"Even so, my Lord of Blois. The poor child mourns his father."
"There be many mourners now. William Malet, with a lady whom Harold loved, and two good monks of Waltham, have just found the body of the perjured usurper. The face was so mangled, that no man might know him, but she recognised him by a mark on his body. So they have carried it away by the duke's command to bury it by the shore which he strove so vainly to guard."
"Oh may I but bear his body home to my poor mother," moaned the lad.
"We will ask the Conqueror to grant thy petition, poor mourner," said the sympathising monk.
"William will not refuse his prayer, father, if thy superior, the Bishop of Coutances, urges it; he is all-powerful just now," said Eustace of Blois. "The poor boy shall plead himself. Come, my lad, to the pavilion; there shalt thou ask for and obtain the poor boon thou cravest."
The unhappy Wilfred--for our readers have of course recognised the young heir of Aescendune--repressed his sobs, strove to wipe away his tears, as if he felt them unmanly, and followed his conductors, the knight and the monk, towards the ducal tent.
There William, attended by all his chief officers--by Odo of Bayeux and Geoffrey of Coutances, by Hugh de Bigod and Robert de Mortain, and some few others of his mightiest nobles, was taking the evening meal, served by a few young pages, themselves the sons of nobles or knights, who learnt the duties of chivalry by beginning at the lowest grade, if to wait on the Conqueror could be so considered.
Speaking to the sentinel, the good chaplain was allowed to enter, and whisper low in the ear of the bishop.
"I can refuse thee nought after thy good service," said the courtly prelate. "Thou say'st the poor boy has a boon to crave--the body of his sire, and begs through me--I will out, and speak to him."
"Thy name, my son?" said Geoffrey to Wilfred.