The Cunning of the Dove

by Alfred Duggan

  The Court came to Gloucester to welcome the victorious army. Soon after we arrived a ship was rowed up the river from Bristol, bearing Harold’s gift to his lord. It was the head of King Griffith, tastefully mounted on the beak of a war-galley which had been the flagship of the Welsh fleet. Before the ship was burned they had sawed off the carved beak, and a sharp spike at the end of it fitted neatly into the neck of its late owner. The whole made an elegant trophy.

  The King was horrified when he saw it, and at once gave orders that the head be buried properly in consecrated ground. ‘I am not a Viking, to drink from the skull of my dead enemy,’ he said savagely. ‘If Harold is the kind of barbarian who likes to carve dead bodies into keepsakes he may eat dead Welshmen as well, for all I care. That is the head of a Christian ruler who once feasted with me in this very hall. His only crime was that he made war on the English, and that may be the duty of every good Welshman. If Earl Godwin may lie under a splendid tomb in the Old Minster the head of this patriot deserves at least a Requiem Mass, with the whole chapter of Gloucester singing in choir.’

  I was not the only courtier to think that the King was unjust to Earl Harold, who had crushed the Welsh and took a natural pride in his grim trophy of victory. But Harold’s next exploit shocked even the ignorant commons.

  During that autumn all Wales was in a terrible mess, so Harold returned to set the devastated country to rights. He gave the valleys of the south to the heirs of the chieftains overthrown by King Griffith. The land had been so depopulated that he encouraged Welsh widows to marry his followers, since otherwise there would have been no husbands for them. The ancestral lands of King Griffith in the north were divided between his kinsmen, who each swore loyalty to the King of the English. Of course the plain west of Chester, and the land of Archenfield between Wye and Monnow, were returned to their rightful owners. In the middle of this reorganisation the widow of King Griffith wandered, penniless and starving, into Harold’s camp among the mountains.

  Edith was daughter to Earl Alfgar and sister to Earl Edwin. She was young, and luckily childless. She expected to be treated with deference and sent back to her brother’s hall in Mercia.

  Instead Harold married her on the spot, against her will. There have been countless rumours about this dreadful affair. The story goes that Harold procured her assent to the marriage by leaving her tied up in the open until she gave it; another version says that she had to be tied to the bed on her wedding night. I hope this last is only an exaggeration of the first story, and indeed that seems probable; but in either case the widow of a King, the daughter and sister of English Earls, was tied up until she yielded to the wicked Harold.

  It is hard to see what he hoped to gain from this brutal deed. Perhaps Earl Alfgar’s daughter was especially pretty and desirable, a point on which I am not competent to pronounce. But if his motive was lust, why marry her? He could not expect that such a match would bring him the friendship of the Earls of Mercia; of course Edwin hated him fiercely for the rest of his life. My own belief is that Harold acted as he did to feed his abounding pride. The Godwinssons are descended from an ancient family of the South Saxons, but the South Saxons are not a very famous folk; Harold’s mother was the daughter of a mere heathen Viking. In the estimation of any Englishman the house of Mercia was second only to the house of Cerdic, while Godwin had been a new man. Harold would show the world that he was powerful enough to marry with the highest; his sons, when they came, would be very nobly born.

  At this time Harold was so great that nothing could weaken him. But his marriage did not augment his strength, and it shocked the King as it shocked all honest men.

  The Lady summed up the feeling of the court, discussing Harold’s conduct one day with her lord as they walked back together from early Mass. I was walking behind the King with his kneeling-cushion, and I think they both forgot that I could overhear.

  ‘Sweyn seemed bad all through; until at the end of his life he showed more than a spark of goodness. Tostig has as much virtue as can be expected from any sinful mortal, especially in his dealings with women. He loves Judith, and lives faithfully with her. Harold, born between those two brothers, has in him a bit of both of them. He is ruthless, like Sweyn, and fairdealing, like Tostig. Like Tostig he is loyal. But I fear he grows more like Sweyn every day. This poor Edith might be another Abbess of Leominster; except that Harold has married her for life, instead of sending her home after taking his pleasure. But that other Edith, the Swan-neck, still lives in great comfort by Canterbury minster.’

  ‘It’s a very bad example to lesser folk,’ said the King with a sigh. ‘Just when we are trying to explain to the Anglo-Danes what marriage means among Christians. I’m glad you consider Harold loyal. I sometimes wonder about that. I don’t mean that he is plotting to displace me. After all, a man of his ancestry cannot himself be King, and he would gain nothing by setting up a Dane in my place. But if he is truly loyal he ought to pay more attention to my wishes, instead of running the country as he thinks fit.’

  ‘He is obstinate. But he’s a good minister. England prospers,’ said the Lady. Then we reached the hall, which was crowded with courtiers; and before such an audience they talked nothing but trivialities.

  In 1063 the King lingered in London after the Pentecost crownwearing. At Westminster his new buildings were taking shape, and he liked to spend long days watching the workmen and chatting with any monks who had the leisure to talk to him. He was now sixty years old, a very great age for a Cerdinga; in appearance and movements he was so ancient and venerable that a stranger might suppose him to be a survivor from the court of Charlemagne. He was as interested as ever in the technicalities of hunting and falconry (both highly technical pastimes which I do not profess to understand); but long hours in the saddle now tired him, and he was not always hankering after the forests of Cotswold.

  Since he spent most of his waking hours at Westminster he might have become a distraction to the monks, who have very little time to spare for conversation; but he had chosen a worthy community, who would not neglect their spiritual office even to talk with Kings. When all the monks were busy he would stand or kneel for hours before the High Altar, sometimes reciting prayers, sometimes rapt in a meditation which shaded off into the reverie of an old man. The Londoners thought it very remarkable that a mighty King should pass so many hours alone with God when he might have been enjoying himself, and my lord began to be regarded as a saint. The Londoners happened to be right.

  Late in October we were still in London, although that is the best part of the hunting season. The Lady had left us to go down to Wessex for a round of visits, a holiday at Wilton convent and an inspection of the hall at Winchester which would be her dower-house when she became a widow; but at the end of the month she came back to join us. Soon we must get ready for the long journey to Gloucester, where at Christmas the King would wear his crown. Since I came to court we had never stayed so long in one place, and I was already preparing for the awful business of the move. A great household collects useless rubbish every day, and the longer you have had it by you the harder it is to decide to throw it away.

  One afternoon, as I was sorting out a pile of old mantles, the Lady came in. I was used to receiving suitors, for it was known that I spoke with the King when he was relaxed and in a good temper and likely to agree to any request; but never before had the Lady sought my mediation.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Edgar,’ she began with a charming smile. ‘Can you spare me a moment? There’s something I want from the King, something very absurd, I’m afraid. If I ask him at the wrong time he may tell me not to be silly. Yet I really want it, to please a great friend of mine. Do you know Godiva, the wife of Wulf?’

  The Lady put her head on one side and looked appealing. She was in her middle thirties and her figure had lost its girlish slightness. But her face still showed an unflawed perfection of contour and texture, womanly enough but motherly and not at all sexually enticing; you see the same char
m in many middle-aged nuns. I was anxious to please her, but I could not resist a pert answer. It was impossible to be afraid of the Lady unless you were planning something wicked.

  ‘Godiva, the wife of Wulf? Madam, I know hundreds of them. Every Englishwoman who is not named Edith is named Godiva, and more than half the thanes of Wessex are called Wulfstan or Wulfgar or Ethelwulf, Wulf for short. Which of this throng is the one who seeks a favour?’

  ‘The one who was married not long ago, who lives in London and came to court yesterday. Her elder sister and I were schoolgirls together at Wilton.’

  ‘Oh yes, madam, I know her – poor thing.’

  ‘Poor thing indeed. That’s what everyone says. It’s horrid for a young bride to be so disfigured. That’s what I want to see you about. She has tried everything for those nasty eruptions on her neck, and now a wise woman has told her that the King can cure them. But if we ask him clumsily he will say it’s presumption and vainglory for him to try, and silly superstition for Godiva to expect a cure. You must ask him, Edgar, when you think he will consent.’

  ‘Then we had better not mention the wise woman. Oh, I’m sure she hears Mass every day, and makes her confession once a month; they all do, or say they do, especially when they are suspected of uncanny traffic. But the King will say at once that he’s not going to obey the instructions of a witch. By the way, what do the doctors call Godiva’s affliction?’

  ‘Some Latin word. What is it? Scrofula?’

  ‘Ah, that makes it much easier. You may not know it, madam, but in Wessex we have an old tradition that scrofula can be cured by the touch of a King, even a King who is not himself holy. I can explain to my lord that in attempting this cure he does nothing more than his royal duty. He hates to be reminded that his subjects believe him to be more holy than the general run of his ancestors. I shall explain that the power derives from his kingly unction, not from his personal virtue. If I choose a good moment I am sure he will consent.’

  But that evening, when I had explained the whole thing most tactfully to my lord, I ran into an unexpected difficulty. The King answered that he would gladly do all in his power to cure any of his male subjects.

  ‘… but I won’t caress the neck of a pretty young girl. Anyone who sees me doing it will misinterpret my motives; and in addition, Edgar, it’s not so easy as some people suppose to keep a vow of complete continence. At the best I should be disturbed for hours afterwards. Perhaps this is a temptation sent by the Devil, a more subtle one than he usually employs. Godiva must endure her affliction. For all I know it may be a punishment sent down specially from Heaven.’

  ‘If Heaven has decreed the punishment then the royal touch won’t remove it,’ I answered. ‘But it seems to me lacking in charity to return a blank refusal. How would this do, my lord? Since the virtue resides in the kingly unction, not in yourself as a man, it must be something attached to your exterior. You need not lay hands on this young woman. Let me give her a bowl of the water in which the royal hands have been washed, and we can see if that will help her.’

  ‘That’s a little bit as though she regards me as a walking relic. I don’t like it. It reeks of pride.’

  ‘Not personal pride, my lord. At your coronation you received this unction, which sets you apart from ordinary men. But you received it as the heir of the Cerdingas, not as the reward of your own merit.’

  At length I was able to persuade the King by emphasising that the request was a tribute to his office, not to his personality. He washed his hands in scented water, which I presented to him in a fine silver bowl. The bowl had a cover. This I fastened with a silk cord, sealed with the private signet of the chamberlains. Even then I did not trust the bowl to a common servant, who would certainly have sold the royal water and replaced it from the nearest pump. I carried it myself to Godiva’s lodging.

  She offered me a purse of money, which I refused; I wished to avoid even the appearance of selling divine healing. But I accepted a silver arm-ring which the Lady afterwards pressed on me, for my tact in persuading the King deserved a reward.

  Godiva washed her tettered neck in the King’s water, and next day her skin showed unblemished. She was more beautiful than ever, and later became the mother of many fine sons.

  When this was known there was no holding the Londoners. The whole city acclaimed King Edward as a saint, which greatly annoyed him. The road from the King’s hall to Westminster, which he traversed every day, was thronged with cripples and beggars beseeching his aid. He got Bishop William to preach in St. Paul’s, explaining that Godiva’s cure was due to the virtue of the kingly office, not to the merit of the King now reigning; but since Bishop William delivered his long sermon in Latin, with explanatory glosses in French, few of his congregation understood him. In the end we chamberlains arranged a lavish distribution of alms at the eastern gate of the city whenever the King was due to ride west, the housecarles were a little more vigorous in clearing the way, and the beggars forsook the road to Westminster.

  One man still persevered, a well-to-do burgess who did not seek alms but hoped that the holy King might restore his sight. Most of the blind men who beg outside churches have lost their eyes, put out forcibly by enemies or by pirates disappointed of a ransom. This man had eyes in his head, and they showed no sign of injury; but he could see nothing with them. He was devout, and had always lived uprightly, even when he could see; so the monks of Westminster were his friends. He had money, and could tip doorkeepers and housecarles. No one tried very hard to drive him away.

  Eventually, because he would not take ‘No’ for an answer, he was admitted to the King’s presence. For once my lord insisted on talking to him privately; even I, his cupbearer, could not hear what was said. But that evening, as usual, I heard all about it.

  ‘This Wulf urges me to try to heal him. He says, quite truly that if I fail he will be no worse than he is now. He won’t understand that I may be worse off, after I have yielded to a temptation inspired by pride; or if he understands it he puts it aside as no concern of his. But Bishop William has told me that I will be lacking in charity if I continue to refuse. So tomorrow I shall do what I can.’

  He stood in thought, staring at the lamp by his bedside. ‘It must be terrible to be blind. If I were blind I would be even more importunate in seeking a cure than this Wulf. All the same, it will be a very tricky business. At present his eyes are not utterly useless; he can distinguish day from night. So that whatever happens tomorrow he will go away saying that his sight has improved; he would be more than human if he admitted that bathing his eyes with water in which I have washed makes absolutely no difference. By tomorrow night half England will believe that with a touch of my finger I can raise the dead. So I have devised a most impressive religious ceremony, to be performed before a crowd of trustworthy witnesses.’

  He paused to draw a deep breath and arrange in his mind what he wanted to say. King Edward was never very competent at marshalling a complicated succession of events, and this programme had cost him much thought.

  ‘First of all we attend the conventual High Mass at Westminster. I shall sit in the throne they always give me, within the chancel, with the monks standing in their stalls all round me. When Mass is finished nobody leaves. Wulf is led up to my throne, and you present me with a basin of water. It will have to be a silver basin, since you set that unfortunate precedent with young Godiva. If I keep on doing these cures the silversmiths will ruin me. In the sight of the whole congregation I wash my face and hands. Then Wulf bathes his eyes in the water, and we all wait to see if it has done him any good. I suppose I shall lack charity if I hope it will fail; but a complete failure would spare me a great deal of annoyance. Why should I be granted the power to cure these unfortunate people? If I have the power, ought I to devote all my time to healing and do nothing else? I have my own work to do as King of the English, and when I am free I like to go hunting.’

  I was able to console him, for the point had already engaged my attenti
on. ‘My lord,’ I said, ‘that need not trouble you. We have authority for the view that these cures should be performed sparingly. Long ago God Himself walked the earth, and by one act of will He might have cured all the ills in it. Yet how many healings of the blind are related in the Gospels? Ten? Twenty? There must have been some left in darkness, even among those who heard God speak with human lips.’

  ‘Thank you, Edgar. You have put that very clearly. Even if I cure this Wulf I don’t have to cure all the blind men in England. I wonder what will happen tomorrow? Well, I shall earnestly pray to God to cure him, and I can’t do more than that.’

  On the next day I stood by the King’s throne through the very long and solemn High Mass of the Vigil of All Saints. At the end of it I held the basin for the King to wash, while the monks and the secular congregation in the nave stood on tiptoe to see what went on. Then Wulf, led up by a housecarle, plunged his face into the basin.

  When he stood erect he moved his head clumsily, as though doing something he had almost forgotten how to do. I handed him one of the King’s finest linen towels, and he rubbed his eyes with it. Then he threw back his head and shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Praise be to God, I can see.’

  ‘Can you now?’ asked the King. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I see the great church of St. Peter at Westminster, and all the monks, and the King and his courtiers and housecarles, and a great crowd of Londoners.’

  ‘Perhaps you do, but there’s no proof of it. You knew when you were led here, blind, that these were all about you.’ The King sounded positively cross. ‘Now tell me, what’s your name, Wulf, can you see what I am doing at this moment?’ With his right hand the King stroked his beard, while his left tugged at the long white mane of hair at the back of his head.

  ‘You have both hands to your head, my lord. One is at your beard, the other behind you.’