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."
"Is that written in your stars?"
"It is, I fear. And if he have the Pope's blessing, and the Pope's
banner--Dare we resist the Holy Father?"
"Holy step-father, you mean; for a step-father he seems to prove to merry
England.
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