The Pageant of England/William the Norman
III.—WILLIAM THE NORMAN.
ENGLAND slumbered in comfortable peace. There were manifold tidings, indeed, of a conquering host to come out of Normandy, but the Englishmen, after some days spent in guarding the southern shore, felt their mail a burden, and were gone home to brew the autumn ale. There were certain tidings withal of Hardrada and his vikings ashore in Northumbria and King Harold going to quench their fire, but no man helped who could bide at home. Toil was a worse woe than conquest. England waxed fat.
Craddock the fool lay on the rushes in his master's hall. Among the stone arches pale autumn sunshine strove with the glow of the fire, and the fragrant blue smoke rose to make a silver haze in the clerestory. Here and there curtains hung aflame with clean gay colour. About the gleaming oaken board stood chairs wrought to quaint devices with silver and ebony and ivory, and in the finest, herself the finest work of all, sat the lady Ealgyfu. A child of the tide, Craddock called her, on the day when Alnod gave her the morning gift, and he had ever found new meaning in the name. Her body was white as the foam crests, and her eyes shone like the clear, green water, and her bosom was quick to rise as the waves. Across her neck and her breast she had drawn one great braid of hair, pale as alloy of gold with silver. Over her white gown she wore a kirtle of green, and her arms shimmered out of it as she drew the threads of her embroidery. Her round face asked, like a child's, for kindness. Craddock lay at length, his face between his hands, dog fashion, and looked up at her, weaving fancies. She caught his eyes. “Why art not riding with thy master?”
“Fools watch whom wise men trust,” quoth Craddock.
She broke her silk, and the round face was pink. “What dost mean, fool?”
“Whom should I mean but the cook?” said Craddock. “Did you ever hear of Harmodius the hunchback?”
“Thou art a fool.”
“So was he, who for pure love of mankind made himself a signpost of the way to hell. Thereat the devil was enraged and cut him down, but certain saints, whom he had warned, being grateful, spoke for him to St. Peter, and he was turned about and made an everlasting signpost to heaven. Yet, you remark, the poor soul can never get there himself. That comes of meddling with other folks' fortunes.”
The lady Ealgyfu worked on at her embroidery, and Craddock watched still. After some while a splendid, lithe fellow strode up the hall. For his haste, his blue cloak fell off from the golden tunic. He was ruddy cheeked, and his beard and hair a mass of gold, and he smiled as he came. Craddock arose and stood like a signpost, pointing at him.
“What folly is this, fool?” the man cried, and knocked him down.
“That was your part of the story,” quoth Craddock, rising, “remains yours, lady.”
The man turned on Ealgyfu, frowning. She was crimson. “Out, fool!” she cried. “Oh, thou shalt pay for this!”
“So it be I alone, be it so,” said Craddock, and went.
“What has he said?” The new-comer frowned.
“How can I tell what he has said? Some mad mingling of folly. He guesses! He knows!” She pressed her hands to her hot head. “Oh, I cannot bear it!” Then she caught at his arm. “Eadmund, Eadmund, take me away!” Then flung him off. “No! No! I am afraid!”
Eadmund plucked at his beard. “Art more afraid of Alnod or of me?”
“Not of thee,” she laughed. “Thou art but such as I am. Ay, lord Eadmund, woman in a man's body.”
He came to her side with a silent, stealthy step, and cunning fingers began to caress her hair. She paid no heed at first, but her hand faltered on her needle and fell, and she lay back in her chair and her bosom trembled.
“Wouldst thou dare Alnod for me?” he said in a low voice.
“Have I not dared very God?”
She looked up suddenly, and he saw the strange light in her eyes.
He stepped back, smiling, and held out his arms. With a queer cry of contempt she started up and ran to him ... then tore herself free and sprang aloof, her hand to her brow, mad-eyed. “Must I always hear him?” she gasped. A rough, masterful voice rang out. “Oh, it is he, indeed!” she said with a sob of relief, and shrank down in her chair and caught at her embroidery with nervous hands.
Her lord Alnod marched in crying her name. A dark man he was, and squat, with a bull neck and heavy shoulders. “What, Eadmund! In a good hour! Drink a cup and to horse. The Norman is come. A curse on the lazy knaves that would not stay in arms! We can make no stand here. Lady wife, gather all my gear. Thou must away with it to sanctuary till we have whipped these dogs out of England again. Come, serve us!”
Speeding across the hall, she filled them each a silver cup of ale. Alnod put his to her lips before he drank, and when he had done caught her in a rough embrace. She came from it pale and calm, and gave her hand to Eadmund. “Guard my lord well,” she said.
Where the last of the woodland broke away to the salt-meadows and the brown shingle and the grey line of sea, Alnod and his friend drew rein. Beyond the vast towers of the Roman fortress of Pevensey, they saw the haven full-freighted with glittering ships. Already many had made the beach, and were disgorging troops of horses. None had dared stay them. The folk of Pevensey fled in a wild mob to the refuge of the woods.
“Great wolf pack for so small a fold,” quoth Eadmund.
“The golden dragon hath eaten a greater host ere now,” said Alnod, and shaded his eyes to gaze. “I guess their ships a thousand—little ships. They may be thirty thousand.”
“I see more,” said Eadmund.
“It is enough, by the Rood! I ride straightway to the King. The curse of Ethelred on the soft knaves that would not stay their guard! They shall bleed white for it now! Well, this hour asks our best. Keep thy hold against them till all your blood be out. Let them blunt their blades on Hastings. I go to bring thee all England in aid.”
Eadmund looked after him and began to smile. The good Alnod always found life so simple. Then he turned to the Norman again.
Far from the ivy-grown circle of Roman walls the sea roars on the groaning shingle banks to-day, but for Duke William of Normandy a wide haven reached to the base of the hill, and the ship-masters could run aground in fair water. The fleet worked in cunning order. Soon a great company of archers, with bows bent and arrows loose in their quivers, spread over the meadows. Soon the sun played with a forest of lances as the knights marshalled in their mail. Soon a host was at work within the broken Roman walls marking out new fosse and rampart where now behind the reeds of the moat stand the many towers of the Eagle Honour.
Eadmund saw the mind that worked in all. His fine brow was drawn in thought as he rode back through the mellowing woods. He asked no pace of his horse and it was some while before he came out upon the rich dell of ploughland where stood Alnod's hall.
The neatherds were driving the last of their milch cows off into the wood. Byre and stall had been swept bare. He found the hall empty of all but sunlight and the embers of a dying fire.
Through the wood to the church town went a long line of laden beasts, and the thralls sped them on. There was chattering and shrill bruit of fears, but the lady Ealgyfu rode her palfrey apart, heedless and calm. Her maiden, Eadburga, drew alongside Craddock's restive ass.
“Craddock,” quoth she, tremulous, “is it true that the Normans eat maids?”
“Never, save pickled,” quoth Craddock. “Take heart. Thou hast not salt enough.”
“Tell true!” Eadburga gasped. “Oh, sure, King Harold will not suffer it. And they say one Englishman is a match for two Normans.”
“And one God for seven devils. Yet the devil feeds fat.”
“St. Pancras protect us!” Eadburga panted. “Nay, Craddock, truly, what will befall us?”
“Once upon a time in Elfland, which is away where the other half of the rainbow stands, the good Lord Almighty kept him a pack of hounds. And the same, finding the woods full of venison and all kinds of meat, spent their days eating till they were like to burst and could no wise serve the Lord God in his need of a blithe day's hunting that he might forget the sinfulness of men. Then he, seeing them, which should have been hot in the chase, lie blowing like salmon peel landed out of the haven, was hotly wroth, and for their doom he bade a pack of wolves come in upon their land and take it all. The which wolves, stark and hungry, wasted them sore till they cried out upon the Lord God for help. But he smiled upon them. So the hounds, sith no better might be, set to help themselves and stood roundly together and so dealt by those wolves that they being wolves yet gladly ran with the hounds. Then in a while came the good Lord God Almighty to Elfland and spake and said: 'Ho, hounds, where be my wolves that I sent you for your doom?' Then the pack laughed deep, and an old dog spake out: 'Lord, many of us be inside them, and many of them be inside us, and side to side the rest of us both run one pack to serve Thee. Good, my Lord, set us a chase.' Then the Lord, laughing with good heart, laid them upon the track of an old hard wolf and they pulled him down even in the gates of hell.”
“And what saith all that saying?” Eadburga gaped.
“Go ask thy children's children.”
“I will pray the Virgin and St. Hilda that I may see them,” said Eadburga devoutly.
The oaks gave place to a dainty birch-wood and that to a heathery dean, and they came to a ring of huts and the white cross form of the church. Already folk had crowded devoutly into the holy ground, but there was room for them and all their gear, and the church was voided of all that Ealgyfu might go to prayer for her lord.
Presently Eadmund came and all ran at him to ask tidings. “The worst,” quoth he. “We be all undone. Who cares for life, let him stand fast in sanctuary.” But his eyes were restless, seeking Ealgyfu among them. “Go to. Make way. I would be with God awhile!” Into the silent church he went. The half circle windows gave only a dim light and he saw the slim figure kneeling on the chancel steps, vague and ghostly. He was at her side before she heard him. “What does Ealgyfu pray for?”
He saw her face white and calm. She knelt still, and staying herself against the oaken screen turned and her eyes searched his. “What dare I pray?” she breathed.
Eadmund laughed. “For hell beyond, not here. Nay, laugh with me. I find our hearts' delight in this. Give thy weeping an end.” There before the altar they forgot all but themselves.
She was left in the church alone. Eadmund rode swiftly away to his hold on the cliff at Hastings and there spoke awhile with the chief of his housecarles. Before nightfall, he was riding westward again to Pevensey. He was a man of mind.
In the reeve's house at Pevensey William of Normandy sat at supper with his uterine brothers, the Bishop of Bayeux and Robert of Mortain, when they told him that an English lord sought him and would not be denied. The dark brows lowered. “What knave denies me?” he growled. “He that drives Englishmen from me shall pay his eyes for it.”
Eadmund was brought swiftly. In that narrow wattled room you see by the flickering light his fair grace matched against the swart giant bastard of Normandy: the ruddy beautiful face with its nimbus of golden curls fronting the stark, grim lines, beardless and shorn, of that heavy square head. The Norman smiled. “Right welcome to the court of England, my lord.”
“We had need of a king in England,” Eadmund answered in his own French, and their eyes wrought together.
“Thou hast found him. What dost ask of him?”
“To be his man.”
“Every Englishman is that.”
“There is none can serve him as I.”
“I know how to pay good service: and ill.”
“I have the hold of Hastings in ward.”
“Thou shalt hold it in ward for me.”
“Harold Godwin's son would give me many a hide that thou shouldst break thy steel upon it.”
“When Noel rings Harold Godwin's son will have nought to give any man but ashes and a curse.”
“Because I believe it I am here.”
The close straight lips parted in a cruel smile. “I buy men that are bought.”
Eadmund smiled back. “In the rape of Hastings one Alnod, a fool, holds Werlinges with land for sixteen ploughs and forty cheorls, with eighteen ploughs and three salt-pans and wood for thirty swine. Alnod is gone to Harold Godwin's son and I come to thee.”
The black brows lowered and beneath them the eyes dwindled to points of steel. “He is a friend of thine, this Alnod?”
“Even as Harold Godwin's son is friend to thee.”
Odo the bishop broke an oath, but, “Curb thy mouth, my lord,” the bastard cried passionately. Then he turned to Eadmund again, smiling, and his voice was low. “Keep faith with me and all shall be well with thee. Look thee, my lord, if thou art false, thou shalt hear thine own bones crack.”
Eadmund laughed out. “By mine own will be it so!” and he knelt and held up his hands to the Norman.
“In the morning thou shalt lead men of mine to thy hold at Hastings. Go!”
Then said Odo the bishop: “Such are these English—cunning and greedy as a lamprey and even as good eating.”
“Par Dé,” quoth Robert of Mortain, “I ever held them base and cowardly knaves that keep faith with nought else but their own stomachs. My fear is, there is none will abide for us to break a lance upon them.”
William was leaning forward, his head upon his hand and his face hidden. “Fear not; there is no fear,” he growled. “The Godwin's son will not die before many a death.... Ay, we shall win the battle. Who will win the years? Battles enough the Danes fought and won and now you shall not find a Dane in the land that is not English of heart. And if our blood guard not the Norman will... if our seed be like theirs?”
“By the arm of God,” laughed Robert of Mortain, “I do not see my wolves mixing with these dullards.”
“Who sees nothing fights best,” Odo the bishop shrugged.
William let his hand fall heavily on the table. “There spoke the priest!” and his face was distorted in a fierce sneer. But it passed swiftly and, “Nay, my lord, get to your prayers,” he cried. “I know no other help.”
Odo began a joke, but in the midst of it saw the swart brow gather in knots and beneath it a gleam of pointed light. He stayed not to make an end, and his brother went with him.
In the morning, when the curtain of mist was drawn, when the sea swayed alive with light and the woodland was set with jewels, Eadmund rode out in guard of a troop of lances and Roger of Toesny, Roger le Balafré. He was a lean, long man of bronze hair that, even close shaven, tinged his skin. His gaunt face was underhung by a vast jaw, and the scar that gave him his name so seared his forehead that his brows were set in a frown over their little yellow eyes. When Robert of Mortain told him his errand and showed him Eadmund, he made a queer sound of inward laughter and his eyelids flapped to and fro.
“By the head of God, I always said Judas was one of your pretty men,” quoth he. “Into the saddle, Iscariot.”
“This is outrecuidance I will not bear,” cried Eadmund flushing.
“As Judas said to the devil that grabbed him,” quoth Roger, and Robert of Mortain turned a contemptuous back.
“What cur snarls at my hound?” a deep voice rang behind them and Roger flung his hand to his brow. William strode to him. “Mark me, sirrah. This lord hath served me well. See thou serve him so, lest thou serve no man more.”
“I am thy man,” growled Roger, and turned to Eadmund. “Please thee to mount?”
So they rode through the woods, a glittering company, Roger and Eadmund side by side. None saw them save the squirrels and the birds, and even when they came out upon the ploughlands where Alnod's hall rose above the huts of the cheorls there was no sign of man or woman.
“Curst cowards thy kin are,” quoth Roger, “or curst cunning. Which is it, Englishman? Par Dé, I had hoped for a running shot at an English chine this morn. We will put a torch to that empty stye yonder at least.”
“Hold thy hand. That hall is mine.”
Roger blinked at him and muttered, but let it be and rode on.
Then through the birch wood and over the heather they came to the white church. Roger saw the sacred ground crowded with folk and gear. “Ha, this is the hole where you English rats run!” He dismounted and strode upon the church, and many of his men went with him.
Eadmund was in a palsy of fear for all the store that should be his. The folk in the sacred place cowered down, and tried to hide among their goods. But the Normans strode on heedless of all into the church. Then Eadmund stole after, and found them all upon their knees. He turned away with a sneer that bore him much comfort.
Out of the frightened throng of English, Ealgyfu sped to him with eyes of fear. “Thou—thou art in peril?”
“No whit.” He took her hands, and smiled down at her. “Nought is in peril, save what keeps us from our joys.”
Her bosom trembled while she gazed at him. She began to sob, and Eadmund smiled. He liked her best so.
Roger came upon them marching swiftly from his prayers. His hand closed hard upon Ealgyfu's arm. She started in new terror, but he held her, and looked from woman to man. “Wife, art thou? Ay, weep and pray for widowhood.”
She cried out, and then broke into shrill laughter and fled away. As she came back to the throng of English, and Eadburga strove to soothe her, soft and clear Craddock's voice came, “Which same Lord Judas bought him a field with the price of his ill deeds.” She fell quivering on Eadburga's bosom. Eadmund glared at Roger: “Curs yelp when their master is far,” quoth he.
“And eke bite,” said Roger. “To horse!”
In such temper with each other they came to the narrow combe in the sand rock where the huts of the butsecarles clustered, and the bones of ships stood half-clothed. On the western cliff Eadmund's housecarles lined the broad walls of his hold. At a word from him the great gate on the northward was drawn back, and the Normans passed in, and Roger le Balafré rode to the midst of the billowy ground that the walls girt, and claimed all for William the King. The housecarles watched idly. They were English in blood, but the hired men of their lord, and held one king no better than another so their wages were paid. Below in the combe the shipmen of Hastings gathered and talked, but they had no master, and they dared nothing. So lightly the hold of Hastings was won, and the Norman had two strong places at his back, two safe havens for his ships. With all his force William marched eastward, and made his camp beneath the cliff, and sent his horsemen far and wide for the glad work of harrying. So he fed his men, so he paid them, and withal compelled Harold Godwin's son to swift battle lest all the land should be made desert. Far and wide the homesteads flared, and the churchyards were alive with miserable fugitives, and droves of cattle and sheep and boys and girls were whipped into the Norman camp.
Now Alnod had ridden hard:
Tart se colcha, leva matin,
Tant a erré ke noit ke jor—
late bed took him, with dawn he rose, onward he sped by night, by day, and he found King Harold in York at feast for his great victory over Hardrada's vikings. Swiftly his tale was told, swiftly Harold cried the muster and marched southward. But the men of Northumbria and Mercia came not. If the South Saxons were ravaged, let the South Saxons fight. It was a far cry to Trent. But gallantly, with half an army, Harold marched on, and took his stand on the verge of the black forest of the weald, on the hill called Senlac.
It was well done. The Norman ravaging parties dared not go far afield lest all the English host should fall upon them, and the land near was eaten up. The Normans must fight or starve, and fight where Harold had chosen. William learnt of Eadmund what like the place was, and sat so grim that no man dared speak with him.
On the Friday night, on the eve of St. Calixtus, Odo the bishop, and Geoffrey his brother of Coutances, and Remigius the almoner, and many another priest and monk wrought upon the Norman host, and when all men were shriven and absolved Odo took from all a vow that those who lived out Saturday would eat no flesh on any Saturday to come, and he blessed them and they slept. Seven miles away, behind their trenches on the hill, the English heard the gleemen sing of hard-fought fights and victory well won.
Out of the sound of the sea you may ride now, and come through rich cornland and copse and dene upon the brow of Telham hill to see across a broken surge of woodland where dark firs loom among the gayer trees, the mellow towers that rise to glorify the place where the English standard fell. Thither came the Norman host, but they looked upon a closer, darker woodland bounded by a wide shimmer of marsh, and beyond they saw a furze-grown hill ramparted close upon the sky by the clean, sharp light of steel. They halted then, and all the knights put on their armour, and Eadmund came in haste with the tidings of spying.
Therewith they marched onward, the archers foremost afoot, a dark mass of leather jerkin and cap, and spreading wide after them the men at arms in glittering mail, with their lance points like the tide in sunlight. In the rearward beneath the purple folds of the holy banner of the Pope the giant bastard rode, and by his side, mail clad as he, and armed like him with ponderous mace of steel, was Odo the bishop. Down the valley where the road runs now they came, and saw above them a close wall of shields. All the crest of the hill, all the open ground from forest to forest, was held by mail-clad axemen, Harold's thegns and housecarles, whereof, the vikings sang, each man was two men's match. Behind that rampart crowded a motley throng of cheorls with club and javelin. In the midst two banners flaunted gold upon the wind, the dragon of Wessex and King Harold's own device, a man in battle.
Now the Normans were pinned in a narrow space between marsh and forest, and the archers were sent forward, and yew and steel cross-bow sang and a venomous cloud of arrows beat upon the English shields. It was the hour of prime. Out rode Taillefer the minstrel chanting the song of Roland, and tossing his sword into the air and catching it by the point, and he charged the axes, and singing was beaten down. With a roar of Dex aie! the Norman lances swept up the hill, but ere they came to that wall of shields the earth opened beneath them, the front rank went crashing down, and their comrades broke upon them in wild ruin. The English had made them a fosse and hidden it with a thin coat of turf. Out of that roaring medley some struggled onward, but the lances were splintered vainly on the rampart of steel, and sword clashed in vain against the shearing sweep of the axe. Broken utterly, the Normans surged back in flight, and William was whirled away in the midst, and the cry ran that he was down and dead. He tore off his helmet and bared his grim head for all to see. “Fools!” he thundered. “Look on me! I live, and by God's grace will conquer. Are ye mad? Death is behind, victory before!”
He snatched a lance and beat them back from flight and rallied them, and some of the English cheorls who had broken their ranks to pursue were caught and cut down.
So William and Odo the bishop formed the horsemen anew, and cried the charge. Again the storm of steel swept up the hill, and with a mighty din broke upon the wall of steel. The lances were shivered and cast away, and the Normans surged on, a wild medley of swords. But to a chant of “Holy Rood! Holy Rood!” the English axes swung and beat down horse and man. Vainly the bastard and his brother cursed and prayed, vainly their maces dripped blood. The stubborn ranks would yield no whit. Spurring onward in wild passion, William tried to force the weight of horse and man through the shields. But Gyrth, Harold's brother, smote the great destrier, and the bastard crashed down with him. He rose again on the instant, and with desperate strength drove his mace at Gyrth's brow. Then Gyrth fell in a swoon of death, and Leofwin his brother, who sprang to aid, was smitten by Odo the bishop. But King Harold held their place. Giant man he was as the bastard's self, and his axe was feared from the Devon shore to Trondhjem town. Now, fighting for life and land and his manhood and vengeance for dear kin, no man could withstand him. One stroke of his axe clove horseman and horse together, and a new rampart of dead men rose before him, and the Normans fell sullenly back. Hither and thither he sped where need was, his mail all blood red, with stars of red upon his wild golden beard and hair, and he looked through tears of rage and grief. In all the host his fierce spirit throbbed, and the Normans could avail nothing. The fight ebbed, and the Norman heart and the Norman strength, and William saw it and drew his worn men away. The wall of shields was unbroken still, still on the wind the golden dragon flaunted gay.
Then came the turn of craft. William bethought him how when his men fled the English had surged after them disorderly. Again he marshalled the assault, again his host swept on. But the leftward ranks had hardly endured the clash of steel before they turned and fled like men out of heart. The English broke after them in a frenzy of victory, and then, with the shield wall shattered and the steep crest of the hill forsaken, the Normans returned fierce upon the charge. It was the hour of vespers. The horsemen had their vantage at last. They stormed upon the ragged ranks and broke them anew till the English host was all in fragments, like castles of sand in the swirl of the rising tide. Still back to back, shoulder to shoulder, the axemen made good the fight, and hewing their path through horse and man, gathered again about the standard, unconquered yet. Already the swift October night was falling. William drew back and ordered his desperate ranks anew. While the horsemen ventured once again in their last hope, his archers shot a flight of arrows high in air, so that they beat a storm of barbed hail upon the English ranks. Who raised a shield to guard his head, bared his body to the lances. King Harold was smitten. A bolt clove his right eye, and he reeled plucking at it and fell down by the standard writhing. Four gallant Norman knights were upon him and stabbed him in breast and throat and hacked his thigh asunder. His housecarles fought on still, terrible in the vengeance of despair. No man fled, no man was taken. Slaying they were slain about the body of their lord. His standard was beaten down upon him, the golden dragon of Wessex was thrown down. The night mist rolled dark upon a conquered land.
From the hills behind the battle Eadmund watched the agony of his people with calm eyes. He had his part in the Norman feast among the dead. In the morning sunshine he rode with his housecarles to the church where Ealgyfu lay. The crowd of the church-yard thronged to see, and cried: “How fares it, lord Eadmund? In the name of God Almighty, how fares it?”
“Well with the wise,” quoth he, and strode on.
In the door of the church Ealgyfu met him, great-eyed and white. “What fortune?” she breathed.
“The best. The Norman is lord of England and I of thee.” She shrank back, and he came upon her, thrusting her to the dimmer light within. Smiling, he took her in his arms. “Sweet queen of my delight, nought keeps us now from one another.”
She trembled, shrinking, yet yielding to his lips. Then, with a cry of pain: “Alnod! Alnod! What of him?”
“Happy is he if he be dead. For all that he had is mine, as thou art.”
“God help me!” she said hoarsely, and shuddered and clung to him with wild passion.
Eadmund laughed. “Go we now blithely homeward. I have safeguard from the Norman for the lands and all the gear. Surely our hall shall be merry to-night. Come, white joy of mine.”
Side by side they rode back to the desolate hall, and the thralls followed, babbling much of what this might mean. But Craddock held his ass apart and talked to himself in strange tongues. Soon the arched hall was gay again with silver and ivory and bright woods, and the curtains made comely nooks of ease and the fire burnt bright on the hearth. Side by side in the chairs of lord and lady sat Eadmund and Ealgyfu. She looked away from him, white chin upon white hand, but he whispered soft in her ear, and her bosom beat like the tide beneath the wind, and her throat and her round child face were rosy red.
Behind them, holding by a pillar, his big head like a grim grotesque against the fair glowing devices of the curtain, Craddock the fool stood at gaze.
More and more Ealgyfu yielded to the soft smiling voice. She leant to Eadmund, his arm took her captive, her head's wealth of pale gold swayed upon his shoulder. The sea sunshine flamed in her eyes as she looked up at him, her lips parted in a strange mystic smile; “My lord and my all.”
So they were rich in joy, and into the hall, swaying, reeling, a ghastly thing came, a man whose head was black with clotted blood, whose rusty mail gaped over raw wounds,
“Alnod! Alrod!” Ealgyfu shrieked, and cast herself down upon the ground and sobbed like a stricken beast.
But Eadmund rose at leisure, smiling, and came on delicately.
Alnod stood quivering. He had seen.
Eadmund took him and drew him close for the kiss of a friend, and in the act stabbed craftily, covertly through the rent in the mail at his heart.
Alnod fell down gently and made no sound more.
Eadmund shouted alarm and knelt as if it were to raise him. “By the Rood he is sped!” quoth he for all to hear. “God shrive thee, good friend. Almighty, how he is smitten! Miracle it is that he won to his own hall again,” and the while he was wiping his knife.
But Craddock was upon him and plucked it out with a yell: “Judas! Judas!”
Eadmund struck at him, but he leapt away and sped out and ran to the forest. “Hunt the fool,” Eadmund roared, but no man stirred. He roused his housecarles from their ale and set them upon the chase and then came back to the grim silence where the thralls gazed upon their dead lord, and Ealgyfu still lay weeping.
“Look to the corpse!” he cried with an oath, and timidly they stole near and bore it away. Then he raised Ealgyfu and began to caress her, smiling. “Faint heart, dainty white love, why weep when thy grief is dead?” and she had no will but his.
A reeking, breathless fool, Craddock came to that grim hillside where the Normans were mending their arms and their wounds. From one to other he went begging for William their Duke, and had to bear many a blow of steel. But in a while he came to Roger le Balafré, who stared keen behind flickering eyelids. “I have seen thy cock's comb before,” quoth he, and he turned to an English friar busy among the dying. “Tell me this fool's tale, father,” and the monk with groans of horror put it into broken French.
Then Roger chuckled. “Par Dé,” quoth he, “I smell a feast in this. Come!” and he took Craddock by the ear.
William sat in his tent busy with a thousand matters. There was much ado with men-at-arms and chaplain and bishop before Roger went to him. “Thou pestilent fellow!” cried William, and the black brows lowered. “Could not the churchmen suffice thee? What is thy need?”
“Justice,” quoth Roger.
“Say on.”
Roger was no fool. “Par Dé, my lord,” quoth he, “right it is that one Englishman seek justice of another from thee. So now. This fool proclaims that pretty fellow who was our spy and traitor a murderer, which for love of his friend's wife hath slain his friend with a kiss.”
William beckoned his chaplain to question Craddock, and while the talk ran watched with keen eyes. “Sir,” quoth the chaplain “at last, “he stands roundly to it, and I protest I think it may be true.”
“Have I not eyes? Make short, man!” and the chaplain swiftly told all the tale. William listened, plucking at the lace of his mantle, and they saw his lips move. After the silence came a growl of ill words. Then he beckoned Craddock close. “True man art thou. I keep troth for troth with all men. Art thou free?” And Craddock, when it was Englished, shook his head listlessly. “Free from this hour with five hides of fat land.” He glanced at the chaplain. “See thou to that. For the rest—Roger, can thy men ride?”
“God accept them if they cannot,” quoth Roger.
“An hour before vespers. Go.”
So before sunset the lances came through the forest to Alnod's hall, and Eadmund ran out to see the bastard at his gate. “Surely my lord does me too great honour.” He smiled.
“Where is thy friend Alnod?”
“Friend, my lord? Friend of the perjured Godwin's son, for whom he fought and died.”
“Sayest thou?”—the grey eyes tore him asunder—“Roger, bring me out the woman.”
Eadmund licked his lips. “Sure, my lord, this man was thy foe, and I have stood truly thy friend. Thou wilt not gainsay is”
“Par le resplendor Dé, am I to be the tool of thy vice?” William roared and the ruddy face blenched. Stumbling, swaying, Ealgyfu came out in Roger's grip. The black brow lowered upon her. “Woman, how died thy lord?”
Her white lips quivered and no words came. Her eyes were mad with terror. Eadmund spoke smoothly. “Sure, my lord, this is ill reason. The man fought against thee till he was wounded sore and crept hither to die. No man slew him but thy men.” A monk came out from the horsemen and passed into the hall. “I protest, my lord, I have done thee right good service,” Eadmund cried, “and this is ill reward.”
“No man serves me who serves not God's law.”
He saw a sneer turn the beautiful lips.
“Par le resplendor Dé, no man of mine hurts other without hurt, ay, though he be my mother's son. In my land law is king.”
The monk came out again. “This dead man hath such a wound that he could not have walked one pace with it.”
William flung out his arm. “Hang the knave up!” he cried, and they took and hanged Eadmund on the oak tree by the gate and Ealgyfu saw him die.
She shrieked and shrieked again, and then fell silent, all aspen, like one with the palsy. “For thee, woman,” William growled, “a new lord shall rule thee. Take her and her all, Roger. Teach her faith.”
Roger caught her to him, laughing, and at the grip she swooned.
Then William rode away, and as he went he swore with a great oath, “I will so school England that a maid may go through the land with a bosom of gold.”
Craddock the fool lay weeping.