“Hah! yes, sir,” said the monk, with a sigh. “I suppose we must; and it does my heart good to see how clever the young Princes are with sword and bow; but they spend too much time learning to fight. If they would only spend half the time learning with me!”
“Yes, it would be good,” said Queen Osburga sadly.
“But they don’t,” continued the monk. “There’s only young Alured—Alfred, as you call him—who will learn at all, and he is nearly as idle as his brothers.”
“You cannot say that they are idle,” said the Queen, smiling gently.
“Well, perhaps not idle, my daughter,” said the monk, shaking his head, “because they do work hard to learn what Jarl Cerda teaches them.”
“Yes,” said King Ethelwulf, “they are apt to learn how to fight; but you must make them learned, as kings should be, so as to rule wisely and well when the Danes have killed me and they are called upon to reign.”
“The Danes never shall kill you, sir,” cried the little monk fiercely, “so long as I can stand in their way.”
The little group now separated, for the King and Queen had many duties to perform in connection with state affairs, and the little monk had to prepare the lessons for the boys.
And that’s how matters were on that bright sunny day when King Ethelwulf’s sons lay out on the steep hill-side—Bald, Bert, Red, and Fred—four as crisp and tongue-tripping names as four bright Saxon English boys could own, but each with the addition of Athel or Ethel before, except the youngest, in whose name it shortened into Al; and these were their titles, because each was a Prince.