Book: Harold, Book 4.
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Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Harold, Book 4.
"That thy suit is just," answered Harold, calmly, "but urged with
small reverence."
Earl Algar bounded like a stag that the arrow hath startled.
"It becomes thee, who hast backed thy suits with warships and mail, to
talk of reverence, and rebuke one whose fathers reigned over earldoms
[122], when thine were, no doubt, ceorls at the plough. But for Edric
Streone, the traitor and low-born, what had been Wolnoth, thy
grandsire?"
So rude and home an assault in the presence of the King, who, though
personally he loved Harold in his lukewarm way, yet, like all weak
men, was not displeased to see the strong split their strength against
each other, brought the blood into Harold's cheek; but he answered
calmly:
"We live in a land, son of Leofric, in which birth, though not
disesteemed, gives of itself no power in council or camp. We belong
to a land where men are valued for what they are, not for what their
dead ancestors might have been. So has it been for ages in Saxon
England, where my fathers, through Godwin, as thou sayest, might have
been ceorls; and so, I have heard, it is in the land of the martial
Danes, where my fathers, through Githa, reigned on the thrones of the
North."
"Thou dost well," said Algar, gnawing his lip, "to shelter thyself on
the spindle side, but we Saxons of pure descent think little of your
kings of the North, pirates and idolaters, and eaters of horseflesh;
but enjoy what thou hast, and let Algar have his clue."
"It is for the King, not his servant, to answer the prayer of Algar,"
said Harold, withdrawing to the farther end of the room.
Algar's eye followed him, and observing that the King was fast sinking
into one of the fits of religious reverie in which he sought to be
inspired with a decision, whenever his mind was perplexed, he moved
with a light step to Harold, put his band on his shoulder, and
whispered:
"We do ill to quarrel with each other--I repent me of hot words--
enough. Thy father is a wise man, and sees far--thy father would have
us friends. Be it so. Hearken my daughter Aldyth is esteemed not the
least fair of the maidens in England; I will give her to thee as thy
wife, and as thy morgen gift, thou shalt will for me from the King the
earldom forfeited by thy brother Sweyn, now parcelled out amongst sub-
earls and thegns--easy enow to control. By the shrine of St. Alban,
dost thou hesitate, man?"
"No, not an instant," said Harold, stung to the quick. "Not, couldst
thou offer me all Mercia as her dower, would I wed the daughter of
Algar; and bend my knee, as a son to a wife's father, to the man who
despises my lineage, while he truckles to my power."
Algar's face grew convulsed with rage; but without saying a word to
the Earl he strode back to Edward, who now with vacant eyes looked up
from the rosary over which he had been bending, and said abruptly:
"My lord the King, I have spoken as I think it becomes a man who
knows his own claims, and believes in the gratitude of princes. Three
days will I tarry in London for your gracious answer; on the fourth I
depart. May the saints guard your throne, and bring around it its
best defence, the thegn-born satraps whose fathers fought with Alfred
and Athelstan. All went well with merrie England till the hoof of the
Dane King broke the soil, and mushrooms sprung up where the oak-trees
fell."
When the son of Leofric had left the chamber, the King rose wearily
and said in Norman French, to which language he always yearningly
returned when with those who could speak it:
"Beau frere and bien aime, in what trifles must a king pass his life!
And, all this while, matters grave and urgent demand me. Know that
Eadmer, the cheapman, waits without, and hath brought me, dear and
good man, the thumb of St. Jude! What thought of delight! And this
unmannerly son of strife, with his jay's voice and wolf's eyes,
screaming at me for earldoms!--oh the folly of man! Naught, naught,
very naught!"
"Sir and King," said Harold; "it ill becomes me to arraign your pious
desires, but these relics are of vast cost; our coasts are ill
defended, and the Dane yet lays claim to your kingdom. Three thousand
pounds of silver and more does it need to repair even the old wall of
London and Southweorc."
"Three thousand pounds!" cried the King; "thou art mad, Harold! I
have scarce twice that sum in the treasury; and besides the thumb of
St. Jude, I daily expect the tooth of St. Remigius--the tooth of St.
Remigius!"
Harold sighed. "Vex not yourself, my lord, I will see to the defences
of London. For, thanks to your grace, my revenues are large, while my
wants are simple. I seek you now to pray your leave to visit my
earldom. My lithsmen murmur at my absence, and grievances, many and
sore, have arisen in my exile."
The King stared in terror; and his look was that of a child when about
to be left in the dark.
"Nay, nay; I cannot spare thee, beau frere. Thou curbest all these
stiff thegns--thou leavest me time for the devout; moreover, thy
father, thy father, I will not be left to thy father! I love him
not!"
"My father," said Harold, mournfully, "returns to his own earldom; and
of all our House you will have but the mild face of your queen by your
side!"
The King's lip writhed at that hinted rebuke, or implied consolation.
"Edith the Queen," he said, after a slight pause, "is pious and good;
and she hath never gainsaid my will, and she hath set before her as a
model the chaste Susannah, as I, unworthy man, from youth upward, have
walked in the pure steps of Joseph [123]. But," added the King, with
a touch of human feeling in his voice, "canst thou not conceive,
Harold, thou who art a warrior, what it would be to see ever before
thee the face of thy deadliest foe--the one against whom all thy
struggles of life and death had turned into memories of hyssop and
gall?"
"My sister!" exclaimed Harold, in indignant amaze, "My sister thy
deadliest foe! She who never once murmured at neglect, disgrace--she
whose youth hath been consumed in prayers for thee and thy realm--my
sister! O King, I dream?"
"Thou dreamest not, carnal man," said the King, peevishly. "Dreams
are the gifts of the saints, and are not granted to such as thou!
Dost thou think that, in the prune of my manhood, I could have youth
and beauty forced on my sight, and hear man's law and man's voice say,
'They are thine, and thine only,' and not feel that war was brought to
my hearth, and a snare set on my bed, and that the fiend had set watch
on my soul? Verily, I tell thee, man of battle, that thou hast known
no strife as awful as mine, and achieved no victory as hard and as
holy. And now, when my beard is silver, and the Adam of old is
expelled at the precincts of death; now, thinkest thou, that I can be
reminded of the strife and temptation of yore, without bitterness and
shame; when days were spent in fasting, and nights in fierce prayer;
and in the face of woman I saw the devices of Satan?"
Edward coloured as he spoke, and his voice trembled with the accents
of what seemed hate. Harold gazed on him mutely, and felt that at
last he had won the secret that had ever perplexed him, and that in
seeking to be above the humanity of love, the would-be saint had
indeed turned love into the hues of hate--a thought of anguish, and a
memory of pain.
The King recovered himself in a few moments, and said, with some
dignity, "But God and his saints alone should know the secrets of the
household. What I have said was wrung from me. Bury it in thy heart.
Leave me, then, Harold, sith so it must be. Put thine earldom in
order, attend to the monasteries and the poor, and return soon. As
for Algar, what sayest thou?"
"I fear me," answered the large-souled Harold, with a victorious
effort of justice over resentment, "that if you reject his suit you
will drive him into some perilous extremes. Despite his rash and
proud spirit, he is brave against foes, and beloved by the ceorls, who
oft like best the frank and hasty spirit. Wherefore some power and
lordship it were wise to give, without dispossessing others, and not
more wise than due, for his father served you well."
"And hath endowed more houses of God than any earl in the kingdom.
But Algar is no Leofric. We will consider your words and heed them.
Bless you, beau frere! and send in the cheapman. The thumb of St.
Jude! What a gift to my new church of St. Peter! The thumb of St.
Jude! Non nobis gloria! Sancta Maria! The thumb of St. Jude!"