Hereward, the Last of the English. Charles Kingsley
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like a man. There is not an earl in England, save my father, who has not been outlawed in his time. My brother Alfgar will be outlawed before he dies, if he has the spirit of a man in him. It is the fashion, my uncle, and I must follow it. So hey for the merry greenwood, and the long ships, and the swan’s bath, and all the rest of it. Uncle, you will lend me fifty silver pennies?”
“I? I would not lend thee one, if I had it, which I have not. And yet, old fool that I am, I believe I would.”
“I would pay thee back honestly. I shall go down to Constantinople to the Varangers, get my Polotaswarf [Footnote: See “The Heimskringla,” Harold Hardraade’s Saga, for the meaning of this word.] out of the Kaiser’s treasure, and pay thee back five to one.”
“What does this son of Belial here?” asked an austere voice.
“Ah! Abbot Leofric, my very good lord. I have come to ask hospitality of you for some three days. By that time I shall be a wolf’s head, and out of the law: and then, if you will give me ten minutes’ start, you may put your bloodhounds on my track, and see which runs fastest, they or I. You are a gentleman, and a man of honor; so I trust to you to feed my horse fairly the meanwhile, and not to let your monks poison me.”
The Abbot’s face relaxed. He tried to look as solemn as he could; but he ended in bursting into a very great laughter, and swearing likewise.
“The insolence of this lad passes the miracles of all saints. He robs St. Peter on the highway, breaks into his abbey, insults him to his face, and then asks him for hospitality; and—”
“And gets it,” quoth Hereward.
“What is to be done with him, Brand, my friend? If we turn him out—”
“Which we cannot do,” said Brand, looking at the well-mailed and armed lad, “without calling in half a dozen of our men-at-arms.”
“In which case there would be blood shed, and scandal made in the holy precincts.”
“And nothing gained; for yield he would not till he was killed outright, which God forbid!”
“Amen. And if he stay here, he may be persuaded to repentance.”
“And restitution.”
“As for that,” quoth Hereward (who had remounted his horse from prudential motives, and set him athwart the gateway, so that there was no chance of the doors being slammed behind him), “if either of you will lend me sixteen pence, I will pay it back to you and St. Peter before I die, with interest enough to satisfy any Jew, on the word of a gentleman and an earl’s son.”
The Abbot burst again into a great laughter. “Come in, thou graceless renegade, and we will see to thee and thy horse; and I will pray to St. Peter; and I doubt not he will have patience with thee, for he is very merciful; and after all, thy parents have been exceeding good to us, and the righteousness of the father, like his sins, is sometimes visited on the children.”
Now, why were the two ecclesiastics so uncanonically kind to this wicked youth?
Perhaps because both the old bachelors were wishing from their hearts that they had just such a son of their own. And beside, Earl Leofric was a very great man indeed; and the wind might change; for it is an unstable world.
“Only, mind, one thing,” said the naughty boy, as he dismounted, and halloed to a lay-brother to see to his horse,—“don’t let me see the face of that Herluin.”
“And why? You have wronged him, and he will forgive you, doubtless, like a good Christian as he is.”
“That is his concern. But if I see him, I cut off his head. And, as Uncle Brand knows, I always sleep with my sword under my pillow.”
“O that such a mother should have borne such a son.” groaned the Abbot, as they went in.
On the fifth day came Martin Lightfoot, and found Hereward in Prior Brand’s private cell.
“Well?” asked Hereward coolly.
“Is he—? Is he—?” stammered Brand, and could not finish his sentence.
Martin nodded.
Hereward laughed,—a loud, swaggering, hysterical laugh.
“See what it is to be born of just and pious parents. Come, Master Trot-alone, speak out and tell us all about it. Thy lean wolf’s legs have run to some purpose. Open thy lean wolf’s mouth and speak for once, lest I ease thy legs for the rest of thy life by a cut across the hams. Find thy lost tongue, I say!”
“Walls have ears, as well as the wild-wood,” said Martin.
“We are safe here,” said the Prior; “so speak, and tell us the whole truth.”
“Well, when the Earl read the letter, he turned red, and pale again, and then naught but, ‘Men, follow me to the King at Westminster.’ So we went, all with our weapons, twenty or more, along the Strand, and up into the King’s new hall; and a grand hall it is, but not easy to get into, for the crowd of monks and beggars on the stairs, hindering honest folks’ business. And there sat the King on a high settle, with his pink face and white hair, looking as royal as a bell-wether new washed; and on either side of him, on the same settle, sat the old fox and the young wolf.”
“Godwin and Harold? And where was the Queen?”
“Sitting on a stool at his feet, with her hands together as if she were praying, and her eyes downcast, as demure as any cat. And so is fulfilled the story, how the sheep-dog went out to get married, and left the fox, the wolf, and the cat to guard the flock.”
“If thou hast found thy tongue,” said Brand, “thou art like enough to lose it again by slice of knife, talking such ribaldry of dignities. Dost not know”—and he sank his voice—“that Abbot Leofric is Earl Harold’s man, and that Harold himself made him abbot?”
“I said, walls have ears. It was you who told me that we were safe. However, I will bridle the unruly one.” And he went on. “And your father walked up the hall, his left hand on his sword-hilt, looking an earl all over, as he is.”
“He is that,” said Hereward, in a low voice.
“And he bowed; and the most magnificent, powerful, and virtuous Godwin would have beckoned him up to sit on the high settle; but he looked straight at the King, as if there were never a Godwin or a Godwinsson on earth, and cried as he stood,—
“‘Justice, my Lord the King!’
“And at that the King turned pale, and said, ‘Who? What? O miserable world! O last days drawing nearer and nearer! O earth, full of violence and blood! Who has wronged thee now, most dear and noble Earl?’
“‘Justice against my own son.’
“At that the fox looked at the wolf, and the wolf at the fox; and if they did not smile it was not for want of will, I warrant. But your father went on, and told all his story; and when he came to your robbing master monk,—‘O apostate!’ cries the bell-wether, ‘O spawn of Beelzebub! excommunicate him, with bell, book, and candle. May he be thrust down with Korah, Balaam, and Iscariot, to the most Stygian pot of the sempiternal Tartarus.’
“And at that your father smiled. ‘That is bishops’ work,’ says he; ‘and I want king’s work from you, Lord King. Outlaw me this young rebel’s sinful body, as by law you can; and leave his sinful soul to the priests,—or to God’s mercy, which is like to be more than theirs.’
“Then the Queen looked up. ‘Your own son, noble Earl? Think of what you are doing, and one whom all say is so gallant and so fair. O persuade him, father,—persuade him, Harold my brother,—or, if you cannot persuade him, persuade the King at least, and save this poor youth from exile.’”
“Puss Velvet-paw knew well enough,” said Hereward, in a low voice, “that the way to harden my father’s heart was to set Godwin and Harold on softening it. They ask my pardon from the King? I would not take it at their asking, even if my father would.”
“There spoke a true Leofricsson,” said Brand, in spite of himself.
“‘By