More Bywords

Bertram, who could neither read nor write, and knew no more Latin than his Paternoster, Credo, and Ave, absolutely did not believe his eyes and ears till he had asked the question, whether this were indeed the youth’s work.  How could it be possible to wield pen as well as lance?

But the wonder of all was the Atheling.  After an absence of more than a year, there was much to be adjusted, and his authority on his own lands was thoroughly judicial even for life or death, since even under Norman sway he held the power of an earl.

Seated in a high-backed, cross-legged chair—his majestic form commanding honour and respect—he heard one after another causes that came before him, reserved for his judgment, questions of heirship, disputes about cattle, complaints of thievery, encroachments on land; and Bertram, listening with the interest that judgment never fails to excite, was deeply impressed with the clear-headedness, the ready thought, and the justice of the decision, even when the dispute lay between Saxon and Norman, always with reference to the laws of Alfred and Edward which he seemed to carry in his head.

Indeed, ere long, two Norman knights, hearing of the Atheling’s return, came to congratulate him, and lay before him a dispute of boundaries which they declared they would rather entrust to him than to any other.  And they treated him far more as a prince than as a Saxon churl.

They willingly accepted his invitation to go in to the feast of welcome, and a noble one it was, with music and minstrelsy, hospitality to all around, plenty and joy, wassail bowls going round, and the Atheling presiding over it, and with a strange and quiet influence, breaking up the entertainment in all good will, by the memory of his sweet sister Margaret’s grace-cup, ere mirth had become madness, or the English could incur their reproach of coarse revelry.

“And,” as the Norman knight who had prevailed said to Bertram, “Sir Edgar the Atheling had thus shown himself truly an uncrowned King.”

IV.  WHO SHALL BE KING?

The noble cloisters of Romsey, with the grand church rising in their midst, had a lodging-place, strictly cut off from the nunnery, for male visitors.

Into this Edgar Atheling rode with his armed train, and as they entered, some strange expression in the faces of the porters and guards met them.

“Had my lord heard the news?” demanded a priest, who hastened forward, bowing low.

“No, Holy Father.  No ill of my sister?” anxiously inquired the Prince.

“The Mother Abbess is well, my Lord Atheling; but the King—William the Red—is gone to his account.  He was found two eves ago pierced to the heart with an arrow beneath an oak in Malwood Chace.”

“God have mercy on his poor soul!” ejaculated Edgar, crossing himself.  “No moment vouchsafed for penitence!  Alas!  Who did the deed, Father Dunstan?”

“That is not known,” returned the priest, “save that Walter Tyrrel is fled like a hunted felon beyond seas, and my Lord Henry to Winchester.”

Young David pressed up to his uncle’s side.

“Sir, sir,” he said, “what a time is this!  Duke Robert absent, none know where; our men used to war, all ready to gather round you.  This rule will be ended, the old race restored.  Say but the word, and I will ride back and raise our franklins as one man.  Thou wilt, too, Bertram!”

“With all mine heart!” cried Bertram.  “Let me be the first to do mine homage.”

And as Edgar Atheling stood in the outer court, with lofty head and noble thoughtful face, pure-complexioned and high-browed, each who beheld him felt that there stood a king of men.  A shout of “King Edgar!  Edgar, King of England,” echoed through the buildings; and priests, men-at-arms, and peasants began to press forward to do him homage.  But he raised his hand—

“Hold, children,” he said.  “I thank you all; but much must come ere ye imperil yourselves by making oaths to me that ye might soon have to break!  Let me pass on and see my sister.”

Abbeys were not strictly cloistered then, and the Abbess Christina was at the door, a tall woman, older than her brother, and somewhat hard-featured, and beside her was a lovely fair girl, with peach-like cheeks and bright blue eyes, who threw herself into David’s arms, full of delight.

“Brother,” said Christina, “did I hear aright?  And have they hailed thee King?  Are the years of cruel wrong ended at last?  Victor for others, wilt thou be victor for thyself?”

“What is consistent with God’s will, and with mine oaths, that I hope to do,” was Edgar’s reply.

But even as he stood beside the Abbess in the porch, without having yet entered, there was a clattering and trampling of horse, and through the gate came hastily a young man in a hauberk, with a ring of gold about his helmet, holding out his hands as he saw the Atheling.

“Sire Edgar,” he said, “I knew not I should find you here, when I came to pay my first devoirs as a King to the Lady Mother Abbess” (he kissed her unwilling hand) “and the Lady Edith.”

Edith turned away a blushing face, and the Abbess faltered—

“As a King?”

“Yea, lady.  As such have I been owned by all at Winchester.  I should be at Westminster for my Coronation, save that I turned from my course to win her who shall share my crown.”

“Is it even thus, Henry?” said Edgar.  “Hast not thought of other rights?”

“Of that crazed fellow Robert’s?” demanded Henry.  “Trouble not thine head for him!  Even if he came back living from this Holy War in the East, my father had too much mercy on England to leave it to the like of him.”

“There be other and older rights, Sir Henry,” said the Abbess.

Henry looked up for a moment in some consternation.  “Ho!  Sir Edgar, thou hast been so long a peaceful man that I had forgotten.  Thou knowest thy day went by with Hereward le Wake.  See, fair Edith and I know one another—she shall be my Queen.”

“Veiled and vowed,” began the Abbess.

“Oh, not yet!  Tell her not yet!” whispered Edith in David’s ear.

“Thou little traitress!  Wed thy house’s foe, who takes thine uncle’s place?  Nay!  I will none of thee,” said David, shaking her off roughly; but her uncle threw his arm round her kindly.

At that moment a Norman knight spurred up to Henry with some communication that made him look uneasy, and Christina, laying her hand on Edgar’s arm, said: “Brother, we have vaults.  Thy troop outnumbers his.  The people of good old Wessex are with thee!  Now is thy time!  Save thy country.  Restore the line and laws of Alfred and Edward.”

“Thou know’st not what thou wouldst have, Christina,” said Edgar.  “One sea of blood wherever a Norman castle rises!  I love my people too well to lead them to a fruitless struggle with all the might of Normandy unless I saw better hope than lies before me now!  Mind thee, I swore to Duke William that I would withstand neither him nor any son of his whom the English duly hailed.  Yet, I will see how it is with this young man,” he added, as she fell back muttering, “Craven!  Who ever won throne without blood?”

Henry had an anxious face when he turned from his knight, who, no doubt, had told him how completely he was in the Atheling’s power.

“Sir Edgar,” he said, “a word with you.  Winchester is not far off—nor Porchester—nor my brother William’s Free companies, and his treasure.  Normans will scarce see Duke William’s son tampered with, nor bow their heads to the English!”

“Belike, Henry of Normandy,” said Edgar, rising above him in his grave majesty.  “Yet have I a question or two to put to thee.  Thou art a graver, more scholarly man than thy brother, less like to be led away by furies.  Have the people of England and Normandy sworn to thee willingly as their King?”

“Even so, in the Minster,” Henry began, and would have said more, but Edgar again made his gesture of authority.

“Wilt thou grant them the charter of Alfred and Edward, with copies spread throughout the land?”

“I will.”

“Wilt thou do equal justice between English and Norman?”

“To the best of my power.”

“Wilt thou bring home the Archbishop, fill up the dioceses, do thy part by the Church?”

“So help me God, I will.”

“Then, Henry of Normandy, I, Edgar Atheling, kiss thine hand, and become thy man; and may God deal with thee, as thou dost with England.”

The noble form of Edgar bent before the slighter younger figure of Henry, who burst into tears, genuine at the moment, and vowed most earnestly to be a good King to the entire people.  No doubt, he meant it—then.

And now—far more humbly, he made his suit to the Atheling for the hand of his niece.

Edgar took her apart.  “Edith, canst thou brook this man?”