ? That would be a noble tale to carry home to your fair wives in Jutland. I shall not call you niddering, being a man of peace, as all know.' Whereat all laughed ; for the douglity little man had not a hand's breadth on head or arm without its scai'. ' But if your ladies call you ^ Asbiorn is said to have been outlawed on his return home. 'M6 HEREAVARD THE %AKE CHAP. SO, you must lla^'e a shrewd answer to give, beside knocking them down.' Sweyn spoke without rising—' The good kniglit forgets that this expedition has cost Denmark already nigh as much as Harold Hardraade's cost Norway. It is hard upon the Danes, if they are to go away empty-handed as well as disappointed.' ' Tlie king has right ! ' cried Hereward. ' Let them take the plunder of Peterborough as pay for what they have done, and what besides they would liave done if Asbiorn the jarl— nay, men of England, let us be just !— what Asbiorn himself would liave done if there had been heart and wit, one mind and one purpose, in England. The Danes have done their best. They have shown themselves what they are, our blood and kin. I know that some talk of treason, of bribes. Let us have no more such vain and foul suspicions. They came as our friends ; and as our friends let them go, and leave us to fight out our own quarrel to the last drop of blood.' ' Would God ! ' said Sweyn, ' thou wouldest go too, thou good knight. Here, earls and gentlemen of England ! Sweyn Ulfs- son offers to every one of you, who will come to Denmark with him, shelter and hospitality till better times shall come.' Then arose a mixed cry. Some would go, some would not. So_me_ of the Danes took the proposal cordially ; some feared bringing among themselves men wJio would needs want land, of which there was none to give. If the English came, they must go up the Baltic, and conquer fresh lands for themselves from heathen Letts and Finns. Then Hereward rose again, and spoke so nobly and so well that all ears were charmed. They were Englishmen ; and they would rather die in their own merry England than win new kingdoms in the cold north- east. Tliey were sworn, the leaders of them, to die or conquer, lighting the accursed Frenclmian. They were bound to St. Peter, and to St. Guthlac, and to St. Felix of Eamsey, and St. Etheldreda the holy virgin beneath whose roof they stood, to defend against Frenchmen the saints of England whom they despised and blasphemed, whose servants tliey cast' out, thrust into prison, and murdered, that they might bring in Frenchmen from Normandy, Italians from the Pope of Eome. Sweyn Ulfsson spoke as became him, as a prudent and a generous prince ; the man Avho alone of all kings defied and fought the great Hardraade till neither could fight more ; the true nephew of Canute the king of kings : and they thanked him : but tliey would live and die Englishmen. And every Englishman shouted, 'Hereward is right! We wdll live and die fighting the French.' And Sweyn Ulfsson rose again, and said with a great oath, ' That if there had been three such men as Hereward in England, all would have gone well.' XXVII HOW THEY HELD A GREAT MEETING 247 Hereward laughed. ' Thou art wrong for once, wise king. We have failed, just because there were a dozen men in England as good as I, every man wanting his own way ; and too many cooks have sj^oiled the broth. Wliat we wanted is not a dozen men like me, but one like thee, to take us all by the back of the neck and shake us soundly, and say, " Do that, or die ! " ' And so, after much talk, the meeting broke up. And when it broke up, there came to Hereward in the hall a noble-looking man of his own age, and put his hand within his, and said — ' Do you not know me, Hereward Leofricsson V 'I know thee not, good knight, more pity ; but by thy dress and carriage, thou shouldest be a true Vikingsson.' ' I am Sigtryg Eanaldsson, now King of Waterford. And my wife said to me, " If there be treachery or faint-heartedness, remember this — that Hereward Leofricsson slew the ogre, and Hannibal of Marazion likewise, and brought me safe to thee. And, therefore, if thou provest false to him, niddering thou art ; and no niddering is sjwuse of mine."' ' Thou art Sigtryg Ranaldsson ? ' cried Hereward, clasping him in his arms, as the scenes of his wild youth rushed across his mind. ' Better is old wine than new, and old friends likewise.' ' And I, and my five ships, are thine to death. Let who will go back.' ' They must go,' said Hereward, half -peevishly. ' Sweyn has right, and Asbiorn too. The game is played out. Sweep the cliessmen off' the board, as Earl Ulf did by Canute the king.' 'And lost his life thereby. I shall stand by, and see thee play the last pawn.' ' And lose thy life in likewise.' ' What matter 1 I lieard thee sing — ' " A bed-death, a priest death, A straw death, a cow death, Such death Ukes not me." Nor likes it me either, Hereward Leofricsson.' So the Danes sailed away : but Sigtryg Ixanaldsson and his live ships remained. Hereward went up to the minster tower • and watched the Ouse flashing with countless oars northward toward Southrey Fen. And when they were all out of sight, he went back, and lay down on his bed, and wept — once and for all. Then he arose, and went down into the hall to abbots and monks, and earls and knights, and was the boldest, cheeriest, wittiest of them all. 'They say,' quoth he to Torfrida that night, 'that some men have gray heads on green shoulders. I have a gray heart in a green body.' ' And my heart is growing very gray too,' said Torfrida. 248 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' Certainly not thy head.' And he played with her raven locks. ' That may come, too ; and too soon.' For, indeed, they were in very evil case. CHAPTER XXVIII HOW THEY FOUGHT AT ALDEETH When William heard that the Danes were gone, he marched on Ely, as on an easy prey. Ivo Taillebois came with him, hungry after those Spalding lands, the rents whereof Hereward had been taking for his men for now twelve months. William de Warrenne was there, vowed to revenge the death of Sir Frederic, his brother. Ralph Guader was there, flushed with his success at Norwich. And with them were all the Frenchmen of the east, who had been either expelled from their lands, or were in fear of expulsion. With them, too, was a great army of mercenaries, ruffians from all France and Flanders, hired to fight for a certain term, on the chance of plunder or of fiefs in land. Their brains were all aflame with the tales of inestimable riches hidden in Ely. There were there the jewels of all the monasteries round ; there were the treasures of all the fugitive English nobles ; there were there — what was there not ? And they grumbled when William halted them and hutted them at Cambridge, and began to feel cautiously the strength of the place — which must be strong, or Hereward and the English would not have made it their camp of refuge. Perhaps he rode up to Madingley windmill ; and saw fifteen miles away, clear against the sky, the long line of what seemed nought but a low upland park, with the minster tower among the trees ; and between him and them, a rich champaign of grass, over wliich it was easy enough to march all the armies of Eurojje ; and thought Ely an easy place to take. But men told him that between him and those trees hxy a black abyss of mud and jDeat and reeds, Haddenham fen and Smithy fen, with tlie deep sullen West water or ' Ald-reche ' ^ of the Ouse winding through them. Tlie old Roman road to Stretham was sunk and gone long since under the bog, whether by English neglect, or whether (as some think) by actual and bodily sinking of the whole land. The narrowest space between dry land and dry ^ I give the supposed etymologies of one of the various spellings of 'Alrehede,' now Aldreth. A better is Alre-hythe, the Aldershore ; a better still, perhaps, St. Etheldreda, or Audrey, herself. St. Audrey's Causeway leads to the spot ; St. Audrey's well is, or was, on the slope above ; and the name of the place may be simply Audrey's Hythe. XXVIII HOW THEY FOUGHT AT ALDRETH 249 land was a full half-mile ; and how to cross that half-mile, no man knew. What were the ajiproaches on the west 1 There were none. Beyond Earith, where now run the great washes of the Bedford Level, was a howling wilderness of meres, eas, reed-ronds, and floating alder-beds, tlirough which only the fen-men wandered, with leaping-pole and log-canoe.^ What in the east ? The dry land neared the island on that side. And it may be that William rowed round by Burwell to Fordham and Soham, and thought of attempting the island by way of Barraway ; and saw beneath him a labyrinth of islands, meres, fens, with the Cam, increased by the volume of the Ouse, spreading far deeper and broader than now between Barraway and Thetford-in-the-Isle ; and saw, too, that a disaster in that labyrinth might be a destruction." So he determined on the near and straight path, througli Long Stanton and Willingham, down tlie old bridle-way from Willingham ploughed field ; — every village there, and in the isle likewise, had and has still its ' field,' or ancient clearing of ploughed land — and then to try that terrible half-mile, with the courage and wit of a general to whom human lives were as those of the gnats under the hedge. So all his host camped themselves in Willingham field, by the old earthwork which men now call Belsar's Hills : and down the bridle -way poured countless men, bearing timber and faggots, cut from all the hills, that they might bridge the black lialf-mile. They made a narrow firm path through the reeds, and down to the brink of the Ouse, if brink it could be called, where the water, rising and falling a foot or two each tide, covered the floating peat for many yards, before it sunk into a brown depth of bottomless slime. They would make a bottom for themselves l)y driving piles. The piles would not hold ; and they began to make a floating l)ridge with long beams, say the chroniclers, and blown-up cattle-hides to float them. Soon they made a floating-sow, and thrust it on before them as they worked across the stream ; for they were getting under shot from the island. ^ The 'bridge two miles long,' which the Liber Eliensis says that "William made to the west of the isle, is surely only a traditional exaggera- tion of his repairs of Aldreth Causeway to the south-west. On the west, the isle must have been utterly unapproachable. - It may be well to explain to those who do not know the fens, that the Ouse formerly parted at the isle of Ely, half its waters runniTig east- ward by Aldreth into the Cam, half wandering northward to inundate vast morasses to the west of the isle. Through those morasses (now fer- tile helds), and above their level, the great works of the Bedford Level now convey the Ouse straight to the tide at Denver sluice. 250 HEREWARD THE AVAKE chap. Meanwhile the besieged had not been idle. They had thrown up a turf rampai-t on the island shore, and ' ante- muralia et propugnacula ' — doubtless overhanging 'hoardings,' or scaffolds, through the floor of which they could shower down missiles.^ And so they awaited the attack, contenting them- selves with gliding in and out of the reeds in their canoes, and annoying the builders with arrows and cross-bow bolts. At last the bridge was finished, and the sow safe across the Westwater ; and thrust in, as far as it would float, among the reeds on the high tide. They in the fort could touch it with a pole. The English would have destroyed it if they could. But The Wake bade them leave it alone. He had watched all their work, and made up his mind to the event. ' The rats have set a trap for themselves,' he said to his men ; 'and we shall be fools to break it up till the I'ats are safe inside.' So there the huge sow lay, black and silent, showing nothing to the enemy but a side of strong plank, covered with hide to prevent its heing burned. It lay there for three hours, and The Wake let it lie. He had never been so cheerful, so confident. ' Play the man this day, every one of you ; and ere nightfall you will have taught the Frenchman once more the lesson of York. He seems to have forgotten that. It is time to remind him of it.' And he looked to his bow and to his arrows, and prepared to play the man himself ; as was the fashion in those old days, when a general proved his worth by hitting harder and more surely than any of his men. At last the army was in motion, and Willingham field oppo- site was like a crawling ants' nest. Brigade after brigade moved down to tlie reed beds, and the assault began. And now advanced along the causeway, and along the bridge, a dark column of men, surmounted by glittering steel ; knights in complete mail ; footmen in leather coats and jerkins ; at first ordei-ly enough, each under the banner of his lord : but more and more mingled and crowded, as each hurried forward, eager for his selfish share of the inestimable treasures of Ely. They joushed along the bridge. The mass became more and more crowded ; men stumbled over each other, and fell off" into the mire and water, calling vainly for help : but their comrades hurried on unheeding, in the mad thirst for spoil. On they came in thousands ; and fresh thousands streamed out of the fields, as if the whole army intended to pour itself into the isle at once. 'They are numberless,' said Torfrida, in a serious and astonished voice, as she stood by Hereward's side. 1 Was this 'Hereward's Fort,' which was still shown in the feus in the days of Roger of AVendover ? XXVI I r now THEY FOUGHT AT ALDRETH 251 'Would they were!' said Hereward. 'Let them come on, thick and threefold. The more their numbers, the fatter will the fish below be, before to-morrow morning. Look there, already ! ' And already the bridge was swaying, and sinking^ beneath their weight. The men, in jilaces, were ankle deep in water. They rushed on all tlie more eagerly ; filled the sow, and swarmed up to its roof. Then, what with its own weight, what witli the weight of the laden bridge which dragged upon it from beiiind, the huge sow began to tilt backwards, and slide down the slimy bank. The men on the top tried vainly to keep their footing ; to hurl grapnels into the rampart ; to shoot ofl:" their quarrels and arrows. 'You must be quick. Frenchmen,' shouted Hereward in deri- sion, 'if you mean to come on board here.' The French knew that Avell : and as Hereward spoke, two panels in the front of the sow creaked on their hinges, and dropped landward, forming two drawbridges, over which reeled to the attack a close body of knights, mingled with soldiers bearing scaling ladders. They recoiled. Between the ends of the drawbridges and the foot of the rampart was some two fathoms' breadth of black ooze. The catastrophe which The Wake had foreseen was come, and a shout of derision arose from the unseen defenders above. ' Come on, leap it like men ! Send back for your horses, knights, and ride them at it like bold huntsmen ! ' The front rank could not but rush on for the pressure behind forced them forward, Avhether they would or not. In a moment they were wallowing waist deep ; trampled on ; disappearing under their struggling comrades, who disappeared in their turn. ' Look, Torfrida ! If they plant their scaling ladders, it will Ije on a foundation of their comrades' corpses.' Torfrida gave one glance through the openings of tlie hoard- ing upon the writhing mass below, and turned awaj^ in horror. The men were not so merciful. Down between the hoarding beams rained stones, javelins, arrows, increasing the agony and death. The scaling ladders would not stand in the mire ; if they had stood a moment, the struggles of the dying would have thrown them down. And still fresh victims pressed on from liehind, shouting ' Dex Aie ! On to the gold of Ely ! ' and still the sow, under the weight, slipped farther and farther back into the stream, and the foul gulf widened between besiegers and besieged. At last one scaling ladder was planted upon the bodies of the dead, and hooked firmly on the gunwale of the hoarding. Ere it could ])e liurled off again by the Englisli, it was so crowded with men that even Ilereward's strength was insufficient to lift 252 HEREWARD THE WAKE ciiAr. it off! He stood at the top, ready to hew down the first comer ; and he hewed him down. But tiie French were not to be daunted. Man after man dropped dead from the ladder top, — man after man took his place ; sometimes scrambling over each other's backs. The English, even in the insolence of victory, cheered them with honest admiration. 'You are fellows worth fighting, you French ! ' 'So we are,' shouted a knight, the first and last who crossed that parapet ; for, thrusting Hereward back with a blow of his sword-hilt, he staggered jDast him over the hoarding, and fell on his knees. A dozen men were upon him : but he was up again and shouting — ' To me, men-at-arms ! A Deda ! A Deda ! ' But no man answered. ' Yield ! ' quoth Hereward. Sir Deda answered by a blow on Hereward's helmet, which felled The Wake to his knees, and broke the sword into twenty splinters. ' Well hit ! ' said Hereward, as he rose. ' Don't touch him, men ! this is my quarrel now. Yield, sir ! you have done enough for your honour. It is madness to throw away your life.' The knight looked round on the fierce ring of faces, in the midst of which he stood alone. ' To none but The Wake.' 'The Wake ami' 'Ah,' said the knight, 'had I but hit a little harder ! ' ' You would have broke your sword into more splinters. My armour is enchanted. So yield like a reasonable and valiant man.' ' What care 1 1 ' said the knight, stepping on to the earth- work, and sitting down quietly. 'I vowed to St. Mary and King William that into Ely I would get this day ; and in Ely I am ; so I have done my work.' ' And now you shall taste — as such a gallant knight deserves — the hospitality of Ely.' It was Torfrida who spoke. ' My husband's prisoners are mine ; and I, when I find them such gallant knights as you are, have no lighter chains for them than that which a lady's bower can afford.' Sir Deda was going to make an equally courteous answer, when over and above the shouts and curses of tlie combatants rose a yell so keen, so dreadful, as made all hurry forward to the rampart. That whicli The Wake had foreseen was come at last. The Ijridge, strained more and more by its living bui'den, and by the falling tide, had parted, — not at the Ely end, where the XXIX HOW SIR DEDA BROUGHT NEWS FROM ELY 253 sliding of the sow took off the pressure, — but at the end nearest the camp. One sideway roll it gave, and then, turning over, engulfed in that foul stream the flower of Norman chivalry ; leaving a line — a full quarter of a mile in length — of wretches drowning in the dark water, or, more hideous still, in the bottomless slime of peat and mud. Thousands are said to have perished. Their armour and weapons were found at times by delvers and dykers for cen- turies after ; are found at times unto this day, beneath the rich drained cornfields whicli now fill up that black half-mile ; or in the bed of tlie narrow brook to which the Westwater, robbed of its streams by the Bedford Level, has dwindled down at last. William, they say, struck his tents and departed forthwith, 'groaning from deep grief of heart.' Eastward he went, and encamped the remains of his army at Brandon, where he seems to have begun tliat castle, the ruins of which still exist in Weeting Park hard by. He put a line of sentinels along the Rech-dyke, which men now call the Devil's Ditch ; and did his best to blockade the isle, as he could not storm it. And so ended the first battle of Aldreth. CHAPTER XXIX HOW SIR DEDA BKOUGHT NEWS FEOM ELY A MONTH after the fight, there came into the camp at Brandon, riding on an ambling pad, himself fat and well -liking, none other than Sir Deda. Boisterously he was received, as one alive from the dead ; and questioned as to his adventures and sufierings. ' Adventures I have had, and strange ones ; but as for suffer- ings — instead of fetter -galls, I bring back, as you see, a new suit of clothes ; instead of an empty and starved stomach, a surfeit from good victuals and good liquor ; and whereas I went into Ely on foot, I came out on a fast hackney.' So into William's tent he went ; and there he told his tale. 'So, Deda, my friend ?' quoth the duke in higli good humour, for he loved Deda. 'You seem to have been in good com- pany 1 ' 'Never in better, sire, save in your presence. Of the earls and knights in Ely, all I can say is, God's pity that they are rebels; for more gallant and courteous knights or more perfect warriors never saw I either in Normandy or at Constanti- nople, among the Varangers themselves.' 'Eh 1 and wliat are the names of these gallants, for you have used your eyes and ears, of course ? ' 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls — two fine young lads.' ' I know it. Go on,' and a aliade passed over William's brow 254 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. as lie thouglit of his own falsehood, and of his fair daughter, weeping in vain for the fair bridegroom whom he had promised to her. ' Siward Barn, as they call him, the boy Orgar, and Thurkil Barn. Those are the knights. Egelwin, Bishop of Durham, is there too ; and besides them all, and above them all, Hereward the Wake. The like of that knight I may have seen. His better saw I never.' ' Sir fool ! ' said Earl Warrenne, who had not yet — small blame to him — forgotten his brother's death. ' They have soused thy brains with their muddy ale, till thou knowest not friend from foe. What, hast thou to come hither praising up to the king's majesty such an outlawed villain as that, with whom no honest knight would keep company?' ' If you. Earl Warrenne, ever found Deda drunk or lying, it is more than the king here has done.' ' Let him speak, earl,' said William. ' I have not an honester man in my camp ; and he speaks for my information, not for yours.' ' Then for yours will I speak, sir king. These men treated me knightly, and sent me away without ransom.' ' They had an eye to their own profit, it seems,' grumbled the earl. ' But force me they did to swear on the holy Gospels that I should tell your majesty the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And I keep my oath,' quoth Deda. ' Go on, then, without fear or favour. Are there any other men of note in the island ? ' 'No.' 'Are they in want of provisions V 'Look how they have fattened me.' ' Wliat do they complain of ? ' ' I will tell you, sir king. The monks, like many more, took fright at the coming over of our French men of God to set right all their filthy barbarous ways ; and that is why they threw Ely open to tlie rebels.' ' I will be even with the sots,' quoth William. ' However, they think that danger blown over just now ; for they have a story among them, which, as my lord the king never heard before, he may as well hear now.' 'Eh?' ' How your majesty should have sent across the sea a whole shipload of French monks.' 'That have I, and will more, till I reduce these swine into something like obedience to his Holiness of Eome.' 'Ah, but your majesty has not heard how one Bruman, a valiant Engiisli knight, was sailing on the sea and caught those monks. Whereon he tied a great sack to the sIuid's head, and cut the bottom out, and made every one of those monks get into XXIX HOW SIR DEDA BROUGHT NEWS FROM ELY 255 that sack and so fall through into the sea ; whereby he rid the monks of Ely of their rivals.' ' Pish ! why tell me such an old wives' fable, knight ? ' 'Because the monks believe that old wives' fable, and are stout-hearted and stiff' necked accordingly.' 'The blood of martyrs is the seed of the Church,' said William's chaplain, a pupil and friend of Lanfranc : ' and if these men of Belial drowned every man of God in Normandy, ten would spring up in their places to convert this benighted and besotted land of Simonites and Balaamites, whose priests, like the brutes which perish, scruple not to defile themselves, and the service of the altar, with things which they impudently call their wives.' ' We know that, good chaplain,' quoth William impatiently. He had enough of that language from Lanfranc himself ; and, moreover, was thinking more of the isle of Ely than of the celi- bacy of the clergy. 'Well, Sir Deda?' ' So they liave got together all their kin ; for among these monks every one is kin to a thane, or knight, or even an earl : and there they are, brother by brother, cousin by cousin, knee to knee, and back to back, like a pack of wolves, and that in a hold which you will not enter yet awhile.' ' Does my friend Deda doubt his duke's skill at last ? ' 'Sir duke — sir king I mean now, for king you are and deserve to be — I know what you can do. I remember how we took England at one blow on Senlac field : but see you here, sir king, how will you take an island with four such saints to guard it as St. Etheldreda, St. Withberga, St. Sexberga, and St. Ermen- ilda?' 'By promising the holy ladies,' said William, with a smile, 'to lionour them better than ever did yet an English swine.' 'Amen : but again, how will you take an island where four kings such as you (if the world would liold four such at once) could not stop one churl from ploughing the land, or one bird- catcher from setting lime-twigs 'i ' ^ ' And what if I cannot stop the birdcatchers ? Do they ex- pect to lime Frenchmen as easily as sparrows 'i ' ' Sparrows ! It is not sparrows that I have been fattening on this last montli. I tell you, sire, I have seen wild fowl alone in that island enough to feed them all the year round. I was there in the moulting time, and saw them take — one day one hundred, one two liundred ; and once, as I am a belted knight, a thousand duck out of one single mere.^ There is a ^ I have followed Deda's account of Ely and its folk, as given both in the Peterborough MSS. and in the Liber Eliensis, almost word for word througliout. ^ Ficedulre (beccaficos, by whieli the good monk means wheatears and such small birds), coots, divers, ' watercrows,' cranes, and ducks. 256 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. wood tliere, with lierons sprawling about the tree-tops — I did not think tliere were so many in the world ; otters and weasels, ermines and jDole-cats, for fur robes ; and lisli for Lent and Fridays in every puddle and leat — pike and perch, roach and eels, on every old wife's table ; while the knights think scorn of anything worse than smelt and burbot.^ ' Splendeur Dex ! ' quoth William, who, Norman-like, did not dislike a good dinner. 'I must keep Lent in Ely before I die.' 'Then you had best make peace with the burbot-eating knights, my lord.' ' But have they flesh-meat 1 ' ' The island is half of it a garden — richer land, they say, is none in these realms, and I believe it : but besides that, there is a deer-park there with a thousand head in it, red and fallow, be- sides liares ; and plenty of swine and goats- in woods, and sheep and cattle : and if they fail there are plenty more to be got, they know where.' 'They know where? Do you, sir knight?' asked William keenly. ' Out of every little island in their fens, for forty miles on end. There are the herds fattening themselves on the richest pastures in the land, and no man needing to herd them, for they are all safe among dykes and meres.' 'I will make my boats sweep tlieir fens clear of every head ' ' Take care, my lord king, lest never a boat come back from that errand. With their narrow flat-bottomed punts, cut out of a single log, and their leaping-poles, wherewith they fly over dykes of thirty feet in width — they can ambuscade in those reed-beds and alder-beds, kill whom they will, and then flee away through the marsh, like so many horse-flies. And if not, one trick have they left, wliich they never try save when driven into a corner : but from that may all saints save us ! ' 'What then?' ' Firing the reeds.' 'And destroying their own cover?' ' True : therefore they will only do it in despair.' ' Then to despair will I drive them, and try their worst. So these monks ai'e as stout rebels as the earls ? ' ' I only say what I saw. At the hall-table there dined each day maybe some fifty belted knights, with every one a monk ^ ' Innumerable eels, great water-wolves and pickerel, perches, roaches, burbots, and murffinas, which we call water-serpents.' (These last seem to be mythical, unless the silurus glanis still lingered, as it may have done, in the waters of tlie Ouse.) 'Sometimes also isicii (smelts, I presume, as they are still abundant in the Ouse) ' and the royal fish rumbus ' (turbot) : surely a misnomer for the sturgeon. - That the goat as well as the stag was common in tlie fens, the horns found in peat and gravel testify. XXIX HOW SIR DEDA BROUGHT NEWS FROM ELY 257 next to him ; and at tlie high table the abbot, and the earls, and Hereward and his lady. And behind each knight, and each monk likewise, hung against the wall, lance and shield, helmet and hauberk, sword and axe.' ' To monk as well as knight 1 ' 'As I am a knight myself; and were as well used, too, for aught I saw. The monks took turns with the knights as sentries, and as foragers likewise ; and the knights themselves told me opeidy, the monks were as good men as they.' ' As wicked, you mean,' groaned the chaplain. ' O accursed and bloodthirsty race, why does not the earth open and swallow you, with Korah, Dathan, and Abiram ? ' ' They would not care,' quoth Deda. ' They are born and bred in the bottomless pit already. They would jump over, or floun- der out, as they do to their own bogs every day.' ' You speak irreverently, my friend,' quoth William. 'Ask those who are in camp, and not me. As for whither they went, or how, the English were not likely to tell me. All that I know is, that I saw fresh cattle come in every few days, and fresh farms burnt, too, on the Norfolk side. There were farms burning only last night, between here and Cambridge. Ask your sentinels on the Eech-dyke how that came about ! ' ^ ' I can answer that,' quoth a voice from the other end of the tent. ' I was on the Rech-dyke last night, close down to the fen — worse luck and shame for me.' 'Answer, then ! ' quoth William, with one of his fiercest oaths, glad to have some one on whom he could turn his rage and dis- appointment. ' There came seven men in a boat up from Ely yestereven, and five of them were monks ; they came up from Burwell fen, and plundered and burnt Burwell town.' 'And wliere were all you mighty men of war ? ' 'Ten of ours ran down to stop them, with Richard, Viscount Osbert's nephew, at their head. The villains came at a foot's pace up the Rech-dyke, and attacked them at lance-point ; and before we could get to them ' ' Thy men had run, of course.' ' They were every one dead or wounded, save Richard ; and lie was fighting single-handed with an Englishman, while the other six stood around, and looked on.' 'Then they fouglit fairly?; said William. ' As fairly, to do them justice, as if they had been Frenchmen, and not English churls. As we came down along the dyke, a little man of tliem steps between the two, and strikes up their ^ See § 23 of the De Gcstis Hcreivardi, presumed to be l)y Richard of Ely, 'And wliile lie liad lianlly finished liis speech,' etc. Tliose who love to investigate the growth of myths, may profitably amuse tlieniselves by comparing that account with § 106 of the Liber Eliensis. The omissions will be as instructive as the insertions. S II. r. w. 258 HEREWARD THE AVAKE chap. swords as if they had been two i-eeds. " Come ! " cries he, " enough of this. You are two stout knights well matched, and you can fight out this any other day ; " and away he and his men go down the dyke end to the water.' ' Leaving Richard safe ? ' ' Wounded a little — but safe enough.' ' And then ? ' ' We followed them to tlie boat as hard as we could ; killed one of their boatmen with a javelin, and caught another.' ' Knightly done ! ' and William swore an awful oath, ' and worthy of valiant Frenchmen. These English set you the ex- ample of chivalry by letting your comrade tight his own battle fairly, instead of setting on him all together ; and you repay them by hunting them down with darts, because you dare not go within sword's-stroke of better men than yourselves. Go. I am ashamed of you. No, stay. Where is your prisoner ? For, Splendeur Dex, I will send him back safe and sound in return for Deda, to tell the knights of Ely that if they know so well the courtesies of war, William of Rouen does too.' ' The prisoner, sire,' quoth the knight, trembling, ' is — is ' ' You have not murdered him 1 ' ' Heaven foi-bid ! but ' ' He broke his bonds and escaped 1 ' ' Gnawed them through, sire, as we supposed, and escaped through the mire in the dark, after the fashion of these accursed frogs of Girvians.' ' But did he tell you nought ere he bade you good morning 1 ' ' He told us the names of all the seven. He that beat down the swords was Hereward himself.' ' I thought as much. When shall I have that fellow at my side?' ' He that fought Richard was one Wenoch.' ' I have heard of liim.' ' He that we took was Azer the Hardy, a monk of Nicole — Licole. And the rest were Turstan the Younger ; one Siward, another monk ; Leofric the deacon, Hereward's minstrel ; and Boter, the traitor monk of St. Edmund's.' ' And if I catch them,' quoth William, ' I will make an abbot of every one of them.' ' Sire ? ' quoth the chaplain, in a deprecating tone. CHAPTER XXX HOW HEREWARD PLAYED THE POTTER ; AND HOW HE CHEATED THE KING They of Ely were now much straitened, being shut in both by land and water ; and what was to be done, either by themselves XXX HOW HEREWARD PLAYED THE POTTER 259 or by the king, they knew not. Woukl William simply starve them ; or at least inflict on them so perpetual a Lent — for of fish there could be no lack, even if they ate or drove away all the fowl — as would tame down their proud spirits ; which a diet of fish and vegetables, from some ludicrous theory of monastic physicians, was supposed to do 1 ^ Or was he gathering vast armies, from they knew not whence, to try, once and for all, another assault on the island — it might be from several points at once ? They must send out a spy, and find out news from the outer woi'ld, if news were to be gotten. But who would go 1 So asked the bishop, and the abbot, and the earls, in council in the abbot's lodging. Torf rida was among them. She was always among them now. She was their Alruna-wife, their wise woman, whose counsels all received as more than human. 'I will go,' said she, rising up like a goddess on Olympus. ' I will cut off* my hair, and put on boy's clothes, and smirch my- self brown with walnut-leaves ; and I will go. I can talk their French tongue. I know their French ways ; and as for a story to cover my journey and my doings, trust a woman's wit to invent that.' They looked at lier, with delight in her courage, but witli doubt. ' If William's Frencli grooms got hold of you, Torf rida, it would not be a little walnut-brown which would hide you,' said Hereward. 'But it is like you to offer — worthy of you, who liave no peer.' ' That she has not,' quoth churchmen and soldiers alike. 'Nevertheless — to send you would be to send Tlie Wake's praying half ; and that would be bad religion. The Wake's fighting half is going, while you pray here as well as watch.' ' Uncle, uncle ! ' said the young earls, ' send Winter, Gery, Leofwin Prat, any of your good men : but not yourself. If we lose you, we lose our liead and our king.' And all becged Hereward to let any man go, rather than him- self. ' I am going, lords and knights ; and what Hereward says lie does. It is one day to Brandon. It may be two days back ; for if I miscarry — as I most likely shall — I must come home round about. On the fourth day, you shall hear of me or from me. Come with me, Torf rida.' And he strode out. He cropped his golden locks, he cropped his golden beard ; and Torfrida wept, as she cropi)ed them, half with fear for him, lialf for sorrow over his shorn glories. 1 The Cornish — the stoutest, tallest, and most prohfic race of the South — live on hardly anything else but fish and vegetables. 260 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. 'I am no Samson, my lady; my strength lieth not in my locks. Now for some rascal's clothes — as little dirty as you can get me, for fear of compaiTy.' And Hereward jjut on iiltliy garments ; and taking mare Swallow witli him, got into a barge and went across the river to Soham. He could not go down the Great Ouse, and up the Little Ouse, which was liis easiest way, for the French held all the river below the isle ; and, besides, to have come straight from Ely might cause suspicion. So he went down to Fordham, and crossed the Lark at Mildenliall ; and just before he got to Mil- denhall, he met a potter carrying pots upon a pony. 'Halt, my stout churl,' quoth he, 'and put thy pots on my mare's back.' 'Tlie man who wants them must fight for them,' quoth that stout churl, I'aising a heavy statf. ' Then here is he that will,' quoth Hereward ; and^ jumping off his mare, he twisted the stafi" out of the potter's hands, and knocked him down therewith. 'That will teach thee to know an Englishman when thou seest him.' ' I have met my master,' quoth the churl, rubbing his head. ' But dog does not eat dog ; and it is hard to be robbed by an Englisliman, after being robbed a dozen times by the French.' ' I will not rolj thee. Tliere is a silver penny for thy pots and thy coat — for that I must have likewise. And if thou tellest to mortal man aught about tliis, I will find those who will cut thee up for dogs' meat ; but if not, then turn thy horse's head and ride back to Ely, if thou canst cross the water, and say what has befallen tliee ; and thou wilt find there an abbot who will give thee another penny for thy news.' So Hereward took the pots, and the potter's clay-greased coat, and went on through Mildenhall, 'crying,' saith the chronicler, ' after the manner of potters, in the English tongue, " Pots ! pots ! good pots and pans ! " ' But when he got through Mildenhall, and well into the rabbit- warrens, he gave mare Swallow a kick, and went over the lieath so fast northward, that his pots danced such a dance as broke half of them before he got to Brandon. ' Never mind,' quoth lie, ' they will think that I have sold them.' And when he neai-ed Brandon he pulled up, sorted his pots, kept the whole ones, threw the shreds at the rabbits, and walked on into Brandon solemnly, leading the mare, and crying ' Pots ! ' So ' semper marcida et deformis aspectu ' — lean and ill-look- ing — was tliat famous mare, says the chronicler, that no one would suspect her splendid powers, or take her for anything but a potter's nag, when she was caparisoned in proper character. Hereward felt thoroughly at home in his part ; as able to play XXX HOW HEREWARD PLAYED THE POTTER 261 the Englishman wliich lie was by rearing, as the Frenchman which he was by education. He was full of heart and happy. He enjoyed the keen fresh air of the warrens ; he enjoyed the i-amble out of tlie isle, in which he had been cooped up so long ; he enjoyed the jest of the thing — disguise, stratagem, adventure, danger. And so did the English, who adored him. None of The Wake's crafty deeds is told so carefully and lovingly ; and none, doubt it not, was so often sung in after years by farm-house hearths, or in the outlaws' lodge, as this. Eobin Hood himself may have trolled out many a time, in doggrel strain, how Here- ward played the potter. And he came to Brandon, to the ' king's court,' from which William could command the streams of Wissey and Little Ouse, with all their fens ; and saw with a curse the new buildings of Weeting Castle — like the rest, of which Sir F. Palgrave elo- quently says — ' New, and strong, and cruel in their strength — how the Englishman must have loathed the damp smell of the fresh mortar, and the sight of the heaps of rubble, and the chip- pings of the stone, and the blurring of the lime upon the green sward ; and how hopeless he must have felt when the great gates opened, and the wains were drawn in, heavily laden witli the salted beeves, and the sacks of corn and meal furnished by the royal demesnes, the manors which had belonged to Edward the Confessor, now the spoil of the stranger : and wlien he looked into the castle court, thronged by the soldiers in bright mail, and heard the carpenters working upon the ordnance — every blow and stroke, even of the hammer or mallet, speaking the language of defiance.' These things The Wake saw : and felt, like others, hopeless for the moment. And there rang in his ears his own message to William. 'When thou art king of all England, I will put my hands between thine, and be thy man.' ' He is not king of all England yet ! ' thought he again ; and drew himself up so proudly, that one passing by jeered him — 'There goes a bold swaggerer enough, to be selling pots abroad.' The Wake slouched his shoulders ; and looked as mean a churl as ever. Next he cast about for a night's lodging, for it was dark. Outside the town was a wretched cabin of mud and turf — sucli a one as Irish folk live in to this day ; and Hereward said to himself, ' This is Ijad enough to be good enough for me.' So he knocked at the door ; and knocked till it was opened and a hideous old crone put out her head. ' Who wants to see me at this time of night ? ' ' Any one would, who had heard how beautiful you are. Do you want any pots ? ' 'Pots? What have I to do with pots, thou saucy fellow? I thought it was some one wanting a cliann.' And she .shut the door. 262 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. 'A charm?' thought Hereward. 'Maybe she can tell me news, if slie be a witch. They are shrewd souls, these witches, and know more than they tell. And if I can get any news, I care not if Satan brings it in person.' So he knocked again, till the old woman looked out once more, and bade him angrily be off. ' But I am belated here, good dame, and afraid of tlie French. And I will give thee the best bit of clay on my mare's back— pot —pan— panshin— crock— jug, or what thou wilt, for a night's lodging.' ' Have you any little jars— jars no longer than my hand 1 ' asked she • for she used them in her trade, and liad broken one of late : but to pay for one, she had neither money nor mind. So she agreed to let Hereward sleep there, for the value of two jars.— 'But what of that ugly brute of a horse of thine ?' ' Slie will do well enough in the turf-shed.' 'Tlien thou must pay witli a panshin.' ' Ugh ! ' groaned Hereward ; ' thou drivest a hard bargain, for an Englishwoman, with a poor Englishman.' ' How knowest thou that I am English 1 ' 'So much the better if thou art not,' thought Hereward ; and bargained witli her for a panshin against a lodging for the horse in tlie turf-house, and a bottle of bad hay. Then he went in, bringing his panniers with him with osten- tatious care. ' Thou canst sleep there on the rushes. I have nought to give thee to eat.' ' Nought needs nought,' said Hereward ; threw himself down on a bundle of rush, and in a few minutes snored loudly. But he was never less asleep. He looked round the whole place ; and he listened to every word. The devil, as usual, was a bad paymaster ; for the witch's cabin seemed only somewhat more miserable than that of other old women. The floor was mud, the rafters unceiled ; the stars shone through the turf roof. The only hint of her trade was a hanging shelf, on which stood five or six little earthen jars, and a few packets of leaves. A parchment, scrawled with characters which the owner herself probably did not understand, hung against the cob wall ; and a human skull — probably used only to f rigliten her patients — dangled from the roof -tree. But in a corner, stuck against the wall, was something which cliilled Hereward's blood a little ; — a dried human hand, which he knew must have been stolen off tlie gallows, gripping in its fleshless fingers a candle, wliicli he knew was made of human fat. That candle, he knew, duly lighted and carried, would enable the witch to walk unseen into any house on earth, yea, through the court of King William himself, while it drowned all men in preternatural slumber. XXX HOW HEREWARD PLAYED THE POTTER 263 Hereward was very much frightened. He believed devoutly in the powers of a witch. So he trembled on his ruslies, and wished himself safe througli that adventure, without being turned into a hare or a wolf. 'I would sooner be a wolf than a hare, of course : but — who comes here 1 ' And to the first old crone, who sat winking her bleared eyes, and warming her bleared hands over a little heap of peat in the middle of the cabin, entered another crone, if jjossible uglier. ' Two of them ! If I am not roasted and eaten this night, I am a lucky man.' And Hereward crossed himself devoutly, and invoked St. Ethelfrida of Ely, St. Guthlac of Crowland, St. Felix of Eamsey — to which last saint, he recollected, he had been somewhat remiss : but above all, St. Peter of Peterborough, whose trea- sures he had given to the Danes. And he argued stoutly with St. Peter and with his own conscience, that the means sanctify the end, and that he had done it all for the best. ' If thou wilt help me out of this strait, and the rest, blessed apostle, I will give thee — I will go to Constantinople but what I will win it — a golden table, twice as fine as those villains carried off ; and one of the Bourne manors — Witham — or Toft — or Mainthorpe — whichever pleases thee best, in full fee ; and a — and a ' But while Hereward was casting in his mind what gewgaw further might suflace to appease the apostle, he was recalled to business and common sense by hearing the two old hags talk to each other in French. His heart leaped for joy, and he forgot St. Peter utterly. ' Well, how have you sped ? Have you seen the king ? ' ' No ; but Ivo Taillebois. Eh ? Who the foul fiend have you lying there?' ' Only an English brute. He cannot understand us. Talk on : only don't wake the hog. Have you got the gold 1 ' ' Never mind.' Then there was a grumbling and a quarrelling, from which Hereward understood that the gold was to ]je shared between them. ' But it is a bit of a chain. To cut it will spoil it.' The other insisted ; and he heard them chop the gold chain in two. ' And is this all r ' I had work enough to get tliat. He said, no play no pay ; and ho would give it me after the isle was taken. But I told him my spirit was a Jewish spirit, that used to serve Solomon the Wise ; and he would not serve me, much less come over the sea from Normandy, unless he smelt gold ; for he loved it like any Jew.' 2Gi HERE WARD THE WAKE chap. ' And what did you tell him then 1 ' ' That the king must go back to Aldreth again ; for only from thence would he take the isle ; for — and that was true enougli — I dreamt I saw all the water of Aldreth full of wolves, clam- bering over into the island on each other's backs.' ' That means that some of them will be drowned.' ' Let them drown. I left him to hnd out that part of the dream himself. Then I told him liow he must make another causeway, bigger and stronger than the last, and a tower on whicli I could stand and curse the English. And I promised him to bring a storm right in the faces of the English, so that they could neither fight nor see.' ' But if the storm does not come ? ' ' It will come. I know the signs of the sky — who better ? — and the weatlier will break up in a week. Therefore I told him he must begin his works at once, before the rain came on ; and that we would go and ask tlie guardian of the well ^ to tell us the fortunate day for attacking.' ' That is my business,' said the other; 'and my spirit likes the smell of gold as well as yours. Little you would have got from me, if you had not given me half the chain.' Then the two rose. ' Let us see whether the English hog is asleep.' One of them came and listened to Hereward's breathing, and put her hand upon his chest. His hair stood on end ; a cold sweat came over him. But he snored more loudly than ever. The two old crones went out satisfied. Then Hereward rose, and glided after them. They went down a meadow to a little well, which Hereward liad marked as he rode thither hung round witli bits of rag and flowers, as similar ' holy wells ' are decorated in Ireland to this day. He hid behind a hedge, and watched them stooping over the well, mumbling he knew not what of cantrij^s. Then there was a silence, and a tinkling sound as of water. ' Once — twice — thrice,' counted the witches. Nine tintes he counted the tinkling sound. ' Tlie ninth day — the ninth day, and the king shall take Ely,' said one in a cracked scream, rising and shaking her fist towards the isle. Hereward was more than half-minded to have put liis dagger — the only weapon which he had — into the two old beldames. But the fear of an outcry kept him still. He liad found out already so much, that he was determined to find out more. So to-morrow he would go up to the court itself, and take what luck sent. He slipped back to the cabin, and lay down again ; and as ^ ' Custodera fontiun;, ' tlie guardian spirit. XXX HOW HEREWARD PLAYED THE POTTER 265 soon as he had seen the two old crones safe asleep, fell asleep lumself, and was so tii-ed that he laid till the sun was high. ' Get up ! ' screamed the old dame at last, kicking him, ' or I shall make you give me another crock for a double night's rest.' He paid his lodging, put the panniers on the mare, and went on crying pots. When he came to the outer gateway of the court, he tied up the mare, and carried the crockery in on his own back boldly. The scullions saw him ; and called him into the kitchen to see his crockery, without the least intention of paying for what they took. A man of rank belonging to the court came in, and stared fixedly at Hereward. 'You are mightily like that villain Hereward, man,' quoth he. ' Anon ? ' asked Hereward, looking as stupid as he could. ' If it were not for his brown face and his short hair, he is as like the fellow as a churl can be to a knight.' ' Bring him into the hall,' quoth another ; ' and let us see if any man knows him.' Into the great hall he was brought, and stared at by knights and squires. He bent his knee.s, rounded his shoulders, and made himself look as mean as he could. Ivo Taillebois and Earl Warrenne came down and had a look at him. ' Hereward 1 ' said Ivo. ' I will warrant that little slouching cur is not he. Hereward must be lialf as big again, if it be true that he can kill a man with one blow of his fist.' 'You may try the truth of that for yourself some day,' thought Hereward. ' Does any one here talk English 1 Let us question the fellow,' said Earl Warrenne. ' Hereward ? Hereward 1 Who wants to know about that villain 1 ' answered the potter, as soon as he was asked in English. ' Would to heaven he were here, and I could see some of you noble knights and earls paying him for me ; for I owe him more than ever I shall pay myself.' ' What does he mean 1 ' ' He came out of the isle ten days ago, nigh on to evening, and di'ove off a cow of mine and four sheep, which was all my living, noble knights, save these pots.' 'And where is he since ? ' 'In the isle, my lords, well-nigh starved, and his folk falling away from him daily, from hunger and ague-fits. I doubt if there be a hundred sound men left in Ely.' 'Have you been in tliither, then, villain?' ' Heaven forbid ! I in Ely 1 I in the wolf's den 1 If I went in with naught but my skin, they would have it off me before I got out again. Ah, if your lordships would but come down, and 266 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. make an end of liiui once for all ; for he is a great tyrant, and terrible, and devours us poor folk like so many mites in his cheese.' 'Take this babbler into the kitchen, and feed him,' quoth Earl Warrenne ; and so the colloquy ended. Into the kitchen again the potter went. The king's luncheon was preparing ; so he listened to the chatter ; and picked up this, at least, which was valuable to him : .that the witches' story was true ; that a great attack would be made from Aldreth : that boats had been ordered up tlie river to Cotinglade,i and pioneers and entrenching tools were to be sent on that day to the old causeway, But soon he had to take care of himself. Earl Warrenne's commands to feed him were construed by the cook-boys and scullions into a command to make him drunk likewise. To make a laughing-stock of an Englishman was too tempting a jest to be resisted ; and Hereward was drenched (says the chronicler) with wine and beer, and sorely baited and badgered. At last one rascal hit upon a notable plan. 'Pluck out the English hog's hair and beard, and put him blindfold in the midst of his pots, and see what a smash we shall have.' Hereward pretended not to understand the words, which were spoken in French ; but when they were interpreted to him, he grew somewhat red about the ears. Submit he would not. But if he defended himself, and made an uproar in the king's court, he might very likely find himself riding Odin's horse before the hour was out. However, happily for him, tlie wine and beer had made him stout of heart, and when one fellow laid hold of his beard, he resisted sturdily. The man struck him, and that hard. Hereward, hot of temper, and careless of life, struck him again, right under the ear. The fellow dropped for dead. Up leapt cook-boys, scullions, ' lecheurs ' (who hung about the kitchen to_ ' lecher,' lick the platters), and all the foul- moutlied rascality of a great mediaeval household, and attacked Hereward 'cum furcis et tridentibus,' with forks and flesh- hooks. Then was Hereward aware of a great broach, or spit, before the fire ; and recollecting how he had used such an one as a boy against the monks of Peterborough, was minded to use it against the cooks of Brandon ; which he did so heartily, that in a few moments he had killed one, and driven the others backward in a heajj. But his case was hopeless. He was soon overpowered by ^ Seemingly a lade, leat, or canal, through Cottenham Fen to the Westwater ; x)robably a Roman work, now obliterated. XXX HOW HEREWARD PLAYED THE POTTER 267 numbers from outside, and dragged into the hall, to receive judgment for the mortal crime of slaying a man within the precincts of the court. He kept up heart. He knew that the king was there ; he knew that he should most likely get justice from the king. If not, he could but discover himself, and so save his life, for that William would kill him willingly, he did not believe. So he went in boldly and willingly, and up the hall, where, on the dais, stood William the Norman. William had finislied his luncheon, and was standing at the board-side. A page held water in a silver basin, in which he was washing his hands. Two more knelt, and laced his long boots ; for he was, as always, going a-hunting. Then Herewarcl looked at the face of the great man, and felt at once that it was the face of the greatest man whom he had ever met. ' I am not that man's match,' said he to himself. ' Perhaps it will all end in being his man, and he my master.' ' Silence, knaves ! ' said William, ' and speak one of you at a time. How came this 1 ' ' A likely story, forsooth ! ' said he, when he had heard. ' A poor English potter comes into my court, and murders my men under my very eyes for mere sport. I do not believe you, rascals ! You, cliurl,' and he spoke througli an English inter- preter, 'tell me your tale, and justice you shall have or take, as you deserve. I am the King of England, man, and I know your tongue, though I speak it not yet, more pity.' Hereward fell on his knees. ' If you are indeed my lord the king, then I am safe ; for there is justice in you : at least so all men say.' And he told his tale manfully. 'Splendeur Dex ! but this is a far likelier story, and I believe it. Hark you, you ruffians ! Here am I, trying to conciliate tliese English by justice and mercy, whenever they will let me : and here are you outraging them, and driving them mad and desperate, just that you may get a handle against them, and thus rob the poor wretches and drive them into the forest. From the lowest to the highest — from Ivo Taillebois there, down to you cook-boys — you are all at the same game. And I will stop it ! The next time I hear of outrage to unarmed man or harmless woman, I will hang that culprit, were he Odo my brotlier himself.' This excellent speecli was enforced witli oaths so strange and terrible, that Ivo Tailloljois shook in his lioots ; and tiie chaplain prayed fervently that the roof might not fall in on their heads. ' Thou smilest, man ? ' said William quickly, to the kneeling Hereward. ' So thou understandest French 1 ' 'A few words only, most gracious king, which we potters l^ick up, wandering everywhere with our wares,' said Hereward, 268 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. speaking in French ; for so keen was William's eye, that he tliought it safer to play no tricks with him. Nevertheless, he made his French so execrable, that the very scullions grinned, in spite of their fear. 'Look you,' said William, 'you are no common churl; you have fouglit too well for ihat. Let me see your arm.' Here ward drew up his sleeve. ' Potters do not carry sword-scars like those ; neither are they tattooed like English thanes. Hold up thy head, man, and let us see thy throat.' Hereward, who had carefully hung down his head to prevent his throat-patterns being seen, was forced to lift it up. ' Aha ! >50 I expected. There is fair ladies' work there. Is not this he who was said to be so like Hereward ? Very good. Put him in ward till I come back from hunting. But do him no harm. For ' — and William fixed on Hereward eyes of the most intense intelligence — ' were he Hereward himself, I should be right glad to see Hereward safe and sound ; my man at last, and earl of all between Humber and the fens.' ]')ut Hereward did not rise at the bait. With a face of stupid and ludicrous terror, he made reply in broken French. ' Have mercy, mercy, lord king ! Alake not that fiend earl over us. Even Ivo Taillebois there would be better than he. Send him to be earl over the imps in hell, or over the wild Welsli who are worse still : but not over us, good lord king, whom he hath polled and peeled till we are ' ' Silence ! ' said William, laughing, as did all round him. ' Thou art a cunning rogue enough, whoever thou art. Go into limbo, and behave thyself till I come back.' ' All saints send your grace good sport, and thereby me a good delivei-ance,' quoth Hereward, who knew that his fate might depend on the temper in which William returned. So he was thrust into an outhouse, and there locked up. He sat on an empty barrel, meditating on the chances of his submitting to the king after all, when the door opened, and in strode one with a drawn sword in one hand, and a pair of leg- shackles in the other. ' Hold out thy shins, fellow ! Thou art not going to sit at thine ease there like an abbot, after killing one of us grooms, and bringing the rest of us into disgrace. Hold out thy legs, I say!' ' Nothing easier,' quoth Hereward cheerfully, and held out a leg. But when the man stooped to put on the fetters, he re- ceived a kick which sent him staggering. After which he recollected very little, at least in this world. For Hereward cut off his head with his own sword. After which (says the chronicler) he broke away out of the house, and over garden walls and palings, hiding and running, till he got to the front gate, and leaped upon mare Swallow. XXX HOW HEREWARD PLAYED THE TOTTER 269 And none saw liim, save one unlucky groom-boy, who stood yelling and cursing in front of the mare's head, and went to seize her bridle. Whereon, between the imminent danger, and the bad lan- guage, Hereward's blood rose, and he smote that unlucky groom- boy : but whether he slew him or not, the chronicler had rather not say. Then he shook up mare Swallow, and with one great shout of 'A Wake! A Wake!' rode for his life, with knights and squires (for the hue and cry was raised) galloping at her heels. Wlio then were astonished but those knights, as they saw the ugly potter's garron gaining on them, length after length, till she and her rider had left them far behind ? Who then was proud but Hereward, as the mare tucked her great thighs under her, and swept on over heath and rabbit- burrow, over rush and fen, sound ground and rotten all alike to that enormous stride, to that keen briglit eye which foresaw every footfall, to that raking shoulder which picked her up again at every stagger? Hereward laid the bridle on her neck, and let her go. Fall she could not, and tire she could not ; and he half wished she might go on for ever. Where could a man be better, than on a good horse, with all the cares of this life blown away out of his brains by the keen air which rushed round his temples 1 And he galloped on, as cheery as a boy, shouting at the rabbits as they scuttled from under his feet, and laughing at the dottrel as they postured and anticked on the mole hills. But when he got through Mildenhall, he began to think how lie should get home to Ely. The hue and ciy would be out against him. The ports and ferries to the east of the isle as far south as Cambridge would 1)6 guarded ; and all the more surely, on account of the ap- ]:)roac]iing attack. True, he knew many a path and ford which tlie French could not know ; but he feared to trust himself in tlie labyrinth of fens and meres, with a mob of pursuers at his heels. A single mistake might pound him among morasses, and force him, even if he escaped himself through the reeds, to leave the mare behind. And to do that was shame and loss intoler- al^le. No. INIare Swallow, for her own sake, must do a deed that day. He would go south by the Roman roads. He would go right round the fens ; round Cambridge itself ; into the western forests. There he could lie hid till some friend at Somershara or Earith should ferry him over to tlie western side of the isle. The distance was great ; wcll-nigli fifty miles : but the land was light and sound, and the going safe and good. It must be done. It should be done. He gathered the mare together, as he rose tlie slope of Kennet Heath. She was going steadily and soundly, breathing like a 270 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. sleeping child. His pursuers were two miles behind ; black dots among the barrows on Barton hill. He had time to rest her ; and trotted on steadily, keeping to the uplands and the liigli road, from wlience he could see far and wide over the land. On by Newmai'ket lieath— nameless and desert then — over smootli chalk turf ; through glades of fern and thorn ; past barrows where slept the heroes of old times, Britain, Boman, fSaxon, Dane ; forefathers of his own, perhaps, among them. Ay — that was the place for a hero to sleep in. Not choked in a minster charnel-house, amid green damp and droning monks : but out under the free sky, with his weapons round him, his horse, his dog, the antlers of his game ; where he might come up out of his baiTOw on moonlight nights, and stare at the flying cloiids, and scent the rushing breeze. All, that he could be buried there : but then Torfrida — he should like to lie by her. He was at the Rech-dyke now : and warily he looked east- ward, as he led the mare up the steep bank, for French scouts between him and the fens : but none were within sight. He i^aused upon the top of that great earthwork. Dan- gerous as it was to stop in that exposed height, making himself a beacon against the sky, lie could not but look down, and back, at all which remained of free English soil. He looked down over Swatfham, Quy, and Waterbeach, and the rest of the tree-embowered hamlets which fringed the fen, green knolls on the shore of a boundless sea of pale-blue mist ; and above that sea, to the far north, a line of darker blue, which was the sacred isle. As the sun sank lower, higher rose the mist ; and the isle grew more and more faint, vaporous, dreamy, as fen-dis- tances are wont to be. Was it not about to fade away in reality ; to become a vapour, and a dream, and leave him alone and free ? Earls, knights, liousecarles, monks, seemed all becoming phantoms, fading with their fading cause. Was it worth while to fight, to die, for them, for anything 1 What was William to him ? What was England 1 Why play out the lost game to the last ? Why not leave all behind, and ride down south — to the sea — the free sea, and the wild joys of the Viking's life? And he led the mare down the Bech-dyke, and up again on to the down, faltering, sto^jping, his head sunken on his breast, his heart sunken within. But Torfrida— Torfrida and the little girl. They at least were not phantoms. They could not vanish, could not even die — to him. His they were for ever. What fiend had been putting boy's dreams into his head 1 And he sprang hastily into the saddle, as one that flees from a temptation. ' Home, mare ! Home to prison again ! We have been out far too long, old lass ! too long.' He held on over the Fleam-dyke : but he feared to turn downwards into the Cambridge flats, and kept his vantage- XXX HOW HEREWARD PLAYED THE POTTER 271 ground upon the clowns ; till, on the top of the Gogmagog, he struck the old Roman road, which men call ' Wort's Causeway ' at this day. Down that he turned, short to the right, toward the green meadows, and the long line of mighty elms, and the little village which clustered, unconscious of its coming glories, beneath tlie new French keep, beside the Roman bridge. The setting sun gilded the white flints of the keep ; and Hereward looked on them with a curse. But it gilded, too, the tree tops of the great forest beyond ; and Hereward uttered something like a j^rayer to St. Etheldreda and her ladies three. For if he could but reach that forest, he was safe. The Wake was, of course, too wise to go through Cambridge street, under the eyes of the French garrison. But he saw that the Roman road led straight to a hamlet some mile above the town ; and at the road end, he guessed, there must be either a bridge or a ford. There he could cross the Cam. And he rode slowly downward, longing for it to grow dai'k, and saving tlie mare, in case she should be needed for a sudden rush. And a rush was soon needed. For on the hill behind him he saw armour glitter in the red light ; and a brace of knights. They paused for a moment ; and then espied him. One galloped down the road toward him ; the other spurred to the right, straight for Cambridge. ' I shall have the whole pack of wolves out, and on me, in half an hour,' thought Hereward ; and struck .spurs into the mare. Into the ford — by Chaucer's after-famous mill — he dashed, making more splash than ever did geese in Shelford Fen ; and out again, and on to the clay wold, and away for Coton and Madingley rise, and the black wall of oak, and ash and elm. And as he entered the forest at Madingley, he rose in his stirrups, with a shout of ' A Wake ! A Wake ! ' which was heard, for aught he cared, in Cambridge castle : and then rode on leisurely toward the Draytons, and the ferry over the Ouse at Holywell ; for well he knew that they who could not catch The Wake in the field, were still less like to catch him in the wood. And so through the forest, by a clear moonlight (says the chronicler), he came in the early morning to the Isle Somersham, which was then all deep wood (as the names of Woodhurst and Somer.sham Parks still testify), and was ferried over at Earith by one of his many friends into the isle of Ely. And of all those knights that followed him, none ever saw or heard sign of him, save one : and his horse came to a stand- still in ' the aforesaid wood ' and lie rolled off and lay breathless under a tree, looking up at his honse's lieaving flanks and wagging tail, and wondering how he should get out of that place before the English found him and made an end of liim. Then there came up to him a ragged churl, and asked him who lie was, and oflered to helji him. 'For the sake of God and courtesy,' quoth he, his French 272 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. pride being well-nigh beat out of him, 'if thou hast seen or heard anytliing of Hereward the Wake, good fellow, tell me, and I will repay thee well.' ' As thou hast asked me for the sake of God and of courtesy, sir knight, I will tell thee. I am The Wake. And in token thereof, thou shalt give me thy lance and sword, and take instead this sword which I carried oti' from the king's court at Brandon ; and promise me, on the faith of a knight, to bear it back to King William ; and tell him, that Hereward and he have met at last ; and that he had best beware of the day when they shall meet again.' So that knight, not having recovered his wind, was fain to submit, and go home a sadder and a wiser man. And King William laughed a royal laugh, and commanded his knights that they should in no wise harm The Wake, but take him alive, and bring him in, and they should have great rewards. Which seemed to them more easily said than done. CHAPTER XXXr HOW THEY FOUGHT AGAIN AT ALDEETH Hereward came back in fear and trembling after all. He believed in the magic powers of the witch of Brandon ; and lie asked Torfrida, in his simplicity, whether she was not cunning enough to defeat her spells by counter spells. Torfrida smiled and shook her head. ' My knight, I have long since given up such vanities. Let us not fight evil with evil, but rather with good. Better are prayers than charms ; for the former are heard in heaven above, and the latter only in the pit below. Let me and all the women of Ely go rather in procession to St. Etheldreda's well, there above the fort at Aldreth, and pray St. Etheldreda to be with us when the day shall come ; and defend her own isle, and the honour of vis women who have taken refuge in her holy arms.' So all the women of Ely walked out barefoot to St. Ethel- dreda's well, with Torfrida at their head, clothed in sackcloth, and with fetters on her wrists, and waist, and ankles ; which she vowed, after the strange, sudden, earnest fashion of those times, never to take off again till she saw the French host flee from Aldreth before the face of St. Etheldreda. So they prayed, while Hereward and his men worked at the forts below. And when they came back, and Torfrida was washing her feet, sore and bleeding from her ])ilgrimage, Hereward came in. ' You have murdered your poor soft feet, and taken nothing thereby, I fear.' 'I have. If I had walked on sharp razors all the way, I would have done it gladly, to know what I know now. As I XXXI HOAV THEY FOUGHT AGAIN AT ALDRETH 273 prayed I looked out over the fen ; and St. Etheldreda put a thought into my lieart. But it is so terrible a one, that I fear to tell it to you. And yet it seems our only chance. Hereward threw himself at her feet, and prayed her to tell. At last she spoke, as one half afraid of her own words : ' Will the reeds burn, Hereward ? ' Hereward kissed her feet again and again, calling her his prophetess, his saviour. ' Burn ! yes, like tinder, in this ]\Iarch wind, if the drought only holds. Pray that the drouglit may hold, Torfrida.' 'There, there, say no more. How hard-hearted war makes even us women ! There, help me to take off" this rough sack- cloth, and dress myself again.' Meanwhile William had moved his army again to Cambridge, and on to Willingham-field, and there he began to throw up those 'globos and montanas,' of which Leofric's paraphraser talks, but of which now no trace remains. Then he began to rebuild his causeway, broader and stronger ; and commanded all the fishermen of tlie Ouse to bring their boats to Cotinglade, and ferry over his materials. ' Among whom came Hereward in a very narrow canoe, with head and beard shaven lest he should be known, and worked diligently among the rest. But the sun did not set that day without mischief ; for before Hereward went off", he finished his work by setting the whole on fire, so that it was all burnt, and some of the French killed and drowned.^ And so the Wake went on, with stratagems and ambushes, till 'after seven days' continual fighting, they had hardly done one day's work ; save four globos of wood, in which they intended to put their artillery. But on the eighth day they determined to attack the isle, putting in the midst of them that pythoness woman on a high place, where she might be safe freely to exercise her art.' It was not Hereward alone who had enti^eated Torfrida to exerci.se her magic art in their behalf. But she steadily re- fused ; and made good Abbot Thurstan support her refusal by a strict declaration, that he would have no fiends' games jilayed in Ely, as long as he was abbot alive on land. Torfrida, meanwhile, grew utterly wild. Her conscience smote her, in spite of her belief that St. Etlieldreda had insjoired her, at the terrible resource which she liad hinted to lier hus- band, and which she knew well he would cai-ry out with terrible success. Pictures of agony and death tloated before her eyes, and kept her awake at night. She watclied long hours in the church in prayer ; she fasted ; she disciplined lier tender body witli sharp pains ; she ti-ied, after the fashion of those times, to atone for her sin, if sin it was. At last she had worked herself up into a religious frenzy. She saw St. Ethel- dreda in the clouds, towering over the isle, menacing the French T II. T. w. 274 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. host with her virgin palm-branch. She uttered wild prophe- cies of ruin and defeat to the French; and then, when her frenzy collapsed, moaned secretly of ruin and defeat hereafter to tliemselves. But she would be bold; she would play her part ; she would encourage the heroes who looked to her as one inspired, wiser and loftier than tliemselves. And so it befell, that wlien tlie men marched down to Haddenham that afternoon, Torfrida rode at their head on a white charger, robed from throat to ankle in sackcloth, her fetters clanking on her limbs. But she called on the English to see in her the eml)lem of England captive yet unconquered ; and to break her fetters, and the worse fetters of every woman in England who was the toy and slave of the brutal invaders ; and so fierce a triumph sparkled fi-om her wild hawk-eyes that the Englishmen looked up to her weird beauty as to that of an inspn-ed saint ; and when the French came on to the assault there stood on the grassy mound behind the English fort a figure clothed in sackcloth, barefooted and bareheaded, with fetters shining on waist, and wrist, and ankle— her long black locks streaming in the wind, her long white arms stretched cross-wise toward heaven, in imitation of Moses of old above the battle with Amalek ; invoking St. Etheldreda and all the powers of heaven, and chanting doom and defiance to the invaders. And the English looked on her, and cried, 'She is a prophetess ! We will surely do some great deed this day, or die around her feet like heroes ! ' And opposite to her, upon the French tower, the old hag of Brandon liowled and gibbered with filthy gestures, calling for the thunderstorm which did not come ; for all above the sky was cloudless blue. And the English saw and felt, though they could not speak it, dumb nation as they were, the contrast between the spirit of cruelty and darkness, and the spirit of freedom and light. So strong was the new bridge, that William trusted himself upon it on horseljack, with Ivo Taillebois at his side. William doubted the powers of the witch, and felt rather ashamed of his new helpmate ; but he was confident in his bridge, and in the heavy artillery which he had placed in his four towers. Ivo Taillebois was utterly confident in his witch, and in the bridge likewise. William waited for the rising of the tide ; and when the tide was near its heiglit, lie commanded the artillery to open, and clear the fort opposite of the English. Then, with crash and twang, the balistas and catapults went oflf, and great stones and heavy lances hurtled through the air. ' Back ! ' shouted Toi'f rida, raised almost to madness by fast- ing, self-torture, and religious frenzy. ' Out of yon fort, every xxxi HOW THEY FOUGHT AGAIN AT ALDRETH 275 man. Why waste your lives under that artillery 1 Stand still this day, and see how the saints of heaven shall fight for you.' So utter was the revei'ence wliich she commanded for tlie moment, that every man drew back, and crowded round her feet outside the fort. ' The cowards are iieeing already. Let your men go, sir king ! ' shouted Taillebois. ' On to the assault ! Strike for Normandy ! ' shouted William. ' I fear much,' said he to himself, ' that this is some stratagem of that Wake's. But conquered they must be.' The evening breeze curled up the reach. The great pike splashed out from the weedy shores, sending the whitefish fly- ing in shoals into the low glare of the setting sun : and heeded not, stupid things, the barges packed with mailed men, which swarmed in the reeds on either side the bridge, and began to push out into the river. The starlings swung in thousands round the reed-ronds, look- ing to settle in their wonted place : but dare not ; and rose and swung round again, telling each other, in tlieir manifold pipings, how all the reed-ronds teemed with mailed men. And all above, the sky was cloudless blue. And then came a trample, a roll of many feet on the soft spongy peat, a low murmur which rose into wild shouts of ' Dex Aie ! ' as a human tide poured along tlie causeway, and past the witch of Brandon Heath. ' Dex Aie ? ' quoth William, with a sneer. ' Debbles Aie ! would fit better.' ' If, sire, the powers above would have helped us, we should have been happy enough to — But if they will not, it is not our fault if we try below,' said Ivo Taillebois. William laughed. ' It is well to liave two strings to one's bow, sir. Forward, men ! forward ! ' shouted he, riding out to the bridge-end, under the tower. 'Forward !' shouted Ivo Taillebois. * Forwai'd ! ' sliouted the hideous hag overhead. ' The spirit of the well figlits for you.' ' Fight for yourselves,' said William. There were fifty yards of deeji clear water between French- man and Englisliman. Onlj^ fifty yards. Not only the arrows and arblast quari'els, but lieavy hand-javelins flew across every moment ; every now and then a man toppled forward, and jjlungcd into the blue depth among the eels and pike, to find his conu'ades of the sunnner before ; and then the stream was still once more. Tiie coots and waterhens swam in and out of the reeds, and wondered what it was all about. The v.'ater-lilies flapped upon the ripple, as lonely as in the loneliest mere. But their floats were soon broken, their white cups stained with 276 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. human gore. Fifty yards of deei) clear water. And treasure inestimable to win by crossing it. They thrust out balks, canoes, pontoons ; they crawled upon them like ants, and thrust out more yet beyond, heedless of theii' comrades, who slipped, and splashed, and sank, liolding out vain hands to hands too busy to seize them. And always the old witch jabbered overhead with her cantrips, pointing, mumming, praying for the storm ; while all above, the sky was cloudless blue. And always on the mound opposite, while darts and quarrels whistled round her head, stood Torfrida, pointing with out- stretched scornful finger at the strugglers in the river, and chanting loudly what the Frenchmen could not tell : but it made their hearts, as it was meant to do, melt like wax within them. ' They have a counter witch to yours, Ivo, it seems ; and a fairer one. I am afraid the devils, especially if Asmodeus be at hand, are more likely to listen to her than to that old bi'oom- stick-rider aloft.' ' Fair is, that fair cause has, sir king.' 'A good argument for honest men, but none for fiends. What is the fair fiend pointing at so earnestly there ? ' ' Somewhat among the reeds. Hark to her now ! She is singing, somewhat more like an angel than a fiend, I will say for her.' And Torfrida's song, coming clear and sweet across the water, rose louder and shriller till it almost drowned the jabbering of the witch. ' She sees more than we do.' ' But I see ! ' cried William, smiting his hand upon his thigh. ' Par le splendeur Dex ! She has been showing them where to fire the reeds ; and they have done it ! ' A puflT of smoke ; a wisp of flame ; and then another and another ; and a canoe shot out from the reeds on the French shore, and glided into the reeds of the island. ' The reeds are on fire, men ! Have a care,' shouted Ivo. ' Silence, fool ! Frighten them once, and they will leap like .sheep into that gulf. Men ! right about ! draw off— slowly and in order. We will attack again to-morrow. The cool voice of the great cajitain arose too late. A line of flame was leaping above the reed bed, crackling and howling before the evening breeze. The column on tlie causeway had seen their danger iDut too soon, and fled, but whither ? A shower of arrows, quarrels, javelins, fell upon the head of the column as it tried to face about and retreat, confusing it more- and more. One arrow, shot by no common arm, went clean through William's shield, and pinned it to the mailed flesh. He could not stifle a cry of jjain. ' You are wounded, sire. Eide for your life ! It is worth XXXI HOW THEY FOUGHT AGAIN AT ALDRETH 277 that of a thousand of these churls,' and Ivo seized William's bridle and dragged him, in sj^ite of himself, through the cower- ing, shrieking, struggling crowd. On came the flame, leaping and crackling, laughing and shrieking, like a live fiend. The ai'chers and slingers in the boats cowered before it ; and fell, scorched corpses, as it swept on. It reached the causeway, surged up, recoiled from the mass of human beings, then sprang over their heads and passed on- wards, girding them with flame The reeds were burning around them ; tlie timbers of the bridge caught fire ; the peat and faggots smouldered beneath their feet. They sprang from the burning footway, and plunged into the fathomless bog, covering their faces and eyes with scorched hands ; and then sank in the black gurgling slime. Ivo dragged William on, regardless of curses and prayers from his soldiery ; and tliey reached tlie shore just in time to see between them and the water a long black smouldering writhing line : tlie morass to right and left, which had been a minute before deep reed, an open smutty pool, dotted with boatsful of shrieking and cursing men ; and at the causeway end the tower, with the flame climbing up its posts, and the witch of Brandon throwing herself desperately from the top, and fall- ing dead upon the embers, a motionless heap of rags. ' Fool that thou art ! Fool that I was ! ' cried the great king, as he rolled oflT his horse at his tent door, cursing with rage and pain. Ivo Taillebois sneaked off ; sent over to Brandon for the second witch ; and hanged her, as some small comfort to his soul. Neither did he forget to search the cabin, till he found buried in a crock the bits of his own gold chain, and various other ti'easures, for which the wretched old women had bartered their souls. All whicli he confiscated to his own use, as a much-injured man. The next day William withdrew his army. The men refused to face again that blood-stained pass. The English sj^ells, they said, were stronger than theirs, and than the daring of brave men. Let William take Torfrida and burn her, as she had burned them, with reeds out of Willingham fen : then might they try to storm Ely again. Torfrida saw them turn, flee, die in agony. Her work was done ; her passion exliausted ; her self-torture, and the mere weight of her fetters, which she had sustained during her passion, weighed her down ; she dropped senseless on the turf, and lay in a trance for many hours. Then slie arose, and, casting ofl'lier fetters and her sackcloth, was herself again : but a sadder woman till her dying day 278 HEREWARD THE WAKE chat. CHAPTER XXXII HOW KING WILLIAM TOOK COUNSEL OF A CHURCHMAN If Torfrida was exhausted, so was Hereward likewise. He knew well that a repulse was not a defeat. He knew well the indomitable persistence, the boundless resources, of the master- mind whom he defied ; and he knew well that another attempt would be made, and then another ; till, though it took seven years in the doing — Ely would be won at last. To hold out doggedly as he could was his plan : to obtain the best terms he could for his comrades. And he might obtain good terms at last. William miglit be glad to pay a fair joi^ice in order to escape such a thorn in his side as the camp of refuge, and might deal — or, at least, promise to deal — mercifully and generously with the last remnant of the English gentry. For himself, yield he would not : when all was over, he would flee to the sea, with Torfrida and his own housecarles, and turn Viking ; or go to Hweyn Ulfsson in Denmark, and die a free man. The English did not foresee these things. Their hearts were lifted up with their victory, and they laughed at William and his French, and drank Torfrida's liealth much too often for their own good. Hereward did not care to undeceive them. But he could not help speaking his mind in the abbot's chamber to Thurstan, Egelwin, and his nephews, and to Sigtryg Eanaldsson, who was still in Ely, not only because he had promised to stay there, but because he could not get out if he would. Blockaded they were utterly, by land and water. The isle furnished a fair supply of food ; and what was wanting they obtained by foraging. But they had laid the land waste" for so inany miles round, that their plundering raids brought tliem in less than of old ; and if they went far, they fell in with the French, and lost good men, even though they were generally successful. So provisions were running somewhat short, and would run shorter still. _ Moreover, there was a great cause of anxiety. Bishop Egel- win, Abbot Thurstan, and the monks of Ely were in rebellion, not only against King William, but moi-e or less against the Pope of Eome. They might be excommunicated. The minster lands might be taken away. Bishop Egelwin set his face like a flint. He expected no mercy. All he had ever done for the French was to warn Ilobert Comyn that if he stayed in Durham, evil would befall him. But that was as little worth to him as it was to the said Robert. And no mercy he craved. Tlie less a man had, the more fit he was for heaven. He could but die ; and that he had known ever since he was a chanter-boy. Whether he died in XXXII HOW KING AVILLIAM TOOK COUNSEL 279 Ely or in prison mattered little to him, provided they did not refui?e him the sacraments ; and that they would hardly do. But call the Duke of Normandy his rightful sovereign he would not, because he was not — nor anybody else just now, as far as he could see. Valiant likewise was Abbot Thurstan, for himself. But he had — unlike Bishop Egelwin, whose diocese had been given to a Fi'enchman — an abbey, monks, and bi'oad lands, whereof he was father and steward. And he must do what was best for the abbey, and also what the monks would let him do. For severe as was the discipline of a minster in time of peace, yet in time of war, when life and death were in question, monks had ere now turned valiant from very fear, like Cato's mouse, and mutinied : and so might the monks of Ely. And Edwin and Morcar 1 No man knows what they said or thought ; perhaps no man cared much, even in their own days. No hint does any chronicler give of what manner of men they were, or what manner of deeds they did. Fail', gentle, noble, beloved even by William, they are mere name.s, and nothing more, in history ; and it is to be supposed, therefore, that they were nothing more in fact. The race of Leofric and Godiva had worn itself out. One night the confederates had sat late, talking over the future more earnestly than usual. Edwin, usually sad enough, was e.specially sad that night. Hereward jested with him, tried to cheer him : but he was silent, would not drink, and went away before the rest. The next morning he was gone, and with him half a dozen of his private housecarles. Hereward was terrified. If defections once began, they would be endless. The camp would fall to pieces, and every man among them would be hanged, mutilated, or imprisoned, one by one, helplessly. They must stand or fall together. He went raging to Morcar. Morcar knew nought of it. On the faith and honour of a knight, he knew nought. Only his brother had said to him a day or two before that he must see his betrothed before he died. 'He is gone to William, then? Does he think to win her now — an outcast and a beggar — when he was refused her with broad lands and a thousand men at his back ? Fool ! See that thou play not the fool likewise, nephew, or ' ' Or wl)at 1 ' .said Morcar defiantly. ' Or thou wilt go, whither. Edwin is gone — to betrayal and ruin.' ' Why so 1 He has been kind enough to Waltheof and Gos- patric, why not to Edwin 1 ' ' Because,' laughed Hereward, ' he wanted Waltheof, and he does not want you and Edwin. He can keep Mcrcia quiet without your help. Northumbria and the fens he cannot 280 IIEREWARD THE WAKE chap. witliout AValtheofs. They are a rougher set as you go east and north, as you should know ah-eady ; and must have one of themselves over them to keep them in good humour for a while. When he has used Waltheof as liis stalking-horse long enough to build a castle every ten miles, he will throw him away like a worn bowstring, Earl Morcar, nephew mine.' j\Iorcar shook his head. In a week more he was gone likewise. He came to William at Brandon. ' You are come in at last, young earl ? ' said William sternly. ' You are come too late.' ' I throw myself on your knightly faith,' said Morcar. But he had come in an angry and unlucky hour. ' How well have you kept your own, twice a rebel, that you should appeal to mine ? Take him away.' ' And hang him 1 ' asked Ivo Taillebois. ' Pish ! No — thou old butcher. Put him in irons, and send him into Normandy.' ' Send him to Roger de Beaumont, sire. Roger's son is safe in Morcar's castle at Warwick, so it is but fair that Morcar should be safe in Roger's.' And to Roger de Beaumont he was sent, while young Roger was Lord of Warwick, and all around that once was Leofric and Godiva's. Morcar lay in a Norman keep till the day of William's death. On his deathbed the tyrant's heart smote him, and he sent orders to I'elease him. For a few short days, or hours, he breathed free air again. Then Rufus shut him up once more, and for ever. And that was the end of Earl ]\Iorcar. A few weeks after, three men came to the camp at Brandon, and they brought a head to the king. And when William looked upon it, it was the head of Edwin. The human heart must have burst up again in the tyrant as he looked on the fair face of him he had so loved, and so wronged : for they say he wept. The knights and earls stood round, amazed and awed, as they saw iron tears run down Pluto's cheek. ' How came this here, knaves ? ' thundered he at last. They told a ramljling story, how Edwin always would needs go to Winchester to see the queen, for she would stand his friend, and do him right. And how they could not get to Winchester for fear of the French, and wandered in woods and wolds ; and how they were set upon, and hunted ; and how Edwin still was mad to go to Winchester : but when he could not, he would go to Blethwallon and his Welsh ; and how Earl Randal of Chester set upon them; and how they got between a stream and the tide-way of the Dee, and wei'e cut oft'. And how Edwin would not yield. And liow then they slew him in XXXII HOW KING WILLIAM TOOK COUNSEL 281 self-defence, and Randal let them bring the head to the king. This, or something like it, was their story. But who could believe traitors ? Where Edwin wandered, what he did during those months, no man knows. All that is known is, three men brought his head to William, and told some such tale. And so the old nobility of England died up and down the ruts and shaughs, like wounded birds ; and, as of wounded birds, none knew or cared how far they had run, or how their broken bones had ached before they died. ' Out of their own mouths they are condemned, says Holy Writ,' thundered William. ' Hang them on high.' And hanged on high they were, on Brandon heath.. Then the king turned on his courtiers, glad to ease his own conscience by cursing them. ' This is your doing, sirs ! If I liad not listened to your base counsels, Edwin might have been now my faithful liegeman and my son-in-law ; and I had had one more Englishman left in peace, and one sin less upon my soul.' 'And one thorn less in thy .side,' quoth Ivo Taillebois. 'Who spoke to tliee? Ralph Guader, thou gavest me the counsel : thou wilt answer it to God and His saints.' ' That did I not. It was Earl Roger, because he wanted the man's Shropshire lands.' Whereon higli words ensued : and the king gave the earl the lie in his teeth, which tlie earl did not forget. ' I think,' said the rough shrewd voice of Ivo, ' tliat instead of crying over spilt milk, — for milk the lad was, and never would have grown to good beef, had he lived to my age ' ' Who spoke to thee 1 ' 'No man, and for that reason I spoke myself. I have lands in Spalding, by your royal grace ; and wish to enjoy them in peace, having worked for them hard enough — and how can I do that, as long as Hereward sits in Ely ? ' ' Splendeur Dex ! ' said William, ' thou art right, old butcher.' So they laid their heads together to slay Hereward. And after they had talked a while, then spoke William's chaplain for the nonce, an Italian, a friend and pupil of Lanfranc of Pavia, an Italian also, then Archbishop of Canterbury, scourging and imprisoning English monks in the south. And he spoke like an Italian of those times, who knew tlie ways of Rome. ' If his majesty will allow my humility to suggest ' 'What? Thy humility is proud enough under the rose, I will warrant : taut it has a Roman wit under the rose likewise. Speak ! ' 'That when the secular and carnal arm has failed, as it is 282 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. written ^ — He poureth contempt upon princes, and letteth them wander out of tlie way in the wilderness, or fens ; — for the Latin word, and I doubt not the Hebrew, has both meanings.' _ ' Splendeur Dex ! ' cried William bitterly ; ' that hath he done with a vengeance ! Thou art right so far, clerk ! ' 'Yet helpeth He the poor, videlicet, his church and the religious, who are vowed to holy poverty, out of misery, vide- licet, the oppression of barbarous customs ; and maketh them households like a Hock of sheep.' ' They do_ that for themselves already, here in England,' said William, with a sneer at the fancied morals of the English monks and clergy. - ' But Heaven and the Church do it for the true poor, whom your majesty is bringing in, to your endless glory.' ' But what has all this to do with taking Ely ? ' asked William impatiently. ' I asked thee for reason, and not sermons.' 'This. That it is in the power of tlie Holy Father— and that power he would doubtless allow you, as his dear son and most faithful servant, to employ for yourself, without sending to Rome, which might cause painful delays— to ' It might seem strange that William, Taillebois, Picot, Guader, Warrenne, short-spoken, hard-headed, hard-swearing warriors, could allow complacently a smooth churchman to dawdle on thus, counting his periods on his fingers, and seemingly never coming to the point. But they knew well that the churchman was a far cunningei', as well as a more learned, man than themselves. They knew well that they could not hurry him ; and that they need not ; that he would make his point at last, hunting it out step by step, and letting them see how he got thither, like a practised hound. They knew that if he spoke, he had thought long and craftily, till he had made up his mind ; and that therefore he would very probably make up their minds likewise. It was the conquest — not of a lieavenly spirit, though it boasted itself such — but of a cultivated mind over brute llesh. They miglit have said all this aloud, and yet the churchman ^ I do not laugh at Holy Scripture myself, I only insert this as a specimen of the usual medioeval 'cant' — a name and a practice which are both derived, not from Puritans, but from monks. - The alleged profligacy and sensuality of the English Church before the Conquest, rests merely on a few violent and vague expressions of the Norman monks who displaced them. No facts, as far as I can find, have ever been alleged. And without facts on the other side, an im- partial man will hold by the one fact wliich is certain, that the Church of England, popish as it was, was, unfortunately for it, not popish enough ; and, from its insular freedom, obnoxious to the Church of Rome and the ultramontane clergy of Normandy ; and was therefore to be believed capable — and therefore again accused — of any and every crime. XXXII HOAV KIXG WILLIAM TOOK COUNSEL 283 would have gone on, as he did, where he left off, with unaltered blandness of tone. ' To convert to other uses the goods of the Church. To con- vert them to profane uses would, I need not say, be a sacrilege as horrible to heaven, as impossible to so pious a monarch ' Ivo Taillebois winced. He had just stolen a manor from the monks of Crowland, and meant to keep it. ' To convert, I say, church lands belonging to abbeys or see.s, whose abbots or bishops are contumaciously disobedient to the Holy See, or to their lawful monarch, he being in the com- munion of the Church and at peace with the said Holy See. If, therefore, to come to that i^oint at which my incapacity, through the devious windings of my simplicity, has been tending, but with halting steps, from the moment that your majesty deigned to liear -' ' Put in the spur, man ! ' said Ivo, tired at last, ' and run the deer to soil.' ' Huriy no man's cattle, especially thine own,' answered the churchman, with so shrewd a wink, and so cheery a voice, that Ivo, when he recovered from his surprise, cried : ' Why, thou art a good huntsman thyself, I believe now.' 'AH things to all men, if by any means But to return. If your majesty should think ht to proclaim to the recalcitrants of Ely, that unless they submit themselves to your royal grace — and to that, of course, of His Holiness our Father — within a certain day, you will convert to other uses — premising, to avoid .scandal, that those uses shall be for the benefit of Holy Church — all lands and manors of theirs lying without the precincts of the isle of Ely — those lands being, as is known, large and of great value — Quid plura ? Why burden your exalted intellect by detailing to you consequences which it has long ere now foreseen 1 ' ' . . . ' quoth William, who was nearly as .sharp as the Italian, and had seen it all. ' I will make thee a bishop ! ' 'Spare to burden my weakness,' said the chaplain ; and slipt away into the shade. ' You will take his advice ? ' asked Ivo. 'Twill' ' Then I shall see that Torfrida burn at last.' 'Burn her?' and William swore. 'I promised my soldiers to burn the witch with reeds out of Haddenliam fen, as she had burned them ; and 1 must keep my knightly word.' William swore yet more. Ivo Taillebois was a butcher and a churl. 'Call me not cliurl and })utcher too often, lord king, ere thou hast found whetlier thou needest nie or not. Jlough F may be, false was I never.' 'That thou wert not,' .said William, who needed Taillebois 284 IIEREWARD THE WAKE chap. mucli, and feared him somewliat ; and remarked something meaning in his voice, which made him cahu liimself, diplomat as he was, instantly. ' But burn Torf rida thou shalt not.' ' Well, I care not. I have seen a woman burnt ere now, and had no fancy for the screeching. Besides, they say she is a very fair dame — and lias a fair daughter, too, coming on — and she may very well make a wife for a Frenchman.' ' Marry her thyself.' ' I shall have to kill this Wake first.' ' Then do it, and I will give thee his lands.' ' I may have to kill others before The Wake.' 'You may?' And so the matter dropped. But William caught Ivo alone after an hour, and asked him what he meant. ' No pay, no play. Lord king, I have served thee well, rough and smooth.' 'Thou hast, and hast been well paid. But if I have said aught hasty ' 'Pish, king. I am a plain-spoken man, and like a plain- spoken master. But instead of marrying Torfrida or her daughter, I have more mind to her niece, who is younger, and has no Hereward to be killed first.' 'Her niece? Who?' ' Lucia, as we call her, Edwin and Morcar's sister, Herewarcl's niece, Torfrida's niece.' ' No pay, no play, saidst thou ?— so say L What meant you by having to kill others before Hereward ? ' ' Beware of Waltheof,' said Ivo. 'Waltheof ? Pish. This is one of thy inventions for making nie hunt every Englishman to death, that thou mayest gnaw their bones.' ' Is it ? Then this I say more. Beware of Ralph Guader.' 'Pish!' 'Pish on, lord king.' Etiquette was not yet discovered by Norman barons and earls, who thought themselves all but as good as their king ; gave him their advice when they thought fit ; and if he did not take it, attacked him with all their meinie. ' Pish on, but listen. Beware of Boger.' ' And what more ? ' ' And give me Lucia. I want her. I will have her.' William laughed. ' Thou of all men ? To mix that ditch- water with that wine ? ' ' They were mixed in thy blood, lord king ; and thou art the better man for it, so says the world. Old wine and old blood throw any lees to the bottom of the cask ; and we shall have a son worthy to ride behind ' ' Take care ! ' quotli William. ' Tlie greatest captain upon earth.' William laughed again, like Odin's self. XXXII HOW KING AVILLIAJI TOOK COUNSEL 285 'Thou shalt have Lucia, for tliat word.' 'And tliou shalt have the i^lot ere it breaks. As it will.' ' To this have I come at last,' said William to himself. ' To murder these English nobles ; to marry their daughters to my grooms. Heaven forgive me ! They have brought it upon themselves, by contumacy to Holy Church. Call my secretary, some one.' The Italian re-entered. 'The valiant and honourable and illustrious knight, Ivo Taillebois, Lord of Holland and Kesteven, weds Lucia, sister of the late Earls Edwin and !Morcar, now with the queen ; and with her, her manors. You will prepare the papers.' ' I am yours to death,' said Ivo. 'To do thee justice, I tliink tliou wert that already. Stay — here — sir priest — do you know any man who knows this Torfridar ' I do, king,' said Ivo. ' There is one Sir Ascelin, a man of Gilbert's, in the camp.' ' Send for him.' ' This Torfrida,' said William, ' haunts me.' ' Pray heaven she have not bewitched your grace.' 'Tut, I am too old a campaigner to take much harm by woman's sharpshooting, at fifteen score yards off, beside a deep stream between. No. The woman has courage — and beauty too, you say 1 ' ' What of that, O prince ? ' said the Italian. ' Who more beautiful — if report be true — than those lost women who dance nightly in the forests with Venus and Herodias — as it may be this Torfrida has done many a time 1 ' ' You priests are apt to be hard upon poor women.' ' The fox found that the grapes were sour,' said the Italian, laughing at himself and his cloth — or at anything else, by which he could curry favour. 'And this woman was no vulgar witch. That sort of per- sonage suits Taillebois' taste, rather than Hereward's.' ' Hungry dogs eat dirty pudding,' said Ivo pertinently. ' The woman believed herself in tlie right. She believed that the saints of heaven were on her side. I saw it in her attitude, in her gestures. Perhaps she was right.' ' Sire ? ' said both bystanders in astonishment. ' I would fain see that woman ; and see her husband too. They are folks after my own heart. I would give them an earldom to win them.' ' I liope that in that day you will allow your faithful servant Ivo to retire to his ancestral manors in Anjou ; for England will be too hot for liim. Sire, you know not this man — a liar, a Ijully, a rol)ber, a swasli-buckling rulKan, who ' and Ivo ran on with furious invective, after the fashion of tlie Normans, who cpnsidcred no name too bad for an Euglisli rebel. 286 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. 'Sir Ascelin,' said William, as Ascelin came in, 'you know Here ward V Ascelin bowed assent. ' Are these tilings true which Ivo alleges ? ' ' The Lord Taillebois may know best what manner of man Sir Hereward has become since he himself came into this English air, which changes some folks mightily,' with a hardly disguised sneer at Ivo ; ' but in Flanders he was a very perfect knight, beloved and honoured of all men, and especially of your fatlier-in-law, tlie great marquis.' ' He is a friend of yours, then 1 ' ' No man less. I owe him more than one grudge, though all in fair quarrel ; and one at least, which can only be wiped out in blood.' 'Eh?_ Whatr Ascelin hesitated. ' Tell me, sir ! ' thundered William, ' unless you have aught to be ashamed of.' ' It is no shame, as far as I know, to confess that I was once a suitor, as were all knights for miles round, for the hand of the once i^eerless Torfrida. And no shame to confess, that when Hereward knew thereof, he sought me out at a tournament, and served me as he has served many a better man before and since.' ' Over thy horse's croup, eh ? ' said William. 'I am not a bad horseman, as all know, Lord King. But heaven save me, and all I love, from that Hereward. They say he has seven men's strength, and I verily can testify to the truth thereof.' ' That may be by enchantment,' interposed the Italian. 'True, sir priest. This I know, that he wears enchanted armour, which Torfrida gave him before she married him.' ' Enchantments again,' said the secretary. ' Tell me now about Torfrida,' said William. Ascelin told him all about her, not forgetting to say — what, according to the chronicler, was a common report — that she had comi)assed Hereward's love by magic arts. She used to practise sorcery, he said, with her sorcer-ess mistress, Eichildaof Hainault. All men knew it. Arnoul, Richilda's son, was as a brother to her. And after old Baldwin died, and Baldwin of Mons and Richilda came to Bruges, Torfrida was always with her, while Hereward was at the wars. 'The woman is a manifest and notorious witch,' said the secretary. ' It seems so indeed,' said William, with something like a sigh. And so were Torf rida's early follies visited on her ; as all early follies are. 'But Hereward, you say, is a good knight and truer ' Doubltess. Even when he committed that great crime at Peterborough ' XXXII HOW KING AVILLIAM TOOK COUNSEL 287 ' For which he and all his are duly excommunicated by the bishop,' said the secretary. ' He did a very courteous and honourable thing.' And Ascelin told how he had saved Alftruda, and instead of putting her to ransom, had sent her safe to Gilbert. ' A very kniglitly deed. He sliould be rewarded for it.' 'Why not burn the witch, and reward him with Alftruda instead, since your majesty is in so gracious a humour?' said Ivo. ' Alftruda 1 Who is she ? Ay, I recollect her. Young Dolfin's wife. Why, she has a husband already.' ' Ay, but his Holiness at Rome can set that right. What is there that he cannot do ? ' ' There are limits, I fear, even to his power. Eh, priest 1 ' 'What his Holiness' powers as the viceroy of Divinity on earth might be, did he so choose, it were irreverent to inquire. But as he condescends to use that power only for the good of mankind, he condescends, like Divinity, to be bound by the very laws which he has promulgated for the benefit of his subjects ; and to make himself only a life-giving sun, when he might be a destructive thunderbolt.' ' He is very kind, and we all owe him thanks,' said Ivo, who had a confused notion that the Pope might strike him dead with lightning, but was good-natured enough not to do so. ' Still, he might think of this plan ; for they say that the lady is an old friend of Hereward's, and not over fond of lier )Scotch husband.' 'That I know well,' said William. 'And besides — if aught uiitoward should happen to Dolfin and his kin——' 'She might, with her broad lands, be a fine bait for Here- ward. I see. Now, do this, by my command. Send a trusty monk into Ely. Let him tell the monks that we have deter- mined to seize all their outlying lands, unless they surrender within the week. And let him tell Hereward, by the faith and oath of William of Normandy, that if he will surrender himself to my grace, he shall have his lands in Bourne, and a free pardon for himself and all liis comrades.' The men assented, much against their will, and went out on their errand. ' You have played me a scurvy trick, sir,' said Ascelin to Ivo, 'in advising the king to give the Lady Alftruda to Hereward.' ' What ! Did you want her yourself ? On my lionour I knew not of it. But lia\e patience. You shall have lier yet, and all her lands, if you will hear my counsel, and keep it.' ' But you would give her to Hereward ! ' 'And to you too. It is a poor l^ait, say these frogs of fen-men, that will not take two pike running. Listen to me. I must kill this accursed fox of a Wake. I l)ate him. I cannot eat my meat for thinking of liim. Kill him I must.' 288 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. 'And so must I.' 'Then we are both agreed. Let us work together, and never mind if one's blood be old and the other's new. I am neither fool nor weakly, as thou knowest.' Ascelin could not but assent. ' Then here. We must send the king's message. But we must add to it.' ' That is dangerous.' ' So is war ; so is eating, drinking ; so is everything. But we must not let The Wake come in. We must drive him to despair. Make the messenger add but one word — that the king exemjits from the amnesty Torfrida, on account of You can put it into more scholarly shape than I can.' On account of her abominable and notorious sorceries ; and demands that she shall be given up forthwith, to be judged as she deserves.' ' Just so. And then for a load of reeds out of Haddenham f en ! ' ' Heaven forbid ! ' said Ascelin, who had loved her once. ' Would not perpetual imprisonment suffice ? ' ' What care I ? That is the king's aftair, not ours. But I fear we shall not get her. Even so Hereward will flee with her — maybe escape to Flanders or Denmark. He can escape through a rat's hole if he will. However, then we are at i^eace I had sooner kill him and have done with it : but out of the way he must be put.' So they sent a monk in with the message ; and commanded him to tell the article about the Lady Torfrida, not only to Hereward, but to the abbot and all the monks. A curt and tierce answer came back, not from Hereward, but from Torfrida herself — that William of Normandy was no knight liimself, or he would not offer a knight his life, on condition of burning his lady. William swore horribly. ' What is all this about ? ' They told him — as much as they chose to tell him. He was very wroth. ' Who was Ivo Taillebois, to add to his message ? He had said tliat Toi-frida should not burn.' Taillebois was stout ; for he had won the secretary over to his side meanwhile. He had said nothing about burning. He had merely supplied an oversight of the king's. The woman, as the secretary knew, could not, with all deference to his majesty, be included in an amnesty. She was liable to ecclesiastical censure, and the ecclesiastical courts. ' Ecclesiastical courts ? What is this new doctrine, church- man ? ' asked William. 'The superstition of sorcery, my lord king, is neither more nor less than that of heresy itself ; seeing tliat the demons whom it invokes are none otlier than the old Pagan gods : and as heresy — — ' XXXII HOW KING WILLIAM TOOK COUNSEL 289 William exploded with fearful oaths. He was always jealous (and wisely) for his own prerogatives. And the doctrine was novel, at least in England. Witches were here considered as offenders against the private person enchanted, rather than against the Church ; and executions for witchcraft rai'ely, if ever, took place, unless when the Avitch was supposed to have injured life or property. 'Have I not given you churchmen enough already, that you must assume my king's power of life and death ? Do I not slay and torment enough, heaven forgive me ! without needing you to help me 1 ' The Italian saw that he had gone too far. ' Heaven forbid,' lie said, 'that the Church should stain her hands with the blood of the worst of sinners. All she could do was, having proved guilt, to deliver the offender over to the secular arm, doubtless with merciful entreaties that there might be no shedding of blood. 'There is none, I presume, when folks are burned alive,' quoth William with a sneer. 'So you are to be the judges, and me your executioner, eh 1 An honourable office, truly. Beware, sir clerk ! Beware ! ' ' If the fire of my zeal has for a moment too rashly melted the ice of my modesty ' ' Of thy craft, say ' ' j\Iy humility humbly entreats forgiveness. I do not press the matter. Only it seemed — it seemed at least to me, that after the slight scandal — forgive my fidelity the word — to the faithful caused by your highness' unhappy employment of the witch of Brandon ' William cursed under his breath. 'Your highness might nobly atone therefor, by executing justice on a far more flagitious offender, who has openly com- passed and effected the death of hundreds of your highness' otherwi.se invincible warriors ' 'And throw good money after bad,' said William, laughing. ' I tell thee, priest, she is too pretty to burn, were she the Witch of Endor herself.' ' Be it so. Your royal clemency can always remit her sen- tence, even so far as to pardon her entirely, if your merciful temper should so incline you. But meanwhile, what better could we have done, than to remind the monks of Ely that she was a sorceress ; that she had committed grave crimes, and was liable to punishment lierself, and they to punishment also, as her shelterers and accomplices?' ' Wiiat your highness wanted,' quoth Taillebois, ' was to bring over the monks ; and I believe that message had been a good stroke toward that. As for Hereward, you need not think of him. He never will come in alive. He has sworn an oath, and lie will keep it.' And so the matter ended. U n. T. w. 290 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. CHAPTER XXXIII HOW THE MONKS OF ELY DID AFTER THEIR KIND William's bolt, or rather inextinguisliable Greek fire, could not have fallen into Ely at a more propitious moment. Hereward was away, with a large body of men and many ships, foraging in the north-eastern fens. He might not be back for a Aveek. Abbot Thurstan — for what cause is not said — had lost heart a little while before, and fled to 'Angerhale, taking with him the ornaments and treasure of the church.' Hereward had discovered his flight with deadly fear : but provisions he must have, and forth he must go, leaving Ely in charge of half a dozen independent English gentlemen, each of whom would needs have his own way, just because it was his own. Only Torfrida he took, and j^ut her hand into the hand of Bigtryg Ranaldsson, and said, ' Thou true comrade and perfect knight, as I did by thy wife, do thou by mine, if aught befall.' And 8igtryg swore first by the white Christ, and then by the head of SleijDnir, Odin's horse, that he would stand by Torfrida till the last ; and then, if need was, slay her. 'You will not need. King Sigtryg. I can slay myself,' said she, as she took the Ost-Dane's hard honest hand. And Hereward went, seemingly by Mepal or Sutton. Then came the message ; and all men in Ely knew it. Torfrida stormed down to the monks, in honest indignation, to demand that they should send to William, and purge her of the calumny. She found the chapter-door barred and bolted. They were all gabbling inside, like starlings on a foggy morning, and would not let her in. She hurried back to Sigtryg, fearing treason, and foreseeing the effect of the message upon the monks. But what could Sigtryg do ? To find out their counsels was impossible for him, or any man in Ely. For the monks could talk Latin, and the men could not. Torfrida alone knew the sacred tongue. If Torfrida could but listen at the keyhole. Well — all was fair in war. And to the chapter-house door she went, guarded by Sigtryg and some of his housecarles ; and listened, with a beating heart. She heard words now incomprehensible. That men who most of them lived no better than their own serfs ; who could have no amount of wealth, not even the hope of leav- ing that wealth to their children — that such men should cling to wealth ; struggle, forge, lie, do anything for wealth, to be used almost entirely not for themselves, but for the honour and XXXIII HOW THE MONKS DID AFTER THEIR KIND 291 glory of the convent — indicates an intensity of corporate feeling unknown in tlie outer world then or now. The monastery would be ruined. Without this manor, without that wood, without that stone quarry, that fishery — what would become of them ? But mingled with those words were other words, unfor- tunately more intelligible to this day — those of superstition. What would St. Etheldreda say? What St. Sexburga, St. Witliburga, St. Ermenilda ? How dare they provoke their wrath ? Would they submit to lose their lands 1 They might do — what might they not do ? Their bones would refuse ever to work a miracle again. They had been but too slack in miracle-working for many years. They might strike the isle with barrenness, the minster with lightning. They might send a flood up the fens. They might William the Norman, to do them justice, those valiant monks feared not ; for he was man, and could but kill the body. But St. Etheldreda, a virgin goddess, with her three maidens, and indeed, all the host of heaven to back her — might she not, by intercession with powers still higher than her own, destroy both body and soul in hell ? 'We are betrayed. They are going to send for the abbot from Angerhale,' said Torfrida at last, reeling from the door. 'All is lost.' ' Shall we burst open the door and kill them all ? ' asked Sigtryg simply. ' No, king — no. They ai-e God's men •, and we have blood enough upon our souls.' ' We can keep the gates, lest any go out to the king.' ' Impossible. They know the isle better than we, and have a tliousand arts.' So all they could do was to wait in fear and trembling for Hereward's return, and send Martin Lightfoot off to warn him, wherever he might be. The monks remained perfectly quiet. The organ droned, the chants wailed as usual ; nothing interrupted the stated order of the services ; and in the hall, each day, they met the knights as cheerfully as ever. Greed and superstition had made cowards of them— and now traitors. It was whispered that Abbot Thurstan had returned to tlie minster : but no man saw him : and so three or four days went on. Martin found Hereward after incredible labours, and told liim all, clearly and shrewdly. Tlie man's manifest insanity only seemed to quicken his wit, and increase his powers of bodily endurance. Hereward was already on his way home ; and never did lie and his good men row harder than they rowed that day back to Sutton. He landed, and hurried on with half his men, leaving 292 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. the rest to disembark the booty. He was anxious as to the temper of the monks. He foresaw all that Torfrida had fore- seen. And as for Torfrida herself, he was half mad. Ivo Tail- lebois' addition to William's message had had its due eftect. He vowed even deadlier hate against the Frenchman than he had ever felt before. He ascended the heights to Sutton. It was his shortest way to Ely. He could not see Aldretli from thence : but he could see Willingham field and Belsar's hills, round the corner of Haddenham Hill. The sun was setting long before they reached Ely : but just as he sank into the western fen, Winter stopped, pointing. — Was that the flash of arms? There, far away, just below Willing- ham town. Or was it the setting sun upon the ripple of some long water ? ' There is not wind enough for such a ripple,' said one. But ere they could satisfy themselves, the sun was clown, and all the fen was gray. Hereward was still more uneasy. If that had been the flash of arms, it must have come oft' a very large body of men, moving in column, on the road between Cambridge and Ely. He hastened on his men. But ere they were within sight of the minster-tower, they were aware of a horse galloping violently towards them through the dusk. Hereward called a halt. He heard his own heart beat as he stopped. The hoi'se was pulled up short among them. On its back was a lad, with a smaller boy behind him, clasping his waist. ' Hereward ? Thank God, I am in time ! And the child is safe too. Thanks, thanks, dear saints ! ' a voice sobbed out. It was the voice of Torfrida. ' Treason ! ' she gasped. ' I knew it.' ' The French are in the island. They have got Aldreth. The whole army is marching from Cambridge. The whole fleet is coming up from Southrey. And you have time ' ' To burn Ely over the monks' heads. Men ! Get bogwood out of yon cottage, make yourselves torches, and onward ! ' Then rose a babel of questions, which Torfrida answered as she could. But she had nothing to tell. ' Clerks' cunning,' she said bitterly, 'was an overmatch for woman's wit.' She had sent out a spy : but he had not returned till an hour since. Then he came back breathless, with the news that the French army was on the march from Cambridge, and that, as he came over the water at Aldreth, he found a party of French knights in the fort on the Ely side, talking peaceably with the monks on guard. She had run up to the borough liill — which men call Cherry Hill at this day — and one look to the north-east had shown her the river swarming with ships. She had rushed home, put boys' XXXIII HOW THE MONKS DID AFTER THEIR KIND 293 clothes on herself and her child, liid a few jewels in her bosom, saddled Swallow, and ridden for life thither. 'And King Sigtryg?' He and his men had gone desperately out towai'ds Hadden- ham, with what English they could muster : but all were in confusion. Some were getting the women and children into boats, to hide them in the reeds ; others battering the miifster gates, vowing vengeance on the monks. 'Then Sigtryg will be cut oft'! Alas for the day that ever brought his brave heart hither ! ' And wlien the men heard that, a yell of fury and despair burst from all throats. Should they go back to their boats ? 'No! onward,' cried Hereward. 'Revenge first, and safety after. Let us leave nothing for the accursed Frenchmen but smoking ruins, and then gather our comrades, and cut our way back to the north.' 'Good counsel,' cried Winter. 'We know the roads, and they do not ; and in such a dark night as is coming, we can march out of the island without their being able to follow us a mile.' They hurried on : but stopped once more, at the gallojoing of another horse. 'Who conies, friend or foe? ' ' Alwyn, son of Orgar ! ' cried a voice under breath. ' Don't make such a noise, men ! The French are within half a mile of you.' ' Then one traitor monk shall die ere I retreat,' cried Here- ward, seizing him by the throat. ' For heaven's sake, hold ! ' cried Torfrida, seizing his arm. ' You know not what he may have to say.' ' I am no traitor, Hereward ; I have fought by your side as well as the best ; and if any but you had called Alwyn ' 'A curse on your boasting. Tell us the truth.' ' The abbot has made peace with the king. He would give up the island, and St. Etheldreda should keep all her lands and honours. I said wliat I could : but wlio was I to resist the whole chapter ? Could I alone Ijrave St. Etheldreda's wrath ? ' ' Alwyn, the valiant, afraid of a dead girl ! ' ' Blaspheme not, Hereward ! She may hear you at this moment ! Look there ! ' and pointing up, the monk cowered in terror, as a meteor flaslied through the sky. ' That is St. Etheldreda shooting at us, oh 1 Then all I can say is, she is a very bad marksman. And the French are in the island?' ' Tliey are.' ' Then forward, men, for one lialf-hour's i:)leasure ; and then to die like Englishmen.' 'On?' cried Alwyn. 'You cannot go on. The king is at 294 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Wliichford at this moment with all his army, half a mile off! Right across the road to Ely ! ' Hereward grew Berserk. ' On ! men ! ' shouted he, ' we shall kill a few Frenchmen apiece before we die ! ' ' Hereward,' cried Torf rida, ' you shall not go on ! If you go, I shall be taken. And if I am taken, I shall be burned. And I cannot burn — I cannot ! I shall go mad with terror before I come to the stake. I cannot go stript to my smock before those Frenchmen. I cannot be roasted piecemeal ! Hereward, take me away ! Take me away ! or kill me, now and here ! ' He paused. He had never seen Torfrida thus overcome. ' Let us flee ! The stars are against us. God is against us ! Let us hide — escape abroad : beg our bread, go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem together — for together it must be always : but take me away ! ' ' We will go back to the boats, men,' said Hereward. But they did not go. They stood there, irresolute, looking towards Ely. The sky was pitchy dark. The minster-roofs, lying north- east, were utterly invisible against the blackness. ' We may at least save some who escape out,' said Hereward. ' March on quickly to the left, under the hill to the plough-field.' They did so. 'Lie down, men. There are the French, close on our right. Down among the bushes.' And they heard the heavy tramp of men within a quarter of a mile. ' Cover the mare's eyes, and hold her mouth lest she neigh,' said Winter. Hereward and Torfrida lay side by side upon the heath. She was shivering with cold and horror. He laid his cloak over her ; put his arm round her. 'Your stars did not foretell you this, Torfrida.' He spoke not bitterly, but in utter sadness. She burst into an agony of weeping. 'My stars at least foretold me nothing but woe, since first I saw your face.' ' Why did you marry me then 1 ' asked he, half angrily. ' Because I loved you. Because I love you still.' ' Then you do not regret ? ' ' Never, never, never ! I am quite happy — quite happy. Why not?' A low murmur from the men made them look up. They were near enough to the town to hear — only too much. They heard the tramp of men, shouts and yells. Then the shrill cries of women. All dull and muffled the sounds came to them through the still night ; and they lay there spell-bound, as in a nightmare, as men assisting at some horrible tragedy, which they had no power to prevent. Then there was a glare, and a xxxiii HOW THE MONKS DID AFTER THEIR KIND 295 wisp of smoke against the black sky, and then a house began burning brightly, and then another. ' This is the Frenchman's faith ! ' And all the while, as the sack raged in the town below, the minster stood above, glaring in the firelight, silent and safe. The church had provided for herself by sacrificing the children beneath her fostering shadow. They waited nearly an hour, but no fugitives came out. ' Come, men,' said Hereward wearily, ' we may as well to the boats.' And so they went, walking on like men in a dream, as yet too stunned to realise to themselves the hopeless horror of their situation. Only Hereward and Torfrida saw it all, looking back on tlie splendid past — the splendid hopes for the future : glory, honour, an earldom, a free Danish England — and this was all that was left ! ' No, it is not ! ' cried Torfrida suddenly, as if answering her own unspoken thoughts, and his. 'Love is still left. The gal- lows and the stake cannot take that away.' And she clung closer to her husband's side, and he again to hers. They reached the shore, and told their tale to their comrades. 'Whither now?' 'To Well. To the wide mere,'^ said Hereward. ' But their ships will hunt us out there.' ' We shall need no hunting. We must pick up the men at Cissham. You would not leave them to be murdered, too, as we have left the Ely men 1 ' No. They would go to Well. And then ? ' The Bruneswold, and the merry greenwood,' said Hereward. ' Hey for the merry greenwood ! ' shouted Leof ric the deacon. And the men, in the sudden delight of finding any place, any purpose, answered with a lusty cheer. 'Brave hearts!' said Hereward. 'We will live and die together like Englishmen.' ' We will, we will. Viking.' ' Where shall we stow the mare,' asked Gery, ' the boats are full already.' ' Leave her to me. On board, Torfrida.' He got on board last, leading the mare by the bridle. 'Swim, good lass !' said he, as they pushed off; and the good lass, wlio had done it many a time before, waded in, and was soon swimming behind. Hereward turned, and bent over the ^ Probably rear Upwcll and Outwell, in the direction of Wisbeach. There the okl Nene and the ohl Wehiey Rivers joining, fomied vast mor- asses, now laid dry by the Middle Level and JMarsliland Drains. The bursting of the Middle Level Sluice in the year 1861 restored for a while a vast tract in these fens to its primeval state of ' the Wide Mere.' From tliis point Hereward could escape north into Lincolnshire, either by Wis- beach and the Wash, or by Crowlaud and Bourne. 296 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. side in tlie darkness. There was a strange gurgle, a splash, and a swirl. He turned round, and sat upright again. They rowed on. ' That mare will never swim all the way to Well,' said one. ' She will not need it,' said Hereward. 'Why?' said Torfrida, feeling in the dai'kness, 'she is loose. What is this in your hand ? Your dagger ? and wet ? ' ' Mare Swallow is at the bottom of the reach. We could never liave got her to Well.' ' And you have ' cried a dozen voices. 'Do you think that I would let a cui^sed Frenchman — ay, even Williain's self — say that he had bestridden Hereward's mare ? ' None answered : but Torfrida, as she laid her head upon her husband's bosom, felt the great tears running down from his cheek on to her own. None spoke a word. The men were awe-stricken. There was something despairing and ill-omened in the deed. And yet there was a savage grandeur in it, which bound their savage hearts still closer to their chief. And so mare Swallow's bones lie somewhere in the peat unto this day. They got to Well ; they sent out spies to find the men who liad been ' wasting Cissham with fire and sword : ' and at last brought them in. Ill news, as usual, had travelled fast. They had heard of the fall of Ely, and hidden themselves 'in a certain very small island which is called Stimtench,' where, thinking that the friends in search of them were Frenchmen in pursuit, they hid themselves amongst the high reeds. There two of them — one Starkwulf by name, the other Broher — hiding near each other, ' thouglit that, as they were monks, it might conduce to their safety if they had shaven crowns ; and set to work with their swords to shave each other's heads as well as they could. But at last, by their war-cries and their speech, recognising each other, they left off fighting,' and went after Hereward. So jokes, grimly enough, the old chronicler, who may have seen them come in the next morning with bleeding coxcombs, and could laugh over the tiling in after years. But he was in no humour for jesting in the days in wliich they lay at Well. Nor- was he in jesting humour when, a week afterwards, hunted by the French from Well, and forced to take to meres and waterways known only to them, and too shallow and narrow for the French ships, they found their way across into tlie old Nen, and so on toward Crowland, leaving Peterborough far on the left. For as tliey neared Crowland, they saw before them, rowing slowly, a Ijarge full of men. And as they neared that barge, beliold, all they wlio rowed were blind of both their eyes ; and all they who sat and guided them, were maimed of both their hands. And as they came alongside, there was not a man XXXIII HOW THE MONKS DID AFTER THEIR KIND 297 in all that ghastly crew but was an ancient friend, by whose side they had fought full many a day, and with whom they had drunk deep full many a night. They were the firstfruits of William's vengeance ; thrust into that boat, to tell the rest of the fen-men what those had to expect who dared oppose the Norman. And they were going to Crowland, to the sanctuary of the Danish fen-men, that they might cast themselves down before St. Guthlac, and ask of him that mercy for their souls which the Conqueror had denied to their bodies. Alas for them ! They were but a handful among hundreds, perhaps thousands, of mutilated cripi^les, who swarmed all over England, and especially in the north and east, throughout the reign of the Norman conquerors. They told their comrades' fate, slaughtered in the first attack, or hanged afterwards as rebels and traitors to a foreigner whom they had never seen, and to whom they owed no fealty by law of God and man. ' And Sigtryg Ranaldsson ? ' None knew aught of him. He never got home again to his Irish princess. ' And the poor women ? ' asked Torf rida. But she received no answer. And the men swore a great oath, and kept it : never to give quarter to a Frenchman, as long as there was one left on English ground. Neither were the monks of Ely in jesting humour, when they came to count up the price of their own baseness. They had obeyed the apostolic injunction, 'to submit to the powers that be because they are ordained,' etc. But they found their return (as the Book of Ely calls it) to ' a more wholesome counsel,' beset with thorns. The king barred them out of the monastery, lest the monks should come out with crosses and relics to im- plore his mercy. Going into the minster, he stood afar off from the holy body of St. Etheldreda, and cast a mark of gold on the altar, as a peace-offering to that terrible lady ; and then retired to Whicliford, leaving his soldiers to work their wicked will. So terrified were tlie poor monks, that no mass was celebrated that day : but as the hours wore on, they needs must eat. And as they ate, there entered to them into the refectory Gilbert of Clare — ' Ye English swine, could ye find no other time to feed 1 The king is in the minster.' Out hurried the monks, but too late. The king was gone, and hardly, by humbling themselves to their old enemy Gilbert, did they obtain grace of the king for seven hundred marks of silver. The which money they took, as they had promised, to Picot the Viscount of Cambridge. He weighed it ; and finding- it an ounce short, accused them of cheating the king, and sentenced them to pay 300 marks more. Then was lost all the gold and silver which was left in Ely : the image of St. j\Iary 298 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. with her child, sitting on a throne, wrought with wondrous skill, which Elfsy the abbot had made of gold and silver, was broken up ; and the images of the guardian virgins stripped of their precious ornaments. After which the royal commissioners came, plundered the abbey of all that was left of those treasures, which had been brought from every quarter into the camp of refuge, of which a curious inventory remains to this day. Thurston, the traitor abbot, died in a few months. Egelwin, the Bishop of Durham, was taken in the abbey. He was a bishop, and they dared not kill him. But he was a patriot, and must have no mercy. They accused him of stealing the treasures of Durham, which he had brought to Ely, for the service of his country ; and shut him up in Abingdon. A few months after, the brave man was found starved and dead, ' whether of his own will, or enforced ; ' and so ended another patriot prelate. But we do not read that the Normans gave back the treasures to Durham. And so, yielding an immense mass of booty, and many a fair woman, as the Norman's prey, ended the camp of " refuge, and the glory of the isle of Ely. But not the wrath of St. Etheldreda. Whatever she might have done when on earth, she was not inclined, as patroness of Ely, to obey the apostolic injunction, and 'take joyfully the spoiling of her goods ' ; and she fell upon those who had robbed her of her gay garments and rich manors, and left her to go in russet for many a year, with such strokes as proved that the monks had chosen the less of two evils, when they j^referred falling into the hands of an angry king to falling into those of an angry saint. Terrible was the fate of Eoger Picot's man Gervase, who dared to harry and bind St. Etheldreda's men ; who even brought an action at law against the abbot himself. The very night before the trial, St. Etheldreda, and her two sisters St. Withburga and Sexburga, stabbed him to the heart with the spikes of their pastoral staves, and he died, to the terror of all bystanders. Worse, even, was the fate of Roger Picot himself, ' the hungry lion, the prowling wolf, the crafty fox, the filthy swine, the shameless dog,' who had said, ' Who is this Etheldreda, whose lands ye say that I have taken ? I know not Etheldreda, and I will not give up her lands.' ' Listen, ye isles, and attend, ye people from afar oft", what her .spouse hath done for the Lady of Ely. His sin, saith Scripture, is sought, and shall not be found. By whom is it sought ? By Him from whom nothing is hidden. By whom shall it be found ? By no man, since none know His day. Whither he is gone, why he fled, or how he has died ; whether he has descended alive into the pit with Dathan and Abyrom, or become a beast with Naljuchadonossor ; hath vanished utterly, or by any other mode hath perished, to be damned without end. But one thing we know for certain, that in our bounds he has appeared no XXXIV HOW HEREWARD WENT TO THE GREENAVOOD 299 more, but has disappeared for ever to-day. Glory to Him who has given us the victory over our enemy.' Worse again (accoi'ding to those of Ely) was the fate of Earl William de Warrenne, who violently withheld some farms from St. Etheldreda. For on the night on which he died, the then abbot heard his soul carried off by demons, crying in vain to heaven for mercy. Therefore when his lady, Gundreda (William the Conqueror's stepdaughter), a few days after, sent a hundred shillings for his soul to the minster at Ely, the abbot and his monks sent them back, neither deigning nor daring to take the money of a damned man. So there is no hope for Earl Warrenne, were it not that the Cluniac monks, whom he had established at Lewes, holding naturally a different oi^inion of him and his deeds, buried him there in splendour, and put up over his tomb a white marble slab, on which were set forth his virtues, and the present protection and future rewards which St. Pancras was to procure for him in return for the minster which he had raised in honour of that mighty avenger of perjury.i After which — whether St. Pancras did or did not deliver Earl William from the wrath of St. Etheldreda — the Lady of Ely was appeased ; and when almost all the monks were either sick or dying (possibly from one of those fevers which so often devastated tlie fens), she was seen, after long fastings and vigils, by a holy man named Goderic, staying the hand of some mighty being, who was in act to shoot an arrow from heaven against the doomed borough. After which, watching and praying still more fervently, he beheld St. Etheldreda and her maidens rise from their tombs by night, and walk majestic through choir and cloister, and so to the sick-house and the dying monks. And there the Lady of Ely went round to every bed, and laid her pure liand upon the throbbing forehead and wiped the typhus-gore from the faded lij^s with her sacred sleeve, and gave the sufferers sudden health and strength ; and signified to Goderic, who had followed her trembling afar off, that all was forgiven and forgotten.^ CHAPTER XXXIV HOW HEREWARD WENT TO THE GREENWOOD And now is Hereward to the greenwood gone, to be a bold out- law ; and not only an outlaw liimself, but the father of all out- laws, who held tliose forests for two hundred years, from the fens to the Scottish border. Utlages, forestiers, latrunculi, ^ Ordericus Vitalis, book viii. c. 9. 2 For all these tales (the last is told with much pathos), sec the Liber Eliensis, book ii, §§ 119-133. 300 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. sicarii, sauvages, who prided themselves upon sleeping on the bare ground — they were accursed by the conquerors, and beloved by the conquered. The Norman viscount or sheriff commanded to hunt them from hundred to hundred with hue and cry, horse and bloodhound. The English yeomen left for them a keg of ale, or a basket of loaves, beneath the hollins green, as sauce for their meal of ' nombles of the dere.' ' For hart and hind, and doe and roe, Were in that forest great plentie,' and ' Swannes and fosauntes they had full good, ■ And foules of the rivere. There fayled never so lytell a byrde, That ever was bred on brere.' With the same friendly yeoman 'that was a good felawe,' they would lodge by twos and threes during the sharp frosts of mid- winter, in the lonely farmhouse which stood in the ' field ' or forest-clearing : but for the greater part of the year their ' lodging was on the cold ground ' in the holly thickets, or under the hanging rock, or in a lodge of boughs. And then, after a while, the life which began in terror, and despair, and poverty, and loss of land and kin, became not only tolerable, but pleasant. Bold men and hardy, they cared less and less for ' The thornie wayes, the deep valleys, The snowe, the frost, the rayne, The colde, the beta ; for dry or wete We must lodge on the plaine. And us above, none other roofe But a brake bushe, or twayne.' And they found fair lassies, too, in time, who like Torfrida and Maid ^Marian, would answer with the nut-brown maid, to their warnings against the outlaw life, that — ' Amonge the wild dere, such an archere As men say that ye be, He may not fayle of good vitayle, Where is so great plente : And water clere of the riveie, Shall be full swete to me, With which in hele, I shall right wele. Endure, as ye may see.' Then called they themselves ' merry men ' ; and the forest the 'merry greenwood ' ; and sang, with Ilobin Hood, 'A merrier man than I, belyve There lives not in Christentie.' They were coaxed back, at times, to civilised life ; they got tlieir grace of the king, and entered the king's service ; but XXXIV HOW HEREWARD WENT TO THE GREENAVOOD 301 the craving after the greenwood was upon them. They dreaded and hated the four stone walls of a Norman castle ; and, like Robin Hood, slipt back to the forest and the deer. Gradually, too, law and order arose among them, lawless as they were ; that instinct of discipline and self-government, side by side Avith that of personal independence, which is tlie pecu- liar mark, and peculiar strength, of the English character. Who knows not how, in the 'Lytell Geste of Robin Hood,' they shot at 'pluck-buffet,' the king among them disguised as an abbot ; and every man who missed the rose-garland, 'his tackle he should tyne ' ; ' And bere a buffet on his head Iwys ryglit all bare, And all that fell on Robyn's lote, He smote them wondei- sair. ' Till Robyn fayled of the garlonde, Three fyngers and mair.' Then good Gilbert bids him in his turn ' " Stand forth and take his pay." ' "If it be so," sayd Robyn, "That may no better be, Syr Abbot, I delyver thee myn arrowc, I pray thee, Syr, ser%'e thou me." / ' " It falletli not for myne order," saith the kynge, " Robyn, by tliy leve. For to smyte no good yeman. For doute I should hym greve." ' " Smyte on boldly," sayd Robyn, " I give thee large leve." Anon our kynge, with that word, He folde up his sieve. ' And such a buffet he gave Robyn, To grounde he yode full nere. " I make myne avowe," sayd Robyn, " Thou art a stalwarte frere." ' " There is pyth in thyn arme," sayd Robyn, " I trowe thou canst well shoote." Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode Together they are met. ' Hard knocks in good humour, strict rules, fair play, and equal justice for high and low ; this was the old outlaw spirit, which has descended to their inlawed descendants ; and makes, to this day, the life and marrow of an English public school. One fixed idea tlie outlaw had — hatred of the invader. If 'liis herd were the king's deer,' 'his treasure was the earl's purse ' ; and still oftener the purse of the foreign churchman, 302 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Frenchman or Italian, wlio had expelled the outlaw's English cousins from their convents ; scourged and imprisoned them, as the blessed Archbishop Lanfranc did at Canterbury, because they would not own allegiance to a French abbot ; or murdered them at the high altar, as did the new abbot of _ Glastonbury, because they would not change their old Gregorian chant for that of William of Fecamp.^ On these mitred tyrants the outlaw had no mercy, as far as their purses were concerned. Their persons, as consecrated, were even to him sacred and inviolable — at least, from wounds and death ; and one may suppose Hereward himself to have been the first author of the laws afterward attributed to Robin Hood. As for ' robbing and reving, beting and bynding,' free warren was allowed against the Norman. ' " Thereof no fors," said Robyn, " We shall do well enow. But look ye do no housebonde harme, That tylleth wyth his plough. ' " No more ye shall no good yeman, That walketh by grene wood shawe ; Ne no knyght, ne no squyer, That will be good felawe. ' " These bysshoppes, and these archbyshoppes, Ye shall them bete and binde ; The liye sheryff of Nottingham, Hym liolde in your niynde." ' Robyn loved our dear Ladye, For doubt of dedely synne, Wolde he never do company harm That any woman was ynne.' And even so it was with The Wake when he was in the Bruneswold, if the old chroniclers are to be believed. And now Torf rida was astonished. She had given way utterly at Ely, from woman's fear and woman's disappointment. All was over. All was lost. What was left, save to die ? But — and it was a neAV and unexpected fact to one of her excitable southern blood, easily raised, and easily depressed — she discovei-ed that neither her husband, nor Winter, nor Gery, nor Wenoch, nor Ranald of Ramsey, nor even the romanc- ing harping Leofric, thouglit that all was lost. She_ argued it with them, not to persuade them into base submission, but to satisfy her own surprise. ' Rut what will you do ? ' ' Live in the greenwood.' 'And what then?' ^ See the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. XXXIV HOW HEREWARD WENT TO THE CxREENWOOD 303 ' Burn every town which a Frenchman holds, and kill every Frenchman we meet.' ' But what plan have you ? ' ' Who wants a plan, as you call it, while he has the green hollies overhead, the dun deer on the lawn, bow in his hand, and sword by his side ? ' ' But what will be the end of it all 1 ' 'We shall live till we die.' ' But William is master of all England.' ' W'hat is that to us 1 He is not our master.' ' But he must be some day. You will grow fewer and fewer. His government will grow stronger and stronger.' ' What is that to us ? When we are dead, there will be brave yeomen in plenty to take our place. You would not turn traitor ? ' 'I? never! never! I will live and die with you in your greenwood, as you call it. Only — I did not understand you English.; Torfrida did not. She was discovering the fact, which her nation have more than once discovered since, that the stupid valour of the Englishman never knows when it is beaten ; and sometimes, by that self-satished ignorance, succeeds in not being beaten after all. So The Wake — if tlie chroniclers speak truth — assembled a formidable force, well-nigh, at last, four hundred men. Winter, Gery, Wenoch, Grogan, one of the Azers of Lincoln, were still with liim. Kanald the seneschal still carried his standard. Of Duti and Outi, the famous brothers, no more is heard. A valiant Matelgar takes their jjlace ; Alfric and Sexwold and many an- other gallant fugitive cast up, like scattered hounds, at the sound of ' The Wake's ' war-horn. There were those among them (says Gaimar) who scorned to fight single-handed less than three Frenchmen. As for The Wake, he would fight seven, ' Les quatre oscist, les treis fuiient ; Naffrez, sanglant, cil s'en partireat En plusurs Uus issi avint, K'encontre seit tres bien se tuit. De seit hommes avait vertu, Un phis hardi ne fu veu.' They ranged up the Bruneswold, dashing out to the war-cry of ' A Wake ! A Wake ! ' and laying all waste with fire and sword ; that is, such towns as were in the liands of Frenchmen. A noble range they must have had, for gallant sportsmen. Away south, between the Nene and Welland, stretched from Stamford and Peterborough the still vast forests of Iiockingliam, nigh twenty miles in length as the crow files, down beyond Rockingham town, and Geddington Chase. To the west, they had the range of the ' hunting counties,' dotted still, in the more 304 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. eastern part, with innumerable copses and shaughs, the remnants of the great forest, out of which, as out of Rockinghamshire, have been cut those fair parks and ' Handsome houses, AVhere the wealthy nobles dwell ; past which the Lord of Burgliley led his Welsh bride to that Burghley House by Stamford town, well-nigh the noblest of them all, which was in Hereward's time deep wood and free- stone down. Round Exton, and Normanton, and that other Burley on the Hill ; on through those Morkery woods, wliich still retain tlie name of Hereward's ill-fated nephew ; north by Irnham and Corby ; on to Belton and Syston (par nobile), and south-west again to those still-wooded heights, whence all-but- royal Belvoir looks out over the rich green vale below, did Hereward and his men range far and wide, harrying the French- man, and hunting the dun deer. Stags and fallow deer there were in plenty. There remain to this day, in Grimsthorpe Park by Bourne, the descendants of the very deer which Earl Leofric and Earl Algar, and after them Hereward the outlaw, hunted in the Bruneswold. Deep tangled forest filled the lower claylands, swarming with pheasant, roe, badger, and more wolves than were needed. Broken park-like glades covered the upper freestones, where the red deer came out from harbour for their evening graze, and the partridges and plovers whirred up, and the hares loped away, innumerable ; and where hollies and ferns always gave dry lying for the night. What did men need more, whose bodies were as stout as their hearts ? They were poachers and robbers — and why not 1 The deer liad once been theirs, the game, the land, the serfs ; and if Godric of Corby slew the Irnham deer, and burned Irnham hall over the head of the new French lord, and thought no harm, he did but what he would with that which had been once his own. Easy it was to dash out by night, and make a raid ; to harry the places wliich tliey once had owned themselves ; in the vale of Belvoir to tiie west, or to tlie east in the strip of fertile land which sloped down into the fen ; and levy black mail in Folk- ingham, or Aslackby, or Sleaford, or any other of the 'Vills' (now thriving villages) which still remain in Domesday-book, and written against them the ugly and significant — ' In Tatenai habuerunt Turgisle et Suen IIII carrucas terrae,' etc. ' Hoc Ivo Taillebosc ibi habet in dominio ' — all, that is, that the wars had left of them. The said Turgisle (Torkill or Turketil misspelt by Frenchmen) and Sweyn, and many a good man more — for Ivo's possessions were enormous — were thorns in the sides of Ivo and his men. XXXIV HOW HEREWARD AVENT TO THE GREENWOOD 305 which must be extracted ; and the Bruneswold a nest of hornets which must be smoked out at any cost. Wherefore it befell, that once upon a day, there came riding to Hereward in the Bruneswold, a horseman all alone. And meeting with Hereward and his men, he made signs of amity, and bowed himself low, and pulled out of his purse a letter, protesting that he was an Englishman, and a ' good felawe,' and that though he came from Lincoln town, a friend to the English had sent him. That was believable enough, for Hereward had his friends, and his spies, far and wide. And when he opened the letter, and looked first, like a wary man, at the signature — a sudden thrill went through him. It was Alftruda's. If he was interested in her, considering what had passed between them from her childhood, it was nothing to be ashamed of. And yet, somehow, he felt ashamed of that same sudden thrill. And Hereward had reason to be ashamed. He had been faithful to Torfrida — a virtue most rare in those days. Few were faithful then, save, it may be, Baldwin of Mons to his tyrant and idol, the sorceress Eichilda ; and William of Nor- mandy — whatever were his other sins — to his wise, and sweet, and beautiful Matilda. The stories of his coldness and cruelty to her seem to rest on no foundation. One need believe them as little as one does the mytli of one chronicler, that when she tried to stop him from some expedition, and clung to him as he sat upon his horse, he smote his spur so deep into her breast that she fell dead. Tlie man had self-control, and feared God, in his own wild way : therefore it was, perhaps, that he conquered. And Hereward had been faithful likewise to Torfrida, and loved her with an overwhelming adoration — as all true men love. And for that very reason he was the more aware, that his feel- ing for Alftruda was strangely like his feeling for Torfrida ; and yet strangely diftei-ent. There was nothing in the letter that he should not have read. She called him her best and dearest friend, twice the saviour of lier life. What could she do in return, but, at any risk to her- self, try and save his life ? The French were upon him. The posse comitatus of seven counties was raising. ' Northampton, Cambridge, Lincoln, Holland, Leicester, Huntingdon, Warwick,' were coming to the Bruneswold to root him out. 'Lincoln?' thought Hereward. 'That nmst be Gilbert of Ghent, and Oger the Breton. No ! Gilbert is not coming ; Sir Ascelin is coming for liim. Holland 1 Tliat is my friend Ivo Tailleliois. Well, we shall have the chance of paying oft" old scores. Northampton ? The earl thereof just now is the pious and loyal Waltheof, as he is of Huntingdon and Cambridge. Is X H. T. w. 306 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. he going to join young Fitz-Osbern from Warwick and Leices- ter, to root out the last Englishman ? Why not ? That would be a deed worthy of the man who married Judith, and believes in the powers that be, and eats dirt daily at William's table.' Then he read on. Ascelin had been mentioned, he remarked, three or four times in the letter, which was long, as from one lingering over the paper, wishing to say more tliau she dared. At tlie end was a hint of the reason : ' Oh, that having saved me twice, you could save me once more. Know you that Gospatric has been driven from his earl- dom on charge of treason, and that Waltheof has Northumbria in his place, as well as the parts round you ? And that Gos- patric is fled to Scotland again, with his sons — my man among them ? And now the report comes, that my man is slain in battle on the Border ; and that I am to be given away — as I have been given away twice before — to Ascelin. This I know, as I know all, not only from him of Ghent, but from him of Peterborough, Ascelin's uncle.' Hereward laughed a laugh of cynical triumph — pardonable enough in a broken man. 'Gospatric ! the wittol ! the woodcock ! looking at the springe, and then coolly putting his head therein. Throwing the hatchet after the helve ; selling his soul, and never getting the price of it ! I foresaw it, foretold it, I believe to Alftruda herself — foretold that he would not keep his bought earldom three years. What a people we are, we English, if Gospatric is — as he is — the shrewdest man among us, with a dash of canny Scotsblood too. "Among the one-eyed, the blind is king," says Torf rida, out of her wise ancients, and blind we -are, if he is our best. No. There is one better man left, I trust ; one that will never be sleepy enough to put his head into the wolf's mouth, and trust the Frenchman, and that is, I The Wake.' And Hereward boasted to himself, at Gospatric's expense, of liis own superior wisdom, till his eye caught a line or two, which finished the letter. ' Oh, that you would change your mind, much as I honour you for it. Oh, tJiat you would come in to the king, who loves and trusts you, having seen your constancy and faith, proved by so many years of affliction. Great things are open to you, and great joys ; — I dare not tell you what : but I know them, if you would come in. You, to waste yourself in the forest, an outlaw and a savage ! Opportunity once lost, never returns ; time flies fast, Hereward my friend, and we shall all grow old — I tliink at times that I shall soon grow old. And the joys of life will be impossible, and nothing left but vain regrets.' _' Hey ? ' said Hereward, ' a veiy clerkly letter. I did not think she was so good a scholar. Almost as good a one as Torfrida.' XXXV HOW ABBOT THOROLD WAS PUT TO RA:NS0M 307 That was all he said ; and as foi* thinking, he had the iDOsse comitatus of seven counties to think of. But what could those great fortunes and joys be, which Alftruda did not dare to describe ? She growing old, too? Impossible : that was woman's vanity. It was but two years since she was as fair as a saint in a win- dow. ' She shall not marry Ascelin. I will cut his head off. She shall have her own choice for once, poor child.' And Hereward found himself worked up to a great height of paternal solicitude for Alftruda, and righteous indignation against Ascelin. He did not confess to liimself that he disliked much, in his selhsh vanity, the notion of Alftruda's marrying any one at all. He did not want to marry her himself — of course not. But there is no dog in the manger so churlish on such points as a vain man. There are those who will not willingly let their own sisters, their own daughters, their own servants marry. Why should a woman wish to marry any one but them 1 But Hereward, however vain, was no dreamer or sluggard. He set to work, joyfully, cheerfully, scenting battle afar off, like Job's war-liorse, and pawing for the battle. He sent back Alf- truda's messenger, with this answer : — ' Tell your lady that I kiss her hands and feet. That I cannot write, for outlaws carry no pen and ink. But that what she has commanded, that will I perform.' It is noteworthy, that when Hereward showed Torfrida (which he did frankly) Alftruda's letter, he did not tell her the exact words of his answer, and stumbled and varied mucli, vexing her thereby, when she, naturally, wished to hear tliem word for word. Then he sent out spies to the four airts of heaven. And his spies, finding a friend and a meal in every hovel, brought home all tlie news he needed. He withdrew Torfrida and his men into the heart of the forest — no hint of the place is given by the chronicler — cut down trees, formed an abattis of trunks and branches, and awaited the enemy. CHAPTER XXXV HOW ABBOT THOROLD WAS* PUT TO RANSOM Though Hereward had as yet no feud against ' bysshoppes and archbysshoppes,' save Egelsin of Selsey, who had excommuni- cated him, but who was at the other end of England, lie liad feud, as may be supjiosed, against Tliorold, Aljbot of Peter- borougli ; and Tliorold feud likewise against him. When Thorold had entered the 'Golden Borough,' hoping to fatten himself with all its treasures, he liad found it a smoking ruin, and its treasures gone to Ely to pay Sweyn and his Danes. 308 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. And such a sacrilege, especially when he was the loser thereby, was the unpardonable sin itself in the eyes of Thorold, as he hoped it might be in the eyes of St. Peter. Joyfully therefore he joined his friend Ivo Taillebois, when, ' with his usual pom- pous verbosity,' saith Peter of Blois, writing on this very matter, he asked him to join in destroying Hereward. Nevertheless, with all the French chivalry at their back, it liehoved them to move with caution ; for (so says the chronicler) ' Hereward had in these days very many foreigners, as well as landsfolk, who had come to him to practise and learn war, and fled from their masters and friends when they heard of his fame ; some of them even the king's courtiers, who had come to see whether those things whicli they heard were true, whom Herewai'd nevertheless received cautiously, on plighted trotli and oath.' So Ivo Taillebois summoned all his men, and all other men's men who would join him, and rode forth through Spalding and Bourne, having announced to Lucia, his bride, that he was going to slay her one remaining relative ; and when she wept, cursed and kicked her, as he did once a week. After which he came to Thorold of Peterborough. So on the two worthies rode from Peterborough to Stamford, and from Stamford into the wilderness, no man knows whither. ' And far they rode by busli and shaugh, And far by moss and mire : ' but never found a track of The Wake or his men. And Ivo Taillebois left off boasting how he would burn Torfrida over a slow lire, and confined himself to cursing ; and Abbot Thorold left off warbling the song of Poland as if he had been going to a second battle of Hastings, and wished himself in warm bed at Peterborough. But at the last they struck upon a great horse-track, and fol- lowed it at their best pace for several miles ; and yet no sign of Hereward. ' Catch an Englishman,' quoth the abbot. But that was not so easy. Tlie poor folk had hidden them- selves, like Israel of old, in thickets, and dens, and caves of rocks, at the far-off* sight of the foreign tyrants ; and not a living soul had appeared for twenty miles. At last they caught a ragged wretch herding swine, and haled him up to Ivo. ' Have you seen Hereward, villain ? ' asked he, through an in- terpreter. 'Nay.'_ 'You lie. These are his fresh horse-tracks, and you must have seen him pass.' 'Ehr ' Thrust out one of his eyes, and he will find his tongue.' XXXV HOW ABBOT THOROLD ^YAS PUT TO RANSOM 309 It was done. ' Will you answer now ? ' The poor wretch only howled. ' Thrust out the other.' ' No, not that ! Mercy: I will tell. He has gone by this four hours. How have you not met him ? ' ' Fool ! The hoofs point onward there.' ' Ay ' — and the fellow could hardly hide a grin — ' but he had shod all his horses backwards.' A storm of execration followed. They might be thrown twenty miles out of their right road by the stratagem. ' So you had seen Hereward, and would not tell ? Put out his other eye,' said Tailleljois, as a vent to his own feelings. And they turned their horses' heads, and rode back, leaving the man blind in the forest. The day was waning now. The fog hung henvj on the tree- tops, and dripped upon their heads. The horses were getting tired, and slipped and tumbled in the deep clay paths. The footmen were more tired still, and, cold and hungry, straggled more and more. The horse-tracks led over an open lawn of grass and fern, with here and there an ancient thorn, and round it on three sides thick wood of oak and beech, with under copse of holly and hazel. Into that wood the horse-tracks led, by a path on which there was but room for one horse at a time. ' Here they are at last ! ' cried Ivo. ' I see the fresh foot- marks of men, as well as horses. Push on, knights and men-at- arms.' The abbot looked at the dark, dripping wood, and meditated. ' I think that it will be as well for some of us to remain here : and, spreading our men along the woodside, prevent the escape of the villains. A moi, hommes d'armes ! ' ' As you like. I will go in, and bolt the rabbit ; and you .shall snap him as he comes out.' And Ivo, who was as brave as a bull-dog, thrust his horse into the path, while the abbot sat shivering outside. ' Certain nobles of higher rank,' says Peter de Blois, 'followed his example, not wishing to rust their armour, or tear their fine clothes, in the damp copse.' The knights and men-at-arms straggled slowly into the forest, some by the path, some elsewhere, grumbling audibly at the black work before them. At last the crashing of the branches died away, and all was still. Abbot Thorold sat there upon his shivering horse, shivering himself as the cold pierced through liis wet mail ; and as near an hour passed, and no sign of foe or friend appeared, he cursed the hour in which he took off the beautiful garments of the sanctuary to endure those of the battle-held. He thought of a warm chamVjer, warm bath, warm footcloths, warm pheasant, and warm wine. He kicked his freezing iron feet in the freez- 310 HEREWARD THE AVAKE ciiai>. ing iron stirrup. He tried to blow liis nose with his freezing iron hand ; Ijut dropt liis handkerchief (an almost unique luxury in those days) into the mud, and his horse trod on it. He tried to warble the song of Roland : but the words exploded in a cough and a sneeze. And so dragged on the weary hours, says the chronicler, nearly all day, till the ninth hour. But never did they see coming out of the forest, the men who had gone in. A shout from his nej^liew, Sir Ascelin, made all turn their lieads. Behind them, on the open lawn, in tlie tliroat between the woods by which they had entered, were some forty knights, galloping towards them. 'Ivo?' ' No ! ' almost shrieked the abbot. ' Tliere is the Wake bannei'. It is Hereward.' ' There is Winter on his left,' cried one. ' And there, with the standard, is the accursed monk, Ranald of Ramsey.' And on they came, liaving debouched from the wood some two hundred yards off, beliind a roll in the lawn, just far enougli off to charge as soon as they were in line. On they came, two deep, with lances high over their shoulder-s, heads and heels well down, while the green tufts flew behind them. ' A moi, hommes d'armes ! ' sliouted the abbot. But too late. The French turned right and left. To form was impos- sible, ere the human wliirlwind would be upon them. Another half minute, and with a shout of 'A Wake! A Wake!' they were struck, ridden through, hurled over, and trampled in tlie mud. ' I yield. Grace ! I yield ! ' cried Thorold, struggling from under his horse : but there was no one to wliom to yield. The knights' backs were fifty yards off, their I'ight arms high in the air, striking and stabbing. The battle was a Voutrance. Tliere was no quarter given that day. ' And he that came live out thereof Was he that ran away.' The abbot tried to make for the wood : but ere he could gain it, the knights had turned, and one rode straight at him, throw- ing away a broken lance, and drawing his sword. Abbot Thorold may not have been the coward which Peter of Blois would have him, over and above being the bully which all men would have him ; but if so, even a worm will turn ; and so did the abbot : he drew sword from thigh, got well under his shield, his left foot forward, and struck one blow for his life, at the right place — his foe's bare knee. But he had to do with a warier man than himself. There was a quick jerk of the rein ; the horse swerved round right upon him, and knocked him head over heels ; while his blow went into empty air. XXXV HOW ABBOT THOROLD WAS PUT TO RANSOM 311 ' Yield, or die ! ' cried the knight, leaping from his horse, and kneeling on his head. ' I am a man of God, an abbot, churchman, Thorold.' ' Man of all the devils ! ' and the knight lugged him up, and bound his arms behind him with the abbot's own belt. ' Ahoi ! Here ! I have caught a fish. I have got the Golden Borough in my purse ! ' roared he. ' How much has St. Peter gained since we borrowed of him last, abbot? He will have to pay out the silver pennies bonnily, if he wishes to get back thee.' ' Blaspheme not, godless barbarian ! ' Whereat the knight kicked him. 'And you have Thorold the scoundrel, Winter?' cried Here- ward, galloping up. ' And we have three or more dainty French knights, and a viscount of I know not where among them. This is a good day's work. Now for Ivo and his tail.' And the abbot, with four or five more prisoners, were hoisted on to their own horses, tied firmly, and led away into the forest path. ' Do not leave a wounded man to die,' cried a knight who lay on the lawn. ' Never we. I will come back and put you out of your pain,' quoth some one. ' Siward ! Siward Le Blanc ! Are you in this meinie ? ' cried the knight in French. 'That am I. Who calls?' ' For God's sake save him ! ' cried Thorold. ' He is my own nephew, and I will pay- ' You will need all your money for yourself,' said Siward the White, riding back. ' Are you Sir Ascelin of Ghent ? ' ' That am I, your host of old.' ' I wish I had met you in better company. But friends we are, and friends must be.' And he dismounted, and did his best for the wounded man, promising him to return and fetch him off" before night, or send yeomen to do so. As he pushed on through the wood, the abbot began to see , signs of a fight ; riderless horses crashing through the copse, wounded men straggling back, to be cut down without mercy by the English. The war had been a Coutmnce for a long while. None gave or asked quarter. The knights might be kept for ransom ; they had money. The wretched men of the lower classes, who had none, were slain : as they would have slain the Englisli. Soon they heard the noise of battle ; and saw horsemen and footmen pell-mell, tangled in an abattis, from behind which archers and cross-bowmen shot tliem down in safety. Hereward dashed forward with a shout, and at that the 312 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. French, taken in the flank, fled, and were smitten as they fled, hii? and thigh. Hereward bade them spare a fugitive, and bring him to him. ' I give you your life ; so run, and carry my message. That is Taiilebois' banner there forward, is it not 1 ' 'Yes.' ' Then go after him, and tell him, — Hereward has the Abbot of Burgh, and half a dozen knights, safe by the heels. And unless Ivo clears the wood of his men by nightfall, I will hang every one of them ujo for the crows before morning.' Ivo got the message, and having had enough fighting for the day, drew off", says the chronicler, for the sake of the abbot and his fellow-captives. Two hours after the abbot and the other prisoners were sitting, unbound but unarmed, in the forest encampment, wait- ing for a right good meal ; with Torfrida bustling about them, after binding up the very few wounded amongst their own men. Every courtesy was shown them ; and their hearts were lifted up, as they beheld apjDroaching among the trees great caldrons of good soup ; forest salads ; red deer and roe roasted on the wood-embers ; spits of pheasants and partridges, larks and buntings, thrust ofi" one by one by fair hands into the burdock leaves which served as platters ; and last but not least, jacks of ale and wine, appearing mysteriously from a cool old stone quarry. Abbot Thorold ate to his heart's content, comi^li- mented every one, vowed he would forswear all French cooks and take to the greenwood himself, and was as gracious and courtly as if he had been at the new palace at Winchester. And all the more for this reason — that he had intended to overawe the English barbarians by his polished French manners. He found those of Hereward and Torfrida, at least, as polished as his own. ' I am glad you are content, lord abbot,' said Torfrida ; ' I trust you prefer dining with me to burning me, as you meant to do.' ' I burn such jDeerless beauty! I injure a form made only for the courts of kings ! Heaven and all saints, knighthood and all chivalry, forbid. What Taiilebois may have said, I know not ! I am no more answerable for his intentions than for his parentage, — or his success this day. Let churls be churls, and wood-cutters wood-cutters. I at least, thanks to my ancestors, am a gentleman.' 'And, as a gentleman, will of course contribute to the plea- sure of your hosts. It will surely please you to gratify us with one stave at least of that song which has made you famous among all knights,' holding out a harp. 'I blush : but obey. A harp in the greenwood 1 A court in the wilderness ! What joy ! ' XXXV HOAV ABBOT THOROLD WAS PUT TO RANSOM 313 And the vain abbot took the harp, and said — ' These, if you will allow my modesty to choose, are the staves on which I especially pride myself. The staves which Taillefer — you will pardon my mentioning him ' ' Why pardon 1 A noble minstrel he was, and a brave warrior, though our foe. And often have I longed to hear liim, little thinking that I should hear instead the maker himself.' So said Hereward ; and the abbot sang — those wondrous staves, where Roland, left alone of all the Paladins, finds death come on him fast. And on the Pyrensean peak, beneatli the pine, he lays himself, ' his face toward the gi-ound ; and under him his sword and magic horn, that Charles his lord may say, and all his folk, the gentle count he died a conqueror ; ' and then ' turns his eyes southward toward Spain ; betakes himself to remember many things ; of so many lands which he con^- quered valiantly ; of pleasant France, of the men of his lineage, of Charlemagne his lord, who brought him up. He could not help to weep and sigh, but yet himself he would not forget. He bewailed his sins, and prayed God's mercy : — True Father, who ne'er yet didst lie, who raised St. Lazarus from death, and guarded Daniel from the lions : Guard my soul from all i^erils, for the sins which in my life I did. His right glove then he offered to God ; St. Gabriel took it from his hand ; On his arm the chief bowed down, with joined hands he went unto his end. God sent down his angel Cherubim, and St. Michael whom men call " del peril." Together with them St. Gabriel he came ; the soul of the count they bore to Paradise.' And the abbot ended, sadly and gently, without that wild ' Aoi ! ' the war-cry with which he usually ends his staves. And the wild men of the woods were softened and saddened by the melody ; and as many as understood French said, when he finished — ' Amen ! so may all good knights die ! ' ' Thou art a great maker, abbot ! They told truths of thee. Sing us more of thy great courtesy.' And he sang them the staves of the Olifant, the magic horn — How Roland would not sound it in his pride, and sounded it at Turpin's bidding, but too late ; and how liis temples burst with that great blast, and Charles and all his peers heard it through the gorges, leagues away in France. And then his ' Aoi ! ' rang forth so loud and clear, like any trumpet blast, under the oaken glades, that the wild men leaped to their feet, and shouted ' Health to the gleeman ! Health to the Abbot Tliorold ! ' 'I have won them,' thought the abbot to himself. Strange mixture that man must have been, if all which is told of him is true ; a very typical Norman, compact of cunning and ferocity, chivalry and poetry, vanity and superstition, and yet able enough to help to conquer England for the pope. Then he pressed Hereward to sing, with many compliments ; 314 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. and Hereward sang, and sang again, and all his men crowded round liim as the outlaws of Judtiea may have crowded round David in Carmel or Hebron, to hear, like children, old ditties which they loved tlie better the oftener tliey heard them. 'No wonder tliat you can keej) these knights together, if you can charm them thus with song. Would that I could hear you singing thus in William's hall.' ' No more of that, sir abbot. The only music which I have for William is the music of steel on steel.' Hereward answered sharply, because he was half of Thorold's mind. ' Now,' said Torfrida, as it grew late, ' we must ask our noble guest for wliat he can give us as easily and well as he can song — and that is news. We hear nought here in the greenwood, and must throw oneself on the kindness of a chance visitor.' The abbot leapt at the bait, and told them news, court gossip, bringing in great folks' names and his own, as often and as familiarly mingled as he could. ' What of Eichtlda ? ' asked Torfrida. 'Ever since young Arnoul was killed at Cassel ' 'Arnoul killed r shrieked Torfrida. ' Is it possible that you do not know 1 ' ' How should I know, shut up in Ely for — years it seems.' ' But they fought at Cassel three months before you went to Ely.' ' Be it so. Only tell me. Arnoul killed ! ' Then the abbot told, not without feeling, a fearful story. Robert the Prison and Richilda had come to open war ; and Gerbod the Fleming, Earl of Chester, had gone over from Eng- land to help llobert. William had sent Fitz Osbern, Earl of Hereford, the scourge and tyrant of the Welsh, to help Eichilda. Fitz Osbern had married her, there and then. She had asked help of her liege lord, the King of France, and he had sent her troops. Robert and Bichilda had fought on St. Peter's day, 1071 — nearly two years before, at Bavinchoven, by Cassel. Eichilda had jDlayed the heroine, and routed Robert's left wing, taken liim prisoner, and sent him off to St. Omer. Men said that she had done it by her enchantments. But her en- chantments betrayed her nevertheless. Fitz Osbern, her bride- groom, fell dead. Young Arnoul had two horses killed under him. Then Gerbod smote him to the ground ; and Richilda and her troops fled in horror. Richilda was taken, and ex- changed for the Frison ; at which the King of Prance, being enraged, had come down and burnt St. Omer. Then Richilda, undaunted, had raised fresh troops to avenge lier son. Then Robert had met them at Broqueroie by Mons, and smote them XXXV HOW ABBOT THOROLD WAS PUT TO RANSOM 315 with a dreadful slaughter.^ Tlien Eichilda had turned and tied wildly into a convent ; and, so men said, tortured herself night and day with fearful penances, if by any means she might atone for her great sins. Torfrida heard, and laid her head upon lier knees, and wept so bitterly that the abbot entreated pardon for liaving pained her so much. The news had a deep and lasting effect on her. The thought of Richilda shivering and starving in the squalid darkness of a convent abode by her thenceforth. Should she ever find herself atoning in like wise for her sorceries — harmless as they had been; for her ambitions — just as they had been; for her crimes 1 But slie had committed none. No, she had sinned in many things : but she was not as Eichilda. And yet in the loneliness and sadness of tlie forest, she could not put Eichilda from before the eyes of her mind. It saddened Hereward likewise. For Eichilda he cared little. But that boy. — How he had loved him ! How he had taught him to ride, and sing, and joust, and liandle sword, and all the art of war. How his own rough soul liad been the better for that love. How lie had looked forward to the day when Arnoul sliould be a great prince, and requite him with love. Now he was gone. Gone 1 Who was not gone, or going ? He seemed to himself the last tree in the forest. When should his time come, and the lightning strike him down to rot beside tlie rest? But he tost the sad thouglits aside. He could not afford to nourish them. It was his only chance of life, to be merry and desperate. ' Well ! ' said Hei-eward, ere they hapt themselves up for the night. ' We owe you thanks. Abbot Thorold, for an evening worthy of a king's court ratlier than a holly bush.' ' I have won him over,' thouglit the abbot. ' So charming a courtier — so sweet a minstrel — so agreeable a newsmonger — could I keep you in a cage for ever, and hang you on a bough, I were but too liappy : but you are too line a bird to sing in captivity. So you must go, I fear, and leave us to the nightingales. And I will take for your ransom ' AV)bot Tliorold's heart beat high. ' Thirty thousand silver marks.' 'Thirty thousand fiends ! ' 'My beau sire, will you undervalue yourself? Will you de- grade yourself 1 I took Al)bot Tliorold, fi-om his talk, to be a man who set even a higlier value on liimself tlian other men set on him. What higher compliment can I pay to your vast worth, than making your i-ansom high accordingly, after the spirit of our ancient Englisli laws ? Take it as it is meant, beau sire ; be proud to pay the money ; and we will throw ^ The place was called till late, and may be now, ' Tlie Hedges of Death.' 316 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. you Sir Ascelin into the bargain, as he seems a friend of Siward's.' Thorold hoped that Herewai-d was drunk, and might forget, or relent : but he was so sore at lieart that he slept not a wink that night. But in the morning he found, to his sorrow, that Hei-eward had been as sober as himself. In fine, he had to pay the money ; and was a poor man all his days. ' Aha ! Sir Ascelin,' said Hereward apart, as he bade them all farewell with many courtesies. ' I think I have put a spoke in your wheel about the fair Alftruda.' ' Eh ? How ? Most courteous victor ? ' ' Sir Ascelin is not a very wealthy gentleman.' Ascelin laughed assent. ' Nudus intravi, nudus exeo — England ; and I fear now, this mortal life likewise.' 'But he looked to his rich uncle the abbot, to further a certain marriage-project of his. And of course neither my friend Gilbert of Ghent, nor my enemy William of Normandy, is likely to give away so rich an heiress without some gratifi- cation in return.' ' Sir Hereward knows the world, it seems.' ' So he has been told before. And therefoi^e, having no in- tention that Sir Ascelin — however worthy of any and every fair lady — should marry this one, he took care to cut off the stream at the fountain head. If he hears that the suit is still pushed, he may cut off anotlier head beside the fountain's.' '.There will be no need,' said Ascelin, laughing again. 'You have very sufficiently ruined my uncle and my hopes.' ' My head ? ' said he, as soon as Hereward was out of hearing. ' If I do not cut off thy head ere all is over, there is neither luck nor craft left among Frenchmen. I shall catch The Wake sleep- ing some day, let him be never so Wakeful.' CHAPTER XXXVI HOW ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREWARD The weary months ran on, from summer into winter, and winter into summer again, for two years and more, and neither Torfrida nor Hereward was the better for them. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick ; and a sick heart is but too apt to be a peevisli one. So there were fits of despondency, jars, mutual recriminations. ' If I had not taken your advice, I should not have been here.' 'If I had not loved you so well, I might have been very differently off.' And so forth. The words were wiped away the next hour, perhaps the next minute, by sacred XXXVI HOW ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREWARD 317 kisses : but they had been said, and would be recollected, and perhaps said again. Then, again, the ' merry greenwood ' was merry enough in the summer tide, when shaughs were green, and ' The woodwele sang, and would not cease, Sitting upon the spray, So loud, it wakened Robin Hood In the greenwood where he lay.' But it was a sad place enough, when the autumn fog crawled round the gorse, and dripped otf the hollies, and choked alike the breath and the eyesight ; when the air sickened with the graveyard smell of rotting leaves, and the rain-water stood in the clay holes over the poached and sloppy lawns. It was merry enough, too, when they were in winter quarters in friendly farmhouses, as long as the bright sharp frosts lasted, and they tracked the hares and deer merrily over the frozen snows : but it was doleful enough in those same farm- houses in the howling wet weather, when wind and rain lashed in through the unglazed window and ill-made roof, and there were coughs and colds and rheumatisms, and Torfrida ached from head to foot, and once could not stand upright for a whole month together, and every cranny was stufl'ed up with bits of board and rags, keeping out light and air as well as wind and water ; and there was little difterence between the short day and the long night ; and the men gambled and wrangled amid clouds of peat reek, over draught-boards and chessmen which they liad carved for themselves, and Torfrida sat stitching and sewing, making and mending, her eyes bleared with peat smoke, her hands sore and coarse from continued labour, her cheek bronzed, her face thin and hollow, and all her beauty worn away for very trouble. Then sometimes there was not enough to eat, and every one grumbled at her ; or some one's clothes were not mended, and she was grumbled at again. And some- times a foraging party brought home liquor, and all who could got drunk to drive dull care away ; and Hereward, forgetful of all her warnings, got more than was good for liiin likewise ; and at night she coiled herself up in her furs, cold and contemp- tuous • and Hereward coiled himself up, guilty and defiant, and woke her again and again with startings and wild words in his sleep. And she felt that lier beauty was gone, and that he saw it ; and she fancied liim (perhaps it was only fancy) less tender tlian of yore ; and then in very pride disdained to take any care ' of her person, and said to herself, though slie dare not say it to him, that if he only loved her for lier face, he did not love her at all. And because she fancied him cold at times, she was cold likewise, and grew less and less caressing, when for his sake, as well as her own, she should have grown more so day by day. Alas ! for them. There are many excuses. Sorrow may be a 318 HEREWARD THE AVAKE chap. softening medicine at last, but at tirst it is apt to be a liarden- ing one ; and that savage outlaw life which they were leading can never have been a wholesome one for any soul of man, and its graces must have existed only in the brains of harpers and gleemen. Away from law, from self-restraint, from refinement, from elegance, from the very sound of a church-going bell, they were sinking gradually down to the level of the coarse men and women whom tliey saw ; the worse and not the better parts of both their characters were getting the upper hand ; and it was but too possible that after a while the hero might sink into the ruffian, the lady into a slattern and a shrew. But in justice to them be it said, that neither of them had complained of the other to any living soul. Their love had been as yet too perfect, too sacred, for them to confess to another (and thereby confess to themselves) that it could in any wise fail. They had each idolised the other, and been too proud of their idolatry to allow that their idol could crumble or decay. And yet at last that point too was reached. One day they were wrangling about somewhat, as they too often wrangled, and Hereward in his temper let fall the words, 'As I said to Winter the other day, you grow harder and harder upon me.' Torfrida started and fixed on him wide, terrible, scornful eyes. ' So you complain of me to your boon companions 1 ' And she turned and went away without a word. A gulf had opened between them. They hardly spoke to each other for a week. Hereward complained of Torfrida 1 What if Torfrida should complain of Hereward ? But to whom 1 Not to the coarse women round her ! her pride revolted from tliat thought: — and yet she longed for counsel, for sympathy — to open her heart but to one fellow-woman. She would go to the Lady Godiva at Crowland, and take counsel of her, whether there was any method (for slie put it to herself) of saving Hereward ; for she saw but too clearly that he was fast forgetting all her teaching, and falling back to a point lower than that even from which she had raised him up. To go to Crowland was not difficult. It was mid-winter. The dykes were all frozen. Hereward was out foraging in the Lin- colnshire wolds. So Torfrida, taking advantage of his absence, proposed another foraging party to Crowland itself. She wanted stufi' for clotlies, needles, tliread, wliat not. A dozen stout fellows volunteered at once to take her. The friendly monks of Crowland would feast them royally, and send them home heaped with all manner of good things ; while as for meeting Ivo Taillebois' men, if they had but three to one against tliem, there was a fair chance of killing a few, and carrying off their clothes and weapons, which would be useful. So they made a sledge, tied beef bones underneath it, put Torfrida and the girl thereon, well wrapped in deer and fox and xxxvr HOAV ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREAVARD 319 badger skin, and then putting on their skates, swept them over the ten to Crowland, singing like larks along the dykes. And Torfrida went in to Godiva, and wept ui^on her knees : and Godiva wept likewise, and gave her such counsel as she could — how if the woman will keep the man heroic, she must keep herself not heroic only but devout likewise ; how she her- self, by that one deed which had rendered her name famous then, and famous (tliough she never dreamt thereof) now and it may be to the end of time — had once for all tamed, chained, and, as it were, converted the heart of her fierce young lord ; and enabled her to train him in good time into the most wise, most just, most pious, of all King Edward's earls. And Torfrida said yes, and yes, and yes, and felt in her heart that she knew all that already. Had not she too taught, en- treated, softened, civilised ? Had not she too spent her life upon a man, and that man a wolf's head and a landless outlaw, more utterly than Godiva could ever have spent hers on one who lived lapped in luxury, and wealth, and i:)ower ? Torfrida had done her best ; and she had failed : or at least fancied in her haste that she had failed. What she wanted was not counsel, but love. And she clung round the Lady Godiva, till the broken and ruined widow opened all her heart to her, and took her in her arms, and fondled her as if she had been a babe. And the two women spoke fevv words after that, for indeed there was nothing to be said. Only at last, ' My child, my child,' cried Godiva, ' better for thee, body and soul, to be here with me in the house of God, than there amid evil spirits and deeds of darkness in the wild woods.' ' Not a cloister, not a cloister,' cried Torfrida, shuddering, and lialf struggling to get away. ' It is the only place, poor wilful child, the only place this side the grave, in which we wretched creatures, who to our woe are women born, can find aught of rest or peace. By us sin came into the world, and Eve's curse lies heavy on us to this day, and our desire is to our lords, and they rule over us ; and when the slave can work for her master no more, what better than to crawl into the house of God, and lay down our crosses at the foot of His cross, and die 1 You too will come here, Torfrida, some day, I know it well. You too will come here to rest.' 'Never, never,' shrieked Torfrida, 'never to these horrid vaults. I will die in the fresh air. I will be buried under the green hollies ; and the nightingales, as they wander up from my own Provence, shall build and sing over my grave. Never, never ! ' murnnired she to herself all the more eagerly, because something witliin her said tliat it would come to pass. The two women went into the church to matins, and prayed long and fervently. And at the early day-break, the party went back laden with good things and hearty blessings, and caught 320 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. one of Ivo Taillebois' men by the way, and slew him, and got oft' him a new suit of clothes in which the poor fellow was going courting ; and so they got home safe into the Bruneswold. But Torfrida had not found rest unto her soul. For the first time in lier life since she became the bride of Hereward, slie had had a confidence concerning him and unknown to him. It was to his own mother — true. And yet she felt as if she had be- trayed him : but then had he not betrayed her ? And to Winter of all men ? It might have been two months afterwards that Martin Lightfoot put a letter into Torfrida's hand. The letter was addressed to Hereward : but there was no- thing strange in Martin's bringing it to his mistress. Ever since their marriage, she had opened and generally answered the very few epistles with which her liusband was troubled. She was going to open this one as a matter of course, when glancing at the superscription she saw, or fancied she saw, that it was in a woman's hand. She looked at it again. It was sealed plainly with a woman's seal ; and she looked up at Martin Lightfoot. She had remarked as he gave her the letter a sly significant look in his face. ' What dost thou know of this letter 1 ' she inquired sharply. ' That it is from the Countess Alftruda, whosoever she may be.' A chill struck through her heart. True, Alftruda had written before, only to warn Hereward of danger to his life — and hers. She might be writing again, only for the same purpose. But still, she did not wish that either Hereward or she should owe Alftruda their lives, or anything. They had struggled on through weal and woe without her for many a year. Let them do so without her still. That Alftruda had once loved Hereward she knew well. Why should she not ? The wonder was to her that every woman did not love him. But she had long since gauged Alftruda's character, and seen in it a persistence like her own, yet, as she proudly hoiked, of a lower temper ; the per- sistence of the base weasel, not of the noble liound : yet the creeping weasel might endure, and win, when the hound was tired out by his own gallant pace. And there was a something in the tone of Alftruda's last letter, wliich seemed to tell her that the weasel was still upon the scent of its game. But she was too proud to mistrust Hereward, or rather, to seem to mistrust him. And yet — how dangerous Alftruda might be as a rival, if rival she chose to be. She was up in the world now, free, rich, gay, beautiful, a favourite at Queen Matilda's court, while she ' How came this letter into thy hands ? ' asked she as care- lessly as she could. 'I was in Peterborough last night,' said Martin, 'concerning little matters of my own, and there came to me in the street a XXXVI HOW ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREWARD. 321 bonny young page with smart jacket on his back, smart cap on his head, and smiles and bows, and " You are one of Hereward's men," quoth he. " Say that again, young jackanapes," said I, "and I'll cut your tongue out," whereat he took fright and all but cried. He was very sorry, and meant no harm, but he had a letter for my master, and he heard I was one of his men. " Who told him that ? " Well, one of the monks, he could not justly say which, or wouldn't, and I, thinking the letter of more importance than my own neck, ask him quietly into my friend's house. There lie pulls out this and five silver pennies, and I shall have five more if I bring an answer back : but to none than Hereward must I give it. With that I, calling my friend, who is an honest woman, and nigh as strong in the arms as 1 am, ask her to clap her back against the door, and pull out my axe. " Now," said I, " I must know a little more about this letter. Tell me, knave, who gave it thee, or I'll si^lit thy skull." The young man cries and blubbers ; and says that it is the Countess Alftruda, who is staying in the monastery, and that he is her serving-man, and that it is as much as my life is worth to touch a hair of his head, and so forth — so far so good. Then I asked him again, who told him I was my master's man ? — and he confessed that it was Herluin the prior — he that was Lady Godiva's chaplain of old, whom my master robbed of his money when he had the cell of Bourne years agone. Very well, quoth I to myself, that's one more count on our score against Master Herluin. Then I asked him how Herluin and the Lady Alftruda came to know aught of each other ? and he said that she had been questioning all about the monastery without Abbot Thorold's knowledge, for one that knew Hereward and favoured him well. That was all I could get from the knave, he cried so for fright. So I took his money and his letter, warning liim that if he betrayed me, there were those who would roast liim alive before he was done with me. And so away over the town wall, and ran here five-and-twenty miles before breakfast, and thought it better as you see to give the letter to my lady first.' ' You have been officious,' said Torfrida coldly. ' 'Tis ad- dressed to your master. Take it to him. Go." Martin Lightfoot whistled and obeyed, while Torfrida walked away proudly and silently with a beating heart. Again Godiva's words came over her. Should she end in the convent of Crowland ? And suspecting, fearing, imagining all sorts of baseless i^hantoms, slie hardened her heart into a great hardness. i\Iartin had gone with the lettei', and Torfrida never heai-d any more of it. So Hereward had secrets whicli he would not tell to her. At last! That, at least, was a misery which she would not confide to Lady Godiva, or to any soul on earth. Y H. T. w. 322 HEREWARD THE AVAKE chap. But a misery it was, such a misery as none can delineate, save those wlio have endured it themselves, or had it confided to them by another. And happy are they to whom neither has befallen. She wandered out and into the wild wood, and sat down by a spring. She looked in it — her only mirror — at her wan coarse face, Avith wild black elf locks hanging round it, and wondered whether Alftruda, in her luxury and prosperity, was still so very beautiful. Ah, that thsit fountain were the fountain of Jouvence, the spring of jDerpetual youth, which all believed in those days to exist somewhere, — how would she plunge into it, and be young and fair once more ! No ! she would not ! She had lived her life, and lived it well, gallantly, lovingly, heroically. She had given that man her youth, her beauty, her wealtli, her wit. He should not have them a second time. He had had his will of her. If he chose to throw her away when lie had done with her, to prove himself base at last, unworthy of all her care, her counsels, her training ^dreadful thought ! To have lived to keep that man for her own, and just when her work seemed done, to lose him ! No, there was worse than that. To have lived that she might make that man a jDerfect knight, and just when her work seemed done, to see him lose himself. And she wept till she could weep no more. Then she washed away her tears in that well. Hacl it been in Greece of old, it would have become a sacred well thenceforth, and Torfrida's tears have changed into forget-me-nots, and fringed its marge with azure evermore. Then she went back, calm, all but cold : but determined not to betray herself, let him do what he would. Perhaps it was all a mistake, a fancy, At least she would not degrade him, and herself, by showing suspicion. It would be dreadful, shameful to herself, wickedly unjust to him, to accuse him were he innocent after all. Hereward, she remarked, was more kind to her now. But it was a kindness which she did not like. It was shy, faltering, as of a man guilty and ashamed ; and she repelled it as much as she dared, and then, once or twice, returned it passionately, madly, in hopes But he never spoke a word of that letter. After a dreadful month, Martin came mysteriously to her again. She trembled, for she had remarked in him lately a strange change. He had lost his usual loquacity and quaint humour ; and had fallen back into that sullen taciturnity wliich, so she heard, he had kept up in his youth. He, too, must know evil which he dared not tell. ' There is another letter come. It came last night,' said he. 'What is that to thee or me ? My lord has his state secrets. Is it for us to pry into them ? Go.' XXXVI HOW ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREWARD 323 ' I thought— I thought ' 'Go, I say!' 'That your ladyship might wish for a guide to Crowland.' ' Crowland 1 ' almost shrieked Torf rida, for the thought of Crowland had risen in her own wretched mind instantly and involuntarily. ' Go, madman ! ' Martin went. Torfrida paced madly up and down the farm- house. Then she settled herself into fierce despair. There was a noise of trampling horses outside. The men were arming and saddling, seemingly for a raid. Hereward hurried in for his armour. When he saw Torfrida, he blushed scarlet. ' You want your arms,' said she quietly ; ' let me fetch them.' ' No, never mind. I can harness myself ; I am going south- west, to pay Taillebois a visit. I am in a great hurry. I shall be back in three days. Then — good-bye.' He snatched his arms off a perch, and hurried out again, dragging them on. As he passed her, he offered to kiss her ; she put him back, and helped him on with his armour, while he thanked her confusedly. ' He was as glad not to kiss me, after all ! ' She looked after him as he stood, his hand on his horse's withers. How noble he looked ! And a great yearning came over her. To throw her arms round his neck once, and then to stab herself, and set him free, dying, as she had lived, for him. Two bonny boys were wrestling on the lawn, young outlaws who had grown up in the forest with ruddy cheeks and iron limbs. ' Ah, Winter ! ' — she heard him .say, ' had I had such a boy as that ! ' She heard no more She turned away, her heart dead within her. She knew all that those words implied, in days when the possession of land was everything to the free man ; and the possession of a son necessary, to pass that land on in the ancestral line. Only to have a son ; only to prevent the old estate passing, with an heiress, into the hands of strangers, what crimes did not men commit in those days, and find them- selves excused for them in public opinion 1 And now, her other children (if she ever had any) had died in childhood ; the little Torfrida, named after herself, was all that she had brought to Hereward ; and he was the last of his house. In him the race of Leofric, of Godiva, of Earl Oslac, would become extinct ; and that girl would marry — whom ? Whom but some French conqueror, or at best some English outlaw. In either case Hereward would have no descendants for whom it was worth his while to labour or to fight. What wonder if he longed for a son — and not a son of hers, the barren tree — to pass his name down to future genei'ations ? It might be worth while, for that, 324 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. to come in to the king, to recover his lands, to . Slie saw it all now, and her heart was dead within her. She spent that evening, neither eating nor drinking, but sitting over her log embers, her head upon her hands, and thinking over all her past life and love, since she saw him, from the gable window, ride the first time into St. Omer. She went through it all, with a certain stern delight in the self-torture, deliberately day by day, year by year, — all its lofty aspirations, all its blissful passages, all its deep disappointments, and found in it — so she chose to fancy in the wilfulness of her misery, notliing but cause for remorse. Self in all, vanity, and vexation of spirit ; for herself she had loved him ; for herself she had tried to raise liim ; for herself she had set her heart on man, and not on God. She had sown the wind : and behold she had reaped the whirlwind. She could not repent, she could not pray. But oh ! that she could die. ^ She was unjust to herself in her great nobleness. It was not true, not half, not a tenth i^art true. But perhaps it was good for her that it should seem true for that moment ; that slie sliould be emptied of all earthly things for once, if so she might be filled from above. At last she went into the inner room to lie down and try to sleep. At her feet, under the perch where Hereward's armour had hung, lay an ojDen letter. She picked it up, surprised at seeing such a thing there, and kneeling down, held it eagerly to the wax candle which was on a spike at the bed's head. She knew the handwriting in a moment. It was Alftruda's. This, then, was why Hereward had been so strangely hurried. He must have had that letter and dropped it. Her mind and eye took it all in in one instant, as the lightning flash reveals a whole landscape. And then her mind became as dark as tliat landscape when the flash is past. It congratulated Hereward on having shaken himself free from the fascinations of that sorceress. It said that all was settled with King William. Hereward was to come to Winchester. She had the king's writ for his safety ready to send to him. The king would receive him as his liegeman. Alftruda would receive him as her husband. Archbishop Lanfranc had made difiiculties about the dissolution of the marriage with Torfrida : but gold would do all things at Rome ; and Lanfranc was her very good friend, and a reasonable man — and so forth. Men, and beasts likewise, when striken with a mortal wound, will run, and run on, blindly, aimless, impelled by the mere instinct of escape from intolerable agony. And so did Torfrida. Half undrest as she was, she fled forth into the forest, she knew not whither, running as one does wrapt in fire : but the fire was not without her, but within. XXXVI HOW ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREWARD 325 She cast a passing glance at the girl who lay by her, sleeping a pure and gentle sleep ' Oh, that thou hadst but been a boy ! ' Then she thought no more of her, not even of Here ward : but all of which she was conscious was a breast and brain bursting ; an intolerable choking, from which she must escape. She ran, and ran on, for miles. She knew not whether the night was light or dark, warm or cold. Her tender feet might have been ancle deep in snow. The branches o\'er her head might have been howling in the tempest, or dripping with rain. She knew not, and heeded not. Tlie owls hooted to each other under the staring moon, but she heard them not. The wolves glared at her from the brakes, and slunk off appalled at the white ghostly figure : but she saw them not. The deer stood at gaze in the glades till she was close upon them, and then bounded into the wood. She ran right at them, past them, heedless. Slie had but one thought. To flee from the agony of a soul alone in the universe with its own misery. At last she was aware of a man close beside her. He had been following her a long way, she recollected now : but she had not feared him, even heeded him. But when he laid his hand upon her arm she turned fiercely : but without dread. She looked to see if it was Hereward. To meet liim would be death. If it were not he she cared not who it was. It was not Hereward ; and she cried angrily, ' Off ! Off ! ' and hurried on. ' But you are going the wrong way ! The wrong way ! ' said the voice of Martin Lightfoot. ' The wrong way ! Fool, which is the right way for me, save the patli which leads to a land where all is forgotten ? ' ' To Crowland ! To Crowland ! To the minster ! To_ the monks ! That is the only right way for poor wretches in a world like this. The Lady Godiva told you you must go to Crowland. And now you are going. I too, I ran away from a monastery when I was young ; and now I am going back. Come along ! ' ' You are right ! Crowland, Crowland ; and a nun's cell till death. Which is the way, Martin V ' Oh, a wise lady ! A reasonable lady ! But you will be cold before you get thither. Tliere will l)e a frost ere moi-n. So when I saw you run out, I caught uj) something to put over you.' Torfrida shuddered, as ^lartin Avrapt her in tlie white bear- skin. ' No ! Not that ! Anything but that ! ' and she struggled to shake it off. ' Then you will be dead ere dawn. Folks tliat run wild in tlie forest thus, foi- but one night, die.' ' Would God I could die ! ' 326 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' That shall be as He wills : you do not die while Martin can keep you alive. Why, you are staggering already.' Martin caught her up in his arms, threw her over his shoulder as if she had been a child, and hurried on, in the strength of madness. At last he stopped at a cottage door, set her down upon the turf, and knocked loudly. ' Grimkel Tolison ! Grimkel, I say ! ' And Martin burst the door open with his foot. ' Give me a horse, on your life,' said he to the man inside. ' I am Martin, The Wake's man, upon my master's business.' * What is mine is The Wake's, God bless him,' said the man, struggling into a garment, and hurrying out to the shed. ' There is a ghost against the gate ! ' cried he, recoiling. ' That is my matter, not yours. Get me a horse to put the ghost upon.' Torfrida lay against the gate-post, exhausted now : but quite unable to think. Martin lifted her on to the beast, and led her onward, holding her up again and again. ' You are tired. You had run four miles before I could make you hear me.' ' Would I had run four thousand ! ' And she relapsed into stupor. They passed out of the forest, across open wolds, and at last down to the river. Martin knew of a boat there. He lifted her from the horse, turned him loose, put Torfrida into the boat, and took the oars. She looked up, and saw the roofs of Bourne shining white in the moonlight. And then she lifted up her voice, and shrieked three times, ' Lost ! Lost ! Lost! ' with such a dreadful ciy, that the starlings whirred up from the reeds, and the wild fowl rose clanging off the meres, and the watch-dogs in Bourne and Mainthorpe barked and howled, and folk told feai'fully next morning, how a white ghost had gone down from the forest to the fen, and wakened them with its unearthly scream. The sun was high when they came to Crowland minster. Torfrida had neither si:>oken nor stirred ; and ]\Iartin, who in the midst of his madness kept a strange courtesy and delicacy, had never disturbed her, save to wi'ap the bear-skin more closely over her. When they came to the bank, she rose, stepped out witliout his help, and drawing the bear-skin closely round her, and over her head, walked straight up to tlie gate of the house of nuns. All men wondered at the white ghost : but Martin walked behind her, his left finger on his lips, his right hand grasping his little axe, with such a stern and serious face, and so fierce an eye, that all drew back in silence, and let her pass. XXXVI HOW ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREWARD 327 The portress looked thi"Ough the wicket. ' I am Torfrida,' said a voice of terrible calm. ' I am come to see the Lady Godiva. Let me in.' The portress opened, utterly astounded. ' Madam ! ' said Martin eagerly, as Torfrida entered. ' What 1 What ? ' she seemed to waken from a dream. ' God bless thee, thou good and faithful servant ; ' and she turned again. ' Madam ! Say ! ' 'What?' ' Shall I go back, and kill him ? ' And he held out the little axe. Torfrida snatched it from his grasp with a shriek, and cast it inside the convent door. ' Mother Mary and all saints ! ' cried the portress, ' your gar- ments are in rags, madam ! ' 'Never mind. Bring me garments of yours. I shall need none other till I die ! ' and she walked in and on. ' She is come to be a nun ! ' whispered the portress to the next sister, and she again to the next ; and they all gabbled, and lifted up their hands and eyes, and thanked all the saints of the calendar, over the blessed and miraculous conversion of the Lady Torfrida, and the wealth which she would probably bring to the convent. Torfrida went straight on, speaking to no one, not even to the prioress ; and into Lady Godiva's chamber. There she dropped at the countess' feet, and laid her head upon her knees. ' I am come, as you always told me I should do. But it has been a long way hither, and I am very tired.' ' My child ! What is this 1 What brings you here ? ' ' I am doing penance for my sins.' 'And your feet all cut and bleeding.' ' Are they 1 ' said Torfrida vacantly. ' I will tell you all about it when I wake.' And she fell fast asleep, with her head in Godiva's lap. The countess did not speak or stir. She beckoned the good prioress, who had followed Torfrida in, to go away. She saw that something dreadful had happened ; and prayed as she awaited the news. Torfrida slept for a full hour. Then she awoke with a start. ' Where am I ? Here ward ! ' Then followed a dreadful shriek, which made every nun in that quiet house shudder, and thank God that she knew nothing of those agonies of soul, whicli were the lot of the foolish virgins who married and were given in marriage themselves, instead of waiting with oil in their lamps for the true Bridegroom. 'I recollect all now,' said Torfrida. 'Listen ! ' And she told 328 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. the countess all, with speech so calm and clear that Godiva was awed by the power and spirit of that marvellous woman. But she groaned in bitterness of soul. ' Anything but this. Rather death from him than treachery. This last, worst woe had God kept in His quiver for me most miserable of women. And now his bolt lias fallen ! Hereward ! Hereward ! That thy mother should wish her last child laid in liis grave ! ' ' Not so,' said Torf rida, ' it is well as it is. How better 1 It is his only chance for comfort, for lionoui', for life itself. He would have grown a 1 was growing bad and foul myself in that ugly wilderness. Now he will be a knight once more among knights, and win liimself fresh honour in fresh fields. Let him marry her. Why not 1 He can get a dispensation from the pope, and then there will be no sin in it, you know. If the Holy Father cannot make wrong right, who can ? Yes. It is very well as it is. And I am very well where I am. Women ! Bring me scissors, and one of your nun's dresses. I am come to be a nun like you.' Godiva would have stopped her. But Torfrida rose upon her knees, and calmly made a solemn vow, which thougli canonically void without her husband's consent, would, she well knew, never be disputed by any there : and as for him, — ' He has lost me ; and for ever. Torfrida never gives herself away twice.' 'There's carnal pride in those words, my poor child,' said Godiva. ' Cruel ! ' said she proudly. ' When I am sacrificing myself utterly for him.' ' And tliy poor girl 1 ' ' He will let her come liither,' said Torfrida, with forced calm. 'He will see that it is not fit that she should grow up with — yes, he will send her to me — to us. And I shall live for her — and for you. If you will let me be your bower-woman, dress you, serve you, read to you. You know that I am a pretty scholar. You will let me, mother ? I may call you mother, may I not 1 ' And Torfrida fondled the old woman's thin hands. ' For I do want so much something to love.' 'Love thy heavenly Bridegroom, the only love worthy of woman ! ' said Godiva, as her tears fell fast on Torfrida's head. (She gave a half impatient toss. ' That may come, in good time. As yet it is enough to do, if I can keep down this devil here in my throat. Women, bring me tlie scissors.' And Torfrida cut off" her raven locks, now streaked with gray ; and put on the nun's dress, and became a nun henceforth. On tlie second day there came to Crowland Leofric the priest, and with him the poor child. She had woke in the morning and found no mother. Leofric and the other men searched the woods round, far and wide. The girl mounted her horse, and would go with them. Then XXXVI HOW ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREWARD 329 they took a bloodhound, and he led them to Grimkel's hut. There they heard of Martin. The ghost must have been Tor- fi'ida. Then the hound brought them to the river. And they divined at once that she was gone to Crowland, to Godiva : but why, they could not guess. Then the girl insisted, prayed, at last commanded them to take her to Crowland. And to Crowland they came. Leofric left the girl at the nuns' house door, and went into the monastery, where he had friends enow, runaway and rene- gade as he was. As he came into the great court, whom should he meet but Martin Lightfoot, in a lay brother's frock. 'Aha? And are you come home likewise? Have you re- nounced the devil and this last work of his ? ' ' What work ? What devil 1 ' asked Leofric, who saw method in Martin's madness. 'And what do you here in a long frock ? ' _ ' Devil ? Hereward the devil. I would have killed him witli my axe : but she got it from me, and threw it in among tlie lioly sisters, and I liad work to get it again. 8hame on her, to spoil my chance of heaven. For I should surely have won heaven, you know, if 1 had killed the devil.' After much beating about, Leofric got from Martin the whole tragedy. And when he heard it, he burst out weeping. ' O Hereward, Hereward ! O knightly honour ! Oh, faith and troth, and gratitude, and love in return for such love as might have tamed lions and made tyrants mild ! Are they all carnal vanities, works of the weak flesh, bruised reeds which break when they are leaned upon 1 If so, you are right, Mar- tin ; and there is nought left, but to flee from a world in which all men are liars.' And Leofric, in the midst of Crowland Yard, tore off his belt and trusty sword, his hauberk and helm also, and letting down his monk s frock, which he wore trussed to the mid-knee, he went to the abbot's lodgings, and asked to see old Ulfketyl. ' Bring him up,' said the good abbot, ' for he is a valiant man and true, in spite of all his vanities ; and may be, he brings news of Hereward, whom God forgive.' And when Leofric came in, he fell upon his knees, bewailing and confessing his sinful life ; and begged the abbot to take him back again into Crowland minster, and lay upon him what l)enance lie tliought fit, and put him in the lowest office because he was a man of blood ; if only he might stay there, and have a sight at times of his dear Lady Torfrida, without whom he should surely die. 8o Leofric was received back, in full chapter, by abbot, and prior, and all the monks. But when he asked them to lay a penance upon liim, Ulfketyl arose from his high chair, and sjaoke. 330 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' Shall vre, who have sat here at ease, lay a penance on this man, who has shed his blood in fifty valiant fights for us, and for St. Guthlac, and for this English land ? Look at yon scars upon his head and arms. He has had sharper discipline from cold steel than we could give him here with rod ; and has fasted in the wilderness more sorely, many a time, than we have fasted here.' And all the monks agreed that no penance should be laid on Leofric. Only that he should abstain from singing vain and carnal ballads, which turned the heads of the young brothers, and made them dream of nought but battles, and giants, and enchanters, and ladies' love. Hereward came back on the third day, and found his wife and daughter gone. His guilty conscience told liim in the first instance why. For he went into the chamber, and there, upon the floor, lay the letter which he had looked for in vain. None had touched it where it lay. Perhaps no one had dared to enter the chamber. If they had, they would not have dared to_ meddle with writing which they could not read, and which might contain some magic spell. Letters were very safe in those old days. There are moods of man which no one will dare to describe, unless like Shakspeare, he is Shakspeare, and like Shakspeare knows it not. ^ Therefore what Hereward thought and felt will not be told. What he did, was this. He raged and blustered. He must hide his shame. He must justify himself to his knights ; and much more to himself : or if not justify himself, must shift some of the blame over to the opposite side. So he raged and blustered. He had been robbed of his wife and daughter. They had been cajoled away by the monks of Crowland. What villains were those to rob an honest man of his family while he was fighting for his country 1 So he rode down to the river, and there took two great barges, and rowed away to Ci'owland, witli forty men-at-arms. And all the while he thought of Alftruda, as he had seen her at Peterborough. And of no one else ? Not so. For all the while he felt that he loved Torfrida's little finger better than Alftruda's whole body, and soul into the bargain. What a long way it was to Crowland. How wearing were the hours through mere and ea. How wearying the monoton- ous pulse of the oars. If tobacco had been known then, Here- ward would have smoked all the way, and been none the wiser, thougli the happier, for it ; for the herb that drives away the evil spirits of anxiety, drives away also the good, though stern, spirits of remorse. But in those days a man could only escape facts by drinking ; XXXVI HOW ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREWARD 331 and Hereward was too much afraid of what he should meet in Crowland, to go thither drunk. Sometimes he hoped that Torfrida might hold her purpose, and set him free to follow his wicked will. All the lower nature in him, so long crushed under, leapt up chuckling and grinning and tumbling head over heels, and cried — Now I shall have a holiday ! Sometimes he hoped that Torfrida might come out to the shore, and settle the matter in one moment, by a glance of her great hawk's eyes. If she would but quell him by one look ; leap on board, seize the helm, and assume without a word the command of his men and him ; steer them back to Bourne, and sit down beside him with a kiss, as if nothing had happened. If she would but do that, and ignore tlie past, would lie not ignore it ? Would he not forget Alftruda, and King William, and all the world, and go up with lier into Sherwood, and then north to Scotland and Gospatric, and be a man once more ? No. He would go with her to the Baltic or the Mediter- ranean. ConstantinoiDle and the Varangers would be the place and the men. Ay, there to escape out of that charmed ring into a new life. No. He did not deserve such luck ; and he would not get it. She would talk it all out. She must, for she was a woman. She would blame, argue, say dreadful words — dreadful, because true and deserved. Then she would grow angry, as women do when they are most in the right, and say too much — still more dreadful words, which would be untrue and undeserved. Then he should resist, recriminate. He would not stand it. He could not stand it. No. He could never face her again. And yet if he had seen a man insult her — if he had seen her at that moment in peril of the slightest danger, the slightest bruise, he would have rushed forward like a madman, and died, saving her from that bruise. And he knew that : and with the strange self-contradiction of human nature, he soothed his own conscience by the thought tliat he loved her still ; and that, tlierefore — somehow or other, he cared not to make out how — he had done her no wrong. Then he blustered again, for the benefit of his men. He would teach these monks of Crowland a lesson. He would burn the minster over tlieir heads. 'That would be pity, seeing they are the only Englishmen left in England,' said Siward the White, his nephew, very simply. '\\hat is tliat to thee? Thou liast helped to burn Peter- borough at my l)idding ; and thou shalt help to burn Crowland.' ' I am a free gentleman of England ; and what I choose, I do. I and my brother are going to Constantinople to join the Var- anger guard, and shall not burn Crowland, or let any man burn it.' 'Shall not let?' 332 HEREAVARD THE WAKE chap. 'No,' said the young man, so quietly that Hereward was cowed. ' I — I only meant — if tliey did not do right by me.' ' Do right thyself,' said Siward. Hereward swore awfully, and laid his hand on his sword-hilt. But lie did not draw it ; for he thought he saw overhead a cloud wliich was very like the figure of St. Guthlac in Crowland window, and an awe fell upon him from above. So they came to Crowland ; and Hereward landed and beat upon the gates, and spoke high words. But the monks did not open the gates for a while. At last the gates creaked, and opened ; and in the gateway stood Abbot Ulfketyl in his robes of state, and behind liim the prior, and all the officers, and all the monks of the house. ' Comes Hereward in peace or in war ? ' ' In war ! ' said Hereward. Then that true and trusty old man, who sealed his patriotism, if not with his blood — for the very Normans had not the heart to take that — still with long and bitter sorrows, lifted up his liead, and said, like a valiant Dane, as his name bespoke him, ' Against the traitor and the adulterer ' ' I am neither,' roared Hereward. 'Thou wouklst be, if thou couldst. Whoso looketh upon a woman to ' 'Preach me no sermons, man ! Let me in to seek my wife.' 'Over my l)ody,' said Ulfketyl, and laid himself down across the threshold. Hereward recoiled. If he had dared to step over that sacred body, there was not a blood-stained ruffian in his crew who dared to follow him. ' Rise, rise ! for God's sake, lord abbot,' said he. ' Whatever I am, I need not that you should disgrace me thus. Only let me see her — reason with lier.' ' She has vowed herself to God, and is none of thine hence- forth.' ' It is against the canons. A wrong and a robbery.' Ulfketyl rose, grand as ever. ' Hereward Leofricsson, our joy and our glory once. Hearken to the old man who will soon go whither thine uncle Brand is gone, and be free of Frenchmen, and of all this wicked world. When the walls of Crowland dare not shelter the wronged woman, fleeing from man's treason to God's faithfulness, then let tlie roofs of Crowland burn till the flame reaches heaven, for a sign tliat tlie children of God are as false as the children of this world, and break their faith like any belted knight.' Hereward was silenced. His men shrunk l:)ack from him. He felt as if God, and the mother of God, and St. Guthlac, and all tlie host of heaven, were slirinking back from him likewise. He turned to supplications, compromises — what else was left. XXXVI HOW ALFTRUDA AVROTE TO HEREWARD 333 'At least you will let me have speech of her, or of my mother ? ' 'They must answer that, not I.' Hereward sent in, entreating to see one, or both. ' Tell him,' said Lady Godiva, ' who calls himself my son, that my sons were men of honour, and that he must have been changed at nurse.' ' Tell him,' said Torf rida, ' that I have lived my life, and am dead. Dead. If he would see me, he will only see my corpse.' ' You would not slay yourself ? ' ' What is there that I dare not do ? You do not know Tor- f rida. He does.' And Hereward did ; and went back again like a man stunned. After a while there came by boat to Crowland all Torfrida's wealth ; clothes, jewels : not a shred had Hereward kept. The magic armour came with them. Torfrida gave all to the abbey, there and then. Only the armour she wrapped up in the white bear's skin, and sent it back to Hereward, with her blessing, and entreaty not to refuse that, her last bequest. Hereward did not refuse, for very shame. But for very shame he never wore that armour more. For very shame he never slept again upon the white bear's skin, on which he and his true love had lain so many a year. And Torfrida turned herself utterly to serve the Lady Godiva, and to teach and train her child as she had never done before, while she had to love Hereward, and to work day and night with her own fingers, for all his men. All pride, all fierceness, all care of self, had passed away from her. In penitence, liumility, obedience, and gentleness, she went on : never smiling, but never weeping. Her heart was broken ; and she felt it good for herself to let it break. And Leofric the priest, and mad Martin Lightfoot, watched like two dogs for her going out and coming in ; and when she went among the old corrodiers, and nursed the sick, and taught the cliildren, and went to and fro upon lier holy errands, bless- ing and blessed, the two wild men liad a word from her mouth, or a kiss of her hand, and were happy all the day after. For they loved her with a love mightier than ever Hereward had heaped upon her ; for she had given him all ; but she had given those two wild men naught but the beatific vision of a noble woman. 334 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. CHAPTER XXXVII HOW HEREWARD LOST SWORD BRAINBITER ' On account of which,' says the chronicler, ' many troubles came to Hereward : because Torfrida was most wise, and of great counsel in need. For afterwards, as he himself confessed, things went not so well with him as they did in her time.' And the first thing that went ill was this. He was riding through the Bruneswold, and behind him Gery, Wenoch, and ]\latelgar, these three. And there met him in an open glade a knight, the biggest man he had ever seen, on the biggest horse, and five knights behind him. He was an Englishman, and not a Frenchman, by his dress ; and Hereward spoke courteously enough to him. But who he was, and what his business was in the Bruneswold, Hereward thouglit that he had a right to ask. ' Tell me who thou art who askest, before I tell thee who I am who am asked, riding here on common land,' quoth the knight, surlily enough. ' I am Hereward, without whose leave no man has ridden the Bruneswold for many a day.' ' And I am Letwold the Englishman, who rides whither lie will in merry England, without care for any Frenchman upon earth.' ' Frenchman 1 Why callest thou me Frenchman, man ? I am Hereward.' ' Then thou art, if tales be true, as French as Ivo Taillebois. I hear that thou hast left thy true lady, like a fool and a churl, and goest to London, or Winchester, or the nether pit — I care not which — to make thy peace with the Mamzer.' The man was a surly brute : but what he said was so true, that Hereward's wrath arose. He had promised Torfrida many a time never to quarrel with an Englishman, but to endure all things. Now, out of very spite to Torfrida's counsel, because it was Torfrida's, and he had promised to obey it, he took up the quarrel. ' If I am a fool and a churl, thou art a greater fool, to pro- voke thine own deatli ; and a greater ' ' Spare your breath,' said the big man, ' and let me try Here- ward, as I have many another.' Whereon they dropped their lance-points, and rode at each other like two mad bulls. And, by the contagion of folly common in the middle age, at each other rode Hereward's three knights and Letwold's five. The two leaders found them- selves both rolling on the ground ; jumped up, drew their swords, and hewed away at each other. Gery unhorsed his man at the first charge, and left him stunned. Then he turned on XXXVII HOW HEREWARD LOST SWORD BRAINBITER 335 another, and did the same by him. Wenoch and i\Iatelgar each overthrew tlieir man. The fifth of Letwold's knights threw up his lance-point, not liking his new company. Gery and the other two rode in on the two chiefs, who were fighting hard, each under shield. ' Stand back ! ' roared Hereward, ' and give the knight fair play ! When did any one of us want a man to help him 1 Kill or die single has been our rule, and shall be.' They threw up their lance-points, and stood round to see that great fight. Letwold's knight rode in among theni, and stood likewise ; and friend and foe looked on, as they might at a pair of game cocks. Hereward had, to his own surprise and that of his fellows, met his match. The sparks flew, the iron clanged : but so heavy were the stranger's strokes that Hereward reeled again and again. So sure was the guard of his shield, that Hereward could not wound him, hit where he would. At last he dealt a furious blow on the stranger's head. ' If that does not bring your master down ! ' quoth Gery. ' By — — , Brainbiter is gone ! ' It was too true. Sword Brainbiter's end was come. The ogre's magic blade had snapt ofi" short by the hilt. ' Your master is a true Englishman, by the hardness of liis brains,' quoth Wenock, as the stranger, reeling for a moment, lifted up his head, and stared at Hereward in the face, doubtful what to do. ' Will you yield,' or fight on 1 ' cried he. ' Yield ? ' shouted Hereward, rushing upon him, as a mastiff might on a lion, and striking at his lielm, though shorter than him by a head and shoulders, such swift and terrible blows with the broken hilt, as staggered the tall stranger. ' What are you at, forgetting what you have at your side ? ' roared Gery. Hereward sprang back. He had, as was his custom, a second sword on his right thigh. ' I forget everything now,' said he to himself angrily. And that was too true. But he drew the second sword, and sprang at his man once more. The stranger tried, according to the chronicler, who probably liad it from one of tlie three bystanders, a blow which has cost many a brave man liis life. He struck riglit down on Here- ward's head. Hereward raised his shield, warding the stroke, and threw in that coiip de jarret, which there is no guarding, after tlie downright blow has been given. The stranger dropped upon his wounded knee. ' Yield,' cried Hereward in his turn. 'That is not my fashion.' And the stranger fought on upon his stumps, like Witherington in Chevy Chase. Hereward, mad with the sight of blood, struck at him four 336 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. or five times. The stranger's guai'd was so quick that he could not hit him, even on his knee. He hekl his liand, and drew back, looking at his new rival. ' What the murrain are we two fighting about ? ' said he, at last. ' I know not ; neither care,' said the other, with a grim chuckle. ' But if any man will fight me, him I fight, ever since I had beard to my chin.' ' Thou art the best man that ever I faced.' ' That is like enough.' ' What wilt thou take, if I give thee thy life ? ' ' My way on which I was going. For I turn back for no man alive on land.' ' Then thou hast not had enough of me ? ' ' Not by another hour.' ' Thou must be born of fiend, and not of man.' ' Very like. It is a wise son knows his own father.' Hereward burst out laughing. ' Would to heaven I had had thee for my man this three years since.' ' Perhaps I would not have been thy man.' ' Why not r ' Because I have been my own man ever since I was born, and am well content with myself for my master.' ' Shall I bind up thy leg ? ' asked Hereward, having no more to say, and not wishing to kill the man. ' No. It will grow again, like a crab's claw.' ' Thou art a fiend.' And Hereward turned away, sulky, and half afraid. ' Very like. No man knows what a devil he is, till he tries.' 'What dost mean 1 ' and Hereward turned angrily back. ' Fiends we are all, till God's grace comes.' ' Little grace has come to thee yet, by thy ungracious tongue.' ' Rougli to men may be gracious to women.' 'What hast thou to do with women?' asked Hereward fiercely. ' I have a wife, and I love her.' 'Thou art not like to get back to her to-day.' ' I fear not, with this paltry scratch. I had looked for a cut from thee, would have saved me all fighting henceforth.' ' What dost mean 1 ' asked Hereward with an oath. ' That my wife is in heaven, and I would needs follow her.' Hereward got on his horse, and rode away. Never could he find out who that Sir Letwold was, or how he came into the Bruneswold. All he knew was, that he never had had such a fight since he wore beard ; and that he had lost sword Brain- biter : from which his evil conscience augured that his luck had turned, and that he should lose many things besides. xxxviii HOAV HEREWARD CAME m TO THE KIXG 337 CHAPTER XXXVIII HOW HEREWARD CAME IN TO THE KING After these things Hereward summoned all his men, and set before them the hopelessness of any further resistance, and the promises of amnesty, lands, and honours which William had offered him ; and jDersuaded them — and indeed he had good arguments enough and to spare — that they should go and make their peace with the king. They were so accustomed to look up to his determination, tliat when it gave way theirs gave way likewise. They were so accustomed to trust his wisdom, that most of them yielded at once to his arguments. That the band should break up, all agreed. A few of the more susi^icious, or moi-e desperate, said that they could never trust the Frenchman ; that Hereward himself had warned them again and again of his ti-eachery ; that he was now going to do himself what he had laughed at Gospatric and the rest for doing ; what had brought ruin on Edwin and Morcar ; what he had again and again prophesied would bring ruin on Waltheof himself ere all was over. But Hereward was deaf to their arguments. He had said as little to them as he could about Alftruda, for very shame : but he was utterly besotted on lier. For her sake, he had deter- mined to run his head blindly into the very snare of which he had warned others. And he had seared — so he fancied — his conscience. It was Torfrida's fault now, not his. If she left liini — if she herself freed him of her own will — why, he was free, and there was no more to be said about it. And Hereward (says the chronicler) took Gwenoch, Gery, and Matelgar, and rode south to the king. Where were the two young Siwards 1 It is not said. Prob- ably they, and a few desperadoes, followed the fashion of so many Englisli in those sad days — when, as sings the Norse scald, ' Cold heart and bloody hand Now rule English land,' and took ship for Constantinople, and enlisted in the Varanger- guard, and died full of years and honours, leaving fair-haired children behind them, to become Varangers in their turn. Be that as it may, Hereward rode south. But wlien he had gotten a long way upon the road, a fancy (says the cln-onicler) came over liim. He was not going in pomp and glory enough. It seemed mean for tlie once great Hereward to sneak into Win- chester with three knights. Perhaps it seemed not over safe for the once great Hereward to travel with only three knights. So Z II. T. w. 338 -nEREAVARD THE WAKE chap. lie Avent back all the way to camp, and took (says the chronicler) 'forty most famous knights, all big and tall of stature, and splendid — if from nothing else, from their looks and their harness alone.' So Hereward and tliose forty knights rode down from Peter- borough, along tlie lloman road. For the Roman roads were then, and for centuries after, tlie only roads in this land _; and our forefathers looked on them as the work of gods and giants, and called them after the names of their old gods and heroes — Irmen Street, Watling Street, and so forth. And then, like true Englishmen, our own forefathers showed their respect for the said divine works, not by copying them, but by picking them to pieces to pave every man his own courtyard. Be it so. The neglect of new roads, the destruction of the old ones, was a natural evil consequence of local self- government. A cheap price perhaps, after all, to pay for that IDOwer of local self-government Avhich has kept England free unto this day. Be that as it may, down the Roman road Hereward went ; past Alconbury Hill, of the old posting days ; past Hatfield, then deep forest ; and so to St. Alban's, then deep forest like- wise. And there they lodged in the minster; for the monks thereof were good English, and sang masses daily for King Harold's soul. And th'e next day they went south, by ways which are not so clear. Just outside St. Alban's— Verulamium of the Romans (the ruins whereof were believed to be full of ghosts, demons, and magic treasures)— tliey turned, at St. Stephen's, to tlie left, off" the Roman road to London ; and by another Roman road struck into the vast forest which ringed London round from north-east to south-west. Following the upper waters of the Colne, which ran through the woods on tlieir left, they came to Watford, and then turned probably to Rickmansworth. No longer on the lloman paved ways, they followed horse-tracks, between the forest and the rich marsh-meadows of the Colne, as far as Den- liam, and then struck into a Roman road again at the north end of Langley Park. From thence, over heathy commons— for that western part of Buckinghamshire, its soil being light and some gravel, was little cultivated then, and hardly all cultivated now — they held on straight by Langley town into the Vale of Thames. Little they dreamed, as they rode down by Ditton Green, oft" the heathy commons, past the poor scattered farms, on to the vast rushy meadows, while upon them was the dull weight of disappointment, shame, all but despair ; their race enslaved, their country a prey to strangers, and all its future, like their own, a lurid blank — little they dreamed of what that vale would be within eight hundred years — the eye of England, and it may be of the world ; a spot which owns more wealth and peace, more art and civilisation, more beauty and more virtue, it may XXXVIII HOW HEREWARD CAME IN TO THE KING 339 be, than any of the God's-gardens which make fair this earth. Windsor, on its crowned steep, was to them but a new hunting- palace of the old miracle-monger Edward, who had just ruined England. Eunnymede, a mile below them down the broad stream, was but a liorse-fen fringed with water-lilies, where the men of Wessex had met of old to counsel, and to bring the country to this pass. And as they crossed, by ford or ferry- boat, the shallows of old Windsor, whither they had been tend- ing all along, and struck into the moorlands of Wessex itself, they were as men going into an unknown wilderness : behind them ruin, and before them, unknown danger. On through Windsor Forest, Edward the Saint's old hunting- ground ; its bottoms choked with beech and oak, and birch and alder scrub ; its upper lands vast flats of level heath : along the great trackway which runs along the lower side oi Chobham Camp, some quarter of a mile broad, every rut and trackway as fresh at this day as when the ancient Briton, finding that his neighbour's essedum — chariot, or rather cart — had worn the ruts too deep, struck out a fresh wandering line for himself across the dreary heath. Over the Blackwater by Sandhurst, and along the flats of Hartford Bridge, where the old furze-grown ruts show the trackway to this day. Down into the clayland forests of the Andredsweald, and up out of them again at Basing, on to the clean crisp chalk turf ; to strike at Popham Lane the Eoman road from Silchester, and hold it over the high downs, till they saw far below them the royal city of Winchester. Itchen, silver as they looked on her from above, but when they came down to her, so clear that none could see where water ended and where air began, hurried through the city in many a stream. Beyond it rose the 'White Camp,' the 'Venta Bel- garum,' the circular earthwork of white chalk on the high down. Within the city rose the ancient minster church, built by Ethel- wold — ancient even then — where slept the ancient kings ; Ken- nulf, Egbert, and Ethelwulf, the Saxons ; and by them the Danes, Canute the Great, and Hardicanute, his son, and Norman Emma, his wife, and Ethelred's before him ; and the great Eai'l Godwin, who seemed to Hereward to have died, not twenty, but two hundred years ago ; — and it may be an old Saxon hall upon the little isle whither Edgar had Indden bring the heads of all the wolves in Wessex, where afterwards the bishops built Wolvesey Palace. But nearer to them, on the down which sloped up to the west, stood an uglier thing, which they saw with curses deep and loud, — the keep of the new Nor- man castle l)y the west gate. Hereward lialted liis knights upon the down outside the northern gate. Then he rode forward liimself. The gate was open wide ; but lu; did not care to go in. So he rode into the gateway, and smote ujion that gate with 340 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. liis lance-lnitt. But tlie porter saw the knights upon the down, and was afraid to come out ; for he feared treason. Then Hereward smote a second time : but the porter did not come out. Then he took the lance by the shaft, and smote a third time. And he smote so hard, that the lance-butt flew to flinders against Winchester Gate. And at that started out two knights, who had come down from the castle, seeing the meinie on the down ; and asked : ' Wlio art thou, who knockest here so bold ? ' ' Who I am, any man can see by those splinters, if he knows what men are left in England this day.' The knights looked at the broken wood, and then at each other. Who could the man be, who could beat an ash stave to flinders at a single blow 1 ' You are young, and do not know me ; and no shame to you. Go and tell William the king that Hereward is come to put his hands between the king's, and be the king's man thenceforth.' ' You are Hereward ? ' asked one, half awed, half disbelieving at Hereward's short stature. 'You are — I know not who. Pick up those splinters, and take them to King William ; and say, "The man who broke that lance against the gate is here to make his peace with tliee," and he will know who I am.' And so cowed were tliese two knights with Hereward's royal voice, and royal eye, and royal strength, that they went simply, and did what he bade them. And when King William saw the splinters, he was as joyful as man could be, and said : ' Send him to me, and tell liim, Bright shines the sun to me that lights Hereward into Winchester.' ' But, lord king, he has with liim a meinie of full forty knights.' ' So much tlie better. I shall have the more valiant English- men to help my valiant French.' So Hereward rode round, outside the walls, to William's new entrenched palace outside the west gate, by the castle. And then Hereward went in, and knelt before the Norman, and put his hands between William's hands, and swore to be his man. 'I have kept my word,' said he, 'whicli 1 sent to thee at Ilouen seven years agone. Thou art king of all England ; and I am the last man to say so.' 'And since thou hast said it, I am king indeed. Come with me, and dine ; and to-morrow I will see thy knights.' And William walked out of the hall leaning on Hereward's shoulder, at which all tlie Normans gnashed their teeth with envy. 'And for my knights, lord king? Thine and mine will mix, for a while yet, like oil and water ; and I fear lest there be murder done between them.' XXXIX TORFRIDA INSPIRED BY THE DEVIL 341 ' Likely enough.' So the knights were bestowed in a ' vill ' near by ; ' and the next day the venerable king himself went forth to see those knights, and caused them to stand, and march before him, both with arms and without. With whom being much delighted, he praised them, congratulating them on their beauty and stature, and saying that they must all be knights of fame in war.' After which Hereward sent them all liome except two ; and waited till he should marry Alftruda, and get back his heritage. ' And when that happens,' said William, ' why should we not liave two weddings, beausire, as well as one ? I hear that you have in Crowland a fair daughter, and mari'iageable.' Hereward bowed. 'And I have found a husband for her suitable to her years, and who may conduce to your peace and serenity.' Hereward bit his lip. To refuse was impossible in those days. But ' I trust that your grace has found a knight of higher lineage than him, whom, after so many honours, you honoured with the hand of my niece.' William laughed. It was not his interest to quarrel with Hereward. 'Aha! Ivo, the woodcutter's son. I ask your pardon for that. Sir Hereward. Had you been my man then, as you are now, it might have been difFei'ent.' 'If a king ask my pardon, I can only ask his in return.' ' You must be friends with Taillebois. He is a brave knight, and a wise warrior.' 'None ever doubted that.' * And to cover any little blots in his scutcheon, I have made him an earl, as I may make you some day.' 'Your majesty, like a true king, knows how to reward. Wlio is this knight whom you have chosen for my lass ? ' ' Sir Hugh of Evermue, a neighbour of yours, and a man of blood and breeding.' ' I know him, and his lineage ; and it is very well. I humbly thank your majesty.' ' Can I be the same man 1 ' said Hereward to himself bitterly. And he was not the same man. He was besotted on Alftruda, and humbled himself accordingly. CHAPTER XXXIX HOW TORFRIDA CONFESSED THAT SHE HAD BEEN INSPIRED BY THE DEVIL After a few days there came down a priest to Crowland from Winchester, and talked with Torfrida. And she answered him, the priest said, so wisely and well, 342 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. that he never liad met with a woman of so clear a brain, or of so stout a heart. At last, being puzzled to get that which he wanted, he touched on the matter of her marriage with Hereward. She wished it, he said, dissolved. She wished herself to enter religion. Tiie Church would be most happy to sanction so holy a desire, but there were objections. She was a married woman ; and her husband had not given his consent. ' Let him give it, then.' There were still objections. He had nothing to bring against her which could justify the dissolution of "the holy bond: unless ' Unless I bring some myself ? ' ' There have been rumours — I say not how true — of magic and sorcery ' Torfrida_ leapt up from her seat, and laughed such a laugh, that the priest said in after years, it rung through his head as if it had arisen out of the pit of the lost. ' So that is what you want, churchman ? Then you sliall have.it. Bring me pen and ink. I need not confess to you. You shall read my confession when it is done. I am a better scribe, mind you, than any clerk between here and Paris.' She seized the pen and ink, and wrote ; not fiercely, as the priest expected, but slowly and carefully. Then she gave it the priest to read. ' Will that do, churchman 1 Will that free my soul, and that of your French archbishop?' And the priest read to himself : How Torfrida of St. Omer, born at Aries in Provence, con- fessed that from her youth up she had been given to the practice of diabolic arts, and had at divers times and places used the same, both alone and with Richilda, late Countess of Hainault. How, wickedly, wantonly, and instinct with a malignant spirit, she had compassed, by charms and spells, to Avin the love of Hereward. How she had ever since kept in bondage him, and otiiers whom she had not loved with the same carnal love, Ijut only desired to make them useful to her own desire of power and glory, by the same magical arts ; for wliich she now humbly begged pardon of Holy Church, and of all Christian folk ; and, penetrated with compunction, desired only that she might retire into the convent of Crowland. She asserted the marriage which she had so unlawfully compassed to be null and void ; and prayed to be released therefrom, as a burden to her conscience and soul, that she might spend the rest of her life in penitence for her many enormous sins. She submitted herself to the judgment of Holy Church, only begging that this her free con- fession might be counted in her favour, and that she might not be put to death, as she deserved, nor immured perpetually; XXXIX TORFRIDA INSPIRED BY THE DEVIL 343 because her mother-in-law according to tlie flesh, the Countess Godiva, being old and infirm, had daily need of lier ; and she wished to serve her menially as long as she lived. After which, she put herself utterly upon the judgment of the Church. And meanwhile she desired and prayed that she might be allowed to remain in perpetual imprisonment (wliereby her marriage could be canonically dissolved) in the said monastery of Crowland, not leaving the precincts thereof without special leave given by the abbot and prioress in one case between her and them reserved ; to wear garments of haircloth : to fast all the year on bread and water ; and to be disciplined with rods or other- wise, at such times as the prioress should command, and to such degree as her body, softened with carnal luxury, could reason- ably endure. And beyond — that, being dead to the world, God miglit have mercy on her soul. And she meant what she said. The madness of remorse and disappointment, so common in the wild middle age, had come over her ; and witli it the twin madness of self-torture. The priest read, and trembled ; not for Torfrida, but for Iiimself, lest she should enchant him after all. ' She must have been an awful sinner,' said he to the monks wlien he got safe out of the room ; ' comparable only to the witch of Endor, or the woman Jezebel, of whom St. John writes in the Eevelations.' ' I do not know how you Frenchmen measure folks, when you see them: but to our mind she is — for goodness, humility, and patience, comparable only to an angel of God,' said Abbot Ulfketyl. ' You Englishmen will have to change your minds on many points, if you mean to stay here.' ' We sliall not change them, and we shall stay here,' quoth the abbot. ' How ? You will not get Sweyn and his Danes to help you a second time.' ' No, we shall all die, and give you your wills, and you will not have the heart to cast our bones into the fens V 'Not unless you intend to work miracles, and set uj^ for saints, like your Alphege and Edmund.' ' Heaven forbid tliat we should compare ourselves with them ! Only let us alone till we die.' ' If you let us alone, and do not turn traitor meanwhile.' Abbot Ulfketyl V)it his lip, and kept down the rising fiend. 'And now,' said the priest, 'deliver me over Torfrida the younger, dauglitcr of Herewai-d and this woman, that I may take her to the king, who has found a fit husband for her.' 'You will hardly get her.' ' Not get her ? ' ' Not without her mother's consent. The lass cares for nought but her.' 344 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' Pish ! that sorceress 1 Send for the girl.' Abbot Ulfketyl, forced in his own abbey, great and august lord thougli he was, to obey any upstart of a Norman priest who came backed by the king and Lanfranc, sent for the lass. The young outlaw came in — hawk on fist, and its hood oft", for it was a pet — short, sturdy, upi-ight, brown-haired, blue- eyed, ill-dressed, with liard hands and sunburnt face, but with the hawk-eye of her father and her mother, and the hawks among which she was bred. Slie looked the priest over from liead to foot, till he was abashed. ' A Frenchman ! ' said she, and she said no more. The priest looked at her eyes, and tlien at the hawk's eyes. They were disagreeably like each other. He told his errand as courteously as he could, for he was not a bad-hearted man for a Norman priest. The lass laughed him to scorn. The king's commands 1 She never saw a king in tlie greenwood, and cared for none. There was no king in England now, since Sweyn Ulfsson sailed back to Denmark. Who was this French William, to sell a free Englisli lass like a colt or a cow 1 The priest might go back to the slaves of Wessex, and command them if he could : but in the fens men were free, and lasses too. The priest was piously shocked and indignant, and began to argue. She played with her hawk instead of listening, and then was marching out of the room. ' Your mother,' said he, ' is a sorceress.' ' You are a knave, or set on by knaves. You lie ; and you know you lie.' And slie turned away again. ' She has confessed it.' 'You have driven her mad between you, till she will confess anything. I presume you threatened to burn her, as some of you did a while back.' And the young lady made use of words equally strong and true. The jDriest was not accustomed to the direct language of the greenwood, and indignant on his own account, threatened, and finally oftered to use, force. Whereon there looked up into his face such a demon (so he said) as he never had seen or dreamed of, and said : 'If you lay a finger on me, I will brittle you like any deer.' And therewith pulled out a saying-knife, about half as long again as the said priest's liand, being very sharp, so he deposed, down the whole length of one edge, and likewise down his little finger's length of tlie other. Not being versed in the terms of English venery, he asked Abbot Ulfketyl what brittling of a deer might mean ; and being informed that it was that operation on the carcase of a stag which liis countrymen called eventrer, he subsided, and thought it best to go and consult the young lady's motlier. XXXIX TORFRIDA INSPIRED BY THE DEVIL 345 She, to his astonishment, submitted at once and utterly. The king, and he whom she had called her husband, were very gracious. It was all well. She would have preferred, and the lady Godiva too, after their experience of the world and the flesh, to have devoted her daughter to heaven in the minster there. But she was unworthy. Who was she, to train a bride for Him wlio died on the cross 1 She accepted this as part of her penance, with thankfulness and humility. She had heard that Sir Hugh of Evermue was a gentleman of ancient birth and good prowess, and she thanked the king for his choice. Let the priest tell her daughter that she commanded her to go with him to Winchester. She did not wish to see her. She was stained with many crimes, and unworthy to approach a jDure maiden. Besides, it would only cause misery and tears. She was trying to die to the world and to the flesh ; and she did not wish to reawaken their power within her. Yes. It was very well. Let the lass go with him. ' Thou art indeed a true penitent,' said tlie priest, his human lieart softening him. ' Thou art very much mistaken,' said she, and turned away. The girl, when she heard her mother's command, wept, shrieked, and went. At least she was going to her father. And from wliolesome fear of that same saying-knife, the priest left her in peace all the way to Winchester. After which. Abbot L^lfketyl went into his lodgings, and burst, like a noble old nobleman as he was, into bitter tears of rage and shame. But Torfrida's eyes were as dry as her own sackcloth. The priest took the letter back, and showed it — it may be to Archbishop Lanfranc, who was well versed in such matters, having already (as is well known to all the world) arranged King William's uncanonical marriage, by help of Archdeacon Hildebrand, afterwards pojDe. But what he said, this chronicler would not dare to say. For he was a very wise man, and a very staunch and strong pillar of the holy Roman Church. And doubtless he was man enough not to require that anything should be added to Torfrida's penance ; and that would have been enough to prove him a man in those days — at least for a churchman — as it proved Arclibishop or Saint Ailred to be, a few years after, in the case of tlie nun of Watton, to be read in Gale's Scriptores AiirjlicanuB. Then he showed the letter to Alftruda. And she laughed one of her laughs, and said, ' I have her at last ! ' Then, as it befell, he was forced to show the letter to Queen Matilda ; and she wept over it human tears, such as she, the noble heart, had been forced to weep many a time before, and said, ' The poor soul ! — You, Alftruda, woman ! does Hereward know of this ? ' 346 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. ' No, madam,' said Alftruda, not adding that she had taken good care that he should not know. ' It is the best tiling which I have heard of him. I should tell him, were it not that I must not meddle with my lord's jilans. God grant him a good delivery, as they say of the poor souls in gaol. Well, madam, you have your will at last. God give you grace thereof, for you have not given him much chance as yet.' 'Your majesty will honour us by coming to the wedding?' asked Alftruda, utterly unabashed. Matilda the Good looked at her with a face of such calm childlike astonishment, that Alftruda dropped her proud head at last, and slunk out of the presence like a beaten cur. But William went to the wedding ; and swore horrible oaths that they were the handsomest pair he had ever seen. And so Hereward married Alftruda. How Holy Church settled the matter, is not said. But that Hereward married Alftruda, under these very circumstances, may be considei'ed a ' historic fact,' being vouched for both by Gaimar and by Richard of Ely. And doubtless Holy Church contrived that it should happen without sin, if it conduced to her own interest. And little Torfrida — then aged, it seems, some sixteen years — was married to Hugh of Evermue. She wept and struggled as she was dragged into the church. ' But I do not want to be married. I want to go back to my mother.' _' The diabolic instinct may have descended to her,' said the priests, 'and attracts her to the sorceress. We had best sjirinkle her with holy water.' 80 they sprinkled her with holy water, and used exorcisms. Indeed, the case being an important one, and the personages of rank, they brought out from their treasures the apron of a cer- tain virgin saint, and jiut it round her neck, in hopes of driving out the hereditary tiend. ' If I am led with a halter I must needs go,' said she, with one of her mother's own flashes of wit, and went. ' But, Lady Alf- truda,' whispered she, halfway up the church, 'I never loved him.' ' Behave yourself laefore the king, or I will whip you till the blood runs.' And so she would ; and no one would have wondered in those days. ' I will murder you, if you do. But I never even saw him.' ' Little fool ! And what are you going through, but what I went through before you ? ' ' You to say that ? ' gnashed the girl, as another spark of her mother s wit came out. ' And you gaining what ' 'What I waited for for fifteen years,' said Alftruda coolly. ' If you have courage and cunning like me, to wait for fifteen years, you too may have your will likewise.' The pure child shuddered ; and was married to Hugh of XXXIX TORFEIDA INSPIRED BY THE DEVIL 347 Evermue, who was, according to them of Crowland, a good friend to that monastery, and therefore, doubtless, a good man. Once, says Avicked report, he offered to strike her, as was the fashion in those chivah'ous days. Whereon slie turned upon liim like a tigress, and bidding him remember that she was the daughter of Hereward and Torfrida, gave him such a beating that he, not wishing to draw sword upon her, surrendered at discretion ; and they lived all their lives afterwards as happily as most other married peojile in those times. All this, however pleasant to Hereward, was not pleasant to the French courtiers ; whereon, after the simple fashion of those times, they looked about for one who would pick a quarrel with Hereward and slay him in fair fight. But an Archibald Bell-the-Cat was not to be found behind every hedge. Still, he might be provoked to fight. If his foe was slain, so much the worse for both parties. For a duel, especially if a fatal one, within the precincts of the king's court, was a grave offence, punishable, at least in extreme cases, with death. Now it befell, that among them at Winchester was Oger the Breton, he who had held ]\Iorcar's lands round Bourne, and who was now in wrath and dread enough at the prospect of having to give them up to Hereward. It was no difficult matter to set the hot-headed Celt on to provoke the equally hot-headed Wake ; and accordingly, Oger, having been duly plied with wine, was advised to say one afternoon — ' Hereward feeds well at the king's table. French cooking is a pleasant change for an outlaw, who has fed for many a day on rats and mice and such small deer.' 'A pleasanter change for a starveling Breton, who was often glad enough ere he came to England, to rob his own ponies of their furze-toppings, and boil them down for want of kale.' 'We use furze-toppings in Brittany to scourge saucy churls withal. Speakest thou thus to me, who have the blood of King Arthur and half his knights in my veins 1 ' 'Then discipline thine own churl's back therewith ; for churl thou art, though thou comest of Arthur's blood. Nay, I will not quarrel with thee. I have had too many gnats pestering me in tlie fens already to care for one more here.' Wherefrom the Breton judged that Hereward had no lust to fight. The next day he met Hereward going out to hunt, and was confirmed in liis opinion when Hertnvard lifted his cap to him most courteously, saying that he was not aware before that his neighbour was a gentleman of such high lineage. 'Lineage? Better at least than thine, thou bare-legged 8axon, who hast dared to call me base-l)orn and starveling? So thou must needs have thy throat cut ? I took thee for a wiser man.' ' Many have taken me for that which I am not. If you will 348 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. harness yourself, I will do the same : and we will ride up to the woods, and settle this matter in peace.' ' Three men on each side to see fair play,' said the Breton. And up to the woods they rode ; and fought long without adv^antage on either side. Hereward was not the man which he had been. His nerve was gone, as well as his conscience ; and all the dash and fury of his old onslaughts gone therewith. He grew tired of the fight, not in body, but in mind ; and more than once drew back. 'Let us stop this child's play,' said he, according to the chronicler ; ' what need have we to tight here all day about nothing 1 ' Whereat the Breton fancied him already more than half- beaten, and attacked more furiously than ever. He would be the first man on earth who ever had had the better of the great outlaw. He would win himself eternal glory, as the champion of all England. But he had mistaken his man, and his indomitable English pluck. ' It was Hereward's fashion in fight and war,' says the chronicler, 'always to ply the man most at the last.' And so found the Breton ; for Hereward suddenly lost patience, and rushing on him with one of his old shouts, hewed at him again and again, as if his arm would never tire. Oger gave back, would he or not. In a few moments his sword-arm dropped to his side, cut half-through. ' Have you had enough. Sir Tristram the younger ? ' quoth Hereward, wiping his sword, and walking moodily away. The fruit of which was this. That within twenty-four hours Hereward was arrested on a charge of speaking evil of the king, breaking his peace, compassing the death of his faithful lieges, and various other wicked, traitorous, and diabolical acts. He was to be sent to Bedford Castle, in the custody of Robert Herepol, chatelain of Bedford, a reasonable and courteous man. The king had spared his life, in consideration of his having first submitted himself. Hereward went like a man stunned, and spoke never a word. Day after day he rode northward, unarmed for the first time for many a year ; and for the first time in all his years, with gyves on ancle and on wrist. This was the wages of his sin. This was the faith of Frenchmen. He was not astonished, hardly disappointed. Hatred of William, and worse, hatred of himself, swept all the passions from his soul. Of Alftruda he never thought for a moment. Indeed, he never thought steadily of anything, was hardly conscious of anything, till he heard the key turned on him in a room — not a small or doleful one — in Bedford keep ; and found an iron shackle on his leg, fastened to the stone bench on which he sat. liobert of Herepol had meant to leave his prisoner loose. XXXIX TORFRIDA INSPIRED BY THE DEVIL 349 But there were those among his French guards who told him, and with truth, that if he did so, no man's life would be safe ; that to brain the gaoler with his own keys, and then twist out of his bowels a line wherewith to let himself down from the top of the castle, would be not only easy, but amusing, to the famous ' Wake.' So Robert consented to fetter him so far, but no farther ; and begged his pardon again and again as he did it, pleading the painful necessities of his office. But Hereward heard him not. He sat in stupefied despair. A great black cloud had covered all heaven and earth, and entered into his brain through every sense ; till his mind, as he said afterwards, was like hell with the fire gone out. A gaoler came in, he knew not how long after, bringing a good meal, and wine. He came cautiously toward the prisoner, and when still beyond the length of his chain, set the food down, and thrust it toward him with a stick, lest Hereward should leap on him and wring his neck. But Hereward never even saw him or tlie food. He sat there all day, all night, and nearly all the next day, and hardly moved liand or foot. The gaoler told Sir Robert in the evening that he thought the man was mad, and would die. So good Sir Robert went up to him, and spoke kindly and hopefully. But all Hereward answered was, that he was very well. That he wanted nothing. That he had always heard well of Sir Robert. That he should like to get a Kttle sleep : but that sleep would not come. The next day Sir Robert came again early, and found him sitting in the same place. ' He was very well,' he said. ' How could he be otherwise ? He was just where he ought to be. A man could not be better than in his right place.' Whereon Sir Robert gave him up for mad. Then lie bethought of sending him a harp, knowing the fame of Hereward's music and singing. 'And when he saw the harp,' the gaoler said, ' he wept ; but bade take the tiling away. And so sat still where he was.' In this state of dull despair, he remained for many weeks. At last he woke up. There passed through and by Bedford large bodies of troops, going as it w'ere to and from battle. The clank of arms stirred Hereward's heart as of old, and he sent to Sir Robert to ask what was toward. Sir Robert, ' the venerable man,' came to him joyfully and at once, glad to speak to an illustrious captive, wliom he looked on as an injured person ; and told liim news enough. Taillebois' warning about Ralph Guader and Waltheof had not been needless. Ralph, as the most influential of the Bretons, was on no good terms with the Normans, save with one, and that 350 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. one of the most j^owevful— Fitz-Osbern, Earl of Hereford. His sister, l\alpli was to have married : but William, for reasons un- known, forbade tlie match. Tlie two great earls celebrated the wedding in spite of William, and asked Waltheof as a guest, And at Exning, between the fen and Newmarket Heath — ' Was that bride-ale Which was man's bale.' For there was matured the plot which Ivo and others had long seen brewing. William (they said) had made himself hateful to all men by his cruelties and tyrannies ; and, indeed, his govern- ment was growing more unrighteous day by day. Let them drive him out of England, and part the land between them. Two should be dukes, the tliird king paramount. 'Waltheof, I presume,' quoth Hereward, 'plotted drunk, and repented sober, when too late. The wittol ! He should have been a monk.' 'Repented he has, if ever he was guilty. For he fled to Archbishop Lanfranc, and confessed to him so much, that Lanf ranc declares him innocent, and has sent him on to William in Normandy.' ' O kind priest ! true priest ! To send his sheep into the wolf's mouth.' ' You forget, dear sire, that William is our king.' 'I can hardly forget that, with this pretty ring upon my ancle. But after my experience of liow lie has kejjt faith with me, what can I expect for Waltheof the wittol, save that which I have foretold many a time ? ' 'As for you, dear sire, the king has been misinformed con- cerning you. I have sent messengers to reason with him again and again : but as long as Taillebois, Warrenne, and Robert Malet had his ear, of what use were my poor words ? ' 'And what said they?' ' That there would be no peace in England if you were loose.' ' They lied. I am no boy, like Waltheof. I know when the game is played out. And it is played out now. The Frenchman is master, and I know it well. Were I loose to-morrow, and as great a fool as Waltheof, what could I do, with, it may be, some forty knights, and a hundred men-at-arms, against all William's armies ? But how goes on this fools' rebellion ? If I had been loose, I might have helped to crush it in tlie bud.' 'And you would have done that against Waltheof?' 'Why not against him ? He is but bringing more misery on England. Tell that to William. Tell him that if he sets me free, I will be the first to attack Waltheof, or whom he will. There are no English left to tight against,' said he bittei'ly, ' for Waltheof is none now.' 'He shall know your words when he returns to England.' XXXIX TORFRIDA INSPIRED BY THE DEVIL 351 ' What, is he abroad, and all this evil going on ? ' 'In Normandy. But tiie English have risen for the king in Herefordshire, and beaten Earl Koger ; and Odo of Bayeux and Bishop Mowbray are on tlieir way to Cambridge, where they hope to give a good account of Earl Ralph ; and hope, too, that the English may help them there.' ' And tiiey shall ! Tliey hate Ralph Guader as much as I do. Can you send a message for me ? ' • Whither ? ' ' To Bourne in the Bruneswold ; and say to Hereward's men, wherever they are, Let them rise and arm, if they love Here- ward ; and go down to Cambridge, to be the foremost at Bishop Odo's side against Ralph Guader, or Waltheof himself. Send ! send ! Oh that I were free ! ' 'Would to heaven thou wert free, my gallant sir ! ' said the good man. From that day Hereward woke up somewhat. He was still a broken man, querulous, peevish : but the hope of freedom and the hope of battle stirred him. If lie could but get to his men ! But his melancholy returned. His men — some of them at least — went down to Odo at Cambridge, and did good service. Guader was utterly routed, and escaped to Norwich, and thence to Brittany, his home. The bishops punished their prisoners, the rebel French, with hoi'rible mutilations. 'The wolves are beginning to eat each other,' said Hereward to himself. But it was a sickening thought to him, that his men had been fighting and he not at their head. After a while tliere came to Bedford Castle two witty knaves. One was a cook, who 'came to buy milk,' says the chronicler ; the other seemingly a gleeman. They told stories, jested, harped, sang, drank, and joleased much the garrison and Sir Robert, who let them hang about tlie place. They asked next, whether it were true that the famous Wake was there? If so, might a man have a look at him ? The gaoler said that many men might liave gone to see him, so easy was Sir Robert to liim. But he would have no man ; and none dare enter save Sir Robert and he, for fear of their lives. But he would ask him of Herepol. The good knight of Herepol said, ' Let the rogues go in, they may amuse the poor soul.' So they went in ; and as soon as they went, he knew them. One was Martin Lightfoot, the other, Leofric his mass-priest. 'Who sent you?' asked he surlily, turning his face away. 'She.' 'Who?' ' We know but one she, and she is at Crowland.' ' She sent you ? and wlierefore ? ' 'That we might sing to you, and make you merry.' 352 nEREAVARD THE WAKE chap. Hereward answered them witli a terrible word, and turned liis face to the wall, groaning, and then bade them sternly to go. So they went, for the time. The gaoler told this to Sir Eobert, who understood all, being a kind-hearted man. ' From his poor first wife, eh ? Well, there can be no harm in that. Nor if they came from this Lady Alftruda either, for that matter ; let them go in and out when they will.' ' But they may be spies and traitors.' 'Then we can but hang them.' Eobert of Herepol, it would appear from the chronicle, did not much care whether they were spies or not. So tlie men went to and fro ; and often sat with Hereward. But he forbade them sternly to mention Torfrida's name. Alftruda, meanwliile, returned to Bourne, and took possession of her new husband's house and lands. She sent him again and again messages of passionate love and sorrow : but he listened to them as sullenly as he did to his two servants, and sent no answer back. And so he sat more Aveary months, in the very prison, it may be in tlie very room, in wliich John Bunyan sat nigh six hundred years after : but in a very different frame of mind. One day Sir Robert was going up the stairs with another knight, and met the two coming down. He was talking to that knight earnestly, indignantly : and somehow, as he passed Leofric and Martin he thought fit to raise his voice, as if in a great wrath. ' Sliame to all honour and chivalry ! Good saints in heaven, what a thing is human fortune ! That this man, who had once a gallant army at his back, should be at this moment going like a sheep to the slaughter, to Buckingham Castle, at the mercy of his worst enemy — of Ivo Taillebois, of all men in the world ! If there were a dozen kniglits left of all those whom he used to lieap with wealth and honour, worthy the name of knights, they would catch us between here and Stratford, and make a free man of their lord.' So spake — or words to that effect, according to the Latin chronicler, wlio must liave got them from Leofric himself — the good knight of Herepol. ' Hillo, knaves ! ' said he, seeing tlie two, ' are you here eaves- dropping ? Out of the castle this instant, on your lives.' Which hint tliose two witty knaves took on the spot. A few days after, Hereward was travelling toward Bucking- ham, chained upon a horse, with Sir Robert and his men, and a goodly company of knights belonging to Ivo. Ivo, as the story runs, seems to have arranged with Ralpli Pagnel at Bucking- ham, to put him into the keeping of a creature of his own. And how easy it was to put out a man's eyes, or starve him to death, in a French keep, none knew better than Hereward. XL HOW EARL WALTHEOF AVAS MADE A SAINT 353 But he was past fear or sorrow. A dull heavy cloud of despair had settled down upon his soul. Black with sin, his heart could not pray. He had hardened himself against all heaven and earth ; and thought, when he thought at all, only of his wrongs : but never of his sins. CHAPTER XL HOW EAKL WALTHEOF WAS MADE A SAINT A DAY or two after, there sat in Abbot Thorold's lodgings in Peterborough a select company of Frenchmen, talking over affairs of state after their supper. 'Well, lords and knights,' said the abbot, as he sipped his wine, ' the cause of our good king, which is happily the cause of Holy Church, goes well, I think. We have much to be thankful for when we review the events of the past year. We have finished the rebels ; Roger de Breteuil is safe in pi-ison, Ralph Guader unsafe in Brittany, and Waltheof more than un- safe in — the place to wliicli traitors descend. We have not a manor left which is not in loyal hands ; we have not an English monk left who has not been scourged and starved into holy obedience ; not an English saint for whom any man cares a jot, since Guerin de Lire preached down St. Adhelm, the admirable primate disposed of St. Alphege's martyrdom, and some other wise man — I am ashamed to say that I forget who — proved that St. Edmund of Suffolk was merely a barbarian kinglet, wlio was killed fighting with Danes only a little more heathen tlian himself. We have had great labours and great sufferings since we landed in this barbarous isle upon our holy errand ten years since: but, under the- shadow of the Gonfalon of St. Peter, we have conquered, and may sing " Dominus Illuminatio mea," with humble and thankful hearts.' ' I. don't know that,' said Ascelin, ' my lord uncle ; I shall never sing " Dominus illuminatio," till I see your coffers illumi- nated once more by those thirty thousand marks.' 'Or I,' said I\o Taillebois, 'till I see Hereward's head on Bourne gable, where he stuck up those Frenchmen's heads seven years ago, as his will be, within a week after he gets to Bucking- ham Castle — where he should be by now. But what the lord al)bot means by saying that we have done with Englisli saints I do not see ; for the rogues of Crowland have just made a new one for themselves.' ' A new one 1 ' 'I tell you truth and fact; I will tell you all, lord abbot ; and you sliall judge wliether it is not enough to drive an honest man mad to see such tilings going on under his nose. Men say of me that I am rough, and swear, and blaspheme. I put it to 2 A H. T. w. 354 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. you, lord abbot, if Job would not have cursed if he had been lord of Spalding. You know that the king let these Crowland monks have Waltheof's body ? ' ' Yes, I thought it an unwise act of grace. It would have been wiser to leave him, as he intended, out on the bare down, in ground unconsecrate : but what has happened ?' 'That old traitor, Ulfketyl, and his monks, bring the body to Crowland, and bury it as if it had been the pope's. In a week they begin to spread their lies — that Waltheof was innocent ; that Archbishop Lanf ranc himself said so.' ' That was the only act of human weakness which I have ever known the venerable prelate commit,' said Tliorold. ' That the burghers at Winchester were so deep in the traitor's favour, that the king had to have him out and cut oft" his head in the gray of the morning, ere folks were up and about ; that the fellow was so holy that he passed all his time in prison in weeping and praying, and said over the whole psalter every day, because his mother had taught it hin^ — I wish she had taught him to be an honest man — and that when his head was on the block he said all the paternoster, as far as " Lead us not into tempta- tion," and then oft' went his head ; whereon, his head being oft", he finished the prayer with — you know best what comes next, abbot?' _ ' " Deliver us from evil. Amen ! " Wliat a manifest lie ! The traitor was not permitted, it is plain, to ask for that which could never be granted to him : but his soul, unworthy to be delivered from evil, entered instead into evil, and howls for ever in the pit.' ' But all the rest may be true,' said one ; ' and yet that be no reason why these monks should say it.' 'So I told them,' quoth Taillebois, 'and threatened them too ; for, not content with making him a martyr, they are making Iiim a saint.' ' Impious ! Who can do that, save the Holy Father ? ' said Thorold. ' You had best get your bishop to look to them, then ; for they are carrying blind beggars and mad girls by the dozen to be cured at the man's tomb, that Ls all. Their fellows in the cell at Spalding went about to take a girl that had fits off one of my manors, to cure her ; but tliat I stopped with a good horse- whip.' 'And rightly.' 'And gave the monks a piece of my mind ; and drove them clean out of their cell home to Crowland.' What a piece of Ivo's mind on this occasion might be, let Ingulf describe — 'Against our monastery and all the people of Crowland he was, by the instigation of the devil, raised to such an extreme pitch of fury, that he would follow their animals in the marshes XL HOW EARL WALTHEOF WAS MADE A SAINT 355 with his dogs, drive them to a great distance down in the lakes, mutilate some in the tails, otiiers in the ears, while often, by breaking the backs and legs of the beasts of burden, he I'endered tliem utterly useless. Against our cell also (at Spalding) and our brethren, his neighbours, the prior and monks, who dwelt all day within his presence, he raged with tyrannical and frantic fury, lamed their oxen and horses, daily impounded their sheep and poultry ; striking down, killing, and slaying their swine and pigs ; while at the same time the servants of the prior were oppressed in the earl's court with insupportable exactions, were often assaulted in the highways with swords and staves, and sometimes killed.' At this moment there was a bustle outside. The door which led from the hall was thrown open, and then rushed in, muddy and gory, Oger the Breton. ' Have a care for yourselves, lordlings ! The Wake is loose ! ' If the earth had opened between them, the party could not have started more suddenly on their feet. When their curses had lulled somewhat, Oger told his story between great gulps of wine ; for he was nigh dead with hard riding. ' We were in a forest, midway betM'een Bedford and Bucking- ham, when the rascals dashed out on us — Gwenoch and Winter, and the rest, with that Ramsey monk and the Wake banner — I know not how many there were. We had no time to form, or even arm. Our helmets were hanging at our saddle-bows — it was all over in a minute.' ' Cleverly done ! ' shouted Ivo, in spite of his curses ; for lie honestly loved deeds of arms, for him or against him. ' One Wake makes many.' 'And that old traitor of Herepol refused to fight. We were past his jurisdiction, he said. Your men. Lord Ivo, and Sir Ralph's must guard the prisoner, if they would.' ' He has been in league with The Wake all through.' * That has he. For when The Wake was freed and armed, and hewing away like a devilish dwarf as he is, he always bade spare Sir Robert, crying tliat he was his friend and his saviour ; and ere they parted the two villains shook hands lovingly, saying aloud, how Sir Robert should ride post to tlie king, and give him a good report of Hereward.' The comments which followed this statement had best be omitted, as they consisted wholly of French oaths. 'And how camest thou alive hither, of all men? 'asked the abbot at last. 'How? I was smitten down at once, having no sword ai-ni as you know. But The Wake, when he saw me down, bade spare me. He would not slay me, lest the king should say he did it for the sake of my lands. I should ride to you here at 356 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. Peterborough, and carry this message to you all ; that whoso wanted liis licad cut oii\ should come to him at Bourne.' ' He lias promised to cut my head ott" long ago,' said Ascelin. ' Earl, knights, and gentlemen, do you not think it wiser that we sliould lay our wits together once and for all, and cut off his?' ' But who will catch The Wake sleeping ? ' said Ivo, laughing. ' That will I. I have my plans, and my intelligencers.' ' You your intelligencers ? ' ' Nobles, there is nought suits so much my chivalrous humour, as the consoling of distressed ladies. I may have visited the fair Alftruda at Bourne ; I may have reminded her of certain old pleasant jDassages between her and me.' ' Which may end in thy going over thy hoi'se's croup, nephew ; as thou didst about another dame of Hereward's.' ' Uncle ? What would a singer of doughty deeds, and a doer thei'eof beside, like you, have me do — especially when we both have thirty tliousand marks to avenge — save dare again — per- haps to win ? No, no. I lost that Torfrida : but I am grown cunninger now ; and Alftruda is an easier game to fly at. I may have said to her, for instance, that she had better have chosen me ; and been answered by gentle wailings about who should protect her in her loneliness : I may have offered to do so myself, and been shrieked at with " Out traitor ! wretch ! " and yet have visited Bourne again — in all honesty, mind you, my lords. And I may have talked with a pretty bower-maiden, and have said that tliough Abbot Thorold be poor, yet he has a ring or two left, or an owch, or suchlike, wliich might be earned by service due. And so forth. Wait for me, my good lords all ; and I will not keep you waiting long.' And so those wicked men took counsel together to slay Hereward. CHAPTER XLI HOW HEREWARD BEGAN TO GET HIS SOUL'S PRICE And now behold Hereward at home again, fat with the wages of sin, and not knowing that they are death. He is once more ' Dominus de Brunne cum ]\Iarisco,' lord of Bourne with the fen, 'with all returns and liberties and all other things adjacent to the same vill which are now held as a barony from the lord king of England.' He has a fair young wife, and with her farms and manors even richer than his own. He is still young, hearty, wise by experience, high in the king's favour, and deservedly so. Why should he not begin life again ? Why not ? Unless it be true that the wages of sin are, not a new life, but death. XLi HOW HE BEGAN TO GET HIS SOUL'S PRICE 357 And yet he had his troubles. Hardly a French knight or baron round but liad a blood-feud against him, for a kinsman slain. Oger the Breton was not likely to forgive his wounded arm. Sir Aswart, Thorold the abbot's man, was not likely to forgive him for turning him out of the three ^lanthorpe manors, whicli he had comfortably held for two years past, and sending him back to lounge in tlie abbot's hall at Peterborough, without a yard of land which he could call his own. Sir Ascelin was not likely to forgive him for marrying Alftruda, whom lie had intended to marry liimself. Ivo Taillebois was not likely to forgive him for existing within a hundred miles of Spalding, any more than the wolf would forgive the lamb for fouling the water below him. Beside, had not he (Ivo) married Hereward's niece 1 And what more grievous offence could Hereward commit, than to be her uncle, reminding Ivo of his own low birth by his nobility, and too likely to take Lucia's part, wheneA'er it should please Ivo to beat or kick her? Only Gilbert of Ghent, 'the pious and illustrious earl,' sent messages of congratulation and friendship to Hereward, it being his custom to sail with the wind, and worship the rising sun — till it should decline again. But more ; hardly one of the Frenchmen round, but, in the conceit of their skin-deep yesterday's civilisation, looked on Hereward as a barbarian Englishman, who had his throat tat- tooed, and wore a short coat, and preferred — the cliurl — to talk English in his own hall, though he could talk as good French as they when he was with them, beside three or four barbarian tongues if he had need. But more still : if they were not likely to bestow their love on Hereward, Hereward was not likely to win love from them of his own will. He was peevish and wrathful, often insolent and quarrelsome : and small blame to him. The French were invaders and tyrants, who had no business there, and would not have been there, if he had had his way. And they and he could no more amalgamate than fire and water. Moreover, he was a very great man, or had been such once, and he thought liimself one still. He had been accustomed to command men, whole armies ; and he would no more treat these French as his equals than they would treat him as such. His own son-in-law, Hugh of Evcrmue, had to take hard words — thoroughly well-deserved, it may be ; but all the more unj^leasant for that reason. The truth was, that Hereward's heart was gnawed with sliame and remorse ; and therefore he fancied, and not without reason, that all men pointed at him the finger of scoi-n. He had done a l)ad, base, accursed deed. And he knew it. Once in his life — for his other sins were but the sins of his age — the Father of men seems (if the chroniclers say truth) to have put before this splendid barbarian good and evil, saying. Choose ! And lie knew that the evil was evil, and chose it nevertheless. Eight hundred years after, a far greater genius and greater 358 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. general had the same choice — as far as liuman cases of conscience can be alike — put before him. And he chose as Hereward chose. But as with Napoleon and Josephine, so it was with Here- ward and Torfrida. Neither throve after. It was not punished by miracle. What sin is 1 It worked out its own punishment ; that which it merited, deserved, or earned, by its own labour. No man could commit such a sin without shaking his wliole character to the root. Hereward tried to persuade himself that his was not shaken ; that he was the same Hereward as ever. But he could not deceive himself long. His conscience was evil. He was discontented with all mankind, and with himself most of all. He tried to be good — as good as he chose to be. If he had done wrong in one thing, he might make up for it in others : but he could not. All his higher instincts fell from him one by one. He did not like to tliink of good and noble things ; he dared not think of them. He felt, not at first, but as the months rolled on, that he was a changed man ; that God had left liim. His old bad habits began to return to him. Gradually he sank back more and more into the very vices from wliich Torfrida had raised him sixteen years before. He took to drinking again, to dull the malady of thought ; he excused himself to himself ; he wished to forget his defeats, his disappointment, the ruin of his country, the splendid past which lay behind him like a dream. True : but he wished to forget likewise Torfrida fasting and weeping in Crowland. He could not bear tlie sight of Crowland tower on the far green horizon, the sound of Crowland bells booming over the flat on the south wind. He never rode down into tlie fens ; he never went to see his daughter at Deeping, because Crow- land lay that way. He went up into the old Bruneswold ; hunted all day long through the glades where he and his merry men had done tlieir doughty deeds ; and came home in the evening to get drunk. Tlien he lost his sleep. He sent down to Crowland to Leof ric the priest, that lie might come to him, and sing him sagas of the old lieroes, that he might get rest. But Leofric sent back for answer, that he would not come. That night Alftruda heard him by her side in the still hours, weeping silently to himself. She caressed him : but he gave no heed to her. 'I believe,' said she bitterly at last, 'that you love Torfrida still better than you do me.' And Hereward answered, like Mahomet in like case, ' That do I, by heaven. She believed in me when no one else in the world did.' And the vain hard Alftruda answered angrily ; and there was many a fierce quarrel between them after that. With his love of drinking, his love of boasting came back. xij HOW HE BEGAN TO GET HIS SOUL'S PRICE 359 Because he could do no more gi*eat deeds — or rather had not the spirit left in him to do more —he must needs, like a worn-out old man, babble of the great deeds which he had done ^ insult and defy his Norman neighbours ; often talk what might be easily caricatured into treason against King William himself. There were great excuses for his follies, as there are for those of every beaten man : but Herewai'd was spent. He had lived his life ; and had no more life which he could live ; for every man, it would seem, brings into the world with him a certain capacity, a certain amount of vital force, in body and in soul ; and when that is used up, the man must sink down into some sort of second cliildhood : and end, like Hereward, very much where he began : unless the grace of God shall lift him up above the capacity of the mere flesh, into a life literally new, ever- renewing, ever-expanding, and eternal. But the grace of God had gone away from Hereward, as it goes away from all men who are unfaithful to their wives. It was very pitiable. Let no man judge him. Life, to most, is very hard work. There are those who endure to the end, and are saved ; there are those, again, who do not endure : upon whose souls may God have mercy. So Hereward soon became as intolerable to his Norman neighbours, as they were intolerable to him ; and he liad, for his own safety, to keep up at Bourne the same watch and ward, by day and night, as he had kept up in the forest. In those days a messenger came riding post to Bourne. The Countess Judith wished to visit the tomb of her late husband, Earl Waltheof ; and asked hospitality on her road of Hereward and Alftruda. Of course she would come with a great train, and the trouble and expense would be great. But the hospitality of those days, when money was scarce, and wine scarcer still, was unbounded, and a matter of course ; and Alftruda was overjoyed. No doubt, Judith was the most unpopular person in England at that moment ; called by all a traitress and a fiend. But she was an old acquaintance of Alftruda's ; she was the king's niece ; she was immensely rich, not only in manors of her own, but in manors, as Domesday-book testifies, about Lincolnshire and the counties round, wliich had l:)elonged to her murdered husband — which she had too probably received as the price of her treason. So Alftruda looked to her visit as to an honour which would enable her to hold her head high among the proud French dames, who despised her as the wife of an Englishman. Hereward looked on the visit in a different light. He called Judith ugly names, not undeserved ; and vowed that if she entered his house by the front door he would go out at the back. 'Toi'frida prophesied,' he said, 'that she would betray her hus- band, and she has done it.' 'Torfrida prophesied? Did she jorophesy that I should 360 HEREWARD TltE WAKE chap. betray you likewise ? ' asked Alf truda, in a tone of bitter scorn. ' No, you handsome fiend : will you do it 1 ' 'Yes ; I am a handsome fiend, am I not?' and she bridled up her magnificent beauty, and stood over him as a snake stands over a mouse. ' Yes ; you are handsome — beautiful : I adore you.' ' And yet you will not do what T wisli 1 ' ' What you wish 1 What would I not do for you 1 what have I not done for you ? ' ' Then receive Judith. And now, go hunting, and bring me in game. I want deer, roe, fowls ; anything and everything, from the greatest to the smallest. Go and hunt.' And Hereward trembled and went. There are flowers whose scent is so luscious that silly children will plunge their heads among them, drinking in their odour, to the exclusion of all fresh air. On a sudden, sometimes, comes a revulsion of the nerves. The delicious odour changes in a moment to a disgusting one ; and the child cannot bear for years after the scent which has once become intolerable by over- sweetness. And so had it ]iai:)pened to Hereward. He did not love Alftruda now ; he loathed, liated, dreaded her. And yet he could not take his eyes for a moment ofi" her beauty. He watched eveiy movement of her hand, to press it, obey it. Ho would have preferred instead of hunting simply to sit and watcli her go about the house at her work. He was spellbound to a thing which he regarded with horror. But he was told to go and hunt ; and he went, with all his men, and sent home large supples for the larder. And as he lumted, the free fresh air of the forest comforted him, the free forest life came back to him, and he longed to be an outlaw once more, and hunt on for ever. He would not go back yet, at least to face that Judith. iSo he sent Imck the greater part of his men with a story. He was ill : he was laid uj) at a farmhouse far away in the forest, and begged the countess to excuse his absence. He had sent fresh supplies of game, and a goodly com- pany of his men, knights and liousecarles, who would escort her royally to Crowland. Judith cared little for his absence ; he was but an English barbarian. Alftruda was half glad to have him out of the way, lest his now sullen and uncei'tain temper shoidd break out ; and bowed herself to the earth before Juditli, wlio patronised her to her heart's content, and ofiered her slily insolent condolences on being married to a barbarian. She herself could symiDathise — who more? Alftruda might have answered witli scorn that she was a princess, and of better English blood tlian Judith's French blood ; but slie had her ends to gain, and gained them. For Judith was pleased to be so delighted with lier that she XLi HOW HE BEGAN TO GET HIS SOUL'S TRICE 361 Ivissed her lovingly, and said with much emotion that she re- quired a friend who would suj^iDort her through her coming trial ; and who better than one who herself had suflered so much ? Would she accompany her to Crowland ? Alftruda was overjoyed, and away they went. And to Crowland tliey came ; and to the tomb in the minster, whereof men were saying already that the saci'ed corpse within worked miracles of healing. And Judith, habited in widow's weeds, approached the tomb, and laid on it, as a peace-oftering to the soul of the dead, a splendid pall of silk and gold. A fierce blast came liowling off the fen, screeched through the minster towers, swept along the dark aisles ; and then, so say tlie chroniclers, caught up the pall from off the tomb, and hurled it far away into a corner. ' A miracle ! ' cried all the monks at once ; and honestly enough, like true Englislnnen as they were. ' The holy saint refuses the gift, countess,' said old Ulfketyl, in a voice of awe. Judith covered lier face with her hands, turned away trembling, and walked out ; while all looked upon her as a thing accursed. Of her subsequent life, her folly, her wantonness, her disgrace, her poverty, her wanderings, her wretclied death, let others tell. But these Normans believed that the curse of heaven was upon her from that day. And the best of them believed like- wise that Waltheof's murder was the reason tliat William, her uncle, prospered no more in life. 'Ah, saucy sir,' said Alftruda to Ulfketyl, as she went out. 'There is one waiting at Peterborough now who will teach thee manners ; Ingulf of Fontenelle, abbot in thy room.' ' Does Hereward know that ? ' asked Ulfketyl, looking keenly at her. 'Wliatisthat to tliee?' said she fiercely; and flung out of tlie minster. But Hereward did not know. There were many things abroad of wliich she told him notliing. They went back, and wei-e landed at Deeping town, and making their way along_ the King Street to Bourne. Thereon a man met tliem running. Tliey had best stay where they were. The Frenclnnen were out, and there was fighting up in liourne. Alftruda's knights wanted to j^ush on, to see after the Bourne folk ; Juditli's kniglits wanted to pusli on to help the French : and the two parties were ready to fight each other. Tliere was a great tumult. Tlie ladies had mucli ado to still it. Alftruda said that it might be ])ut a counti-yman's rumour ; tliat, at least, it was siiamo to ciuarrel with their guests. At last it was agreed tliat two knights should gallop on into Bourne, and bring back news. 362 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. But those knights never came back. So the whole body moved on Bourne, and there they found out the news for themselves. Hereward had gone home as soon as they had departed, and sat down to eat and drink. His manner was sad and strange. He drank much at the mid-day meal, and then lay down to sleep, setting guards as usual. After a wliile he leapt up with a shriek and shudder. They ran to him, asking whether he was ill. ' 111 ? No. Yes. Ill at heart. I have had a dream — an ugly dream. I thought that all the men I ever slew on earth came to me witli their wounds all gaping, and cried at me, " Our luck then, thy luck now." Chaplain ! Is there not a verse some- where — uncle Brand said it to me on his deathbed — "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed " ? ' ' Surely the master is fey,' whispered Gwenoch in fear to the chaplain. 'Answer him out of Scripture.' ' Text ? None such that I know of,' quoth priest Ailward, a graceless fellow, who had taken Leofric's place. 'If that were the law, it would be but few honest men that would die in their beds. Let us drink, and drive girls' fancies out of our heads.' So they drank again ; and Hereward fell asleep once more. 'It is thy turn to watch, priest,' said Winter to Ailward. ' So keep the door well, for I am worn out with hunting,' and so fell asleep. Ailward sliuffled into his harness, and went to the door. The wine was heady ; the sun was hot. In a few minutes he was asleep likewise. Hereward slept, who can tell how long ? But at last there was a bustle, a heavy fall ; and waking with a start, he sprang up. He saw Ailward lying dead across the door, and above him a crowd of fierce faces, some of which he knew too well. He saw Ivo Taillebois ; he saw Oger ; he saw his fellow-Breton, Sir Raoul de Dol ; he saw Sir Ascelin ; he saw Sir Aswart, Thorold's man ; he saw Sir Hugh of Evermue, his own son-in- law ; and with them he saw, oi- seemed to see, the ogre of Cornwall, and Feargus of Ivark, and Dirk Hammerhand of Walcheren, and many another old foe long underground ; and in his ear rang the text — ' Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.' And Hereward knew that his end was come. There was no time to put on mail or helmet. He saw sword and shield hang on a perch, and tore them down. As he girded the sword on, Winter sjDrang to his side. 'I liave three lances — two for me and one for you, and we can hold the door against twenty.' 'Till they fire the house over our heads. Shall Hereward die like a wolf in a cave ? Forward, all The Wake men ! A Wake ! A Wake ! ' XLi HOW HE BEGAN TO GET HIS SOUL S PRICE 363 And he rushed out uioon his fate. Xo man followed liim, save Winter. The rest, dispersed, unarmed, were running liither and thither lieljilessly. ' Brotliers in arms, and brothers in Valhalla ! ' shouted Winter as he rushed after him. A knight was running to and fro in the court, shouting Hereward's name. ' Where is the villain ? Wake ! We have caught thee asleep at last.' 'I am out,' quoth Hereward, as the man almost stumbled against him ; 'and this is in.' And tin'ougli shield, and hauberk, and body, as says Gaimar, went Hereward's javelin, wliile all drew back, confounded for the moment at that mighty stroke. ' Felons ! ' shouted Hereward, ' your king has given me his truce ; and do you dare break my house, and kill my folk ? Is that your French law ? And is this your French honour 1 — To take a man unawares over his meat? Come on, traitors all, and get what you can of a naked man ; ^ you will buy it dear — Guard my back. Winter ! ' And he ran I'ight at the press of knights ; and the fight began. ' He gored them like a wood wild boar, As long as that lauce might endure,' says Gaimar. ' And when that lance did break in hand, Full fell enougli he smote witli brand. ' And as he hewed on silently, with grinding teeth, and hard, glittering eyes, of wliom did he tliink '( Of Alftruda ? Not so. But of that pale ghost, with great black hollow eyes, who sat in Crowland, with thin bare feet, and sackcloth on her tender limbs, watching, praying, longing, loving, uncomplain- ing. That ghost liad been for many a month the background of all his thoughts and dreams. It was so clear before his mind's eye now, that unawares to himself, he shouted ' Torf rida ! ' as he struck, and struck the harder at the sound of his old battle-cry. And now lie is all wounded and be-bled ; and Winter, who has fought back to back with him, has fallen on his face ; and Hereward stands alone, turning from side to side, as he sweeps his sword right and left till the forest rings with the blows, but staggering as he turns. Within a ring of eleven corpses he stands. Who will go in and make tlie twelfth ? A knight rushes in, to fall headlong down, cloven through the helm : but Herewai'd's blade snaps short, and lie hurls it away as his foes rush in with a shout of joy. He tears his shield from his left arm, and with it, says Gaimar, brains two more. ^ I.e. without armour. 364 HEREAVARD THE WAKE chap. But tlie end is come. Taillebois and Evermue are behind liim now ; four lances are tln-ough his back, and bear him down upon his knees. 'Cut off his liead, Breton!' sliouted Ivo. Raoul de Dol rushed forward, sword in liand. At tliat cry Hereward lifted up his dying head. One stroke more ere it was all done for ever. And with a shout of ' Torfrida ! ' whicli made the Bruneswold ring, he hui'led the shield full in the Breton's face, and fell forward dead. The knights drew their lances from that terrible corpse slowly and with caution, as men who have felled a bear-, and yet dare not step within reach of tlie seemingly lifeless paw. ' The dog died hard,' said Ivo. ' Lucky for us that Sir Ascelin had news of his knights being gone to Crowland. If he had had them to back him, we had not done this deed to-day.' ' I must keep my word witli him,' said Ascelin, as he struck off the once fair and golden liead. ' Ho, Breton,' cried Ivo, ' the villain is dead. Get up, man, and see for yourself. What ails him V But when they lifted up llaoul de Dol his brains were running down his face ; and all men stood astonished at that last miglity stroke. ' That blow,' said Ascelin, ' will be sung hereafter by minstrel and maiden as the last blow of the last Englishman. Kniglits, we have slain a better knight than ourselves. If there had been three more such men in this realm, they would have driven us and King William back again into the sea.' So said Ascelin ; those words of his, too, were sung by many a jongleur, Norman as well as English, in the times that were to come. 'Likely enough,' said Ivo; 'but that is the more reason why we should set that liead of his up over the hall-door, as a warning to these English cliurls that their last man is dead, and their last stake thrown and lost.' So perished ' The last of the English.' It was the third day. Tlie French were drinking in the hall of Bourne, advising Ascelin, with coarse jests, to lose no time in espousing the fair Alftruda, who sat weeping witliin over the headless corpse ; when in the afternoon a servant came in, and told tliem how a barge full of monks had come to tlie shore, and that they seemed to be monks from Crowland. Ivo Taillebois bade drive them back again into tlie barge with whips. But Hugh of Evermue spoke up. ' I am lord and master in Bourne this day ; and if Ivo have a quarrel against St. Guthlac, I have none. This Ingulf of Fontenelle, the new abbot who has come thitlier since old Ulfketyl was sent to prison, is a loyal man, and a friend of XLi HOW HE BEGAN TO GET HIS SOUL'S TRICE 365 King William's ; and my friend he shall be till he behaves himself as my foe. Let them come up in peace.' Taillebois gi'owled and cursed ; Ijut the monks came up, and into the hall ; and at their head Ingulf himself, to receive "whom all men rose, save Taillebois. 'I come,' said Ingulf, in most courtly French, 'noble knights, to ask a boon in the name of the Most Merciful, on behalf of a noble and unhajipy lady. Let it be enough to have avenged yourself on the living. Gentlemen and Christians war not against the dead.' 'No, no, master abbot!' shouted Taillebois; 'Waltheof is enough to keep Crowland in miracles for the present. You shall not make a martyr of another Saxon churl. He wants the barbarian's body, knights, and you will be fools if you let him have it.' ' Churl 1 Barbarian ? ' said a haughty voice ; and a nun stepped forward who had stood just behind Ingulf. She was clothed entirely in black. Her bare feet were bleeding from the stones : her hand, as she lifted it, was as thin as a skeleton's. She threw back lier veil, and showed to the knights what had been once the famous beauty of Torfi'ida. But the beauty was long passed away. Her hair was white as snow ; lier cheeks were fallen in. Her hawk-like features were all sharp and hard. Only in their hollow sockets burned still the great black eyes, so fiercely that all men turned un- easily from her gaze. ' Churl ? Barbarian 1 ' she said slowly and quietly, but with an intensity which was more terrible than rage. ' Who gives such names to one who v/as as much better born and better bred than they who now sit here, as he was braver and more terrible than they 1 The base woodcutter's son 1 — The upstart who would have been honoured had he taken service as yon dead man's groom ? ' 'Talk to me so, and my stirrup leathers shall make acquaint- ance with your sides,' said Taillebois. 'Keep them for your wife. Churl? Barbarian? There is not a man within this liall who is not a barbarian compared with him. Which of you touched the harp like him ? Which of you, like him, could move all hearts with song? Which of you knows all tongues from Lapland to Provence ? Which of you has been the joy of ladies' bowers, the counsellor of earls and heroes, the rival of a mighty king ? Which of you will compare yourself with him — whom you dared not even strike, you and your robl^er crew, fairly in front, but skulked round liim till lie fell pecked to death by you, as Lapland Skratlings peck to death the bear ? Ten years ago he swept this hall of such as you, and hung their heads upon yon g;il)lp outside ; and were he alive but one five minutes, tliis hall Asould be right 366 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. cleanly swept again ! Give me his body — or bear for ever the name of cowards, and Torfrida's curse.' Slie fixed her terrible eyes first on one, and then on another, calling them bj^ name. ' Ivo Taillebois — basest of all ' ' Take tlie witch's accursed eyes off me ! ' and he covered his face with his liands. 'I sliall be overlooked — planet-struck. Hew the witch down ! Take her away ! ' ' Hugh of Evermue — The dead man's daughter is yours, and the dead man's lands. Are not tliese remembrances enough of him ? Are you so fond of his memory that you need his corpse likewise 'I ' ' Give it her ! Give it her ! ' said he, hanging down his head like a rated cur 'Ascelin of Lincoln, once Ascelin of Ghent — There was a time when you would have done — what would you not ?— for one glance of Torfrida's eyes. Stay. Do not deceive yourself, fair sir. Torfrida means to ask no favour of you, or of living man. But she commands you. Do the thing she bids, or witli one glance of her eye she sends you childless to your grave.' ' Madam ! Lady Torfrida ! Wliat is there I would not do for you ? What have I done now, save avenge your great wrong ? ' Torfrida made no answer : but fixed steadily on him eyes which widened every moment. ' But, madam ' — and he turned shrinking from the fancied spell—' wliat would you have ? The — the corpse 1 It is in the keeping of — of another lady.' ' So ? ' said Torfrida quietly. ' Leave her to me ; ' and she swept past them all, and flung open the bower door at tlieir backs, discovering Alftruda sitting by the dead. Tlie ruffians were so utterly appalled, not only by the false powers of magic, but by tlie veritable powers of majesty and eloquence, that they let her do what she would. 'Out!' cried she, using a short and terrible epithet. 'Out, siren, with fairy's face and tail of fiend, and leave the husband with his wife ! ' Alftruda looked up, shrieked ; and then, with the sudden passion of a weak nature, drew a little knife, and sprang up. Ivo made a coarse jest. The abbot sprang in : ' For the sake of all holy things, let there be no more murder here ! ' Torfrida smiled, and fixed her snake's eye upon her wretched rival. ' Out ! woman, and clioose thee a new husband among these French gallants, ere I blast thee from head to foot with the leprosy of Naaman the Syrian.' Alftruda shuddered, and fled shrieking into an inner room. ' Xow, knights, give me — that which hangs outside.' XLi HOW HE BEGAN TO GET HIS SOUL'S PRICE 367 Ascelin hurried out, glad to escape. In a minute he re- turned. The head was already taken down. A tall lay brother, the moment he had seen it, had climbed the gable, snatched it away, and now sat in a corner of the yard, liolding it on his knees, talking to it, chiding it, as if it had been alive. When men had offered to take it, he had drawn a battle-axe from under his frock, and threatened to brain all comers. And the monks had warned off Ascelin, saying that the man was mad, and had Berserk fits of superhuman strength and rage. ' He will give it me,' said Torfrida, and went out. ' Look at that gable, foolish head,' said the madman. ' Ten years agone, you and I took down from tlience another head. O foolish head, to get yourself at last into that same place ! Why would you not be ruled by her, you foolish golden headr ' ]\Iartin ! ' said Torfrida. 'Take it and comb it, mistress, as you used to do. Comb out the golden locks again, fit to shine across the battlefield. She has let them all get tangled into elf-knots, that lazy slut within.' Torfrida took it from his hands, dry-eyed, and went in. Then the monks silently took up the bier, and all went fortli, and down the Roman road toward the fen. They laid the corpse within the barge, and slowly rowed away. ' And past the Deeping, down the Welland stream, By Avinding reaches on, and shining meres Between gray reed-ronds and green alder-beds, And the brown horror of the homeless fen, A dirge of monks and wail of women rose In vain to heaven for the last Englishman ; Then died far otf within the boundless mist, And left the Frenchman master of the land.' So Torfrida took the corpse home to Crowland, and buried it in the choir, near the blessed martyr St. Waltheof ; after which she did not die, but lived on many years,^ spending all day in nursing and feeding the Countess Godiva, and lying all night on Kerevvard's tomb, and praying that he might find grace and mercy in that day. And at last Godiva died ; and they took her away, and buried her with great pomp in her own minster-church of Coventry. And after that Torfrida died likewise ; because she had no- thing else for which to live. And tliey laid her in Hereward's grave, and their dust is mingled to this day. And Oger the Breton got back Morcar's lands, and held them at least till the time of Domesday-book. But Manthorpe, Toft, and Witham, Aswart, Tliorold's man, got back ; and they were ' If ingulf can be trusted, Torl'ridu died about a.u. 1085. 368 HEREWARD THE WAKE ciiAi'. licld for several centuries by tlie abbey of Peterborough, seemingly as some set off for Abbot Tliorold's thirty thousand marks. And Ivo Taillebois did evil mightily all his days ; and how he died, and what befell him after death, let Peter of Blois declare. And Leof ric the jiriest lived on to a good old age, and above all tilings he remembered the deeds and the sins of his master ; and wrote them in a book, and this is what remains tliereof. But when ]\Iartin Lightfoot died no man has said ; for no man in those days took account of such poor churls and run- ning serving-men. And Hereward's comrades were all scattered abroad, some maimed, some blinded, some with tongues cut out, to beg by the wayside, or crawl into convents, and then die ; while their sisters and daughters, ladies born and bred, were the slaves of grooms and scullions from beyond the sea. And so, as sang Thorkel Skallason — ' Cold lieart and blood}^ Land ' Now rule English land. ' And after that things waxed even worse and worse, for sixty years and more ; all through the reigns of the two Williams, and of Henry Beauclerc, and of Stephen ; till men saw visions and portents, and thought that the foul fiend was broken loose on earth. And they whispered oftener and oftener that the soul of Hereward jiaunted the Bruneswold, where he loved to hunt the dun deer and the roe. And in the Bruneswold, when Henry of Poitou was made abbot,^ men saw— 'let no man think lightly of the marvel which we are about to relate as a truth, for it was well known all over the country — upon the Sunday, when men sing "Exsurge quare, O Domine," many hunters hunting, black, and tall, and loathly, and their hounds were black and ugly with wide eyes, and they rode on black horses and black bucks. And they saw them in the very deer park in the town of Peterborough, and in all the woods to Stamford ; and tlie monks heard tlie blasts of the horns which they blew in the niglit. Men of truth kept watch upon them, and said that there might be well about twenty or thirty horn-blowers. Tliis was seen and heard all that Lent until Easter.' And the l^'rench monks of Peterborough said how it was The Wake, doomed to wake for ever with Apollyon and all his crew, because lie had stolen the riches of the Golden Borough : but the poor folk knew better, and said, That the miglity outlaw was rejoic- ing in the chase, blowing his horn for Englishmen to rise against the Frencli ; and therefore it was that he was seen first on ' Arise O Lord ' Sunday. ^ Laing's Heimskringla. ^ Anglo-Saxon Clironicle, a.d. 1127. XLi HOW HE BEGAN TO GET HIS SOUL'S TRICE 369 But they were so sore trodden down thcat they could never rise ; for ' the French ' had filled the land full of castles. They greatly oppressed the wretched people by making them work at these castles ; and when the castles were finished, they filled them with devils and evil men. They took those whom they suspected of having any goods, both men and women, and they put them in prison for their gold and silver, and tortured them with pains unspeakable, for never were any martyrs tormented as these were. They hung some by their feet, and smoked them with foul smoke ; some by the thumbs or by the head, and put burning things on their feet. They put a knotted string round their heads, and twisted it till it went into the brain. They put them in dungeons wherein were adders, and snakes, and toads, and thus wore them out. Some they put into a crucet- house — that is, into a chest that was short and narrow, and they put sharp stones therein, and crushed the man so that they broke all his bones. There were hateful and grim things called sachenteges in many of the castles, which two or three men had enough to do to carry. This sachentege was made thus : — It was fastened to a beam, having a sharp iron to go round a man's throat and neck, so tliat he might no ways sit, nor lie, nor sleep, but he must bear all the iron. Many thousands they wore out with hunger. . . . They were continually levying a tax from the towns, which they called truserie, and when the wretched townsfolk had no more to give, then burnt they all the towns, so that well mightest thou walk a whole day's journey or ever thou shouldest see a man settled in a town, or its lands tilled. . . . ' Then was corn dear, and flesh, and cheese, and butter, for there was none in the land. Wretched men starved with liunger. Some lived on alms who had been once rich. Some lied the country. Never was there more misery, and never heathens acted worse than these.' For now the sons of the Church's darlings, of the crusaders whom the pope had sent, beneath a gonfanon blessed by him, to destroy the liberties of England, tui-ned by a just retribution upon that very French clergy who had abetted all their iniqui- ties in tlie name of Rome. 'They spared neitlier church nor churchyard, but took all that was valuable therein, and then burned the church and all together. Neither did they spare the lands of bishops, nor of abbots, nor of priests : but they robbed the monks and clergy, and every man plundered his neighbour as much as he could. If two or three men came riding to a town, all the townsfolk fled before tliem, and thought that they were robbers. The bishops and clergy were for ever cursing them : but this to them was notliing, for they were all accursed and forsworn and reprobate. The earth bare no corn : ^ Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, a.d. 1137. 2 B II. T. w. 370 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. you miglit as well have tilled the sea ; for all the land was ruined by such deeds, and it was said openly that Christ and His saints slept.' And so was avenged the blood of Harold and his brothers, of Edwin and Morcar, of Waltheof and Hereward. And those who had the spirit of Hereward in them fled to the merry greenwood, and became bold outlaws, with Kobin Hood, Scarlet, and John, Adam Bell, and Clym of the Cleugh, and William of Cloudeslee ; and watched with sullen joy the French robbers tearing in pieces each other, and the Church who had blest their crime. And they talked and sung of The Wake, and all his doughty deeds, over the hearth in lone farmhouses, or in the outlaw's lodge beneath the hoUins green ; and all the burden of their song was, 'Ah that The Wake were alive again ! ' for they knew not that The Wake was alive for evermore : that only his husk and shell lay mouldering there in Crowland choir ; that above them, and around them, and in them, destined to raise them out of that bitter bondage, and mould them into a great nation, and the parents of still greater nations in lands as yet unknown, brooded the immortal spirit of The Wake, now purged from all earthly dross — even the spirit of Freedom, which can never die. CHAPTER XLII HOW DEEPING FEN WAS DRAINED But war and disorder, ruin and death, cannot last for ever. They are by their own nature exceptional and suicidal, and spend themselves with what they feed on. And then the true laws of God's universe, peace and order, usefulness and life, will i-eassert themselves, as they have been waiting all along to do, hid in God's presence from the strife of men. And even so it was with Bourne. Nearly eighty years after, in the year of grace 1155, there might have been seen sitting, side by side, and hand in hand, upon a sunny bench on the Bruneswold slope, in the low December sun, an old knight and an .old lady, the master and mistress of Bourne. Much had changed since Hereward's days. The house below had been raised a whole story. There were fresh herbs and flowers in the garden, unknown at the time of the Conquest. But the great change was in the fen, especially away toward Deeping, on the south-eastern horizon. Where had been lonely meres, foul watercourses, stagnant slime, there were now great dykes, rich and fair corn and grass lands, rows of white cottages. The newly-drained land swarmed with stocks of new breeds : horses and sheep from Flanders, XLii HOW DEEPING FEN WAS DRAINED 371 cattle from Normandy ; for Eichard de Rulos was the first — as far as history tells — of that noble class of at^ricultural squires who are England's blessing and England's pride. ' For this Richard de Rulos/ says Ingulf, or whoever wrote in liis name, ' who had married the daughter and heiress of Hugli of Evermue, Lord of Bourne and Deeping, being a man of agricultural pursuits, got permission from the monks of Crow- land, for twenty marks of silver, to enclose as much as he would of the common marshes. So he shut out the Welland by a strong embankment, and building thereon numerous tenements and cottages, till in a short time he formed a large " vill," marked out gardens, and cultivated fields ; while, by shutting out the river, he found in the meadow land, which had been lately deep lakes and impassable marshes (wherefore the place was called Deeping, the deep meadow), most fertile fields and desir- able lands, and out of sloughs and bogs accursed made quite a garden of pleasaunce.' So there the good man, the beginner of the good work of cen- turies, sat looking out over the fen, and listening to the music which came on the southern breeze, above the low of the kine, and the clang of the wild-fowl settling down to rest, from the bells of Crowland minster far away. They were not the same bells which tolled for Hereward and Torfrida. Those had run down in molten streams upon that fatal night when Abbot Ingulf leapt out of bed to see the vast wooden sanctuary wrajit in one sheet of roaring flame, from the carelessness of a plumber who had raked the ashes over his fire in the bell-tower, and left it to smoulder through the night. Then perished all the riches of Crowland ; its library too, of more than seven hundred volumes, with that famous Nadir, or Orrery, the like whereof was not in all England, wherein the seven planets were represented, each in their proper metals. And even worse, all the charters of the monastery perished, a loss which involved the monks thereof in centuries of lawsuits, and compelled them to become as industrious and skilful forgers of documents as were to be found in the minsters of the Middle Age. But Crowland Minster had been rebuilt in greater glory than ever, by the help of the French gentry round. Abbot Ingulf, finding that St. Gutlilac's plain inability to take care of himself had discredited him much in the fen-men's eyes, fell back. Frenchman as he was, on the virtues of the holy martyr, St. Waltheof, whose tomb he opene<^^l with due reverence, and found the body as whole and uncorrupted as on tlie day on which it was buried ; and the head united to the body, while a fine crim- son line around the neck was tlie only sign remaining of his decollation. On seeing wliich Ingulf 'could not contain himself for joy ; and interrupting the response which the brethren were singing, 372 HEREWARD THE WAKE chap. with a loud voice began the hymn, " Te Deum Laudamus," on which the chanter, taking it up, enjoined the rest of the brethren to sing it.' After which Ingulf — who had never seen Waltheof in life — discovered that it was none other than he whom he had seen in a vision at Fontenelle, as an earl most gorgeously arrayed, with a tore of gold about his neck, and with him an abbot, two bishops, and two saints, the three former being Usf ran, Ausbert, and Wandresigil of Fontenelle ; and the two saints, of course, St. Guthlac and St. Neot. Whereon, crawling on his hands and knees, he kissed the face of the holy martyr, and ' perceived such a sweet odour proceed- ing from the holy body, as he never remembered to have smelt, either in the palace of the king, or in Syria with all its aromatic herbs.' Quid plura ? What more was needed for a convent of burnt- out monks 1 St. Waltheof was translated in state to the side of St. Guthlac ; and the news of this translation of the holy martyr being spread throughout the country, multitudes of the faithful flocked daily to tlie tomb, and offering up their vows there, tended in a great degree to ' resuscitate our monastery.' But more. The virtues of St. Waltheof were too great not to turn themselves, or be turned, to some practical use. So if not in the days of Ingulf, at least in those of Abbot Joffrid, who came after him, St. Waltheof began again, says Peter of Blois, to work wonderful deeds. 'The blind received their sight, the deaf their hearing, the lame their power of walking, and the dumb their power of speech ; while each day troops innumerable of other sick persons were arriving by every road, as to the very fountain of their safety . . . and by the oflerings of the pilgrims who came flocking in from every part, the revenues of the monastery were increased in no small degree.' Only one wicked Norman monk of St. Albans, Audwin by name, dared to dispute the sanctity of the martyr, calling him a wicked ti-aitor who had met with his deserts. In vain did Abbot Joffrid, himself a Norman from St. Evroult, expostulate with the inconvenient blaspliemer. He launched out into invective beyond measure ; till on the spot, in presence of the said father, he was seized with such a stomach-ache, that he went liome to St. Albans, and died in a few days ; after which all went well with Crowland, and the French monks, who worked the English martyr to get money out of the English whom they had enslaved. And yet— so strangely mingled for good and evil are the works of men — that lying brotherhood of Crowland set up, in those very days, for pure love of learning and of teaching learn- ing, a little school of letters in a poor town hard by ; wliich be- came, under their auspices, the University of Cambridge. So the bells of Crowland were restored, more melodious than ever ; and Richard of Rulos doubtless had his share in their re- XLii HOW DEEPING FEN WAS DRAINED 373 storation. And that day they were ringing with a will, and for a good reason : for that day had come the news, that Henry Plantagenet was crowned king of England. '"Lord," said the good old knight, "now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace." This day, at last, he sees an English king head the English people.' ' God grant,' said the old lady, ' That he may be such a lord to England as thou hast been to Bourne.' ' If he will be — and better far will he be, by God's grace, from what I hear of him, than ever I have been — he must learn that which I learnt from thee : to understand these English men, and know what stout and trusty prudhommes they are all, down to the meanest serf, when once one can humour their sturdy in- dependent tempers.' 'And he must learn, too, the lesson which thou did.st teach me, when I would have had thee, in the pride of youth, put on the magic armour of my ancestors, and win me fame in every tournament and battlefield. Blessed be the day when Richard of Rulos said to me, " If others dare to be men of war, I dare more ; for I dare to be a man of peace. Have patience with me, and I will win for thee and for myself a renown more last- ing, before God and man, than ever was won with lance ! " Do you remember those words, Richard mine ? ' The old man leant his head upon his hands. ' It may be that not those words, but the deeds which God has caused to follow them, may, by Christ's merits, bring us a short purgatory and a long heaven.' 'Amen. Only whatever grief we may endure in the next life for our sins, may we endure it as we have the griefs of this life, hand in hand.' ' Amen, Torf rida. There is one thing more to do before we die. The tomb in Crowland ; — Ever .since the fire blackened it, it has seemed to me too poor and mean to cover the dust whicli once held two such noble souls. Let us send over to Normandy for fair white .stone of Caen, and let us carve a tomb worthy of thy grandparents.' 'And what shall we write thereon?' ' What but that which is there already. " Here lies the last of the English." ' ' Not so. We will write — " Here lies the last of the old Eng- lish." But upon thy tomb, when thy time comes, the monks of Crowland sliall write — ' ■' Here lies the first of the new English ; who, by the inspira- tion of God, began to drain the Fens." ' EXPLICIT MESSRS. MACMILLAN & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS CHEAP EDITION OF THE WORKS OF CHARLES KINQSLEY A New and Cheaper Edition of the most popular of Mr. Kixgsley's Books. The New Edition will be printed in Crown 8vo, from entirely new type, and will be issued in Monthly Volumes, price 3s. 6d. each, in the following order : — 1889. Westward Ho ! Ready. Poems. April. Hypatia. ,, The Heroes. May. Yeast. ,, The Water Babies. June. Alton Locke. ,, Madam How and Lady Why. July. Two Years Ago. „ At Last. Aiig. Hereward the Wake. ,, Prose Idylls. Sept. CHEAP EDITION OF THE WORKS OF CHARLOTTE M. 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Two Vols Two Vols. MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. y CHARLES KINGSLEY; His Letters and Memoirs. Abridged Edition. 2 Vols. 12s. ALL SAINTS' DAY, AND OTHER SERMONS. 7s. 6d. TRUE WORDS FOR BRAVE MEN. 2s. 6d. KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, AND CO., LONDON. ucsou ,,.,^,^LL!BR^Jj^fJ|gl illUwi'"'' f^ 000 266 363 ^ /.r ».r ».^ ri r f. > yyyyyyvi\ '' yyyyyry\\v yyyyyyyy'' yy/yyyy> I , - J > yyyy/ytyyy¥yyy> ■ yyyyyyy yy yyyyyyyy y yyyyyyyyyy yyyyyyyy •• • yyiy^yiyyyyyyyyi\''i i yyyyyy'^ yyyyyyyyyy i • yyyy yyyyyyyy yyyyyy *¥ yyyyyyyyyy ¥^yyyyy- w > V v.v '^^ wKvi fyyyyyyyyy ■'yyyyyyyy- * yyyyyyyy t y>'yyyyy> yy^yyyy^t • t yyyyyyyv y y >►»►"»•/ yyyyy' f y yyyyyyyyyy ^ yy yy yyyyyyyy t . >yyyyyyy*y>yr * t>y*iWyyyy,yy yyyyytWyy* yy* > ' y, y yy > yyyyp yki ' y yyyyyyyy %yyyy\ . ■ , i yyyyyy yv'yyyyyy > > y* yyyy **■>*■ yyyyyy ^m- i'.. > >■'>■'/*'^'^»%'y'/^'hV/>V• ) yyyyyyyyyyyyy ■ .yA%y>>,y»w,v-, . . .>Ky v;y '.v>v»twt>v,v