BOOK VII.
THE WELCH KING.
CHAPTER I.
The sun had just cast his last beams over the breadth of water into
which Conway, or rather Cyn-wy, "the great river," emerges its winding
waves. Not at that time existed the matchless castle, which is now
the monument of Edward Plantagenet, and the boast of Wales. But
besides all the beauty the spot took from nature, it had even some
claim from ancient art. A rude fortress rose above the stream of
Gyffin, out of the wrecks of some greater Roman hold [159], and vast
ruins of a former town lay round it; while opposite the fort, on the
huge and ragged promontory of Gogarth, might still be seen, forlorn
and grey, the wrecks of the imperial city, destroyed ages before by
lightning.
All these remains of a power and a pomp that Rome in vain had
bequeathed to the Briton, were full of pathetic and solemn interest,
when blent with the thought, that on yonder steep, the brave prince of
a race of heroes, whose line transcended, by ages, all the other
royalties of the North, awaited, amidst the ruins of man, and in the
stronghold which nature yet gave, the hour of his doom.
But these were not the sentiments of the martial and observant Norman,
with the fresh blood of a new race of conquerors.
"In this land," thought he, "far more even than in that of the Saxon,
there are the ruins of old; and when the present can neither maintain
nor repair the past, its future is subjection or despair."
Agreeably to the peculiar uses of Saxon military skill, which seems to
have placed all strength in dykes and ditches, as being perhaps the
cheapest and readiest outworks, a new trench had been made round the
fort, on two sides, connecting it on the third and fourth with the
streams of Gyffin and the Conway. But the boat was rowed up to the
very walls, and the Norman, springing to land, was soon ushered into
the presence of the Earl.
Harold was seated before a rude table, and bending over a rough map of
the great mountain of Penmaen; a lamp of iron stood beside the map,
though the air was yet clear.
The Earl rose, as De Graville, entering with the proud but easy grace
habitual to his countrymen, said, in his best Saxon:
"Hail to Earl Harold! William Mallet de Graville, the Norman, greets
him, and brings him news from beyond the seas."
There was only one seat in that bare room--the seat from which the
Earl had risen. He placed it with simple courtesy before his visitor,
and leaning, himself, against the table, said, in the Norman tongue,
which he spoke fluently:
"It is no slight thanks that I owe to the Sire de Graville, that he
hath undertaken voyage and journey on my behalf; but before you impart
your news, I pray you to take rest and food."
"Rest will not be unwelcome; and food, if unrestricted to goats'
cheese, and kid-flesh,--luxuries new to my palate,--will not be
untempting; but neither food nor rest can I take, noble Harold, before
I excuse myself, as a foreigner, for thus somewhat infringing your
laws by which we are banished, and acknowledging gratefully the
courteous behavior I have met from thy countrymen notwithstanding."
"Fair Sir," answered Harold, "pardon us if, jealous of our laws, we
have seemed inhospitable to those who would meddle with them. But the
Saxon is never more pleased than when the foreigner visits him only as
the friend: to the many who settle amongst us for commerce--Fleming,
Lombard, German, and Saracen--we proffer shelter and welcome; to the
few who, like thee, Sir Norman, venture over the seas but to serve us,
we give frank cheer and free hand."
Agreeably surprised at this gracious reception from the son of Godwin,
the Norman pressed the hand extended to him, and then drew forth a
small case, and related accurately, and with feeling, the meeting of
his cousin with Sweyn, and Sweyn's dying charge.
The Earl listened, with eyes bent on the ground, and face turned from
the lamp; and, when Mallet had concluded his recital, Harold said,
with an emotion he struggled in vain to repress:
"I thank you cordially gentle Norman, for kindness kindly rendered!
I--I--" The voice faltered. "Sweyn was very dear to me in his
sorrows! We heard that he had died in Lycia, and grieved much and
long. So, after he had thus spoken to your cousin, he--he----Alas! O
Sweyn, my brother!"
"He died," said the Norman, soothingly; "but shriven and absolved; and
my cousin says, calm and hopeful, as they die ever who have knelt at
the Saviour's tomb!"
Harold bowed his head, and turned the case that held the letter again
and again in his hand, but would not venture to open it. The knight
himself, touched by a grief so simple and manly, rose with the
delicate instinct that belongs to sympathy, and retired to the door,
without which yet waited the officer who had conducted him.
Harold did not attempt to detain him, but followed him across the
threshold, and briefly commanding the officer to attend to his guest
as to himself, said: "With the morning, Sire de Granville, we shall
meet again; I see that you are one to whom I need not excuse man's
natural emotions."
"A noble presence!" muttered the knight, as he descended the stairs;
"but he hath Norman, at least Norse, blood in his veins on the distaff
side.--Fair Sir!"--(this aloud to the officer)--"any meat save the
kid-flesh, I pray thee; and any drink save the mead!"
"Fear not, guest" said the officer; "for Tostig the Earl hath two
ships in yon bay, and hath sent us supplies that would please Bishop
William of London; for Tostig the Earl is a toothsome man."
"Commend me, then, to Tostig the Earl," said the knight; "he is an
earl after my own heart."
