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

saw his nephew yawning as if his jaw were dislocated—the Bishop of Bayeux, with his well-ringed fingers interlaced and resting on his stomach, fast asleep—Fitzosborne’s half-shaven head balancing to and fro with many an uneasy start—and, William, wide awake indeed, but with eyes fixed on vacant space, and his soul far away from the gridiron to which (all other saints be praised!) the saint of the ballad had at last happily arrived.

“A comforting and salutary recital, Count William,” said the King.

The Duke started from his reverie, and bowed his head: then said, rather abruptly, “Is not yon blazon that of King Alfred?”

“Yea. Wherefore?”

“Hem! Matilda of Flanders is in direct descent from Alfred: it is a name and a line the Saxons yet honour!”

“Surely, yes; Alfred was a great man, and reformed the Psalmster,” replied Edward.

The dirge ceased, but so benumbing had been its effect, that the torpor it created did not subside with the cause. There was a dead and funereal silence throughout the spacious hall, when suddenly, loudly, mightily, as the blast of the trumpet upon the hush of the grave, rose a single voice. All started—all turned—all looked to one direction; and they saw that the great voice pealed from the farthest end of the hall. From under his gown the gigantic stranger had drawn a small three-stringed instrument—somewhat resembling the modern lute—and thus he sang,—

THE BALLAD OF ROU. 60 I. From Blois to Senlis, wave by wave, roll’d on the Norman flood, And Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering tide of blood; There was not left in all the land a castle wall to fire, And not a wife but wailed a lord, a child but mourned a sire. To Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailed barons flew, While, shaking earth, behind them strode the thunder march of Rou. II. “O King,” then cried those barons bold, “in vain are mace and mail, We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the hail.” “And vainly,” cried the pious monks, “by Mary’s shrine we kneel, For prayers, like arrows, glance aside, against the Norman teel.” The barons groaned, the shavelings wept, while near and nearer drew, As death-birds round their scented feast, the raven flags of Rou. III. Then said King Charles, “Where thousands fail, what king can stand alone, The strength of kings is in the men that gather round the throne. When war dismays my barons bold, ‘tis time for war to cease; When Heaven forsakes my pious monks, the will of Heaven is peace. Go forth, my monks, with mass and rood the Norman camp unto, And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this grisly Rou.” IV. “I’ll give him all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him fast and sure: Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe the heathen sword, And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles his lord.” Forth went the pastors of the Church, the Shepherd’s work to do, And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins of Rou. V. Psalm-chanting came the shaven monks, within the camp of dread; Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by the head. Out spoke the Frank Archbishop then, a priest devout and sage, “When peace and plenty wait thy word, what need of war and rage? Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue, Which might be thine to sow and reap?”—Thus saith the King to Rou. VI. “‘I’ll give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee fast and sure; If then but kneel to Christ our God, and sheathe thy paynim sword, And hold thy land, the Church’s son, a fief from Charles thy lord.” The Norman on his warriors looked—to counsel they withdrew; The saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou. VII. So back he strode and thus he spoke, to that Archbishop meek: “I take the land thy king bestows from Eure to Michael-peak, I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the toast, And for thy creed, a sea-king’s gods are those that give the most. So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer true, And he shall find a docile son, and ye a saint in Rou.” VIII. So o’er the border stream of Epte came Rou the Norman, where, Begirt with barons, sat the King, enthroned at green St. Clair; He placed his hand in Charles’s hand,—loud shouted all the throng, But tears were in King Charles’s eyes—the grip of Rou was strong. “Now kiss the foot,” the Bishop said, “that homage still is due;” Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert, Rou. IX. He takes the foot, as if the foot to slavish lips to bring; The Normans scowl; he tilts the throne, and backwards falls the King. Loud laugh the joyous Norman men—pale stare the Franks aghast; And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs up the mast; “I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal too; The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss!” said Rou.

No words can express the excitement which this rough minstrelsy—marred as it is by our poor translation from the Romance-tongue in which it was chanted—produced amongst the Norman guests; less perhaps, indeed, the song itself, than the recognition of the minstrel; and as he closed, from more than a hundred voices came the loud murmur, only subdued from a shout by the royal presence, “Taillefer, our Norman Taillefer!”

“By our joint saint, Peter, my cousin the King,” exclaimed William, after a frank cordial laugh; “Well I wot, no tongue less free than my warrior minstrel’s could have so shocked our ears. Excuse his bold theme, for the sake of his bold heart, I pray thee; and since I know well” (here the Duke’s face grew grave and anxious) “that nought save urgent and weighty news from my stormy realm could have brought over this rhyming petrel, permit the officer behind me to lead hither a bird, I fear, of omen as well as of song.”

“Whatever pleases thee, pleases me,” said Edward, drily; and he gave the order to the attendant. In a few moments, up the space in the hall, between either table, came the large stride of the famous minstrel, preceded by the officer and followed by the ecclesiastic. The hoods of both were now thrown back, and discovered countenances in strange contrast, but each equally worthy of the attention it provoked. The face of the minstrel was open and sunny as the day; and that of the priest, dark and close as night. Thick curls of deep auburn (the most common colour for the locks of the Norman) wreathed in careless disorder round Taillefer’s massive unwrinkled brow. His eye, of light hazel, was bold and joyous; mirth, though sarcastic and sly, mantled round his lips. His whole presence was at once engaging and heroic.

On the other hand, the priest’s cheek was dark and sallow; his features singularly delicate and refined; his forehead high, but somewhat narrow, and crossed with lines of thought; his mien composed, modest, but not without calm self-confidence. Amongst that assembly of soldiers, noiseless, self-collected, and conscious of his surpassing power over swords and mail, moved the SCHOLAR.

William’s keen eye rested on the priest with some surprise, not unmixed with pride and ire; but first addressing Taillefer, who now gained the foot of the dais, he said, with a familiarity almost fond:

“Now, by’re Lady, if thou bringest not ill news, thy gay face, man, is