Book: Hereward, The Last of the English

C >> Charles Kingsley >> Hereward, The Last of the English




She cast a passing glance at the girl who lay by her, sleeping a pure and
gentle sleep--

"O that thou hadst but been a boy!" Then she thought no more of her, not
even of Hereward: 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 ankle deep in snow.
The branches over her head might have been howling in the tempest, or
dripping with rain. She knew not, and heeded not. The 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. She 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 him 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 path 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?"

"O, a wise lady! A reasonable lady! But you will be cold before you get
thither. There will be a frost ere morn. So, when I saw you run out, I
caught up something to put over you."

Torfrida shuddered, as Martin wrapped her in the white bearskin.

"No! Not that! Anything but that!" and she struggled to shake it off.

"Then you will be dead ere dawn. Folks that run wild in the forest thus,
for but one night, die!"

"Would God I could die!"

"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,
Hereward's man, upon my master's business."

"What is mine is Hereward'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 cry, 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 fearfully next
morning how a white ghost had gone down from the forest to the fen, and
wakened them with its unearthly cry.

The sun was high when they came to Crowland minster. Torfrida had neither
spoken nor stirred; and Martin, who in the midst of his madness kept a
strange courtesy and delicacy, had never disturbed her, save to wrap the
bear-skin more closely over her.

When they came to the bank, she rose, stepped out without his help, and
drawing the bear-skin closely round her, and over her head, walked
straight up to the 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.

The portress looked through 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? 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 garments 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's 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? What brings you here?"

"I am doing penance for my sins."

"And your feet all cut and bleeding."

"Are they?" 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 woke with a start.

"Where am I? Hereward!"

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,
which 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 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 has fallen! Hereward!
Hereward! That thy mother should wish her last child laid in his grave!"

"Not so," said Torfrida, "it is well as it is. How better? It is his only
chance for comfort, for honor, for life itself. He would have grown a--I
was growing bad and foul myself in that ugly wilderness. Now he will be a
knight once more among knights, and win himself fresh honor in fresh
fields. Let him marry her. Why not? 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, though 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 forever. 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 thy poor girl?"

"He will let her come hither," 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?" 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 the scissors."

And Torfrida cut off her raven locks, now streaked with gray, and put on
the nun's dress, and became a nun thenceforth.

On the 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 they took a bloodhound, and he led them to
Grimkel's hut. There they heard of Martin. The ghost must have been
Torfrida. 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 nun's house door, and went into the
monastery, where he had friends enow, runaway and renegade 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 renounced the Devil and
this last work of his?"

"What work? What devil?" 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 with my axe; but she
got it from me, and threw it in among the holy sisters, and I had work to
get it again. Shame on her, to spoil my chance of heaven! For I should
have surely won heaven, you know, if I 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 honor! O 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? If so, you are right,
Martin, and there is naught 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 penance he thought 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.

So 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 him, Ulfketyl
arose from his high chair and spoke.

"Shall we, 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 naught 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 him in the first instant why. For he went into
the chamber, and there, upon the floor, lay the letter which he had looked
for in vain.

No one 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
Shakespeare, he is Shakespeare, and like Shakespeare 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?

So he rode down to the river, and there took two great barges, and rowed
away to Crowland, with forty men-at-arms.

And all the while he thought of Alftruda, as he hai 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 wearying were the hours through
mere and sea. How wearying the monotonous pulse of the oars. If tobacco
had been known then, Hereward would have smoked all the way, and been none
the wiser, though 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; 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 the past, would he not ignore it? Would he
not forget Alftruda, and King William, and all the world, and go up with
her into Sherwood, and then north to Scotland and Gospatrick, and be a man
once more?

No. He would go with her to the Baltic or the Mediterranean.
Constantinople 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,--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 that he loved her still; and
that, therefore--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 their heads.

"That would be pity, seeing they are the only Englishmen left in England,"
said Siward the White, his nephew, very simply.

"What is that to thee? Thou hast helped to burn Peterborough at my
bidding; 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 Varanger guard, and shall
not burn Crowland, or let any man burn it."

"Shall not let?"

"No," said the young man, so quietly, that Hereward was cowed.

"I--I only meant--if they did not do right by me."

"Do right thyself," said Siward.

Hereward swore awfully, and laid his hand on his sword-hilt. But he did
not draw it; for he thought he saw overhead a cloud which 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 him 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 head, and said, like a valiant
Dane, as his name bespoke him: "Against the traitor and the adulterer--"

"I am neither," roared Hereward.

"Thou wouldst be, if thou couldst. Whoso looketh upon a woman to--"

"Preach me no sermons, man! Let me in to seek my wife."

"Over my body," 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
her."

"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 the roofs of Crowland burn till the flame reaches
heaven, for a sign that the 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 back from him. He felt as if God,
and the Mother of God, and St. Guthlac, and all the host of heaven, were
shrinking back from him likewise. He turned to supplications,
compromises,--what else was left?

"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 honor, and that he must have been changed at nurse."

"Tell him," said Torfrida, "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 Torfrida. 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 armor came with
them.

Torfrida gave all to the abbey, there and then. Only the armor 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 armor 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, humility, 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 poor
corrodiers, and nursed the sick, and taught the children, and went to and
fro upon her holy errands, blessing and blessed, the two wild men had 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.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

HOW HEREWARD LOST SWORD BRAIN-BITER.


"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
Bruneswald, and behind him Geri, Wenoch, and Matelgar, 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 Bruneswald,
Hereward thought 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 Bruneswald for
many a day."

"And I am Letwold the Englishman, who rides whither he will in merry
England, without care for any Frenchman upon earth."

"Frenchman? 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 provoke thine own
death; and a greater--"

"Spare your breath," said the big man, "and let me try Hereward, 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 themselves both rolling on the ground; jumped up, drew their
swords, and hewed away at each other. Geri unhorsed his man at the first
charge, and left him stunned. Then he turned on another, and did the same
by him. Wenoch and Matelgar each upset their man. The fifth of Letwold's
knights threw up his lance-point, not liking his new company. Geri 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? Kill or die single, has been our
rule, and shall be."

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.