Book: Harold, Book 2.
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Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Harold, Book 2.
William's face changed remarkably, despite all his dissimulation; and,
with a slight inclination of his head, he strode on moody and
irritated.
"This Harold! this Harold!" he muttered to himself, "all brave men
speak to me of this Harold! Even my Norman knights name him with
reluctant reverence, and even his foes do him honour;--verily his
shadow is cast from exile over all the land."
Thus murmuring, he passed the throng with less than his wonted affable
grace, and pushing back the officers who wished to precede him,
entered, without ceremony, Edward's private chamber.
The King was alone, but talking loudly to himself, gesticulating
vehemently, and altogether so changed from his ordinary placid apathy
of mien, that William drew back in alarm and awe. Often had he heard
indirectly, that of late years Edward was said to see visions, and be
rapt from himself into the world of spirit and shadow; and such, he
now doubted not, was the strange paroxysm of which he was made the
witness. Edward's eyes were fixed on him, but evidently without
recognising his presence; the King's hands were outstretched, and he
cried aloud in a voice of sharp anguish:
"Sanguelac, Sanguelac!--the Lake of Blood!--the waves spread, the
waves redden! Mother of mercy--where is the ark?--where the Ararat?--
Fly--fly--this way--this--" and he caught convulsive hold of William's
arm. "No! there the corpses are piled--high and higher--there the
horse of the Apocalypse tramples the dead in their gore."
In great horror, William took the King, now gasping on his breast, in
his arms, and laid him on his bed, beneath its canopy of state, all
blazoned with the martlets and cross of his insignia. Slowly Edward
came to himself, with heavy sighs; and when at length he sate up and
looked round, it was with evident unconsciousness of what had passed
across his haggard and wandering spirit, for he said, with his usual
drowsy calmness:
"Thanks, Guillaume, bien aime, for rousing me from unseasoned sleep.
How fares it with thee?"
"Nay, how with thee, dear friend and king? thy dreams have been
troubled."
"Not so; I slept so heavily, methinks I could not have dreamed at all.
But thou art clad as for a journey--spur on thy heel, staff in thy
hand!"
"Long since, O dear host, I sent Odo to tell thee of the ill news from
Normandy that compelled me to depart."
"I remember--I remember me now," said Edward, passing his pale womanly
fingers over his forehead. "The heathen rage against thee. Ah! my
poor brother, a crown is an awful head-gear. While yet time, why not
both seek some quiet convent, and put away these earthly cares?"
William smiled and shook his head. "Nay, holy Edward, from all I have
seen of convents, it is a dream to think that the monk's serge hides a
calmer breast than the warrior's mail, or the king's ermine. Now give
me thy benison, for I go."
He knelt as he spoke, and Edward bent his hands over his head, and
blessed him. Then, taking from his own neck a collar of zimmes
(jewels and uncut gems), of great price, the King threw it over the
broad throat bent before him, and rising, clapped his hands. A small
door opened, giving a glimpse of the oratory within, and a monk
appeared.
"Father, have my behests been fulfilled?--hath Hugoline, my treasurer,
dispensed the gifts that I spoke of?"
"Verily yes; vault, coffer, and garde-robe--stall and meuse.-are well
nigh drained," answered the monk, with a sour look at the Norman,
whose native avarice gleamed in his dark eyes as he heard the answer.
"Thy train go not hence empty-handed," said Edward fondly. "Thy
father's halls sheltered the exile, and the exile forgets not the sole
pleasure of a king--the power to requite. We may never meet again,
William,--age creeps over me, and who will succeed to my thorny
throne?" William longed to answer,--to tell the hope that consumed
him,--to remind his cousin of the vague promise in their youth, that
the Norman Count should succeed to that "thorny throne:" but the
presence of the Saxon monk repelled him, nor was there in Edward's
uneasy look much to allure him on.
"But peace," continued the King, "be between thine and mine, as
between thee and me!"
"Amen," said the Duke, "and I leave thee at least free from the proud
rebels who so long disturbed thy reign. This House of Godwin, thou
wilt not again let it tower above thy palace?"
"Nay, the future is with God and his saints;" answered Edward, feebly.
"But Godwin is old--older than I, and bowed by many storms."
"Ay, his sons are more to be dreaded and kept aloof--mostly Harold!"
"Harold,--he was ever obedient, he alone of his kith; truly my soul
mourns for Harold," said the King, sighing.
"The serpent's egg hatches but the serpent. Keep thy heel on it,"
said William, sternly.
"Thou speakest well," said the irresolute prince, who never seemed
three days or three minutes together in the same mind. "Harold is in
Ireland--there let him rest: better for all."
"For all," said the Duke; "so the saints keep thee, O royal saint!"
He kissed the King's hand, and strode away to the hall where Odo,
Fitzosborne, and the priest Lanfranc awaited him. And so that day,
halfway towards the fair town of Dover, rode Duke William, and by the
side of his roan barb ambled the priest's palfrey.
Behind came his gallant train, and with tumbrils and sumpter-mules
laden with baggage, and enriched by Edward's gifts; while Welch hawks,
and steeds of great price from the pastures of Surrey and the plains
of Cambridge and York, attested no less acceptably than zimme, and
golden chain, and embroidered robe, the munificence of the grateful
King. [68]
As they journeyed on, and the fame of the Duke's coming was sent
abroad by the bodes or messengers, despatched to prepare the towns
through which he was to pass for an arrival sooner than expected, the
more highborn youths of England, especially those of the party counter
to that of the banished Godwin, came round the ways to gaze upon that
famous chief, who, from the age of fifteen, had wielded the most
redoubtable sword of Christendom. And those youths wore the Norman
garb: and in the towns, Norman counts held his stirrup to dismount,
and Norman hosts spread the fastidious board; and when, at the eve of
the next day, William saw the pennon of one of his own favourite
chiefs waving in the van of armed men, that sallied forth from the
towers of Dover (the key of the coast) he turned to the Lombard, still
by his side, and said:
"Is not England part of Normandy already?"
And the Lombard answered:
"The fruit is well nigh ripe, and the first breeze will shake it to
thy feet. Put not out thy hand too soon. Let the wind do its work."
And the Duke made reply:
"As thou thinkest, so think I. And there is but one wind in the halls
of heaven that can waft the fruit to the feet of another."
"And that?" asked the Lombard.
"Is the wind that blows from the shores of Ireland, when it fills the
sails of Harold, son of Godwin."
"Thou fearest that man, and why?" asked the Lombard with interest.
And the Duke answered:
"Because in the breast of Harold beats the heart of England."