‘The monks made an exception for me,’ answered Judith, smiling. She continued to speak English, for she wanted the whole company to understand her story. ‘Unfortunately St. Cuthbert didn’t. The burgesses of Durham warned me that he might be angry, even after his prior had given me permission to enter the enclosure. So I took the precaution of sending my maid before I paid a visit myself. She came back from the shrine most distressed, saying that as she knelt unseen hands had pinched and beaten her all over. After that I wouldn’t risk it. Though I made a good offering I have never seen St. Cuthbert. Don’t you think, lord King, that the shrine ought to be moved to the nave of the minster?’
The King chuckled. ‘Those monks carried St. Cuthbert from Lindisfarne. We can’t deprive them of the relics they guarded at the risk of their lives. Anyway, young Judith has only herself to blame. The prior gave her permission to enter the enclosure, because she is the wife of a ruler. Instead she sent her maid. Naturally St. Cuthbert was angry. I hope Tostig made amends with a really good offering.’
‘It was a costly one, my lord. The prior was satisfied, and he speaks for St. Cuthbert. So all should be well.’
The King often spoke of saints as though they were still fallible mortals. There was no irreverence in it; he thought of the saints every day, and he seemed to understand their characters as though he had known them on earth.
Next morning, when the court went in state to the High Mass of Pentecost, we were still thinking of religious affairs. Harold and Tostig went to St. Paul’s, to please their friends the Londoners; Ralph had been detained in the west by the threat of Welsh invasion; but Earl Leofric and Godiva came with the King and the Lady to Westminster.
Nowadays I was always close to the King on formal occasions. The treasurer looked after the regalia while it was in store, but what the King was to wear was handed to me. Since I was responsible for the crown, orb and sceptre I stayed near them while they were displayed in public. On that morning I stood against the wall, while the King sat on a throne in the middle of the chancel; but I was level with him, and I did not take my eyes off him for long.
The King prayed with devotion, as always. But at the consecration his manner changed. I saw him glance at the Host, as we all do, and expected him then to bow his head. He bowed his whole body until he was almost prostrate on the ground, and his shoulders shook with emotion. He did not straighten up until the Ite had been sung, and then his face was changed; he looked as though he had been frightened, and awed, and at the same time comforted. I glanced quickly round the other magnates. Most of them were as usual, but Earl Leofric and Godiva remained prostrate even after the King had risen.
When we got home after Mass I helped the King to disrobe, and took the precious regalia back to the treasurer. During the day I waited at dinner and supper, and stood in an anteroom during the private discussions of the Council; but I never had a chance to speak to the King until he was preparing for bed. Even then the Lady came into his chamber, to discuss the singing they had heard that morning; as a rule the King liked to talk about the chant, but tonight he answered shortly and let the Lady see that his mind was not on music. When she left he went straight to his little figure of St. Peter; but before he could begin his prayers I said what I had been bursting to say for the last twelve hours.
‘My lord, this morning did you see a vision? If a messenger came to you from Heaven, surely you have a duty to announce his message to your people?’
‘Now what put that into your head? I suppose it showed in my face. All the same, at the most solemn moment of the Mass you ought to be looking at the altar, not at the King.’
‘My lord, that’s not fair. You know that I follow the Mass. I don’t talk to my neighbours or say my private prayers like an old woman. Today I looked at the altar when it was time for the consecration; but I also glanced from time to time at the crown of England for which I am responsible.’
‘Yes, well then, of course, you saw that something had happened to me. It wasn’t anything very strange or unusual, now that I have had time to think it over. It gave me a shock when I saw it, naturally. But there was nothing that you could call a message, nothing that it is my duty to pass on to my people. So I think I shall say no more about it.’
‘Please, my lord, tell me what you saw. You saw something. And I think Earl Leofric and Godiva saw it also.’
‘You notice too much, Edgar. But if you noticed it others may have done the same, and queer rumours will be flying about. Perhaps I should tell you. You won’t sleep until you know all about this, as you know all the other secrets of the court. But then you never pass on those secrets to others. It’s a venial fault in a loyal servant. Very well.…’
The King paused to find the right words.
‘This morning in Westminster I saw God. That’s nothing extraordinary, is it? Remember, you saw Him too, and so did everyone else who paid attention while the priest consecrated the Host. We all saw God’s body, everyone in the crowded minster. The only difference was that to you He looked like a wafer, and to me, just for this once, He looked like a beautiful child. That’s what I saw the priest hold in his hands. Leofric saw the same, and Godiva also. I don’t think anyone else did.’
‘My lord.…’ I could say no more.
‘Now don’t make a fuss about this, Edgar. I did not see God in all His glory, as St. John did on Patmos, and perhaps other great saints. I saw Him in the form of a child, as anyone could have seen Him who happened to be living in Nazareth at the right time. There’s no favour in that, you know. In fact you might call it evidence that God doubts my faith. You believe in the Mass, and don’t need a miracle to prove it. Poor old Edward needs one … or that’s what they think in Heaven. It’s nothing to be proud of.’
‘It was a miracle, my lord, a favour shown to a holy King, a favour shared by the righteous Earl and his charitable wife.’
‘Yes, that makes it seem a compliment, doesn’t it? I’m proud to think that my guardian angel puts me in the same class as the charitable Godiva. But let’s say no more about it. It was not important.’
The King would never speak of it again.
On the first Sunday after Pentecost we were still in London, and of course the King went to hear High Mass at Westminster. On this ordinary Sunday he did not wear his crown, and therefore I was not on duty; but I went in his party, because I had to hear Mass somewhere and I liked the chant at Westminster. No Earls rode with the King, only a small bodyguard of housecarles; and behind them a little group of courtiers and servants.
In the open space before the minster we found the usual crowd of beggars. The housecarles hustled them aside to make way for the King. But every beggar got at least a silver penny, which those who turned up regularly regarded as their due; and a few, who had made long journeys to tell the King of their misfortunes, were given quite substantial sums of money. Beggars collected whenever it was known that the King would appear in public; for even wicked and avaricious Kings must distribute largesse.
These beggars were so much part of the expected background that no one paid them much attention; until we became aware that one man was resisting the housecarles, refusing to get out of the way. They were gentle with him, since he could not be dangerous; his legs were so twisted that his feet seemed fixed to his buttocks. Writhing on his knees, he waved his hands in the air and cried out in an unknown tongue.
The King reined his horse, waiting quietly for the path to be cleared. No one wanted the cripple to be hurt, and it was difficult to move him gently. All the time he was shouting, evidently one phrase repeated again and again; a housecarle listened, understood, and laughed.
‘Who’s this man, and what’s he asking?’ called the King sharply. ‘He must want something more than money. If you can understand him find out what it is.’
‘He is Irish, my lord,’ answered the housecarle, looking a little abashed. ‘I know something of his language because as a lad I sailed with the Dublin Vikings. Of course that was ye
ars ago, and I gave up piracy when I joined King Hardicanute’s bodyguard. I laughed because this Irish beggar is proclaiming that he won’t get out of the way until the King of the English has consented to carry him into the minster riding on his shoulders.’
‘So that’s what he’s saying, is it?’ answered the King mildly. ‘You can speak to him in his queer language? Well, we can’t get on while he lies in the way, and I wouldn’t like to see a beggar beaten by my bodyguard while we are all on our way to Mass. Ask the man exactly what he wants, and why he wants it. But even if he has come all the way from Ireland I won’t give him more money than is fitting.’
The housecarle spoke to the beggar, who squatted on his twisted legs under the nose of the King’s horse. The beggar replied with great animation, waving his hands to emphasise his story. With a shrug the housecarle turned to the King, smiling at the absurdity of what he must say.
‘This man is named Michael, and he has been deformed from birth. He has visited all the shrines and holy places of Ireland, with no success. Two months ago St. Peter appeared to him in a dream, and told him that he would be cured if he prayed before the new altar of St. Peter at Westminster in England. But a condition was attached to this assurance. The cure will work only if Michael visits the altar in the way specified. He must be carried up the whole length of the church on the shoulders of the King of the English.’
Everyone laughed, but the King pursued the subject. ‘Ask him how he got here.’
‘He says he begged a passage from Cork to Bristol. Traders from the west let him rid on a packpony from Bristol to London. He has never walked a step in his life. But from London to Westminster he dragged himself on his knees.’
‘Was it an English ship, and an English packtrain?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Then I shall do what he asks of me. For the love of God my subjects carried him all the way from Cork to London. After such an example of charity it would be shameful if their King refused to carry him a mere hundred yards. Hold my horse, one of you. Michael, sit quiet. I won’t crouch down because that sometimes makes me dizzy. Let two housecarles pick him up and put him on my shoulders.’
The King slid from his horse, and leaned forward like a boy playing leapfrog. I ran out to drape my cloak over his shoulders, for the beggar was very filthy and the King wore a fine red tunic. Then Michael, a skinny starved little man, was hoisted aloft, his grubby hands clasping the King’s neck. My lord stumped sturdily through the west door of the minster.
In the nave we took up our usual formation. The customary procession approached the high altar, candle-bearers, thurifers, the bodyguard, courtiers and an almoner carrying the special Sunday offering; in the midst the white hair and white beard of the King of the English were almost hidden by the grey frieze rags and grimy legs of a filthy beggar.
The King dumped his burden before the high altar, and then went to the throne prepared for him. The Mass proceeded as usual. When it was time to leave we all waited for the King to make the first move; but Michael leapt to his feet and capered down the nave, shouting that he was healed. The monks and the whole congregation began to praise God, and there was a great deal of noise and confusion. Through it we heard the King’s voice shouting:
‘Bodyguard, escort me from the church. It’s dinner time, and there is no reason for delay.’
We pressed our way back to the King’s hall in London through an excited crowd which swelled every minute as the news spread. But when onlookers praised the King as a worker of miracles he grew angry.
At dinner he would not speak of the cure. That evening, in his chamber, he returned to the subject. I think for the last time in his life.
‘Edgar, see that this man Michael gets back to Ireland as quickly as possible. He’s a beggar by trade, and he will think that because he was cured at Westminster the monks are obliged to keep him for the rest of his life. I don’t see why the Irish should not care for the Irish poor; we have enough of our own in England. Besides, if he stays in London Bishop William will make a show of him. Now don’t you ever let me hear you say that you have seen me cure a cripple! Michael was cured by St. Peter, after he had carried out St. Peter’s instructions. I did less than the English skipper who carried him to Bristol. No one says the sailor worked a miracle. No one even bothers to find out his name.
‘All the same,’ he went on, now talking to himself, ‘St. Peter did not forget me. He has given me a valuable lesson in humility. Just think of it, I was tempted to refuse to carry the wretch! The Devil whispered to me that a starveling Irishman was trying to make the King of England look ridiculous. How shameful if I had yielded to the tempter! Any Christian ought to be willing to help another Christian over a journey of a mere hundred yards. If one Christian is a King and the other a beggar that should make no difference. Any of my courtiers would have done as much, had they been asked. That beggar is a very lucky man, to have his cure granted on such easy conditions.’
It seemed to me at that time that the saints took an unusual interest in King Edward. Before he came to the throne there had been Bishop Britwold’s vision, and later King Edward had seen the death of the Danish King. Now St. Peter had intervened in a very striking fashion. But these were favours granted by King Edward’s advocates in Heaven, not signs that God Himself was specially pleased with him. He was a good man who did as the catechism commanded; he never missed Mass; he tried to examine every problem from the point of view of a Christian. If he persevered in this way of life he would end up in Heaven; but so far there was nothing to suggest that his virtues were heroic.
By midsummer the court was back among the forests of the west country, where religion did not occupy our thoughts as it did at Westminster.
Everyone had expected trouble in the north now that the great Siward was no longer there to overawe the Scots; instead Tostig brought a firmer peace than the oldest Northumbrian could remember. The King of the Scots owed his throne to an English army, and that helped; but in addition Tostig went out of his way to make friends with Malcolm. At York the two rulers performed some old pagan ceremony that made them blood-brothers, so that it would be a crime against kinship if they made war on each other. King Edward disapproved when he heard of it, for Christianity is not as firm in Northumbria as it ought to be in the land of St. Oswald King and Martyr; too many new-settled Danes live there, who still remember Odin and Thor. But even if the ceremony gave scandal the friendship endured; King Malcolm never made war on Tostig, though he raided over the border on one occasion when the Earl was absent from his government.
Though the north was quiet a dangerous storm was gathering in the west. News came that Alfgar and his Mercian adherents had recruited eighteen shiploads of pirates from Dublin. That shocked the King even more than Alfgar’s alliance with the Welsh.
‘In my youth such treachery would have been unthinkable,’ I heard him say to Earl Harold, who had called in at court to discuss the defence of Wessex. ‘Anglo-Danes would sometimes seek help from their heathen cousins, but to all Englishmen the pirates of Dublin were enemies. Alfgar owes me no loyalty, since I have sent him into exile. But he owes a loyalty to Christendom, unless he is prepared to deny his baptism and become a heathen himself. For an Englishman to lead Vikings against Englishmen is such wickedness as our ancestors never knew.’
Harold blushed, fingering his cup as an excuse to turn his eyes away from the King. ‘Sometimes an Englishman loves England so much that he will seek the help of any allies to return to his native land,’ he mumbled awkwardly. Then he spoke more briskly, with a resolute mien. ‘We shall beat Alfgar in the field, and then we’ll pardon him. Put him back, and he’ll rule his own people well enough. Perhaps I made a mistake when I advised you to declare him outlaw.… That’s it, we shan’t wait any longer. If he doesn’t invade I shall bring up the levy of Wessex and seek him out in Wales. One smashing defeat, and he will have learned his lesson.’
‘Don’t do that yet,’ the King answered at once.
‘The Welsh have not attacked us, and I will not begin an aggressive war against fellow-Christians. Besides, Earl Ralph has been entrusted with the defence of the border, and if you come to his help unasked it may seem that we doubt his competence.’
‘We doubt it, don’t we?’ said Harold curtly.
‘He is the son of my sister, and a loyal vassal. In theory his measures for the defence of Herefordshire are perfectly sound. Castles keep raiders out of Normandy, and if they break through in spite of the castles mounted warriors defeat them. I saw it, when I was in exile. Ralph has been unlucky. Next time he should succeed.’
‘His measures may be excellent,’ answered Harold, ‘but he will never persuade his thanes to carry them out. Some men can make themselves obeyed, others can’t. Country thanes don’t ride well enough to fight on horseback, and even Ralph’s paid housecarles will think it is a crazy notion.’
‘Give him his chance, all the same. Oh dear, those Dublin Vikings! They make everything so complicated. We can cope with the neighbours of England, but when they bring in allies from abroad we need more than ordinary shire-levies.’
That second reminder of his shocking treason at the time of Godwin’s exile silenced Earl Harold; as indeed it was meant to do. So far the great Earl had displayed his prowess only in sacking the farms of Englishmen. That was the weak point in his political position, and the King never tired of reminding him of it.
In October, as a consequence, when King Griffith and Alfgar marched to the harrying of Herefordshire they were met by the shire-levy alone, without help from Wessex. The court was on Cotswold, and we had early news of the fighting. On the 24th a messenger told us that Earl Ralph and all his men were mustered outside the city of Hereford, awaiting attack by the Welsh. We sat up all night, hoping for news of victory.
The Cunning of the Dove Page 15
