The good ship Moira, William of Normandy, owner
THE NORMAN ARMAMENT.
All through the summer of 1066, while England was ringing with alarm, Normandy was resounding with preparations; armourers were busy forging weapons and coats of mail; shipwrights were occupied with the construction of vessels; and men were continually employed carrying arms from workshop to port. Everything, meantime, seemed to favour William's project of conquest; and he fixed on a day about the middle of August as the time for his departure.
The mouth of the Dive was appointed as the rendezvous; and there, in good time, William's mighty armament was ready for the enterprise. Sixty thousand men came to the Norman standard;and the fleet consisted of four hundred ships and a thousand other vessels, great and small. For a month, however, the winds, proving adverse, detained the fleet in port. An Anglo-Saxon was caught making observations, taken into custody, and carried before William.
"You are a spy," said the duke.
The man, with William's terrible eye upon him, could not muster courage to deny the charge.
"Nevertheless," said the duke, "you shall see everything; though Harold need not trouble himself to ascertain my force; for he shall both see and feel it, ere the year has run its course."
At length a southern breeze sprang up, and the Normans set sail. But they soon found the impossibility of proceeding on their voyage. Carried as far as the roadstead of St. Valery, at the mouth of the Somme, they were under the necessity of landing and submitting to a further delay.
William's patience was now severely tried. The weather was stormy; rain fell in torrents; some ships, shattered by the tempest, sank with their crews; and the men began to lose heart. The fearful difficulties that beset the enterprise forced themselves on every mind; and while conversing with each other under their tents, dripping with water, they talked of the ships that had been lost, and exaggerated the number of the bodies cast ashore.
"The man is mad who thus seeks to seize the land of another," said some of the soldiers.
"And, doubtless," suggested others, "God is offended with such designs, and proves it by refusing us a favourable wind."
Not unaware that such conversations were held, William became uneasy and restless. He plied the men with strong drink to stimulate their courage, and was frequently observed to enter the church of St. Valery, to remain long in prayer, and to gaze anxiously, as he left the building, at the weathercock that ornamented the belfry.
On Tuesday, the 26th of September, while William was occupied with somewhat sad thoughts, a brilliant idea crossed his brain, and filled his heart with hope. Either prompted by sincere faith, or by a desire to dissipate the gloom that hung over his mighty host, he caused a coffer containing the bones of St. Valery to be taken from the church and solemnly carried through the camp. The duke maderich offerings; every soldier gave his mite; and the adventurers in a body joined in prayer. This ceremony had the effect of calming superstitious fears; and when next morning dawned, it seemed as if their prayers had been answered and a miracle wrought; for the weather was fine, and the wind was favourable.
No time was now lost. At daybreak the sleepers were roused from their repose; orders for immediate embarcation were given; the soldiers, cheered by the change of weather, joyfully hastened on board; and the mariners made ready to haul up their anchors and spread their sails.
William's own ship—a gift of Matilda the duchess—was named the Moira, commanded by a skipper of skill, known as Stephen, the son of Gerard, and ornamented by a figure-head representing William Rufus, then a little boy, with a bent bow in his hands. On the sails of divers colours were painted the arms of Normandy, and at the masthead flew the consecrated banner sent to William by the pope. Large lanterns, fixed on poles, were intended to serve as a rallying-point for the whole fleet.
After much bustle and exertion, everything was in readiness for sailing; and, William having embarked, the Moira, followed by fourteen hundred vessels, great and small, made for the open sea, while a cheer rose from sixty thousand tongues. The voyage was, on the whole, prosperous. But the Moira, sailing much more swiftly than the other ships, outstripped them during the day, and at night left them far behind. In the morning William found to his dismay that his friends were not to be seen.
"Go to the masthead," said the duke, addressing Stephen; and the skipper obeyed.
"I see only sky and sea," said the skipper.
"Never mind," said William, affecting a gay countenance; "cast anchor till they come in sight."
At the same time, to keep away fear and anxiety, he ordered a copious repast, with spiced wines; and, this having been disposed of, he caused the skipper again to go aloft.
"What do you see now?" asked William.
"Four vessels," answered the skipper.
"Look again," said William.
"Ah!" cried the skipper, "I see a forest of masts and sails."
"Our fleet!" exclaimed William, joyfully; and ere long, the fourteen hundred vessels having come up, the Moira was once more at their head, and gallantly leading the way to the coast of Sussex.
On that September day, the Norman fleet, without encountering the slightest opposition, sailed into the Bay of Pevensey, and cast anchor hard by that ancient castle, whose foundations were then washed by the waves, though the sea is now a mile distant from its stately ruins. The process of disembarking the troops was immediately commenced. First landed the archers, clad in short coats, with their bows in their hands; then the horsemen, in steel helmets and coats of mail, with long lances and double-edged swords; and then the armourers, smiths, carpenters, and pioneers. Everything was done in perfect order, and with a degree of precision which must have pleased William's eye.
The duke was the last to land; and, as he did so, a slight accident occurred, which some were inclined to regard as a presage of evil, but to which, with his wonted tact, he contrived to give an interpretation highly favourable to the fortunes of their enterprise. When his foot touched the shore, he slipped and fell on his face, and a murmur instantly arose.
"God preserve us!" exclaimed some in horror.
"This is a bad sign," cried others.
"Lords, what is it you say?" exclaimed William, rising with a spring. "Why are you amazed? See you not that I have taken seizin of this land with my hands, and all that it contains is our own?"
It is said that after landing, William ordered the ships forming his fleet to be burned, that the Normans, seeing all hope of retreat cut off, might be induced to fight the more desperately; and then he marched towards Hastings.
On a broad plain, between Pevensey and Hastings, the Normans pitched their camp. Having erected two wooden castles, brought with them to serve as receptacles for provisions during the campaign, or as places of refuge in case of disaster, they sent out bodies of troops to overrun the neighbourhood. The inhabitants, terrified at the approach of foes whom they were utterly unprepared to meet, fled from their dwellings to the churches; and the country seemedto lie so open, that many of the invaders indulged in the anticipation of taking possession without resistance.
Far otherwise, however, was it ordered. In fact, the Anglo-Saxons were rising from the Thames to the Tweed; and William soon received warning from one of the Normans settled in England not to trust to appearances.
"Be upon your guard," was the message, "for in four days the son of Godwin will be at the head of a hundred thousand men."
The warning was well meant, but somewhat unnecessary. William was not the man to be taken by surprise, as Hardrada had been. His camp was carefully guarded; and his outposts, extending to a great distance, kept watch night and day with unceasing vigilance. At length, on the morning of Friday, the 13th of October, horsemen galloped into the camp in such haste, that they had scarcely breath sufficient to communicate their intelligence.
"With what tidings come you?" asked the Normans eagerly.
"With tidings," answered the horsemen, "that the Saxon king is advancing furiously."
Harold has news of William's landing.
ASHarold, after his victory over the Norwegians, left York to hasten to London, he summoned the men of the provinces through which he passed to arm in defence of their country. The Anglo-Saxons obeyed the summons with the utmost possible celerity, and bands of armed men were soon on their way to the capital. But Harold's conduct ruined all. With a rashness of which even Tostig would hardly, under such circumstances, have been guilty, he resolved to venture on a battle before the great Anglo-Saxon nobles and their fighting-men came up; and, accompanied by his brothers, Gurth and Leofwine, he left the capital at the head of an army composed mainly of Kentishmen and Londoners, utterly inferior both in numbers and discipline to the force arrayed under the banner of his potent foe.Elate with the success of his arms at Stamford Bridge, and probably deluding himself with the idea that he could conquer William as he had conquered Hardrada, Harold marched with fierce rapidity till he was within seven miles of the Norman camp. But convinced, at that stage, of the impossibility of coming on William unawares, he changed his tactics, halted near the village then known as Epiton, took possession of some hilly ground, and fortified his position withditches, palisades, ramparts of slates, and willow hurdles. Thus strongly intrenched, he resolved to stand on the defensive.
ASHarold, after his victory over the Norwegians, left York to hasten to London, he summoned the men of the provinces through which he passed to arm in defence of their country. The Anglo-Saxons obeyed the summons with the utmost possible celerity, and bands of armed men were soon on their way to the capital. But Harold's conduct ruined all. With a rashness of which even Tostig would hardly, under such circumstances, have been guilty, he resolved to venture on a battle before the great Anglo-Saxon nobles and their fighting-men came up; and, accompanied by his brothers, Gurth and Leofwine, he left the capital at the head of an army composed mainly of Kentishmen and Londoners, utterly inferior both in numbers and discipline to the force arrayed under the banner of his potent foe.
Elate with the success of his arms at Stamford Bridge, and probably deluding himself with the idea that he could conquer William as he had conquered Hardrada, Harold marched with fierce rapidity till he was within seven miles of the Norman camp. But convinced, at that stage, of the impossibility of coming on William unawares, he changed his tactics, halted near the village then known as Epiton, took possession of some hilly ground, and fortified his position withditches, palisades, ramparts of slates, and willow hurdles. Thus strongly intrenched, he resolved to stand on the defensive.
Meanwhile, some spies, sent to make observations on the hostile army, and bring intelligence of the disposition and force of the Normans, returned to the camp, and gave their report.
"There are more priests," said the spies, "in Duke William's camp, than there are fighting men on the English side."
"Ah," said Harold, with a smile, "you have mistaken warriors for priests, because the Normans shave their beards, and wear their hair short. Those whom you saw in such numbers are not priests, but brave soldiers, who will soon show us what they are worth."
"It seems to us," said some of the Saxon chiefs, on whom the report of the spies, doubtless, was not without effect, "that we should act prudently in avoiding a battle for the present, and retreating towards London, ravaging the country as we go, and thus starving out the foreigners."
"I cannot ravage the country which has been committed to my care," answered Harold. "By my faith, that were indeed treason; and I prefer taking the chances of battle with my courage, my good cause, and the few men I have."
But ere long the Saxon chiefs had reason to doubt the goodness of Harold's cause. While this conversation as to the expediency of a retreat was taking place, a monk from William arrived with a message for Harold, and found his way to the presence of the Saxon king.
"William, Duke of Normandy," said the monk, addressing Harold, "requires thee to do one of three things: either to surrender to him, the crown of England; or to submit your quarrel to the arbitration of the pope; or to refer its decision to the chances of a single combat."
"And my answer," said Harold, briefly, "is, that I will not resign the crown; I will not refer the matter to the pope; and a single combat I will not fight."
"Then," said the monk, solemnly, "Duke William denounces thee as perjurer and liar; and all who support thee are excommunicated. The papal bull is in the Norman tent."
The mention of excommunication produced an instantaneous effect on the Saxon chiefs, and they looked at each other like men suddenly seized with superstitious terror.
"This is a business of great danger," they murmured.
"Whatever the danger may be, we ought to fight," said a thane; "for here is not a question of receiving a new lord as if our king were dead; the matter in hand is very different. William of Normandy has given our lands to his barons and his people, most of whom have already rendered him homage for them. They come not only to ruin us, but to ruin our descendants also, and to take from us the country of our ancestors."
"It is true," cried the Saxons, recovering their courage. "Let us neither make peace, truce, nor treaty with the invader."
"Let us swear," cried all, "to drive out the Normans, or die in the attempt."
An oath was accordingly taken by the Saxon chiefs. But when their enthusiasm evaporated, the thought of fighting for national existence under the auspices of a man branded as "perjurer and liar" troubled every conscience. Even Harold's brothers could not conceal their uneasiness, and Gurth frankly and honestly expressed his sentiments.
"Harold," said Gurth, "let me persuade you not to be present in the battle, but to return to London and seek fresh reinforcements, while we sustain the Norman's attack."
"And why?" asked Harold.
"Thou canst not deny," replied Gurth, "that, whether on compulsion or willingly, thou hast sworn an oath to Duke William upon the relics of saints. Why risk a combat with a perjury against thee? For us, who have taken no oath, the war is just: we defend our country. Leave us, then, to fight the battle. If we retreat, thou canst aid us; if we fall, thou canst avenge us."
"My duty," said Harold, "forbids me to remain apart while others risk their lives."
The night of Friday, the 13th of October, had now come, and by the Saxons little doubt was entertained that the Norman duke would attack them on the morrow. Nor was their anticipation incorrect.Indeed, William had intimated to his army that next day would be a day of battle; and, while the Norman warriors prepared their arms, Norman monks and priests prayed, and chanted litanies, and confessed the soldiers, and administered the sacrament.
The Saxons passed the night in a far different and much less devout manner. It seems that the 14th of October was the day of Harold's nativity, and that the Saxons, eager to celebrate such an occasion, or hailing it as a fair excuse for carousing, dedicated the night to joviality. Around their fires wine and ale flowed in abundance, and men, grouped in large circles, sang national ballads, and filled and emptied horns and flagons with a reckless indifference to the probability that next morning their ideas would be confused and their nerves disordered.
And thus, almost face to face with the Normans, and soon to be hand to hand, the Saxons, under King Harold's standard, beheld the break of that day on which, against fearful odds, they were to fight a battle for the sovereignty of England.
Battle Abbey, Hastings.
The Norman prelates blessing the troops.
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS.
On the morning of Saturday, the 14th of October, 1066, the day of St. Calixtus, William the Norman rose from his couch, and prepared to tear the crown of Edward the Confessor from the head of Harold, son of Godwin.
Before forming into battle order, the Normans went through an impressive religious ceremony. Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutance, celebrated mass, and solemnly blessed the troops; and then Odo, who was warrior as well as prelate, and wore a hauberk under his rochet, mounted his tall white charger, and, with a baton of command in his hand, aided to marshal the cavalry.
The Norman army was ranged in three divisions. In the first were the men of Boulogne, Ponthieu, and most of the continental adventurers, whom the prospect of pay and plunder had brought to the invading standard; in the second appeared the auxiliaries from Brittany, Maine, and Poitou; while the third was composed of the high Norman chivalry, and comprised hundreds of knights and nobles, whose names were afterwards registered in the roll of Battle Abbey, and whose descendants ranked among the mediæval magnates of England. Gallantly they mounted—Fitzosborne and Warren, Gourney and Grantmesnil, Percy and Peverill, Montgomery and Mortimer, Merley and Montfichet, Bruce, Bigod, and Bohun, De Vere, De Vesci, De Clare, De La Val, and De Roos—completely covered with linked mail, armed with lances and swords, and with crosses or dragons and wolves painted on their shields.
But, while warriors were mounting, the proudest and grandest of these barons attracted little attention. It was on the chief of that mighty host that all eyes were turned—on the martial duke, under whose auspices was now to be fought one of the greatest battles of the world—a battle the result of which has ever since exercised no unimportant influence on the destinies of the human race.
William was now in his forty-third year, and time had left its traces behind. But, bald as he was, and worn with the cares of four decades, the Norman duke had all the vigour, energy, and martial enthusiasm of youth. Never, perhaps, had he appeared more worthy of his high fortunes than when, with some of the relics on which Harold had sworn, around his neck, he stood in view of the great army of which he was the soul.
This display having served its purpose, William hastened to complete the process of arming; and his squires, while handing him his hauberk, in their haste presented him with the backpiece first.
"This is an evil omen," said the lords around.
"Tush!" exclaimed William, laughing their fears to scorn. "Methinks it is rather a good omen: it betokens that the last shall be first—that the duke will be a king."
Having completely armed himself, with the exception of his helmet, William intrusted his standard to Tonstain le Blanc, a young warrior, and sprang upon his magnificent Spanish charger, which the King of Castile had sent him as a gift. Thus armed, and thus mounted, with the consecrated standard waving over his head, he raised his voice to address his soldiers ere they marched upon the foe.
"Normans and warriors," said the duke, "you are now about to encounter your enemies. Fight your best, and spare not. What I gain, you gain; if I conquer, you conquer; if I take the land, you will share it. We shall all be rich. Know, however, that I came here not merely to take that which is my due, but to revenge our whole nation for the felon acts, perjuries, and treasons of these Saxons. In the night of St. Brice they put to death the Danes, both men and women. Afterwards they decimated the companions of my kinsman, Alfred, and put him to death. On then, in God's name, and chastise them for all their misdeeds!"
As William concluded his address, the Norman priests and monks retired to a neighbouring hill to pray for victory; and the Norman warriors, with a shout of "Dieu aide!" began their march to the Saxon camp. In a short time they came in sight of the place where Harold and his men, all on foot around their standard, and strongly posted, stood ready, with their huge axes, to fight to the death.
While such was the position of the hostile armies, a Norman minstrel, named Taillefer, rendered himself prominently conspicuous. Giving the spur to his horse, he rode out in front of the Norman array, and, in a loud voice, raised the song of Charlemagne and Roland, then so famous throughout Christendom. As he proceeded, he played with his sword, tossing the weapon far into the air, and then catching it in his right hand with wondrous dexterity; while the warriors behind vociferously repeated the burthen of his song, and loudly shouted, "Dieu aide!"
When the Normans approached the Saxon intrenchments, theirarchers began the conflict by letting fly a shower of arrows, and the crossbowmen discharged their bolts. But neither arrows nor bolts did much execution. In fact, most of the shots were rendered useless by the high parapets of the Saxon redoubts, and the archers and bowmen found, with dismay, that their efforts were in vain.
But the infantry, armed with spears, and the cavalry, with their long lances, now advanced, and charging the gates of the redoubts, endeavoured to force an entrance. The Saxons, however, forming a solid mass, encountered their assailants with courage, and swinging with both hands their heavy axes, broke lances into shivers, and cut through coats of mail.
It was in vain that the Normans forming the first division of William's army perseveringly endeavoured to tear up the stakes and penetrate the redoubts. Foiled and dispirited, archers and bowmen, infantry and cavalry, fell back on that column where the duke, in person, commanded.
But William was not to be baffled. Spurring his Spanish charger in among the archers, he ordered them to shoot, not straightforward, but into the air, so that their arrows might fall into the enemy's camp.
"See you not," said the duke, "that your shafts fall harmless against the parapets? Shoot in the air. Let your arrows fall as if from the heavens."
The archers then, advancing in a body, profited by William's suggestion; and so successful proved the manœuvre, that many of the Saxons, and, among others, King Harold, were wounded in the face.
In the meantime, the Norman horse and foot renewed the attack with shouts of "Notre Dame!" "Dieu aide!" and an impetuosity which seemed to promise success. But if the attack was fierce, the resistance was stubborn. Notwithstanding the execution done by arrows and bolts, and their frightful wounds, Harold and his men fought with mighty courage. Driven back from one of the gates to a deep ravine, which was concealed by brushwood and long grass, the Normans found their situation deplorable. Horses and men rolled over each other into the ravine, perishing miserably; and, when William's Spanish charger was killed under him, and the great war-chief for a moment disappeared, alarm seized the invaders.
"The duke is slain!" was the cry; and the Normans, giving way to panic, commenced a retreat.
"No!" exclaimed William, in a voice of thunder, as he disentangled himself from his fallen steed; "I am here. Look at me. I still live, and, with God's help, I will conquer."
And taking off his helmet that he might be the more readily recognised, William threw himself before the fugitives, and threatening some, striking others with his lance, he barred their passage, and ordered the cavalry to return to the attack. But every effort to force the redoubts proved fruitless; still the charge of the Normans was broken on the wall of shields; and, in spite of the fearful odds against them, the Saxons still held gallantly out.
It was now that William determined on a stratagem to lure the Saxons from their intrenchments, and ordered a thousand horse to advance to the redoubts and then retire. His command was skilfully obeyed; and when the Saxons saw their enemies fly as if beaten, they lost the coolness they had hitherto exhibited, and, with their axes hanging from their necks, rushed furiously forth in pursuit.
But brief indeed was their imaginary triumph. Suddenly the Normans halted, faced about, and being joined by another body of cavalry, that had watched the manœuvre, turned fiercely upon the pursuers with sword and lance, and quickly put them to the rout.
Evening was now approaching; and William, availing himself of the confusion and disorder which the success of his stratagem had created among the Saxons, once more assailed the redoubts, and this time with success. In rushed horse and foot, hewing down all who opposed them. In vain the Saxons struggled desperately, overthrowing cavalry and infantry, and continued the combat hand to hand and foot to foot. Their numbers rapidly diminished; and at length the king and his two brothers were left almost without aid to defend the standard.
No hope now remained for the Saxons, and soon all was over. Harold, previously wounded in the eye, fell to rise no more. Leofwine shared his brother's fate and died by his side; and Gurth, courageously facing the foe, maintained a contest single-handed against a host of knightly adversaries. But William, pushing forward,mace in hand, struck the Saxon hero a blow of irresistible violence, and Gurth fell on the mangled corpses of his kinsmen and countrymen.
Ere this the sun had set, and still the conflict was continued; and the Saxons, vain as were their efforts, maintained an irregular struggle till darkness rendered it impossible to know friend from foe, except by the difference of language. The vanquished islanders then fled in the direction of London. But when the moon rose, the victors fiercely urged the pursuit. The Norman cavalry, flushed with triumph, granted no quarter. Thousands of Saxons, dispersed and despairing, fell by the weapons of pursuers, and thousands more died on the roads of wounds and fatigue.
Meanwhile, William ordered the consecrated standard to be set up where that of the Saxons had fallen, and, pitching his tent on the field of battle, passed that October night almost within hearing of the groans of the dying.
NOsooner did Sunday morning dawn than William, having first evinced his gratitude to Heaven for the victory gained, applied himself to ascertain the extent of his loss. Having vowed to erect on the field of battle an abbey, to be dedicated to St. Martin, the patron saint of the warriors of Gaul, the Conqueror drew up his troops, and called over the names of all who had crossed the sea, from a list made at St. Valery.
While this roll was being called over, many of the wives and mothers of the Saxons who had armed in the neighbourhood of Hastings to fight for King Harold appeared on the field to search for and bury the bodies of their husbands and sons. William immediately caused the corpses of the men who had fallen on his side to be buried, and gave the Saxons leave to do the same for their countrymen.
For some time, however, no one had the courage to mention the propriety of giving Christian burial to the Saxon king; and the body of Harold lay on the field without being claimed or sought for. At length Githa, the widow of Godwin, sent to ask the Conqueror's permission to render the last honours to her son, but William sternly refused.
"The mother," said the messengers, "would even give the weight of the body in gold."
"Nevertheless," said William, "the man, false to his word and to his religion, shall have no other sepulchre than the sands of the shore."
William, however, relented. It happened that Harold hadfounded and enriched the abbey of Waltham, and that the abbot felt himself in duty bound to obtain Christian burial for such a benefactor. Accordingly he deputed Osgod and Ailrik, two Saxon monks, to demand permission to transfer the body of Harold to their church; and the Conqueror granted the permission they asked.
But Osgod and Ailrik found their mission somewhat difficult to fulfil. So disfigured, in fact, were most of the dead with wounds and bruises, that one could hardly be known from another. In vain the monks sought among the mass of slain, stripped as they were of armour and clothing. The monks of Waltham could not recognise the corpse of him whom they sought, and, in their difficulty, they resolved to invoke female aid.
At that time there was living, probably in retirement, a Saxon woman known as Edith the Fair. This woman, who was remarkable for her beauty, and especially for the gracefulness of her neck, which chroniclers have compared to the swan's, had, before Harold's coronation and his marriage with Aldith, been entertained by him as a mistress; and, on being applied to, she consented to assist the monks in their search. Better acquainted than they were with the features of the man she had loved, Edith was successful in discovering the corpse.
The body of Harold having thus—thanks to the zeal and exertions of the monks—been found, was, with those of his brothers, Gurth and Leofwine, placed at the disposal of their mother, the widowed Githa. With her consent they were buried in the abbey of Waltham. The Conqueror sent William Mallet, one of his knights, to see the corpse honourably interred; and at the east end of the choir, in a tomb long pointed out as that containing the remains of the Saxon king, were inscribed the words—
"HAROLD INFELIX."
"But here," says Sir Richard Baker, "Giraldus Cambrensis tells a strange story, that Harold was not slain in the battle, but only wounded and lost his left eye, and then escaped by flight to Chester, where he afterwards led a holy anchorite's life in the cell of St. James, fast by St. John's Church."
THE CONQUEROR AND THE KENTISHMEN.
After his victory at Hastings, William remained for some time on the field, waiting for the men of the country to appear at his camp and make their submission. Finding, however, that nobody came, he marched along the sea coast, took Dover, and then advanced by the great Roman road towards London.
While passing through Kent, the conquerors, for a time, pursued their way without interruption. Suddenly, however, at a place where the road, approaching the Thames, ran through a forest, they found their passage disputed by a large body of Kentishmen. Each man carried in his hand a green bough, and at a distance they presented the appearance of a wood in motion.
"This," said the Normans, crossing themselves, "is magic—the work of Satan."
On drawing near, however, the Kentishmen threw the green boughs to the ground, raised their banner, and drew their swords; and William, aware that the men of Kent were not foes to be despised, asked with what intent they came against him in such a fashion.
"We come," cried the men of Kent, "to fight for our liberty, and for the laws we have enjoyed under King Edward."
"Well," answered William, whose object it now was, if possible, to conciliate, "ye shall have your ancient customs and your laws which ye demand, so that ye acknowledge me king of England."
The Kentishmen, on hearing this, consented to lay down their arms, having concluded a treaty by which they agreed to offer no further resistance, on condition that they should be as free as they had before been. William sent forward five hundred horsemen towards London; and learning that the citizens were likely to stand on their defence, he resolved to turn towards the west, and passed the Thames at Wallingford.
On reaching Wallingford, which had been regarded by the Saxons as a stronghold of the first importance, William was struck with the capacity of the place, and eager to secure it as one of his strongholds. On this point there was no difficulty. In fact, Wallingford was in possession of a Saxon thane named Wigod, who had neither the will nor the power to resist, but who had an only daughter named Aldith, with no insuperable objection to become the bride of a Norman knight. The Conqueror immediately provided the fair Aldith with a husband, in the person of Robert D'Oyley, one of his favourite warriors; and the marriage ceremony having been performed without any unnecessary delay, D'Oyley was left, in the company of his bride and his father-in-law, to make the castle as strong as possible; while the Conqueror, marching to Berkhampstead, cut off all communication between London and the north, and continued so to hem in the city that the inhabitants became every day more apprehensive of being exposed to the horrors of famine.
News of the Norman victory at Hastings speedily reached London; and the city became the scene of commotion and debate. So strong, however, appeared the necessity for doing something decisive, that men calmed themselves to consider their position; and, by way of dealing with the crisis, they resolved on placing the Confessor's crown on the head of Edgar Atheling, the Confessor's kinsman, and the undoubted heir of the Saxon kings.
Atheling was grandson of Edmund Ironsides, and a native of Hungary. In fact, it seems that when Canute the Dane, in 1017, made himself master of England, he found in the kingdom two sons of Ironsides, who bore the names of Edmund and Edward. Wishing, it is said, to have the Saxon princes put to death, but apprehensive of the consequences of ordering their execution, Canute sent them to the King of Sweden, with a request that they might be secretly made away with. Not caring, however, to have the blood of two innocent boys to answer for, the royal Swede sent them to Hungary; and the king of that country, after receiving them with reluctance, reared them with kindness. As time passed on, Edmund died without heirs; but Edward, known as The Exile, espousing Agatha, daughter of an Emperor of Germany, became father of a handsome and fair-haired boy, known as Edgar Atheling, and two girls, named Margaret and Christina.
During the reigns of Harold Harefoot and Hardicanute, the son of Ironsides remained forgotten in exile. But the Confessor, in his old age, finding himself childless, and knowing that his end was drawing nigh, turned his thoughts towards his expatriated kinsman, and despatched Aldred, Archbishop of York, to escort the heir ofAlfred from the German court. The result was, that Edward the Exile, bringing with him his wife and three children, returned to the country of his ancestors, with high hopes of wearing the crown. But not long after arriving in England he went the way of all flesh, leaving his son much too young to assert his own rights, and without adherents sufficiently influential to cope successfully with the wealthy and popular chief of the House of Godwin.
At the time when the Confessor drew his last breath, in the Painted Chamber, Edgar Atheling was a boy of ten; and Harold had very little difficulty in excluding him from the throne. It has been asserted, indeed, that, from the earliest period, minors had been set aside, as a matter of course, by the Saxon customs; and that the Atheling's nonage positively disqualified him from wearing the crown. Nevertheless, the youth, the beauty, the hereditary claims of the boy, won him many friends; and he was much beloved by the people, who, in their loyal affection, called him their darling.
"He is young and handsome," said they, "and descended from the true race, the best race of the country."
It would seem that the Atheling's claims caused Harold considerable uneasiness. In fact, historians state that the son of Godwin was kept in constant dread "of anything being contrived against him in favour of Edgar by those who had a great affection for the ancient royal family." However, Harold, to keep them quiet, showed the boy great respect, gave him the earldom of Oxford, and "took care of his education," says one historian, "as if he would have it thought that he intended to resign the crown to him when he should be of fit age to govern."
But whatever may have been Harold's motives or intentions, no sooner did he fall at Hastings than the popular cry rose in Edgar's favour. Opinions, however, were divided as to the person most worthy of being king. Edwin and Morkar, the grandsons of Leofric, claimed the honour for one of themselves; and men influenced by the papal bull, stood up for Duke William. But both Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Aldred, Archbishop of York, declared strongly for the Atheling; and at length, after much hesitation and much dispute, the boy was publicly proclaimed.
Such was the stage at which affairs had arrived in London, when William, from his camp at Berkhampstead, found a way of communicating with Ansgar, the standard-bearer of the city, an officer whom, in 1051, he had seen at Edward's court; and when Ansgar, assembling the chief citizens, without informing them of William's message to himself, impressed upon them the expediency of negotiating with the invaders.
"Honourable brothers," said Ansgar, "our resources are nearly exhausted. The city is threatened with assault, and no army comes to our aid."
"True," murmured the citizens.
"Such," continued Ansgar, "is our situation; but when strength is exhausted, when courage can do no more, artifice and stratagem still remain. I advise you to resort to them."
"In what way?" asked the citizens.
"The enemy," answered Ansgar, "is not yet aware of our miserable position: let us profit by that circumstance, and send them fair words by a man capable of deceiving them, who will feign to convey your submission, and, in sign of peace, will lay his hand in theirs if required."
"Yes," cried the citizens: "we will, in that case, be able to obtain a suspension of hostilities, and protract negotiations until the arrival of succours."
After this scene, in which Ansgar skilfully acted his part, his counsel was enthusiastically adopted. But the messenger sent to delude William returned to London devoted to the Norman duke's cause, and gave so flattering a report of the Conqueror, that the citizens became eager to acknowledge such a man as King of England. The feeling proved marvellously contagious, and London was soon under the influence of one of those popular outbursts which nothing can resist.
"What should be done?" asked Ansgar.
"Let the keys of the city be carried to Duke William," was the answer.
The warriors and prelates who surrounded Edgar Atheling were probably somewhat surprised at this sudden resolution, and theywere certainly in no position to restrain or counteract it. They therefore yielded to the current; and the young king, accompanied by the two archbishops, Stigand and Aldred, by Wulstan, Bishop of Worcester, and by the chief citizens, proceeded to Berkhampstead to make their submission. On presenting themselves to the Conqueror they swore fidelity, gave hostages, and received his promise to be gentle and clement. William regarded the grandson of Ironsides with interest, kissed the boy tenderly, and spoke to him with kindness. Doubtless, in the eye of a prince of Edgar Atheling's age, a dog and a pony would have seemed more to be desired than the crown and throne of England; nor can it be said that, in after years, when his valour and his capacity had been proved, he ever looked back with excessive regret to the crown he had lost and the throne from which he had been excluded.
Saxon Bondman (from Strutt).