Homeward speeds Harold, and as he crosses the Channel his terror gives way to wrath at the knavery practised upon him. Speedily he banishes the hateful memory of his enforced oath; he must be up and doing, for the aged king lies on his deathbed. With his dying breath Edward declares that Harold is the most worthy to reign, and the chiefs of the land concur in his choice. Edward is buried with the utmost solemnity in his great new church at Westminster, where you may see his shrine to this day. Then, amidst the loud shouts of the English nobles who throng the minster, Harold is elected king. Forthwith he takes up the reins of office, and his subjects rejoice daily in his wisdom, justice, and unsparing devotion to the good of his country.
But what of William, the rejected candidate for the throne? He is in his park near Rouen when the trembling messenger breaks the news. His face grows clouded; he strings and unstrings his bow. Suddenly he hands it to an attendant, and hurries to his castle. In the great hall he strides to and fro, sits down and rises again, unable to remain still in any place, none daring to approach him lest the tempest of his rage should burst on them. At length a privileged baron addresses the brooding duke. “Sire,” says he, “why should you conceal from us your news? It is commonly reported that the King of England is dead, and that Harold, breaking faith with you, has seized the kingdom.” “They say true,” replies the duke; “my grief and anger are caused by Edward’s death and Harold’s wrong.” “Sire,” returns the courtier, “for Edward’s death there is no remedy, but for Harold’s wrong there is. Strike boldly; well begun is half done.”
At once William made his resolve, and began to battle with the myriad difficulties which beset him. He interviewed his barons, and wrung from them their reluctant consent to the enterprise and their grudging promises of aid, and persuaded the Pope to send him a consecrated banner and a bull recognizing him King of England. Then far and wide he published his proclamation of war, promising liberal pay and the plunder of England to all who would strike in his cause. Forthwith from every part of France knights, spearmen, and cross-bowmen flocked to him. The bulk of them were hardy adventurers, actuated by every kind of greed and covetousness. During the autumn of 1065 and the spring of the following year Normandy was as busy as a hive of bees. The woodmen felled the forests; the shipwrights wrought at the seaports; every armourer’s shop rang with the blows of artisans fashioning coats of mail, spears, and swords. Speedily all was ready for the invasion of England.
Meanwhile, what was happening in that threatened land? While the great armament of the Norman was wind-bound in port, a vast Viking host under Harold Hardrada, King of Norway, and Tostig, the English king’s brother, had doubled Spurn Head, and was sailing up the Humber and into the Ouse, bound for York. Why, you ask, should Harold’s own brother take arms against him when William of Normandy was arraying a mighty host for his undoing? Tostig had been Earl of Northumbria, and had ruled his earldom with harshness and injustice. He had forced peace on a land of feuds and outrages by taking life and by maiming limb. Loud had been the outcry against him, and Tostig had been driven from Northumbria by his incensed subjects. Harold had supported the claim of a rival; and now Tostig, at the instigation of his brother-in-law, Duke William, had persuaded the Norse king to join him in a descent upon North England. Harold, whom he had not forgiven, was to be taken between two fires, and victory seemed sure.
Harold had mustered his forces on the southern shore, and during the summer lay in wait for the coming of the Norman. Summer passed, and autumn arrived when the news reached him that the Vikings were in the Ouse. Believing that William would not sail until the spring, Harold set out for York to smite the Northern host before the Norman was ready to attack. With wonderful speed his troops marched northward, and York was reached on the fourth day after his departure from London.
The Norsemen were taken by surprise. It was inconceivable that Harold could be nigh, and so they advanced to York, which had promised surrender, leaving their coats of mail on board their ships in the river. As they marched towards the gates, which were to be flung wide at their approach, they beheld a cloud of dust and the glitter of arms in the distance. “Who are these advancing towards us?” asked Hardrada. “Only Englishmen craving pardon and beseeching friendship,” answered Tostig; but the words had scarcely been uttered before the dust-cloud resolved itself into an army, headed by King Harold himself. “The enemy!—the enemy!” muttered the Norwegians. They formed in line of battle, ready for the fray.
Harold feared not the issue, but he was loath to shed his brother’s blood, and sent forward a messenger to offer Tostig his old earldom—one-third of the kingdom—if he would yield. “And what,” asked Tostig, “will he give my faithful ally, the King of Norway?” “He,” replied the English messenger, “shall have seven feet of ground for a grave, or, as he is a very tall man, perhaps a little more.” Tostig bade the messenger depart, and battle was joined.
Hardly had the fray begun before Hardrada fell with a random arrow in his throat. The fury of the English onset could not be resisted. The Norwegians fell back and crossed the Derwent by Stamford Bridge, and the English followed. For a time a gigantic Norseman, like Horatius of old, “kept the bridge;” but he was slain at last, and the English swarmed after the retreating foe. At nightfall the Norsemen were overthrown, the raven banner of the Vikings was taken, and Tostig and most of his captains were dead. Harold had triumphed. His foes came in three hundred ships; they fled in twenty-four.
THE DEATH OF HAROLD.(From the drawing by Daniel Maclise, R.A. By permission of the Art Union of London.)
THE DEATH OF HAROLD.(From the drawing by Daniel Maclise, R.A. By permission of the Art Union of London.)
“Norman saw on English oak,On English neck a Norman yoke,Norman spoon in English dish,And England ruled as Normans wish;Blithe world in England never will be more,Till England’s rid of all the four.”
“Norman saw on English oak,On English neck a Norman yoke,Norman spoon in English dish,And England ruled as Normans wish;Blithe world in England never will be more,Till England’s rid of all the four.”
“Norman saw on English oak,On English neck a Norman yoke,Norman spoon in English dish,And England ruled as Normans wish;Blithe world in England never will be more,Till England’s rid of all the four.”
“Norman saw on English oak,
On English neck a Norman yoke,
Norman spoon in English dish,
And England ruled as Normans wish;
Blithe world in England never will be more,
Till England’s rid of all the four.”
And now, in mimic strife, let that great battle which gave England for the last time to foreign foes be fought again. The first act of the drama which we are about to witness takes place on the Sussex shore near Pevensey, on the spot where Roman and Saxon alike landed when they too coveted the possession of our isle.
It is the twenty-ninth day of September, in the year of grace 1066. The wind that is even now fluttering the victorious banners of Harold at York is wafting to our coast an even more terrible foe. You see the vast armada of the Norman approaching the beach. Amidst the crowd of vessels which cover the sea you discern a ship with the prow fashioned like a brazen child loosing an arrow from a bended bow. That ship bears Duke William and his fortunes. Speedily the vessels run aground, planks are thrust ashore, and the work of landing begins.
“Out archers!” is the cry, and the shaven and shorn cross-bowmen in their short habits spring ashore and form up on the beach. They scour the neighbourhood, but no armed foe is in sight. Now the knights, clad in hauberk, helmet, and shining cuirass, with their shields slung round their necks, step ashore, and their bustling squires, with many a tug and strain and muttered curse, lead their high-mettled chargers down the creaking gangways. In a trice the knights are mounted, their swords girded on, and their lances in hand. You see their glittering ranks form and wheel upon the shore.
Here come the carpenters, with their axes, planes, and adzes, seeking a suitable spot for the erection of a castle, which was completely fashioned in Normandy, and now only needs fitting together. Great frames are carried ashore, and like magic a wooden fortress is deftly reared on the strand. Ere set of sun the stores are landed and safely bestowed within its walls. The guards are set, and the evening meal is served.
Last of all to tread the soil of the land that is soon to be his comes Duke William. As he steps ashore he stumbles, and falls upon his face. A cry of consternation runs through the superstitious host. “God preserve us! this is a bad sign.”—“Nay,” he shouts lustily, and with that readiness of retort which never fails him; “see, my lords, I have taken possession of England with both my hands! It is now mine, and what is mine is yours.”
At dawn he marches along the seashore to Hastings, where other wooden castles are erected, and every precaution is taken against surprise. The foragers are busy in every neighbouring village, and as they appear the unarmed English flee, driving their cattle before them to secret places of safety. Mounted scouts push far into the country, and fall back on the main body as the English army draws near.
Now the scene changes, and you see Harold’s footmen hurrying forward in the vain hope of smiting the Norman ere he has made good his landing. But the surprise of Stamford Bridge is not to be repeated, and Harold halts seven miles from Hastings and sends forward his spies. Speedily they return with the astonishing news that there are more priests in William’s camp than fighting-men. They are mistaken; they do not know the Norman custom of shaving the beard and cropping the poll. Harold smiles at their report. “Those whom you have seen in such numbers,” says he, “are not priests but good soldiers, who will make us feel what they are.” Now a council of war is held, and several of his captains, with rare good sense, advise the English king to avoid a battle and retreat towards London, leaving a desert behind him. “No,” says the chivalrous Harold. “Ravage the country which has been committed to my care! Never! I will try the chances of battle with the few men I have, and trust to their courage and the goodness of my cause.”
But here comes a Norman monk, big with a message from his duke, bidding Harold do one of three things—resign his kingdom in favour of William, yield it to the Pope for his award, or determine the issue by single combat. “Tell your master,” says Harold abruptly, “I will not resign my title, I will not refer it to the Pope, nor will I accept the single combat.” Again William tempts him by the promise of all the land north of the Humber; but Harold is proof against the bribe, and his captains swear a unanimous oath to make neither peace, truce, nor treaty with the invader, but to drive away the Norman, or perish in the attempt.
Now the scene shifts once more. On a spur of the South Downs, where Battle Abbey now stands, you see the embattled array of the English. The hill of Senlac, on which they have posted themselves, slopes steeply in front, less steeply on the right, and gently on the left. On the summit of the hill the host of the English is thickly gathered behind a rough trench and a stockade. There is marshy ground on the right, but the left is the weakest part of the position, and here are mustered Harold’s stout hus-carles, doughty warriors in full armour, wielding huge axes. Here, too, are the banners of the king—the Golden Dragon of Wessex and the Fighting Man. The rest of the ground is occupied by the half-armed rustics who have flocked to Harold, and are bent on striking a good blow against the invader.
Out from the Norman host spurs the minstrel Taillefer, singing the song of Roland, and Oliver, and the peers who died at Roncesvalles. As he sings he tosses his sword into the air and juggles with it famously. Then he puts his horse to the gallop, and strikes his lance through an English breast. He smites another with his sword, shouting challenges to the foe. The English close round him, and the first Norman has fallen on the fatal field.
A shower of arrows from the archers begins the fray, and then the footmen and the Norman knights, to the loud braying of horns, charge up the slopes, crying, “God be our help!” The charge breaks vainly on the stockade and shield-wall, behind which the English ply axe and javelin with fierce shouts of “Out! out!” Back go the footmen and back go the knights, leaving dead and wounded before that fatal barrier. Again and again the duke rallies them; the fury of fight surges in his veins, and with headlong valour he spurs up the slopes to the fierce attack. No breach can be made in that wall. His Bretons, entangled in the marshy ground, break into disorder, and panic seizes his army as the cry goes round that the duke is slain. William bars the way and checks the flight of the fugitives with savage blows. He tears off his helmet. “I am alive,” he shouts, “and by God’s will I will conquer yet.”
Maddened by another repulse, he spurs right into the thick of the fight. His horse goes down beneath him, but his terrible mace circles in the air, and his assailants are felled, never to rise again. Again he mounts, again he is unhorsed, and a blow of his hand hurls to the ground an unmannerly rider who will not lend him a steed. William’s terrible onslaughts have dispelled the panic, but the issue of the battle still hangs in the balance.
It is three in the afternoon, and the English shield-wall is yet unbroken. Frontal attacks having failed, William will now try what the cunning of strategy can accomplish. Hitherto his archers have done but little mischief. With their great shields the English ward off the arrows that beat upon them like hail. “Shoot upwards,” he commands, “that your arrows may fall on their heads.” The archers obey, and with shields raised aloft to protect their faces, the English are at a manifest disadvantage in their encounters with the Norman knights. Almost the first to suffer in that iron storm is Harold himself. An arrow pierces his right eye. In agony he plucks it out, snaps it in two, and flings it from him; but the pain is so great that he leans heavily upon his shield.
Meanwhile another stratagem is equally successful. William orders a thousand horse to advance, and then to turn and flee. At the sight, the English behind their stockade leap forward and set off in wild pursuit, their axes suspended from their necks. When they are well away from their defences, the fleeing Normans wheel about, and the pursuers find themselves assailed on all sides with spear and sword. They are cut to pieces, and William speedily makes himself master of the position which they have abandoned. On either flank his horsemen also make good their ascent, and now a fierce hand-to-hand combat rages on the crest of the hill. Loud is the clamour, great is the slaughter, and themêléeis thickest round the standard where the hus-carles encircle the body of their king with a wall of living valour. One by one they fall, the rest betake themselves to flight, and the night falls on a stricken and wailing England.
Now see the torches flit about the field as the conquerors rifle the dead. Duke William’s tent is pitched on the spot where the fight has raged fiercest. Amidst the grisly mounds of slain he gives thanks for his victory, and eats and drinks and rests himself. The Sabbath morning dawns, and mournful parties of noble ladies, clad in the black robes of mourning, search the field for the bodies of their fathers, sons, husbands, or brothers. Two monks from the Abbey of Waltham, which Harold has founded, approach the conqueror and humbly offer him ten marks of gold for leave to carry away the remains of their benefactor. William grants them permission, and to and fro they go, anxiously and vainly searching the field for the body of the dead king. At length they call upon the “swan-necked Edith,” who loved him well, to assist in the search. She is more successful than they, and the mangled and disfigured corpse is given hurried burial beneath the high altar of Waltham Abbey.
While the conqueror plans a memorial fane on the blood-sodden ground, and marshals his forces for the march on London, the English are sunk in the depths of bitterness and despair. “England, what shall I say of thee?” wails the monkish scribe. “Thou hast lost thy national king, and sinkest under the foreigner, bathed in the blood of thy defenders!” The conqueror marches in triumph to London without striking a blow, and on Christmas Day an English archbishop places the crown upon his head in the Abbey of Westminster. There is bloodshed even on that day. When, according to the old English custom, Stigand, the archbishop, asks the assembled thanes if they will have the Norman for their king, loud shouts of assent are raised. The Norman guards surrounding the minster mistake the shouting within the abbey for the noise of strife, and immediately fire the neighbouring houses and slay the innocent spectators.
Hard and heavy will be the hand of the conqueror; harsh and cruel, but withal not unjust, will be his rule. Now that he has won the kingdom, he will strive to reign as a lawful king. Heavy fines will be exacted from the large landowners who have resisted him, but otherwise he will endeavour to rule as the rightful successor to Alfred and Edward the Confessor. But he will soon discover that England is yet unconquered. Revolts will spring up in all parts of the land, and there will be hard fighting, and harrying, and burning and slaying for many a year ere he is acknowledged king from the Cheviots to the Channel. After every revolt the lands of the insurgents will change hands, and Norman knights will gradually secure the fairest estates in the country. Grim castles of stone will spring up, and where they arise the Norman will rule as lord. The discontented amongst William’s followers will goad the English whose lands they covet into rebellion. They will treat the highspirited English to every insult and outrage which they can conceive, and when the maddened thanes lie stricken on the field they will be rewarded with their possessions. Thus the Norman will enter into the land to possess it.
Coronation of William the Conqueror.(From the picture by John Cross.)
Coronation of William the Conqueror.(From the picture by John Cross.)
When William was being crowned in Westminster Abbey, the archbishop, according to the old custom, asked the Norman and English nobles if they would have William for their king. They replied with loud shouts. The Norman soldiers outside the abbey thought that William was being attacked. They therefore fell on the people and set fire to the neighbouring houses. The picture shows the scene of alarm within the abbey. After a time order was restored, and the archbishop placed the crown on William’s head.
When William was being crowned in Westminster Abbey, the archbishop, according to the old custom, asked the Norman and English nobles if they would have William for their king. They replied with loud shouts. The Norman soldiers outside the abbey thought that William was being attacked. They therefore fell on the people and set fire to the neighbouring houses. The picture shows the scene of alarm within the abbey. After a time order was restored, and the archbishop placed the crown on William’s head.
“Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam,His first, best country ever is at home.”
“Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam,His first, best country ever is at home.”
“Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam,His first, best country ever is at home.”
“Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam,
His first, best country ever is at home.”
This burly Englishman, with his long, flowing locks, his mighty thews and sinews, his undaunted heart, his craft and skill in warfare, needs no introduction. His name and fame are enshrined in every English heart, thanks to the splendid romance which Charles Kingsley has woven about his heroisms. Legend and tradition, song and story, have cast their spell about him, and none can read his thrilling adventures without a tribute of admiration and esteem. Wild and wayward he ever was, but mingled with the ferocity and craftiness of his nature was a childlike simplicity which endeared him to all. As a guerilla leader he was the keenest thorn in William’s side. “Were there but three men in England such as he,” said a chronicler, “William would never have won the land.”
The old stories describe him as a self-willed, boisterous lad, who caused his mother many a heartache and his father many an embarrassment, until at length he was outlawed and driven across the seas, where his mighty deeds of daring won him great renown. He may have been present at Hastings, though the chroniclers are silent on this point; but soon after the battle he was in Flanders, and only returned home when he learnt that his ancestral lands at Bourne in Lincolnshire had been granted to one Taillebois, who was even then in possession of them. Taillebois, by his insolence and cruelty, had made himself bitterly hated, and the men of the Fens were only waiting for a leader to rise in rebellion and thrust him out. Hereward suddenly arrived amongst them, and, so the story goes, swept his home clean of Frenchmen with his single sword. Eagerly the Fen men flocked to him, and acclaimed him as their leader. Soon the terror of his name spread far and wide, and the wild Fenland became a camp of refuge for those who would not bow the neck to the Norman yoke.
No part of England was better adapted for the purpose. It was a vast, low-lying wilderness of slow-moving rivers, spreading meres, and treacherous swamps, whose secret paths were known only to the natives. Here and there “islands” of firmer ground arose, and on these the towns and abbeys of Fenland were built. One of these “islands” was Ely, a matchless place of refuge, engirdled by waters and morasses. Here Hereward made his camp, and defied the Normans. Daily his forces grew, and daily he swooped down on his foes, appearing so suddenly and disappearing so magically into his reedy recesses that none could stay him or follow him. William soon perceived that he would never be master of England while the bold and watchful Hereward was at large.
Hereward had allied himself with the Danes, who swarmed into Fenland, and having burnt the “golden borough” of Peterborough, retired across the North Sea laden with its wondrous treasures—the gold crucifixes, the jewelled vessels, the costly vestments—which were the pride and glory of the abbey. Now that Hereward had rid himself of his troublesome allies, William determined to strike his blow.
Forthwith he marched an army to Cambridge, and invested the island of Ely on every side. The besieged built a great fortress of turf, collected food, and prepared to resist to the death. William determined to storm the island from Aldreth, between which place and Ely lay half a mile of reedy swamp. Collecting all the peasants of the countryside, he busied them in making a floating bridge, over which his army might pass to the capture of the beleaguered isle. Tradition tells us that Hereward, with his golden locks shorn and his beard shaved, laboured at the task, and that every night before he departed he set fire to the day’s work. At length, however, the bridge was finished, and William’s army began to march across it. The besieged watched the vast array crowd upon the frail bridge. Suddenly they saw it give way, and thousands were hurled into the thick slime, which speedily engulfed them. The first attack had hopelessly failed, and William himself had barely escaped destruction.
He was not daunted. With that wonderful perseverance and dogged determination which bore down every obstacle in his path, he built his bridge anew, profiting by his former experience. A huge floating sow protected the Ely end of the bridge, and was pushed forward as the work proceeded. Slowly but surely it grew until the sow was but fifty yards from Hereward’s fortress. A high wooden tower was erected at the farther end of the great work, and on this William planted a witch, who yelled and gibbered foul curses at the English as the Normans advanced.
The bridge was speedily covered with armed men. The front of the sow was let down, and gave footing to within a dozen yards of the wall of Hereward’s fort. As the Normans swarmed out with their scaling-ladders, the besieged hurled heavy stones upon them, and shot them down by scores, until the ditch was full of dead bodies. The besiegers planted their ladders on the corpses of the slain, and proceeded to mount them, but only one knight ever entered the fort.
Afar off a puff of smoke and a thin wisp of yellow flame were seen. Hereward had fired the reeds. “On came the flame, leaping and crackling, laughing and shrieking like a live fiend. The archers and slingers in the boats cowered before it, and fell, scorched corpses, as it swept on. It reached the causeway, surged up, recoiled from the mass of human beings, then sprang over their heads and passed onwards, girding them with flame. The reeds were burning around them; the timbers of the bridge caught fire; the peat and fagots smouldered beneath their feet. They sprang from the burning footway, and plunged into the fathomless bog, covering their faces and eyes with scorched hands, and then sank in the black, gurgling slime.”
Taillebois dragged William back, regardless of curses and prayers from his soldiery; and they reached the shore just in time to see between them and the water a long black, smouldering, writhing line; the morass to right and left, which had been a minute before deep reed, an open smutty pool, dotted with boats full of shrieking and cursing men; and at the causeway end, the tower with the flame climbing up its posts, and the witch of Brandon throwing herself desperately from the top, and falling dead upon the embers, a motionless heap of rags. “Fool that thou art! Fool that I was!” cried the great king, as he rolled off his horse at his tent door, cursing with rage and pain.
But he was not yet beaten. The lion in William having been defeated, the fox had his day. What force could not accomplish, craft and cunning might. No longer did he attempt to capture the island. He would starve it into submission, and meanwhile test the temper of the timorous monks who trembled in their cells. With lavish promises for their own safety and the possession of their abbey and its lands, they were beguiled, and at length they revealed the secret paths that led to the isle. One by one his friends deserted him, until at length the day arrived when Hereward too was forced to come in to the king—the last Englishman in the land to submit to the Norman. William received him gladly, for his heart ever warmed to a brave foe.
What the actual end of Hereward was we do not know, but we can readily believe that he died fighting, overborne by the number of his treacherous foes, and in his dying struggle doing miracles of valour. So he fades out of our pageant, but his memory will ever be dear to all Britons who love the gallant and brave, and deem the pure patriot the glory of his land.
HEREWARD YIELDING TO WILLIAM.(From the drawing by H. C. Selous. By permission of the Art Union of London.)
HEREWARD YIELDING TO WILLIAM.(From the drawing by H. C. Selous. By permission of the Art Union of London.)
Chapter VI.ENGLAND UNDER THE NORMANS.
“There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.”
“There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.”
“There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.”
“There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.”
LOOK upon the scene which now unfolds itself. You are gazing into the depths of that Hampshire forest which the Conqueror set apart for his kingly sport. It is cursed to his line by reason of the cruelties which he wreaked upon the forest dwellers when he burnt their roof-trees over their heads, and scattered them afar, to make a solitude for his deer. Two scions of his house have already perished in its glades.
The forest is silent. It is late afternoon, and the setting sun is even now gilding the upper branches of the spreading trees. Suddenly the silence is dispelled. You hear the sound of horns, the baying of dogs, the shouts of hunters, and a lordly stag flies past you. Now a pair of horsemen gallop up, and your eye is instantly arrested by the Red King. You recognize him instantly as a son of the Conqueror, though he seems but a caricature of his father.
Of middle stature, he is square and heavy of frame, with a restless eye, and a stammering tongue that can, nevertheless, rap out ready witticisms and biting sarcasms on occasion. Evil living and unbridled passion have left their marks on his ruddy and bloated countenance. He fears neither God nor man. His crafty ministers wring heavy fines from his barons, and he does not even spare the Church. Archbishop Anselm, that tender-hearted poet-dreamer, who showed the courage of a lion when fraud and wrong were brewing, alone held him in check. Now that Anselm is in exile, there is no wickedness that he will not do. Vicious, vain, boastful, and puffed up with pride, he has not an honest friend in the land.
Men hate him and mock him. With what gibes and sneers they tell that story of the chamberlain and the boots! Once his chamberlain brought him a pair of boots, saying that they had cost but three shillings. “Take them away,” roared the vainglorious fool, “they are not worthy of a king’s foot. Bring a pair that costs a mark of silver.” The cunning chamberlain, thereupon, brings a worse pair, and these the Red King pronounces worthy of his majesty. What a king! Ay, but far worse remains behind. There is no baseness, no cruelty, no injustice which he has not practised. Even now the revenues of bishops and abbots are flowing into his pocket, while “the hungry flock look up, and are not fed.” When disease attacks him he repents; when he recovers he is himself again.
But withal he is no craven. He fights like a man, and reveals much of the Conqueror’s skill and cunning. Fear he knows not. Men tell with wonder of the day when he set forth to subdue Normandy in the teeth of a storm. His mariners trembled, but not he. “Kings never drown, ye varlets!” he cried, and forthwith hove out on the tempestuous waters of the Channel.
Watch him closely. Behind his reckless air of gaiety there is an anxious foreboding. Last night he tossed on his couch and dreamed an ugly dream. He thought he was in a gorgeous minster hung with velvet and purple. All around were the shrines of the saints gleaming with gold and gems and ivory. Such riches even he, the despoiler of churches, had never looked upon, and his hands itched to clutch them. But when he tried to seize them they vanished, and an altar rose before him, whereon was lying a naked man. A lust to feed on the man’s flesh overcame him, and he ate of the body that lay before him. At length the victim spoke in accents stern beyond words, “Is it not enough that thou hast thus far grieved me with so many wrongs? Henceforth thou shalt eat of me no more.”
The horror of the dream is still at the back of his mind, though he has quaffed the wine-cup until the disquieting vision no longer terrifies him. His counsellors have besought him not to venture into the forest to-day; but no man save Anselm, and he is beyond the seas, ever turned him from his purpose. Such is the man who now rides into the forest glade.
While he jokes and jests with his companion, a startled stag springs out of the brushwood. Rufus slips from his horse and fits an arrow to his bow. He shoots, and the quarrel strikes the prey and wounds it slightly. “Shoot, man; shoot!” he shouts to his companion, shading his eyes with his hand to see the effect of another shot. The second bow twangs, and down goes the king with an arrow in his heart. What has happened no man can say. Some tell you that his companion’s shaft has glanced from a tree and has found its billet in the Red King’s breast. Some speak of an Englishman, cowering in the undergrowth, who has seized the moment to let fly the arrow of retribution. Some even aver that the deadly missile was sped by his own brother’s hand.
No one knows, and no one cares. It is enough for all that a king whose life has been that of a wild beast perishes like a beast among the beasts. His companion, horrified at the sight of the dying king, and fearing that he will be accused of the crime, spurs his horse out of the forest, and does not check his steed till he is on the seashore, with a bark at hand to carry him to a foreign strand.
There lies the king, the red blood ebbing from his false heart. “That arrow, by whomsoever shot, set England free from oppression such as she never felt before or after at the hand of a single man.”
“Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove;He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove.He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid,And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.”
“Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove;He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove.He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid,And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.”
“Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove;He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove.He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid,And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.”
“Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove;
He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove.
He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid,
And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.”
“Old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago.”
“Old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago.”
“Old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago.”
“Old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago.”
Now you shall witness a striking scene. You are gazing at the castle of Oxford, that stands up grim and square in the midst of its encircling waters. Oxford is already renowned as the abode of quiet scholars and learned men; for “Beauclerc,” who has now gone to his rest, made it an academy and a sanctuary of letters. He it was who built this grim castle, in which to sojourn when he came to Oxford to enjoy the converse of the bookish men who dwelt beneath its shadow. It is, however, no learned concourse of scholars, no peaceful trial of wits, which we are about to witness, but an incident of stern warfare.
The castle is undergoing a siege, which has already lasted three months. An iron girdle of armed men forbids entrance or exit. You see, however, no great engines for hurling missiles into the fortress; you perceive no battering-rams; no pent-houses for undermining its walls; no scaling-ladders and towers for assault. Hunger and cold are the weapons of the besiegers; within, starvation and disease are fighting their battle. It is early morning of the vigil of St. Thomas, a cold, gray day, with a sharp frost in the air. In the camp of the besiegers a white flag is raised in token of truce, and presently you see a stalwart knight clad in full armour bestride his charger. Behind him assembles a train of abbots and priests bearing Church banners and crucifixes. Slowly they wend their way over the powdery snow to the edge of the castle moat, and presently the loud blast of a trumpet startles the ear. Now you see on the battlements of the castle a warder appear and inquire the meaning of the summons. “Say to thy mistress that I beseech a parley,” cries the knight, and the warder disappears.
There is a pause, and presently on the battlements you see a woman, pale and gaunt, but proud and haughty as angry Juno. You notice her flashing eye, her hard, resolute look, and you know that she will never yield to mortal man. “Why come ye?” she asks in imperious tones, and the Lord Abbot of Reading answers her. He bids her yield the castle, and he promises, in the name of the king, that no harm shall befall her or any that are with her. She shall have honourable escort to the coast, lands and money shall be hers, and no vengeance of any kind shall be wreaked on her adherents. “Gracious lady,” he concludes, “I implore thee to yield and end this cruel war, which is a reproach to Christendom and ruin to the people of England. Thy famishing state is well known, and all hope of escape is gone.”
“Who told thee, thou meddling monk, that I thought of escape?” she answers. “Wherefore should I escape? My brother, Earl Robert, is at hand, and ye wot well how the foul usurper was forced to yield to him at Lincoln. The like will happen again here at Oxenford, so let the false recreant begone. I will not throw open my gates nor quit these walls until thy perjured master is in chains, pleading at my feet for the life I have once too often granted him.”
“Madam, madam, I beseech thee,” begins the abbot in reproof, but the wrathful figure on the wall waves him away. “Get thee gone!” she screams in a fierce passion, “or I will remember to hang thee on the gate of thy abbey when this rebellion is over.” So the knight and the churchman depart, and anon you see the former riding from post to post urging his men to keep closer watch on the besieged, and doubling the guards that lie in wait near every exit from the castle.
The early dusk arrives, and the snow begins to fall, and you can scarce see the dark mass of the fortress. The cold wind drives the falling snow into the eyes of the sentinels; they grow numb and drowsy, and their vigilance is relaxed. Now, strain your eyes, and watch the postern of yonder tower. Slowly the door opens, and dimly you perceive five white-clad figures flit out and descend into the moat. You see their ghost-like forms reappear and make all speed for the river. Across its ice-bound surface they hasten, and as they draw near you perceive that one of them is a woman. Now they plunge into the snowdrifts on the other side, and struggle on towards Abingdon. There they will find friends and horses, and speedily they will make for the coast and hie them to the shores of friendly France.
What is the meaning of the incidents which you have witnessed? The woman who has just escaped is Matilda, sole surviving child of Beauclerc. When Henry’s only son went down in theWhite Ship, she alone remained as heir to the realm. Forthwith Henry called his barons together, and bade them swear fealty to his daughter as “Lady” of England. They did his bidding reluctantly, for they scorned to be ruled by a woman. Amongst the knights who swore the oath was Henry’s nephew Stephen, he whom you saw directing the siege of Oxford. He is handsome, tall, strong, and one of the most renowned knights in all Christendom. Even while the barons obeyed the king’s behest, many of them deemed Stephen far worthier to rule them than the haughty, passionate Dame Matilda.
Ere Henry died, many of the barons had determined to forswear their oath and throw in their lot with Stephen. They knew him as easy-going, soft-hearted, “unstable as water,” and, as such, he was the very king for them. With Stephen on the throne, every baron might be king in his own domain, free to raid and harry and fight as he listed. So when the old king was carried to his tomb, Stephen seized the crown, and, after the fashion of usurpers, strove to win friends to his side. He scattered Henry’s treasure in lavish bribes, he promised men all they asked, he hired foreign soldiers, and was crowned king. Right well pleased were the barons, and right soon they built them those strong castles which they had not dared to rear while Henry was alive. Then they quarrelled and fought, and robbed, and tortured, and hanged to their hearts’ content.
Sad indeed was the condition of England at that time. Turn to the old Chronicle and read:—“They put the wretched country folk to sore toil with their castle-building; and when the castles were made, they filled them with devils and evil men. Then they took all those that they deemed had any goods, both by night and by day, men and women alike, and put them in prison to get their gold and silver, and tortured them with tortures unspeakable, for never were martyrs so tortured as they were. . . . All this lasted nineteen winters while Stephen was king, and ever it was worse and worse. Thou mightest easily fare a whole day’s journey, and shouldest never find a man living in a village nor land tilled. Then was corn dear, and flesh and cheese, for there was none in the land. Wretched men starved for hunger, and some were begging alms that were once rich men, and some fled out of the land.”
And to add to all this horror, Matilda, aided by her noble half-brother, Robert of Gloucester, and her kinsman, David of Scotland, waged war against the usurper. The fortune of battle wavered, now to this side, now to that. Sometimes Stephen was victor, sometimes Matilda. You remember how she taunted Stephen from the battlements of Oxford Castle about the affair at Lincoln. The story is worth telling. Stephen was besieging Lincoln Castle when a superior force of his foes assailed him. With only three faithful followers he fought like a lion at bay, disdaining either to fly or yield. At length his sword-blade snapped; but one of his companions handed him a two-handed Danish axe, with which he did terrible execution. Then the axe-helve splintered in his hand; but all feared to seize him until he was hurled to the ground by a stone thrown by an unknown hand. A knight, greatly daring, ran up and laid hands on the fallen king; but Stephen shook him off, and it was only to Robert of Gloucester that he would deign to surrender. Stephen was put in ward at Bristol, and a great Council elected Matilda queen in his stead.
Ere long her haughty behaviour, her self-will, her revengeful spirit, and the injustice with which she treated the Londoners, disgusted even her best friends. One day, while she was sitting at dinner, the city bells rang out a call to arms, and the Londoners, “like angry wasps from their comb,” swarmed into her palace. She had barely time to escape on a swift steed to Winchester. Then the Londoners arrayed themselves under Stephen’s brave queen and laid siege to Matilda. She was forced to retreat, and in the strife that followed the King of Scots and Robert of Gloucester were captured. Matilda fled on horseback to Devizes; but enemies thronged about her, and her friends only got her safely out of the town by covering her with grave-clothes and carrying her forth on a bier. Robert was now exchanged for Stephen, and once more the tide of war turned in his favour. This brings us up to the incidents which we have just witnessed in front of Oxford Castle.
Little remains to be said. Robert died, and Matilda found that she had lost her best and most gallant champion. Her son Henry, however, was now of an age to take his part in the strife. Strong, able, and rich, he sailed from France with an army, but was too wise to fight a pitched battle. He could afford to wait; and so he made peace with Stephen, who was to reign in England until his death, when Henry was to succeed him. A year later Stephen died, and all good men rejoiced. Peace was coming to the distracted realm, and the old days of “war, wickedness, and waste” were over, men fondly hoped, never to return.
“Fame’s loudest trump upon the ear of TimeLeaves but a dying echo; they aloneAre held in everlasting memoryWhose deeds partake of heaven.”
“Fame’s loudest trump upon the ear of TimeLeaves but a dying echo; they aloneAre held in everlasting memoryWhose deeds partake of heaven.”
“Fame’s loudest trump upon the ear of TimeLeaves but a dying echo; they aloneAre held in everlasting memoryWhose deeds partake of heaven.”
“Fame’s loudest trump upon the ear of Time
Leaves but a dying echo; they alone
Are held in everlasting memory
Whose deeds partake of heaven.”
Once more the scene changes. We are standing in the High Street of Canterbury watching a notable procession pass by. Listen to the clanging bells, and when they cease, hear the organ rolling forth its waves of harmony from the cathedral. The old timbered houses are decked with streamers and garlands; groups of priests with banners are threading the street towards the ancient gate. It is very evident that some great personage is about to visit the city. Is it the king? Not so; it is some one even greater than the king—it is the archbishop, Thomas Becket. You wonder that an archbishop should be more powerful than a king, but in these early days the Church is the greatest power on earth. Even kings must submit to its decrees.
Now the trumpets blow, and a long procession winds its way towards the cathedral. As the archbishop comes in sight loud shouts of welcome rend the air. Look at him as he sits his charger, prouder than the boldest knight in the land. There was a time when he could joust and use sword and lance with the most skilful warrior in the kingdom. Ah! he was a boon companion of the king’s then. What merry jests, what jovial days and nights they spent together! They were Jonathan and David in their friendship. Becket was the king’s right-hand man in all affairs of State. Clever and learned, he seconded the king in all his strenuous endeavours to rid the land of lawlessness and misery. In return, Henry heaped riches and honours upon his chancellor.
What state and ceremony he loved in those days! His palace was far grander than the king’s; a hundred and forty knights followed in his train. None wore such magnificent robes as he; none made so brave a display. As for the king, he cared nothing for those things in which Becket’s soul delighted. Often when the chancellor sat down to feast with his followers, Henry would gallop up to the door of the palace, toss his bridle to a groom, stride into the great hall, vault the table, and in his rough riding-dress take his place by the side of his gorgeous chancellor.
What stories they tell of the pranks these two used to play! One winter day, when the pair were riding through the streets of London, the king saw an old man shivering in his rags. “Look at that poor beggar,” said he. “Would it not be a kind act to give him a good warm coat?”
“Certainly, sire,” replied Becket; “and you are a good Christian to bethink yourself of such a generous deed.”
“Then give him yours,” laughed the king, and seized the rich robe which the chancellor was wearing. Becket was loath to bestow his rich crimson coat on a beggar man; but the king would have his way, and a pretty tussle ensued between them. At last the chancellor’s cloak was pulled from his shoulders, and Henry handed it to the astonished beggar. How hugely he laughed all the way home at the wry face which Becket pulled!
But all this has suffered a “sea-change” long ago. When the king had quelled the robber barons and had pulled down their strongholds about their ears, he found that there was lawlessness in the Church needing his grave attention. The Conqueror had given the bishops the right to hold courts, in which they alone could try the clergy, no matter what crimes they committed. In course of time the bishops claimed jurisdiction, not only over priests, but over all clerks—that is, persons who could read. But who cared for the bishop and his judgments? He could not imprison or hang; he could simply drive a man out of the Church. Many a bold rogue has saved his neck by pulling out a writing from his pocket and gravely reading a certain verse from the Psalms, mayhap while he held the scroll upside down.
Since Henry has sat on the throne more than a hundred murders have been committed by clerks, and not one of the murderers has graced the gallows. This is intolerable; Henry will brook this state of things no longer. He will have justice and order in his land, come what may. Ah! but to meddle with the rights of the Church is no light matter, as he is ere long to discover to his cost. He cannot even make a beginning of reform unless the head of the Church in England is in sympathy with his plans. Good thought! he will make Becket archbishop, and then all will be well.
But when the consecration is over, Henry finds to his dismay that Becket is another man. He dismisses his gay followers; he throws off his costly robes; he abandons his feasting, his gold plate, his tapestries, and his jewels. He mortifies himself with the coarsest food, drinks bitter water, wears sackcloth next his skin, and has himself flogged for his sins. A little cell is his home, and every day, to emulate the meekness of his Master, he washes the feet of thirteen beggars. All the world wonders, and Henry grows angry. His anger increases when Becket resigns the chancellorship, and lets it be known that he now lives for Mother Church, and Mother Church alone.
Henry now tries to carry out his reforms, and make all men, priest and layman alike, answerable for their crimes to the king’s court. For a moment Becket wavers; the king shall have his wish. But a day’s reflection convinces him that in yielding he is betraying the Church. Then his resolution stiffens. He prays the Pope to release him from his promise, and when he is absolved he boldly defies the king. Picture Henry’s rage. You must know the man to imagine the fury of it. When thwarted, he is wont to fling himself on the floor and bite the rushes with which it is strewn.
Becket has made many enemies by his arrogance in the old days, and now they take care to fan the king’s wrath. Some one accuses him of having denied justice, and forthwith he is found guilty and heavily fined. Other punishments are in store for him; but he sweeps into the Council chamber in full robes, with his crosier in his hand, and dares them to pass sentence upon him. He and the Church, he says, are in the keeping of God, and the Pope, and none other, shall judge him. Angry indeed are the king’s friends at these bold words. One of them shouts “Traitor!” and others take up the rushes from the floor and fling them at him. Turning to one of his assailants, he fiercely cries, “If I might bear arms, I would quickly prove on you that you lied!” With this he leaves the hall.
Full well he knows that there is no safety for him in England, so, disguised as a simple monk, and calling himself “Brother Dearman,” he hastens from the kingdom, and for seven long years he dwells abroad. Discontented nobles in Henry’s wide French dominions—he is lord from the Pyrenees to the Tweed—threaten to take up arms in Becket’s cause, and at length a kind of peace is patched up between archbishop and king.
But ere Becket can return home, Henry does a deed which again angers the proud archbishop and rouses all the old enmity between them. Following the French fashion, Henry desires to have his son crowned king in his lifetime. The Archbishop of York is persuaded to undertake the ceremony. Now, the crowning of the king is the privilege of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and of him alone. Becket’s anger flames up at the slight, and he crosses to England in a bitter frame of mind.
And now you stand in the streets of Canterbury watching his return. The people welcome him gladly, for they remember his old kindnesses to them. The nobles, however, stand aloof; they dread his reappearance, and rightly believe that it means trouble to the realm. Becket passes on to his cathedral, and in solemn tones excommunicates the Archbishop of York and the bishops who have crowned the young prince.
Henry is in Normandy, but the news speedily reaches him, and then his passion knows no bounds. “Here,” he shouts to the knights about him, “here is a man that has eaten my bread, a pitiful fellow that came to my court on a sorry hackney, and owes all he has to me, lifting his hand against me, and insulting my kingdom and my kindred, and not one of the cowardly, sluggish knaves I feed and pay so well has the heart to avenge me!”
Fatal words! Four of the knights who listen to the king’s bitter reproof steal away from his court and hurry to Canterbury. While cool reflection has brought wiser counsels to the king, they are bursting into the archbishop’s chamber at Canterbury, and are commanding him to absolve the bishops without delay. He argues with them, and they threaten him, but he is obdurate. “Then we will do more than threaten,” they say, and outside they go to don their coats of mail. Meanwhile the frightened monks run to the archbishop and beg him to take shelter in the cathedral. He laughs at their fears. “Methinks,” he says, “all you monks are cowards.” Not a step will he stir till the bell summons him to vespers. Then he walks serenely to the cathedral.
Soon the knights are thundering at the barred door. “Unbolt the door,” cries Becket; “I will not have God’s house made a fortress for me.” The timid monks dare not obey him, and he flings back the bolt himself. Then the knights enter, and one of them attempts to drag him outside, so that the murderer’s work may not be done within consecrated walls. Becket clings to the great pillar, and Grim, the only brave monk in the chapter, holds him fast. “Strike! strike!” shouts one of the knights, and the sword descends. The devoted Grim catches the blade on his arm, and falls back wounded. Then the blows fall thick and fast, and the archbishop sinks to the ground, crying out that he dies for the cause of God and the Church. And here we leave him in the gloom and silence of his cathedral.
Becket is dead; but though he goes hence and is no more seen, he is mightier in death than he was in life. He conquers as his heart’s blood drips from him.
All Christendom stands aghast at the murder. Henry is horrified when he learns the news, and his grief is real and profound. He instantly sends explanations to the Pope, and, fearing that his enemies will unite against him, embarks for Ireland. In due course he returns to Normandy, and swears that he had no foreknowledge of the archbishop’s death. There is no more talk of curbing the Church; it has proved far too strong for him.