“For the love of all saints and of England, do not think of avenging that! Every man must now put away old grudges, and remember that he has but one foe,—William and his Frenchmen.”
“Very nobly spoken. But those sons of Karl—and I think you said you had killed a kinsman of mine?”
“It was a bear, Lord Earl, a great white bear. Cannot you understand a jest? Or are you going to take up the quarrels of all white bears that are slain between here and Iceland? You will end by burning Crowland minster then, for there are twelve of your kinsmen’s skins there, which Canute gave forty years ago.”
“Burn Crowland minster? St. Guthlac and all saints forbid!” said Waltheof, crossing himself devoutly.
“Are you a monk-monger into the bargain, as well as a dolt? A bad prospect for us, if you are,” said Hereward to himself.
“Ah, my dear Lord King!” said Waltheof, “and you are recovering?”
“Somewhat,” said the lad, sitting up, “under the care of this kind knight.”
“He is a monk, Sir Atheling, and not a knight,” said Hereward. “Our fenmen can wear a mail-shirt as easily as a frock, and handle a twybill as neatly as a breviary.”
Waltheof shook his head. “It is contrary to the canons of Holy Church.”
“So are many things that are done in England just now. Need has no master. Now, Sir Earl and Sir Atheling, what are you going to do?”