The Cunning of the Dove

by Alfred Duggan

  ‘Well, which is which? Is it the right hand at my beard?’ As he spoke the King shifted his hands.

  ‘Now your left is at your beard, my lord. You have just moved them.’

  ‘This is amazing. The man can really see,’ said the King, lying back in his throne as though exhausted. ‘Lord God, I give thanks for Your grace. St. Peter, I give thanks for your intercession. But, oh dear, why has this power been granted to me? Couldn’t some little unimportant angel have found a proper holy man, a holy man who enjoys working miracles?’

  We came out of the church in a long procession of triumph. Monks, burgesses, courtiers and housecarles all joined in the hymn of praise. Only the King wore on his face a sad, puzzled expression.

  When he reached his bedchamber that night the King at once cast himself prone on the floor before his little image of St. Peter. For more than an hour he prayed without moving. At last he raised himself and sat on the edge of his bed. He looked ruefully at me as I knelt before him.

  ‘Get up, Edgar,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You kneel to God, and to the relics of the saints, not to an ordinary mortal man. But there – in future I shall have to put up with a lot of this nonsense. Any king of the English can cure scrofula, but it is no part of the heritage of the Cerdingas to heal the blind. That was something special, and quite unexpected. Already the loafers outside the gate shout that they have a saint to rule them. Can it be a trick of the Devil? I have always been proud and hot-tempered. If I were silly enough to believe that I am sure of Heaven I would be quite intolerable. No, the Devil does not restore sight to the blind. That was a true miracle, and I must endure it.’

  After a pause he spoke again. ‘This is a very heavy burden, but it has its consolations. If God has given me power to heal by my blessing, perhaps He has also given my curses power to blast the wicked. It’s not very likely. In this world nothing ever harms the wicked – justice comes only after death. But if the people believe that my curse can blast, that will be nearly as effective as if it were really true. That’s it, Edgar. Let’s cheer up. I can stand up to Harold as much as I like. The idea lurks at the back of his mind that if need be he can dethrone me and put little Edgar Edwardsson in my place. He must forget it. If he harms a hair of my head the people will tear him in pieces. St. Peter, forgive me! I recognise that your gift is a blessing after all. The English love the favourites of Heaven. They will support me against the ambitions of the Earls.

  ‘It won’t make a great difference,’ he continued in a lower tone. ‘I shall permit Harold to go on ruling, because he rules better than I should. I haven’t forgotten what a mess I made of things while the Godwinssons were in exile. But if I choose to put my foot down about something I really care about he will have to carry out my will.’

  Finally, as he snuggled into the pillows, he spoke the last words he ever said about the healing of Wulf. ‘There will be no more miracles,’ he said firmly, ‘unless God sends me an unmistakeable command which I cannot disobey. Please, God, spare me the necessity. Edgar, if any more unfortunates come to court to seek my help, tell them to invoke St. Peter before the High Altar of my new minster. If they pray there, God will do as much for them as if they had washed themselves all over in my bathwater.’

  Nevertheless, though the King did not know it, he went on performing miracles for the rest of his life. Next day six blind men arrived at his hall. They were undoubtedly and most horribly blind, for their eyes had been put out by the Vikings whom Harold led into Somerset more than ten years before; the pirates were hungry, and these west-country peasants would not tell where their pigs were hidden.

  They did not even ask to see the King. They were humble men, and all they wanted was a basin of the water in which he had washed. They offered me a bag of silver, and I took the money because if I had refused it they would never have believed that the water I gave them was the genuine article. They bathed their faces, and they saw again. There is nothing more to be said, except that when I knew they enjoyed God’s favour I gave them back their money and they offered it to St. Peter.

  After that many cures were wrought by means of the King’s washing water. We did not tell the King about these things, though in a general way he was aware of them. But we knew that we served one of God’s chosen saints. Any chamberlain will agree that such knowledge brings with it a most disquieting tremor of fear, as well as a sense of holy awe.

  9. Earl Harold’s Oath

  The King was very old and very frail, and considered by all his subjects to be a saint. In his own mind he had very nearly left this earth. The business of ruling England scarcely occupied him, since Earl Harold did all the work. He prayed for most of the night, and passed the morning in visiting some church. His only recreation was a gentle hunt on fine afternoons, his only secular duty attendance at the long dinners and suppers of the Council at the time of the three annual crownwearings. On these occasions he would lean back in his chair with closed eyes, his long white beard flowing down to the board. Harold, seated on his left, would talk across him to Stigand on his right; then the decision of the Council, that is the decision of Earl Harold, would be laid before the King for his formal assent. Wearily the King would agree to whatever was proposed, anxious only to end the feast so that he might get back to his prayers in his chamber.

  What Harold proposed was always wise, and usually as equitable as decisions of statecraft can be in a fallen world; for Harold was just unless the interests of the Godwinssons were concerned. Besides, if he had proposed anything obviously wicked the King would have forbidden it. The King’s assent was very nearly a form; but was still a necessary form, and it set limits which even Harold dared not pass.

  The King hunted, I believe, chiefly from habit. For more than twenty years, ever since he had become King of the English, hunting had been his pleasure, the only pleasure befitting his rank which carried with it no hint of sin; a virgin who was not interested in food or drink could find no more innocent pastime. In his active maturity he had enjoyed the chase; and now that old age and infirmity forbade him to gallop through thick woodland he still held in his mind a picture of hunting as something supremely enjoyable. Those who understand the pastime, as I do not, tell me that there can be great pleasure in planning the drawing of a covert, and in arranging all the complicated sequence of a long day among the muddy thorn trees. The King would gossip happily by the hour with his huntsmen and foresters. If he was feeling tired he would potter out to some hill above the open plain, to watch his hawks chase birds through the sky; he could follow them with his eyes while his horse stood still. I have never been able to see the attraction of hawking, which seems to me a passive sport. But I know that it can delight even intelligent and active men; Earl Harold, for example, usually rode with a hawk on his wrist. So perhaps it was not really odd that the King should take pleasure in it.

  In that spring of 1064 the King was more than sixty years old, and only settled fine weather could tempt him into the open. But Earl Harold still believed that the most acceptable present he could give to his lord would be a hunting-box in fresh country. He sent men to build a hall near the mouth of the river Usk, in the forest which had been conquered from the unfortunate King Griffith. My lord was delighted to hear of this, and talked eagerly of exploring the new coverts next season.

  For the Easter crownwearing the court moved as usual to Winchester, and at the solemn High Mass of Easter Day in the Old Minster my lord was granted another vision. By this time I could recognise the symptoms. When the King knelt unmoving, his eyes blank, I knew that he was not distracted by secular thoughts but rather looking into Heaven. When Mass was finished all the courtiers waited patiently until presently the King came to himself with a start. But he did not then kneel down to give thanks, as we had expected. Instead he summoned his housecarles with a curt nod, and swept out of the minster as though urgent business awaited him.

  Arrived in his hall he went straight to his chair at the high table; though it was early to begin di
nner, and the Earls had expected to be summoned for a private meeting of the chief Councillors before the public feast. But when the King takes his place dinner must of course be served, and the great men took their places also. As soon as the hall was full the King commanded silence; then he rose to address the meeting. After a few words he found the effort too much for his feeble strength. He lay back in his chair and whispered to a stalwart housecarle, who shouted the royal speech sentence by sentence.

  ‘The King has seen a portent, prophesying calamity to all Christendom,’ he began. At once there were cries of dismay. ‘The calamity will not affect the English in particular,’ he went on, and everyone felt more cheerful. If all Christendom were involved we would have companions in misfortune, and perhaps our remote corner of the world might escape altogether. ‘During Mass the King saw a vision of something which has happened very far off, almost at the other end of the inhabited world. Beyond the middle sea, in Greekland, lies the city of Ephesus. In Ephesus, in Greekland, the Seven Sleepers have turned over from their right sides to their left.’ The King waved his hand to show he had finished, and with a bow the housecarle went back to his seat at a lower table.

  Everyone burst out talking at once, though that was a breach of the etiquette proper to these solemn crown-wearings. I know where Greekland lies. If you take the easiest road to Jerusalem, through Hungary, you traverse Greekland from end to end; Sweyn Godwinsson had died in that land, and the best jewels and silk come from its great cities. I had heard mention of the Seven Sleepers, though I did not know their story. Most of the thanes and housecarles at the lower tables knew even less than I did.

  Seeing everyone look puzzled, Bishop William got up to explain.

  ‘The Seven Sleepers are holy men who have been permitted to remain on earth until the Day of Judgement,’ he said. ‘Eight hundred years ago and more, when the wicked Emperor Diocletian had decreed death for all Christians, they hid in a cave to escape martyrdom. In the cave they fell asleep, and there they have remained ever since; asleep, without food or drink, their lives preserved by miracle. Six hundred years ago the men of Ephesus found them. Their cave is known, though seldom visited.’ He spoke in clear English, with only a slight French accent; he had taken trouble to learn the language of his flock.

  Stigand hoisted himself right off the bench to whisper in William’s ear across several other Councillors; in this posture he presented his enormous rump to the King, but Stigand never bothered to show courtesy to those he did not fear. ‘You know all about these Sleepers,’ he said in a tone that was technically a whisper, though he made no real effort to speak quietly. ‘Tell me, had you ever heard that when they turn over it means calamity?’

  ‘Well, no, I hadn’t,’ answered Bishop William with a worried frown. ‘But it seems reasonable on the face of it; and the King ought to know what his own vision forebodes.’

  ‘Why should he? Does he know anything else? Would you follow his advice on any secular matter? This is the Council of the English, not a parcel of monks at recreation,’ Stigand answered impatiently.

  Then he rose, to address the gathering in due form.

  ‘This is a matter of such gravity that the whole Council should inquire into it. The King saw a vision. But the interpretation of what he saw is not immediately apparent; and we must not forget that a vision, even a vision seen in my minster during the High Mass of Easter, might conceivably be a snare of the Devil. News of this portent will cause great alarm; we shall be to blame if the alarm is needless. Luckily, it is easy to confirm what the King saw, or is persuaded that he saw. Ephesus lies a long way off, but it is a known place that can be visited. Let us send an embassy to the King of the Greeks, asking him to inquire from the Bishop of Ephesus. When we know for a fact that the Sleepers have turned over to the left side, the unlucky side, we may take measures to prepare for this calamity.’

  The King remained silent, leaning back in his chair. When Stigand’s proposal had been carried he gave his assent with an absent wave of the hand. The Council had agreed formally to inquire into something the King had told them as truth. I think that if any of our veteran housecarles had understood the insult implied he would have taken Stigand’s head then and there, in the King’s hall; but housecarles never listen to any discussion in Council unless it is concerned with their pay. Only I, and a few other courtiers, realised the full insolence of Stigand’s proposal.

  A few days later a group of clerks duly set off from Winchester; though they never saw the Seven Sleepers with their own eyes, in Constantinople they had audience with the King of the Greeks, and he told them that the vision was true. The Sleepers had in fact turned over, and all the East was dismayed. The calamity thus portended can now be recognised; within ten years the infidel Turks had overrun all Christian Asia, until now it is impossible for a pilgrim to reach Jerusalem unless he pays them heavy blackmail.

  In those days the Kingdom of the Greeks still stood in all its glory. About the end of the year the envoys returned, bringing confirmation of what loyal men had never doubted: that the King’s vision was true. During the summer of their absence we waited anxiously for the unknown calamity to afflict Christendom.

  The King worried more about the future than any of his subjects. He worried so much that he broke off his hunting on Cotswold and came to London to confer with Earl Harold. London held other attractions for him, since the new buildings at Westminster were nearly complete; but the real reason for the journey, an unusual reason to fetch the King from his hunting, was concern for the welfare of his realm.

  On his first evening in London he explained it to the Lady, while we were both putting him to bed after his long ride.

  ‘I don’t usually worry about the future,’ he said, as though puzzled by his own state of mind. ‘We know that the Day of Judgement will bring the world to an end. Perhaps the Last Trump will sound tonight, and then anyone who is found worrying about the future will look very silly. They tell me some Kings never stop worrying; I have found it quite easy to be a carefree King. Just remind yourself that the English are no more important than any other nation, and that what matters to individual Englishmen is whether they end in Heaven, not whether they live in prosperity and die in their beds. When you have recognised statecraft as unimportant you won’t find it difficult as well. Only once have I been seriously uncertain about my duty; when I found out that I could sometimes heal the blind, and wondered whether I ought to devote my life to doing nothing else. But Edgar here explained it all very sensibly; and anyway the blind are healed by the water I have washed in, and I would wash myself whether washing helped the blind or not. So the problem proved quite a simple one after all. Oh dear, I wish God and St. Peter would not grant miraculous cures at my intercession! But they do, and I must adjust my life to it. What was I talking about?’

  ‘About the wisdom of allowing the future to take care of itself,’ answered the Lady patiently. ‘But though you think it foolish to worry about the future, and indeed I agree with you, you are now worrying about it. Tell me your worry, and perhaps I can help you.’

  ‘Oh yes, that was my worry, the future, wasn’t it? The future of this Kingdom, of course. Not that I can do anything to help my people after I am gone, except to give them a competent successor. That was it. And then of course there is the matter of my promise. A King is shamed if he does not keep his pledged word.’

  ‘Please, my lord, I still do not know what worries you.’

  The Lady spoke sharply. It was never easy to keep the King to one point, and especially difficult when he was tired after a long ride.

  ‘Oh didn’t I tell you? I am worrying about the succession. As you know, I promised Duke William that he should be the next King of the English; and in those days, when I had more energy than I have now, I took quite a lot of trouble to smooth his path. I persuaded everyone who mattered, nearly all the Council, to swear that they would support him. And now it has just occurred to me that all those great men are dead, and here
I am still King of the English. All that work has been wasted, and I feel too tired to begin again from the beginning.’

  ‘Are they all dead? Who were they?’ asked the Lady; and bit her lip in exasperation when the King waved his hand airily to indicate that he could not remember.

  ‘Perhaps I can help you, madam,’ I said, looking up from the little brazier where I was warming the King’s nightcap. ‘I remained at court while you, madam, revisited Wilton. I think I can recall the chief events of those times.’

  I had no power and no money; but I was in a sense the King’s most intimate friend. I was as secure in my position as any servant of a King can be. Perhaps a concerted complaint from the whole Council might have dislodged me, but I was too firm in the royal favour, to fear the Lady. I am ashamed to say that sometimes I took pleasure in reminding her that when the King turned against her, in the year of Earl Godwin’s exile, I had remained a familiar servant of the bedchamber.

  ‘Very well, Edgar,’ said the Lady coldly. ‘You know my lord’s policies, and it seems that I do not. Search your memory, and tell me whether any of the great men now ruling the English have sworn loyalty to Duke William.’

  I thought for a few minutes, out of politeness; though I was already sure of my answer.

  ‘Madam, your father swore, and he is dead. Others who swore were the Earls Leofgar and Siward. It was more than ten years ago. The only Councillor still bound to Duke William is Bishop Stigand, who governs the church of Canterbury.’

  ‘Stigand, of course. I knew one of them still lives,’ said the King absently.

  The Lady answered with more determination. ‘I’m glad you don’t style him Archbishop of Canterbury. He isn’t that, for all that he enjoys its revenues. What an absurdity, that the succession to the Kingdom of the English should depend on the oath of Bishop Stigand, who would swear anything for twopence and break his oath for threepence.’