Harold : the Last of the Saxon Kings — Complete by Lytton (rm book recommendations .TXT) 📕

Close by his banner, amidst the piles of the dead, William the Conqueror pitched his pavilion, and sate at meat. And over all the plain, far and near, torches were moving like meteors on a marsh; for the Duke had permitted the Saxon women to search for the bodies of their lords. And as he sate, and talked, and laughed, there entered the tent two humble monks: their lowly mien, their dejected faces, their homely serge, in mournful contrast to the joy and the splendour of the Victory-Feast.

They came to the Conqueror, and knelt.

“Rise up, sons of the Church,” said William, mildly, “for sons of the Church are we! Deem not that we shall invade the rights of the religion which we have come to avenge. Nay, on this spot we have already sworn to build an abbey that shall be the proudest in the land, and where masses shall be sung evermore for the repose of the brave Normans who fell in this field, and for mine and my consort’s soul.”

“Doubtless,” said Odo, sneering, “the holy men have heard already of this pious intent, and come to pray for cells in the future abbey.”

“Not so,” said Osgood, mournfully, and in barbarous Norman; “we have our own beloved convent at Waltham, endowed by the prince whom thine arms have defeated. We come to ask but to bury in our sacred cloisters the corpse of him so lately King over all England—our benefactor, Harold.”

The Duke’s brow fell.

“And see,” said Ailred, eagerly, as he drew out a leathern pouch, “we have brought with us all the gold that our poor crypts contained, for we misdoubted this day,” and he poured out the glittering pieces at the Conqueror’s feet.

“No!” said William, fiercely, “we take no gold for a traitor’s body; no, not if Githa, the usurper’s mother, offered us its weight in the shining metal; unburied be the Accursed of the Church, and let the birds of prey feed their young with his carcase!”

Two murmurs, distinct in tone and in meaning, were heard in that assembly: the one of approval from fierce mercenaries, insolent with triumph; the other of generous discontent and indignant amaze, from the large majority of Norman nobles.

But William’s brow was still dark, and his eye still stern; for his policy confirmed his passions; and it was only by stigmatising, as dishonoured and accursed, the memory and cause of the dead King, that he could justify the sweeping spoliation of those who had fought against himself, and confiscate the lands to which his own Quens and warriors looked for their reward.

The murmurs had just died into a thrilling hush, when a woman, who had followed the monks unperceived and unheeded, passed with a swift and noiseless step to the Duke’s foot-stool; and, without bending knee to the ground, said, in a voice which, though low, was heard by all:

“Norman, in the name of the women of England, I tell thee that thou darest not do this wrong to the hero who died in defence of their hearths and their children!”

Before she spoke she had thrown back her hood; her hair dishevelled, fell over her shoulders, glittering like gold, in the blaze of the banquet-lights; and that wondrous beauty, without parallel amidst the dames of England, shone like the vision of an accusing angel, on the eyes of the startled Duke, and the breathless knights. But twice in her life Edith beheld that awful man. Once, when roused from her reverie of innocent love by the holiday pomp of his trumps and banners, the childlike maid stood at the foot of the grassy knoll; and once again, when in the hour of his triumph, and amidst the wrecks of England on the field of Sanguelac, with a soul surviving the crushed and broken heart, the faith of the lofty woman defended the Hero Dead.

There, with knee unbent, and form unquailing, with marble cheek, and haughty eye, she faced the Conqueror; and, as she ceased, his noble barons broke into bold applause.

“Who art thou?” said William, if not daunted at least amazed. “Methinks I have seen thy face before; thou art not Harold’s wife or sister?”

“Dread lord,” said Osgood; “she was the betrothed of Harold; but, as within the degrees of kin, the Church forbade their union, and they obeyed the Church.”

Out from the banquet-throng stepped Mallet de Graville. “O my liege,” said he “thou hast promised me lands and earldom; instead of these gifts undeserved, bestow on me the right to bury and to honour the remains of Harold; today I took from him my life, let me give all I can in return—a grave!”

William paused, but the sentiment of the assembly, so clearly pronounced, and, it may be, his own better nature, which, ere polluted by plotting craft, and hardened by despotic ire, was magnanimous and heroic, moved and won him. “Lady,” said he, gently, “thou appealest not in vain to Norman knighthood: thy rebuke was just; and I repent me of a hasty impulse. Mallet de Graville, thy prayer is granted; to thy choice be consigned the place of burial, to thy care the funeral rites of him whose soul hath passed out of human judgment.”

The feast was over; William the Conqueror slept on his couch, and round him slumbered his Norman knights, dreaming of baronies to come; and still the torches moved dismally to and fro the waste of death, and through the hush of night was heard near and far the wail of women.

Accompanied by the brothers of Waltham, and attended by link-bearers, Mallet de Graville was yet engaged in the search for the royal dead—and the search was vain. Deeper and stiller, the autumnal moon rose to its melancholy noon, and lent its ghastly aid to the glare of the redder lights. But, on leaving the pavilion, they had missed Edith; she had gone from them alone, and was lost in that dreadful wilderness. And Ailred said despondingly:

“Perchance we may already have seen the corpse we search for, and not recognised it; for the face may be mutilated with wounds. And therefore it is that Saxon wives and mothers haunt our battle-fields, discovering those they search by signs not known without the household.” 276

“Ay,” said the Norman, “I comprehend thee, by the letter or device, in which, according to your customs, your warriors impress on their own forms some token of affection, or some fancied charm against ill.”

“It is so,” answered the monk; “wherefore I grieve that we have lost the guidance of the maid.”

While thus conversing, they had retraced their steps, almost in despair, towards the Duke’s pavilion.

“See,” said De Graville, “how near yon lonely woman hath come to the tent of the Duke—yea, to the foot of the holy gonfanon, which supplanted ‘the Fighting Man!’ pardex, my heart bleeds to see her striving to lift up the heavy dead!”

The monks neared the spot, and Osgood exclaimed in a voice almost joyful: