“Why do you call me Majesty? The King is Majesty.”

“You are my Queen.”

“What do you mean, man?”

“You can hang me.”

“I hang thee, poor soul! Who did I ever hang, or hurt for a moment, if I could help it?”

“But the Earl may.”

“He will neither hang nor hurt thee if thou wilt take this letter safely, and bring me back the answer safely.”

“They will kill me.”

“Who?”

“They,” said Martin, pointing to the bower maidens,—young ladies of good family who stood round, chosen for their good looks, after the fashion of those times, to attend on great ladies. There was a cry of angry and contemptuous denial, not unmixed with something like laughter, which showed that Martin had but spoken the truth. Hereward, in spite of all his sins, was the darling of his mother’s bower; and there was not one of the damsels but would have done anything short of murder to have prevented Martin carrying the letter.

“Silence, man!” said Lady Godiva, so sternly that Martin saw that he had gone too far. “How know’st such as thou what is in this letter?”

“Those others will know,” said Martin, sullenly, without answering the last question.

“Who?”

“His housecarles outside there.”

“He has promised that they shall not touch thee. But how knowest thou what is in this letter?”

“I will take it,” said Martin: he held out his hand, took it and looked at it, but upside down, and without any attempt to read it.

“His own mother,” said he, after a while.

“What is that to thee?” said Lady Godiva, blushing and kindling.

“Nothing: I had no mother. But God has one!”

“What meanest thou, knave? Wilt thou take the letter or no?”

“I will take it.” And he again looked at it without rising off his knee. “His own father, too.”

“What is that to thee, I say again?”

“Nothing: I have no father. But God’s Son has one!”

“What wilt thou, thou strange man?” asked she, puzzled and half-frightened; “and how camest thou to know what is in this letter?”

“Who does not know? A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. On the fourth day from this I will be back.”

And Martin rose, and putting the letter solemnly into the purse at his girdle, shot out of the door with clenched teeth, as a man upon a fixed purpose which it would lighten his heart to carry out. He ran rapidly through the large outer hall, past the long oak table, at which Hereward and his boon companions were drinking and roistering; and as he passed the young lord he cast on him a look so full of meaning, that though Hereward knew not what the meaning was, it startled him, and for a moment softened him. Did this man who had sullenly avoided him for more than two years, whom he had looked on as a clod or a post in the field beneath his notice, since he could be of no use to him,—did this man still care for him? Hereward had reason to know better than most that there was something strange and uncanny about the man. Did he mean him well? Or had he some grudge against him, which made him undertake this journey willingly and out of spite?—possibly with the will to make bad worse. For an instant Hereward’s heart misgave him. He would stop the letter at all risks. “Hold him!” he cried to his comrades.

But Martin turned to him, laid his finger on his lips, smiled kindly, and saying “You promised!” caught up a loaf from the table, slipped from among them like an eel, and darted out of the door, and out of the close. They followed him to the great gate, and there stopped, some cursing, some laughing. To give Martin Lightfoot a yard advantage was never to come up with him again. Some called for bows to bring him down with a parting shot. But Hereward forbade them; and stood leaning against the gate-post, watching him trot on like a lean wolf over the lawn, till he was lost in the great elm-woods which fringed the southern fen.

“Now, lads,” said Hereward, “home with you all, and make your peace with your fathers. In this house you never drink ale again.”

They looked at him, surprised.

“You are disbanded, my gallant army. As long as I could cut long thongs out of other men’s hides, I could feed you like earl’s sons: but now I must feed myself; and a dog over his bone wants no company. Outlawed I shall be before the week is out; and unless you wish to be outlawed too, you will obey orders, and home.”

“We will follow you to the world’s end,” cried some.

“To the rope’s end, lads: that is all you will get in my company. Go home with you, and those who feel a calling, let them turn monks; and those who have not, let them learn

 
     ‘For to plough and to sow,
       And to reap and to mow,
        And to be a farmer’s boy.’
 

Good night.”

And he went in, and shut the great gates after him, leaving them astonished.

To take his advice, and go home, was the simplest thing to be done. A few of them on their return were soundly thrashed, and deserved it; a few were hidden by their mothers for a week, in hay-lofts and hen-roosts, till their father’s anger had passed away. But only one turned monk or clerk, and that was Leofric the Unlucky, godson of the great earl, and poet-in-ordinary to the band.

The next morning at dawn Hereward mounted his best horse, armed himself from head to foot, and rode over to Peterborough.

When he came to the abbey-gate, he smote thereon with his lance-but, till the porter’s teeth rattled in his head for fear.

“Let me in!” he shouted. “I am Hereward Leofricsson. I must see my Uncle Brand.”

“O my most gracious lord!” cried the porter, thrusting his head out of the wicket, “what is this that you have been doing to our Steward?”

“The tithe of what I will do, unless you open the gate!”

“O my lord!” said the porter, as he opened it, “if our Lady and St. Peter would but have mercy on your fair face, and convert your soul to the fear of God and man—”

“She would make me as good an old fool as you. Fetch my uncle, the Prior.”

The porter obeyed. The son of Earl Leofric was as a young lion among the sheep in those parts; and few dare say him nay, certainly not the monks of Peterborough; moreover, the good porter could not help being strangely fond of Hereward—as was every one whom he did not insult, rob, or kill.

Out came Brand, a noble elder: more fit, from his eye and gait, to be a knight than a monk. He looked sadly at Hereward.

“‘Dear is bought the honey that is licked off the thorn,’ quoth Hending,” said he.

“Hending bought his wisdom by experience, I suppose,” said Hereward, “and so must I. So I am just starting out to see the world, uncle.”

“Naughty, naughty boy! If we had thee safe here again for a week, we would take this hot blood out of thee, and send thee home in thy right mind.”

“Bring a rod and whip me, then. Try, and you shall have your chance. Every one else has had, and this is the end of their labors.”

“By the chains of St. Peter,” quoth the monk, “that is just what thou needest. Hoist thee on such another fool’s back, truss thee up, and lay it on lustily, till thou art ashamed. To treat thee as a man is only to make thee a more heady blown-up ass than thou art already.”

“True, most wise uncle. And therefore my still wiser parents are going to treat me like a man indeed, and send me out into the world to seek my fortunes!”

“Eh?”

“They are going to prove how thoroughly they trust me to take care of myself, by outlawing me. Eh? say I in return. Is not that an honor, and a proof that I have not shown myself a fool, though I may have a madman?”

“Outlaw you? O my boy, my darling, my pride! Get off your horse, and don’t sit there, hand on hip, like a turbaned Saracen, defying God and man; but come down and talk reason to me, for the sake of St. Peter and all saints.”

Hereward threw himself off his horse, and threw his arms round his uncle’s neck.

“Pish! Now, uncle, don’t cry, do what you will, lest I cry too. Help me to be a man while I live, even if I go to the black place when I die.”

“It shall not be!” .... and the monk swore by all the relics in Peterborough minster.

“It must be. It shall be. I like to be outlawed. I want to be outlawed. It makes one feel like a man. There is not an earl in England, save my father, who has not been outlawed in his time. My brother Alfgar will be outlawed before he dies, if he has the spirit of a man in him. It is the fashion, my uncle, and I must follow it. So hey for the merry greenwood, and the long ships, and the swan’s bath, and all the rest of it. Uncle, you will lend me fifty silver pennies?”

“I? I would not lend thee one, if I had it, which I have not. And yet, old fool that I am, I believe I would.”

“I would pay thee back honestly. I shall go down to Constantinople to the Varangers, get my Polotaswarf [Footnote: See “The Heimskringla,” Harold Hardraade’s Saga, for the meaning of this word.] out of the Kaiser’s treasure, and pay thee back five to one.”

“What does this son of Belial here?” asked an austere voice.

“Ah! Abbot Leofric, my very good lord. I have come to ask hospitality of you for some three days. By that time I shall be a wolf’s head, and out of the law: and then, if you will give me ten minutes’ start, you may put your bloodhounds on my track, and see which runs fastest, they or I. You are a gentleman, and a man of honor; so I trust to you to feed my horse fairly the meanwhile, and not to let your monks poison me.”

The Abbot’s face relaxed. He tried to look as solemn as he could; but he ended in bursting into a very great laughter, and swearing likewise.

“The insolence of this lad passes the miracles of all saints. He robs St. Peter on the highway, breaks into his abbey, insults him to his face, and then asks him for hospitality; and—”

“And gets it,” quoth Hereward.

“What is to be done with him, Brand, my friend? If we turn him out—”

“Which we cannot do,” said Brand, looking at the well-mailed and armed lad, “without calling in half a dozen of our men-at-arms.”

“In which case there would be blood shed, and scandal made in the holy precincts.”

“And nothing gained; for yield he would not till he was killed outright, which God forbid!”

“Amen. And if he stay here, he may be persuaded to repentance.”

“And restitution.”

“As for that,” quoth Hereward (who had remounted his horse from prudential motives, and set him athwart the gateway, so that there was no chance of the doors being slammed behind him), “if either of you will lend me sixteen pence, I will pay it back to you and St. Peter before I die, with interest enough to satisfy any Jew, on the word of a gentleman and an earl’s son.”

The Abbot burst again into a great laughter. “Come in, thou graceless renegade, and we will see to thee and thy horse; and I will pray to St. Peter; and I doubt not he will have patience with thee, for he is very merciful; and after all, thy parents have been exceeding good to us, and the righteousness of the father, like his sins, is sometimes visited on the children.”

Now, why were the two ecclesiastics so uncanonically kind to this wicked youth?

Perhaps because both the old bachelors were wishing from their hearts that they had just such a son of their own. And beside, Earl Leofric was a very great man indeed; and the wind might change; for it is an unstable world.

“Only, mind, one thing,” said the naughty boy, as he dismounted, and halloed to a lay-brother to see to his horse,—“don’t let me see the face of that Herluin.”

“And why? You have wronged him, and he will forgive you, doubtless, like a good Christian as he is.”

“That is his concern. But if I see him, I cut off his head. And, as Uncle Brand knows, I always sleep with my sword under my pillow.”

“O that such a mother should have borne such a son.” groaned the Abbot, as they went in.

On the fifth day came Martin Lightfoot, and found Hereward in Prior Brand’s private cell.

“Well?” asked Hereward coolly.

“Is he—? Is he—?” stammered Brand, and could not finish his sentence.

Martin nodded.

Hereward laughed,—a loud, swaggering, hysterical laugh.

“See what it is to be born of just and pious parents. Come, Master Trot-alone, speak out and tell us all about it. Thy lean wolf’s legs have run to some purpose. Open thy lean wolf’s mouth and speak for once, lest I ease thy legs for the rest of thy life by a cut across the hams. Find thy lost tongue, I say!”

“Walls have ears, as well as the wild-wood,” said Martin.

“We are safe here,” said the Prior; “so speak, and tell us the whole truth.”

“Well, when the Earl read the letter, he turned red, and pale again, and then naught but, ‘Men, follow me to the King at Westminster.’ So we went, all with our weapons, twenty or more, along the Strand, and up into the King’s new hall; and a grand hall it is, but not easy to get into, for the crowd of monks and beggars on the stairs, hindering honest folks’ business. And there sat the King on a high settle, with his pink face and white hair, looking as royal as a bell-wether new washed; and on either side of him, on the same settle, sat the old fox and the young wolf.”

“Godwin and Harold? And where was the Queen?”

“Sitting on a stool at his feet, with her hands together as if she were praying, and her eyes downcast, as demure as any cat. And so is fulfilled the story, how the sheep-dog went out to get married, and left the fox, the wolf, and the cat to guard the flock.”

“If thou hast found thy tongue,” said Brand, “thou art like enough to lose it again by slice of knife, talking such ribaldry of dignities. Dost not know”—and he sank his voice—“that Abbot Leofric is Earl Harold’s man, and that Harold himself made him abbot?”

“I said, walls have ears. It was you who told me that we were safe. However, I will bridle the unruly one.” And he went on. “And your father walked up the hall, his left hand on his sword-hilt, looking an earl all over, as he is.”

“He is that,” said Hereward, in a low voice.

“And he bowed; and the most magnificent, powerful, and virtuous Godwin would have beckoned him up to sit on the high settle; but he looked straight at the King, as if there were never a Godwin or a Godwinsson on earth, and cried as he stood,—

“‘Justice, my Lord the King!’

“And at that the King turned pale, and said, ‘Who? What? O miserable world! O last days drawing nearer and nearer! O earth, full of violence and blood! Who has wronged thee now, most dear and noble Earl?’

“‘Justice against my own son.’

“At that the fox looked at the wolf, and the wolf at the fox; and if they did not smile it was not for want of will, I warrant. But your father went on, and told all his story; and when he came to your robbing master monk,—‘O apostate!’ cries the bell-wether, ‘O spawn of Beelzebub! excommunicate him, with bell, book, and candle. May he be thrust down with Korah, Balaam, and Iscariot, to the most Stygian pot of the sempiternal Tartarus.’

“And at that your father smiled. ‘That is bishops’ work,’ says he; ‘and I want king’s work from you, Lord King. Outlaw me this young rebel’s sinful body, as by law you can; and leave his sinful soul to the priests,—or to God’s mercy, which is like to be more than theirs.’

“Then the Queen looked up. ‘Your own son, noble Earl? Think of what you are doing, and one whom all say is so gallant and so fair. O persuade him, father,—persuade him, Harold my brother,—or, if you cannot persuade him, persuade the King at least, and save this poor youth from exile.’”

“Puss Velvet-paw knew well enough,” said Hereward, in a low voice, “that the way to harden my father’s heart was to set Godwin and Harold on softening it. They ask my pardon from the King? I would not take it at their asking, even if my father would.”

“There spoke a true Leofricsson,” said Brand, in spite of himself.

“‘By the—‘” (and Martin repeated a certain very solemn oath), “said your father, ‘justice I will have, my Lord King. Who talks to me of my own son? You put me into my earldom to see justice done and law obeyed; and how shall I make others keep within bound if I am not to keep in my own flesh and blood? Here is this land running headlong to ruin, because every nobleman—ay, every churl who owns a manor, if he dares—must needs arm and saddle, and levy war on his own behalf, and harry and slay the king’s lieges, if he have not garlic to his roast goose every time he chooses,’—and there your father did look at Godwin, once and for all;—‘and shall I let my son follow the fashion, and do his best to leave the land open and weak for Norseman, or Dane, or Frenchman, or whoever else hopes next to mount the throne of a king who is too holy to leave an heir behind him?’”

“Ahoi! Martin the silent! Where learnt you so suddenly the trade of preaching? I thought you kept your wind for your running this two years past. You would make as good a talker among the Witan as Godwin himself. You give it us all, word for word, and voice and gesture withal, as if you were King Edward’s French Chancellor.”

Martin smiled. “I am like Falada the horse, my lords, who could only speak to his own true princess. Why I held my tongue of late was only lest they should cut my head off for talking, as they did poor Falada’s.”

“Thou art a very crafty knave,” said Brand, “and hast had clerk-learning in thy time, I can see, and made bad use of it. I misdoubt very much that thou art some runaway monk.”

“That am I not, by St. Peter’s chains!” said Martin, in an eager, terrified voice. “Lord Hereward, I came hither as your father’s messenger and servant. You will see me safe out of this abbey, like an honorable gentleman!”

“I will. All I know of him, uncle, is that he used to tell me stories, when I was a boy, of enchanters, and knights, and dragons, and such like, and got into trouble for filling my head with such fancies. Now let him tell his story in peace.”

“He shall; but I misdoubt the fellow very much. He talks as if he knew Latin; and what business has a foot-running slave to do that?”

So Martin went on, somewhat abashed. “‘And,’ said your father, ‘justice I will have, and leave injustice, and the overlooking of it, to those who wish to profit thereby.’

“And at that Godwin smiled, and said to the King, ‘The Earl is wise, as usual, and speaks like a very Solomon. Your Majesty must, in spite of your own tenderness of heart, have these letters of outlawry made out.’

“Then all our men murmured,—and I as loud as any. But old Surturbrand the housecarle did more; for out he stepped to your father’s side, and spoke right up before the King.

“‘Bonny times,’ he said, ‘I have lived to see, when a lad of Earl Oslac’s blood is sent out of the land, a beggar and a wolf’s head, for playing a boy’s trick or two, and upsetting a shaveling priest! We managed such wild young colts better, we Vikings who conquered the Danelagh. If Canute had had a son like Hereward—as would to God he had had!—he would have dealt with him as old Swend Forkbeard (God grant I meet him in Valhalla, in spite of all priests!) did by Canute himself when he was young, and kicked and plunged awhile at being first bitted and saddled.’

“‘What does the man say?’ asked the King, for old Surturbrand was talking broad Danish.

“‘He is a housecarle of mine, Lord King, a good man and true; but old age and rough Danish blood has made him forget that he stands before kings and earls.’

“‘By –, Earl!’ says Surturbrand, ‘I have fought knee to knee beside a braver king than that there, and nobler earls than ever a one here; and was never afraid, like a free Dane, to speak my mind to them, by sea or land. And if the King, with his French ways, does not understand a plain man’s talk, the two earls yonder do right well, and I say,—Deal by this lad in the good old fashion. Give him half a dozen long ships, and what crews he can get together, and send him out, as Canute would have done, to seek his fortune like a Viking; and if he comes home with plenty of wounds, and plenty of plunder, give him an earldom as he deserves. Do you ask your Countess, Earl Godwin:—she is of the right Danish blood, God bless her! though she is your wife,—and see if she does not know how to bring a naughty lad to his senses.’