“Nay, I know not. I cannot be always queen. You must be king sometimes.”
Torfrida did not say that this latter offer had been a much sorer temptation than the former.
“And has not the base-born Frenchman enough knights of his own, that he needs the help of an outlaw like me?”
“He asks for help from all the ends of the earth. He has sent that Lanfranc to the Pope; and there is talk of a sacred banner, and a crusade against England.”
“The monks are with him, then?” said Hereward. “That is one more count in their score. But I am no monk. I have shorn many a crown, but I have kept my own hair as yet, you see.”
“I do see,” said she, playing with his locks. “But,—but he wants you. He has sent for Angevins, Poitevins, Bretons, Flemings,—promising lands, rank, money, what not. Tosti is recruiting for him here in Flanders now. He will soon be off to the Orkneys, I suspect, or to Sweyn in Denmark, after Vikings.”
“Here? Has Baldwin promised him men?”
“What could the good old man do? He could not refuse his own son-in-law. This, at least, I know, that a messenger has gone off to Scotland, to Gilbert of Ghent, to bring or send any bold Flemings who may prefer fat England to lean Scotland.”
“Lands, rank, money, eh? So he intends that the war should pay itself—out of English purses. What answer would you have me make to that, wife mine?”
“The Duke is a terrible man. What if he conquers? And conquer he will.”