Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated), page 473
‘He spoke me his thanks for the sport I had helped show him, and he had learned from De Aquila enough of my folk and my castle in Normandy to graciously feign that he knew and had loved my brother there. (This, also, is part of a king’s work.) Many great men sat at the High Table — chosen by the King for their wits, not for their birth. I have forgotten their names, and their faces I only saw that one night. But’ — Sir Richard turned in his stride — ’but Rahere, flaming in black and scarlet among our guests, the hollow of his dark cheek flushed with wine — long, laughing Rahere, and the stricken sadness of his face when he was not twisting it about — Rahere I shall never forget.
‘At the King’s outgoing De Aquila bade me follow him, with his great bishops and two great barons, to the little pavilion. We had devised jugglers and dances for the Court’s sport; but Henry loved to talk gravely to grave men, and De Aquila had told him of my travels to the world’s end. We had a fire of apple-wood, sweet as incense, — and the curtains at the door being looped up, we could hear the music and see the lights shining on mail and dresses.
‘Rahere lay behind the King’s chair. The questions he darted forth at me were as shrewd as the flames. I was telling of our fight with the apes, as ye called them, at the world’s end. [See ‘The Knights of the Joyous Venture’ in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.] ‘“But where is the Saxon knight that went with you?” said Henry. “He must confirm these miracles.”
‘“He is busy,” said Rahere, “confirming a new miracle.”
‘“Enough miracles for today,” said the King. “Rahere, you have saved your long neck. Fetch the Saxon knight.”
‘“Pest on it,” said Rahere. “Who would be a King’s jester? I’ll bring him, Brother, if you’ll see that none of your home-brewed bishops taste my wine while I am away.” So he jingled forth between the men-at-arms at the door.
‘Henry had made many bishops in England without the Pope’s leave. I know not the rights of the matter, but only Rahere dared jest about it. We waited on the King’s next word.
‘“I think Rahere is jealous of you,” said he, smiling, to Nigel of Ely. He was one bishop; and William of Exeter, the other — Wal-wist the Saxons called him — laughed long. “Rahere is a priest at heart. Shall I make him a bishop, De Aquila?” says the King.
‘“There might be worse,” said our Lord of Pevensey. “Rahere would never do what Anselm has done.”
‘This Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, had gone off raging to the Pope at Rome, because Henry would make bishops without his leave either. I knew not the rights of it, but De Aquila did, and the King laughed.
‘“Anselm means no harm. He should have been a monk, not a bishop,” said the King. “I’ll never quarrel with Anselm or his Pope till they quarrel with my England. If we can keep the King’s peace till my son comes to rule, no man will lightly quarrel with our England.”
‘“Amen,” said De Aquila. “But the King’s peace ends when the King dies.”
‘That is true. The King’s peace dies with the King. The custom then is that all laws are outlaw, and men do what they will till the new King is chosen.
‘“I will amend that,” said the King hotly. “I will have it so that though King, son, and grandson were all slain in one day, still the King’s peace should hold over all England! What is a man that his mere death must upheave a people? We must have the Law.”
‘“Truth,” said William of Exeter; but that he would have said to any word of the King.
‘The two great barons behind said nothing. This teaching was clean against their stomachs, for when the King’s peace ends, the great barons go to war and increase their lands. At that instant we heard Rahere’s voice returning, in a scurril Saxon rhyme against William of Exeter:
‘“Well wist Wal-wist where lay his fortune
When that he fawned on the King for his crozier,”
and amid our laughter he burst in, with one arm round Hugh, and one round the old pilgrim of Netherfield.
‘“Here is your knight, Brother,” said he, “and for the better disport of the company, here is my fool. Hold up, Saxon Samson, the gates of Gaza are clean carried away!”
‘Hugh broke loose, white and sick, and staggered to my side; the old man blinked upon the company.
‘We looked at the King, but he smiled.
‘“Rahere promised he would show me some sport after supper to cover his morning’s offence,” said he to De Aquila. “So this is thy man, Rahere?”
‘“Even so,” said Rahere. “My man he has been, and my protection he has taken, ever since I found him under the gallows at Stamford Bridge telling the kites atop of it that he was — Harold of England!”
‘There was a great silence upon these last strange words, and Hugh hid his face on my shoulder, woman-fashion.
‘“It is most cruel true,” he whispered to me. “The old man proved it to me at the beat after you left, and again in our hut even now. It is Harold, my King!”
‘De Aquila crept forward. He walked about the man and swallowed.
‘“Bones of the Saints!” said he, staring.
‘“Many a stray shot goes too well home,” said Rahere.
‘The old man flinched as at an arrow. “Why do you hurt me still?” he said in Saxon. “It was on some bones of some Saints that I promised I would give my England to the Great Duke.” He turns on us all crying, shrilly: “Thanes, he had caught me at Rouen — a lifetime ago. If I had not promised, I should have lain there all my life. What else could I have done? I have lain in a strait prison all my life none the less. There is no need to throw stones at me.” He guarded his face with his arms, and shivered. “Now his madness will strike him down,” said Rahere. “Cast out the evil spirit, one of you new bishops.”
‘Said William of Exeter: “Harold was slain at Santlache fight. All the world knows it.”
‘“I think this man must have forgotten,” said Rahere. “Be comforted, Father. Thou wast well slain at Hastings forty years gone, less three months and nine days. Tell the King.”
‘The man uncovered his face. “I thought they would stone me,” he said. “I did not know I spoke before a King.” He came to his full towering height — no mean man, but frail beyond belief.
‘The King turned to the tables, and held him out his own cup of wine. The old man drank, and beckoned behind him, and, before all the Normans, my Hugh bore away the empty cup, Saxon-fashion, upon the knee.
“It is Harold!” said De Aquila. “His own stiff-necked blood kneels to serve him.
“Be it so,” said Henry. “Sit, then, thou that hast been Harold of England.”
‘The madman sat, and hard, dark Henry looked at him between half-shut eyes. We others stared like oxen, all but De Aquila, who watched Rahere as I have seen him watch a far sail on the sea.
‘The wine and the warmth cast the old man into a dream. His white head bowed; his hands hung. His eye indeed was opened, but the mind was shut. When he stretched his feet, they were scurfed and road-cut like a slave’s.
‘“Ah, Rahere,” cried Hugh, “why hast thou shown him thus? Better have let him die than shame him — and me!”
‘“Shame thee?” said the King. “Would any baron of mine kneel to me if I were witless, discrowned, and alone, and Harold had my throne?”
‘“No,” said Rahere. “I am the sole fool that might do it, Brother, unless” — he pointed at De Aquila, whom he had only met that day — ”yonder tough Norman crab kept me company. But, Sir Hugh, I did not mean to shame him. He hath been somewhat punished through, maybe, little fault of his own.”
‘“Yet he lied to my Father, the Conqueror,” said the King, and the old man flinched in his sleep.
‘“Maybe,” said Rahere, “but thy Brother Robert, whose throat we purpose soon to slit with our own hands — ”
‘“Hutt!” said the King, laughing. “I’ll keep Robert at my table for a life’s guest when I catch him. Robert means no harm. It is all his cursed barons.”
‘“None the less,” said Rahere, “Robert may say that thou hast not always spoken the stark truth to him about England. I should not hang too many men on that bough, Brother.” ‘“And it is certain,” said Hugh, “that” — he pointed to the old man — ”Harold was forced to make his promise to the Great Duke.”
‘“Very strongly, forced,” said De Aquila. He had never any pride in the Duke William’s dealings with Harold before Hastings. Yet, as he said, one cannot build a house all of straight sticks.
‘“No matter how he was forced,” said Henry, “England was promised to my Father William by Edward the Confessor. Is it not so?” William of Exeter nodded. “Harold confirmed that promise to my Father on the bones of the Saints. Afterwards he broke his oath and would have taken England by the strong hand.”
‘“Oh! La! La!” Rahere rolled up his eyes like a girl. “That ever England should be taken by the strong hand!”
‘Seeing that Red William and Henry after him had each in just that fashion snatched England from Robert of Normandy, we others knew not where to look. But De Aquila saved us quickly.
‘“Promise kept or promise broken,” he said, “Harold came near enough to breaking us Normans at Santlache.”
‘“Was it so close a fight, then?” said Henry.
‘“A hair would have turned it either way,” De Aquila answered. “His house-carles stood like rocks against rain. Where wast thou, Hugh, in it?”
‘“Among Godwin’s folk beneath the Golden Dragon till your front gave back, and we broke our ranks to follow,” said Hugh.
‘“But I bade you stand! I bade you stand! I knew it was all a deceit!” Harold had waked, and leaned forward as one crying from the grave.
‘“Ah, now we see how the traitor himself was betrayed!” said William of Exeter, and looked for a smile from the King.
‘“I made thee Bishop to preach at my bidding,” said Henry; and turning to Harold, “Tell us here how thy people fought us?” said he. “Their sons serve me now against my Brother Robert!”
‘The old man shook his head cunningly. “Na — Na — Na!” he cried. “I know better. Every time I tell my tale men stone me. But, Thanes, I will tell you a greater thing. Listen!” He told us how many paces it was from some Saxon Saint’s shrine to another shrine, and how many more back to the Abbey of the Battle.
‘“Ay,” said he. “I have trodden it too often to be out even ten paces. I move very swiftly. Harold of Norway knows that, and so does Tostig my brother. They lie at ease at Stamford Bridge, and from Stamford Bridge to the Battle Abbey it is — ” he muttered over many numbers and forgot us.
‘“Ay,” said De Aquila, all in a muse. “That man broke Harold of Norway at Stamford Bridge, and came near to breaking us at Santlache — all within one month.”
‘“But how did he come alive from Santlache fight?” asked the King. “Ask him! Hast thou heard it, Rahere?” “Never. He says he has been stoned too often for telling the tale. But he can count you off Saxon and Norman shrines till daylight,” said Rahere and the old man nodded proudly.
‘“My faith!” said Henry after a while. “I think even my Father the Great Duke would pity if he could see him.”
‘“How if he does see?” said Rahere.
‘Hugh covered his face with his sound hand. “Ah, why hast thou shamed him?” he cried again to Rahere.
‘“No — no,” says the old man, reaching to pluck at Rahere’s cape. “I am Rahere’s man. None stone me now,” and he played with the bells on the scollops of it.
‘“How if he had been brought to me when you found him?” said the King to Rahere.
‘“You would have held him prisoner again — as the Great Duke did,” Rahere answered.
‘“True,” said our King. “He is nothing except his name. Yet that name might have been used by stronger men to trouble my England. Yes. I must have made him my life’s guest — as I shall make Robert.”
‘“I knew it,” said Rahere. “But while this man wandered mad by the wayside, none cared what he called himself.”
‘“I learned to cease talking before the stones flew,” says the old man, and Hugh groaned.
‘“Ye have heard!” said Rahere. “Witless, landless, nameless, and, but for my protection, masterless, he can still make shift to bide his doom under the open sky.”
‘“Then wherefore didst thou bring him here for a mock and a shame?” cried Hugh, beside himself with woe.
‘“A right mock and a just shame!” said William of Exeter.
‘“Not to me,” said Nigel of Ely. “I see and I tremble, but I neither mock nor judge.” “Well spoken, Ely.” Rahere falls into the pure fool again. “I’ll pray for thee when I turn monk. Thou hast given thy blessing on a war between two most Christian brothers.” He meant the war forward ‘twixt Henry and Robert of Normandy. “I charge you, Brother,” he says, wheeling on the King, “dost thou mock my fool?” The King shook his head, and so then did smooth William of Exeter.
‘“De Aquila, does thou mock him?” Rahere jingled from one to another, and the old man smiled.
‘“By the Bones of the Saints, not I,” said our Lord of Pevensey. “I know how dooms near he broke us at Santlache.”
‘“Sir Hugh, you are excused the question. But you, valiant, loyal, honourable, and devout barons, Lords of Man’s justice in your own bounds, do you mock my fool?”
‘He shook his bauble in the very faces of those two barons whose names I have forgotten. “Na — Na!” they said, and waved him back foolishly enough.
‘He hies him across to staring, nodding Harold, and speaks from behind his chair.
‘“No man mocks thee, Who here judges this man? Henry of England — Nigel — De Aquila! On your souls, swift with the answer!” he cried.
‘None answered. We were all — the King not least — over-borne by that terrible scarlet-and-black wizard-jester.
‘“Well for your souls,” he said, wiping his brow. Next, shrill like a woman: “Oh, come to me!” and Hugh ran forward to hold Harold, that had slidden down in the chair.
‘“Hearken,” said Rahere, his arm round Harold’s neck. “The King — his bishops — the knights — all the world’s crazy chessboard neither mock nor judge thee. Take that comfort with thee, Harold of England!”
‘Hugh heaved the old man up and he smiled.
‘“Good comfort,” said Harold. “Tell me again! I have been somewhat punished.” ‘Rahere hallooed it once more into his ear as the head rolled. We heard him sigh, and Nigel of Ely stood forth, praying aloud.
‘“Out! I will have no Norman!” Harold said as clearly as I speak now, and he refuged himself on Hugh’s sound shoulder, and stretched out, and lay all still.’
‘Dead?’ said Una, turning up a white face in the dusk.
‘That was his good fortune. To die in the King’s presence, and on the breast of the most gentlest, truest knight of his own house. Some of us envied him,’ said Sir Richard, and fell back to take Swallow’s bridle.
‘Turn left here,’ Puck called ahead of them from under an oak. They ducked down a narrow path through close ash plantation.
The children hurried forward, but cutting a corner charged full-abreast into the thorn-faggot that old Hobden was carrying home on his back. ‘My! My!’ said he. ‘Have you scratted your face, Miss Una?’
‘Sorry! It’s all right,’ said Una, rubbing her nose. ‘How many rabbits did you get today?’
‘That’s tellin’!’ the old man grinned as he re-hoisted his faggot. ‘I reckon Mus’ Ridley he’ve got rheumatism along o’ lyin’ in the dik to see I didn’t snap up any. Think o’ that now!’
They laughed a good deal while he told them the tale.
‘An’ just as he crawled away I heard some one hollerin’ to the hounds in our woods,’ said he. ‘Didn’t you hear? You must ha’ been asleep sure-ly.’
‘Oh, what about the sleeper you promised to show us?’ Dan cried.
‘‘Ere he be — house an’ all!’ Hobden dived into the prickly heart of the faggot and took out a dormouse’s wonderfully woven nest of grass and leaves. His blunt fingers parted it as if it had been precious lace, and tilting it toward the last of the light he showed the little, red, furry chap curled up inside, his tail between his eyes that were shut for their winter sleep.
‘Let’s take him home. Don’t breathe on him,’ said Una. ‘It’ll make him warm and he’ll wake up and die straight off. Won’t he, Hobby?’
‘Dat’s a heap better by my reckonin’ than wakin’ up and findin’ himself in a cage for life. No! We’ll lay him into the bottom o’ this hedge. Dat’s jus’ right! No more trouble for him till come Spring. An’ now we’ll go home.’
A Carol
Our Lord Who did the Ox command
To kneel to Judah’s King,
He binds His frost upon the land
To ripen it for Spring —
To ripen it for Spring, good sirs,
According to His word;
Which well must be as ye can see —
And who shall judge the Lord?
When we poor fenmen skate the ice
Or shiver on the wold,
We hear the cry of a single tree
That breaks her heart in the cold —
That breaks her heart in the cold, good sirs,
And rendeth by the board;
Which well must be as ye can see —
And who shall judge the Lord?
Her wood is crazed and little worth
Excepting as to burn
That we may warm and make our mirth
Until the Spring return —
Until the Spring return, good sirs,
When people walk abroad;
Which well must be as ye can see —
And who shall judge the Lord?
God bless the master of this house,
And all that sleep therein!
And guard the fens from pirate folk,
And keep us all from sin,
