 | The knights of England, France, and Scotland |  |
THE SAXON'S OATH.
“My tongue hath sworn, but still my mind is free.”
The son of Godwin was the flower of the whole Saxon race.
The jealousies which had disturbed the mind of Edward the
Confessor had long since passed away; and Harold, whom he
once had looked upon with eyes of personal aversion, he now
regarded almost as his own son. Yet still the Saxon hostages
— Ulfnoth, and the young son of Swerga, who in the time of
his mad predilection for the Normans, and his unnatural distrust
of his own countrymen, had been delivered for safe keeping
to William, duke of Normandy — still lingered, melancholy
exiles, far from the white cliffs of their native land. And now,
for the first time since their departure, did the aspect of affairs
appear propitious for their liberation; and Harold, brother of
one, and uncle of the other, full of proud confidence in his own
intellect and valor, applied to Edward for permission that he
might cross the English channel, and, personally visiting the
Norman, bring back the hostages in honor and security to the
dear land of their forefathers. The countenance of the Confessor
fell at the request; and, conscious probably in his own
heart of some rash promise made in days long past, and long
repented, to the ambitious William, he manifested a degree of
agitation amounting almost to alarm.
“Harold,” he said, after a long pause of deliberation — “Harold,
my son, since you have made me this request, and that
your noble heart seems set on its accomplishment, it shall not
be my part to do constraint or violence to your affectionate and
patriotic wishes. Go, then, if such be your resolve, but go
without my leave, and contrary to my advice. It is not that I
would not have your brother and your kinsman home, but that
I do distrust the means of their deliverance; and sure I am,
that should you go in person, some terrible disaster shall befall
ourselves and this our country. Well do I know Duke William;
well do I know his spirit — brave, crafty, daring, deep,
ambitious, and designing. You, too, he hates especially, nor
will he grant you anything, save at a price that shall draw down
an overwhelming ruin on you who pay it, and on the throne of
which you are the glory and the stay. If we would have these
hostages delivered at a less ransom than the downfall of our
Saxon dynasty — the misery of merry England — another messenger
than thou must seek the wily Norman. Be it, however,
as thou wilt, my friend, my kinsman, and my son.”
Oh, sage advice, and admirable counsel! advice how fatally
neglected — counsel how sadly frustrated! Gallant, and brave,
and young; fraught with a noble sense of his own powers, a
full reliance on his own honorable purposes; untaught as yet
in that, the hardest lesson of the world's hardest school, distrust
of others, suspicion of all men — Harold set forth upon his journey,
as it were, on an excursion in pursuit of pleasure. Surrounded
by a train of blithe companions, gallantly mounted,
gorgeously attired, with falcon upon fist, and greyhounds bounding
by his side, gayly and merrily he started, on a serene autumnal
morning, for the coast of Sussex. There he took ship;
and scarcely was he out of sight of land, when, as it were at
once to justify the words of Edward, the wind, which had been
on his embarkation the fairest that could blow from heaven,
of a leaden hue, the waves tossed wildly with an ominous and
hollow murmur; and, ere the first day had elapsed, as fierce a
tempest burst upon his laboring barks as ever baffled mariner
among the perilous shoals and sandbanks of the narrow seas.
Hopeless almost of safety, worn out with unaccustomed toil
and hard privations, for three days and as many nights they
battled with the stormy waters; and on the morning of the
fourth, when the skies lightened, and the abating violence of
the strong gales allowed them to put in, and come to anchor,
where the Somme pours its noble stream into the deep, through
the rich territories of the count of Ponthieu, they were at once
made prisoners, robbed of their personal effects, held to a heavy
ransom, and cast as prisoners-of-war into the dungeon-walls of
Belram, to languish there until the avarice of the count Guy
should be appeased with gold.
Still Harold bore a high heart and a proud demeanor, bearding
the robber-count even to his teeth, set him at defiance, proclaiming
himself an embassador from England to the duke of
Normandy, and claiming as a right the means of making known
to William his unfortunate condition. This, deeming it perchance
his interest so to do, the count at once conceded; and
before many days had passed, Harold might see, from the
barred windows of his turret-prison, a gallant band of lancers,
arrayed beneath the Norman banner, with a pursuivant and
trumpet at their head, wheeling around the walls of the grim
fortress. A haughty summons followed, denouncing “the extremities
of fire and of the sword against the count de Ponthieu,
his friends, dependants, and allies, should he not instantly set
free, with all his goods and chattels, his baggage and his horses,
friends, followers, and slaves, unransomed with all honor, Harold,
the son of Godwin, the friend and host of William, high
and puissant duke of Normandy!” Little, however, did mere
Saxon prince obtain his liberty till William had paid down a
mighty sum of silver, and invested Guy with a magnificent demesne
on the rich meadows of the Eaune.
Then once more did the son of Godwin ride forth a freeman,
in the bright light of heaven, escorted — such were the strange
anomalies of those old times — by a superb array of lances, furnished
for his defence by the same count de Ponthieu, who,
having held him in vile durance until his object was obtained,
as soon as he was liberated on full payment of the stipulated
price, had thenceforth treated him as a much-honored guest,
holding his stirrup at his castle-gate when he departed, and
sending a strong guard of honor to see him in all safety over
the frontier of the duke's demesne. Here, at the frontier town,
William's high senechal attended his arrival; and gay and glorious
was his progress through the rich fields of Normandy,
until he reached Rouen. The glorious chase — whether by the
green margin of some brimful river they roused the hermit-tyrant
of the waters, that noblest of the birds of chase, to make
sport for their long-winged falcons, or through the sere trees
of the forest pursued the stag or felon wolf with horn, hound,
and halloo — diversified the tedium of the journey; while
every night some feudal castle threw wide its hospitable gates
to greet with revelry and banqueting the guest of the grand
duke. Arrived at Rouen, that powerful prince himself, the
mightiest warrior of the day, rode forth beyond the gates to
meet the Saxon; nor did two brothers long estranged meet ever
with more cordiality of outward show than these, the chiefs of
nations long destined to be rival and antagonistic, till from their
union should arise the mightiest, the wisest, the most victorious,
and enlightened, and free race of men, that ever peopled
empires, or spread their language and their laws through an
admiring world. On that first meeting, as he embraced his
brother and his nephew were thenceforth at his absolute disposal.
“The hostages are yours,” he said — “yours, at your sole
request; nor would I be less blithe to render them, if Harold
stood before me himself a landless exile, than as I see him
now, the first lord of a powerful kingdom, the most trusty messenger
of a right noble king. But, of your courtesy, I pray you
leave us not yet awhile; though if you will do so, my troops
shall convey you to the seashore, my ships shall bear you home!
— but, I beseech, do this honor to your host, to tarry with him
for a little space: and as you be the first — for so you are reported
to us — in all realities and sports of Saxon warfare, so
let us prove your prowess, and witness you our skill, in passages
of Norman chivalry.”
In answer to this fair request, what could the Saxon do but
acquiesce? Yet, even as he did so, the words of the gray-headed
king came sensibly upon his memory, and he began to
feel as if in truth the net of the deceiver were already round
about him with its inevitable meshes. Still, having once assented,
nothing remained for him but to fulfil, as gracefully as
possible, his half-unwilling promise. So joyously, however,
were the days consumed — so gayly did the evenings pass,
among festivities far more refined and delicate than were the
rude feasts of the sturdy Saxons, wherein excess of drink and
vulgar riot composed the chief attractions — that, after one short
week had flown, all the anxieties and fears of Harold were lost
in admiration of the polished manners of his Norman hosts, and
the high qualities of his chief entertainer. From town to town
they passed in gay cortége, visiting castle after castle in their
route, and ever and anon testing the valor and the skill each of
the other, in those superb encounters of mock warfare — the
free and gentle passage of arms — which in the education of
battle, which was to them, not metaphorically, the very breath
of life.
Nor in these jousts and tournaments, whether with headless
lance or blunted broadsword, or in the deadlier though still amicable
strife at outrance, did not the Saxon, though unused to the
menêge of the destrier and equestrian combat with the lance,
win high renown and credit with his martial hosts. The Saxon
tribes had, from their earliest existence as a people, been famed
as infantry; their arms, a huge and massive axe; a short, sharp,
two-edged sword, framed like the all-victorious weapon of the
Romans; a target, and ponderous javelin, used ever as a missile.
Cavalry, properly so called, although their leaders sometimes
rode into the conflict, they had none; and by a natural consequence,
one of that people for the first time adopting the complete
panoply, mounting the barbed war-horse, and tilting with
the long lance of the Gallic chivalry, must have engaged with
the practised champions of the time at a fearful disadvantage.
Still, even at this odds, such was the force of emulation acting
upon a spirit elastic, vigorous, and fiery, backed by a powerful
and agile frame, inured to feats of strength and daring, that little
time elapsed ere Harold could abide the brunt of the best lance
of William's court, not only without the risk of reputation, but
often at advantage. After a long and desperate encounter,
wherein the Saxon prince had foiled all comers, hurling three
cavaliers to earth with one unsplintered lance, William, in admiration
of his bravery, insisted on bestowing on his friend,
with his own honored blade, the accolade of knighthood —
buckled the gilded spurs upon his heels; presented him with
the complete apparel of a knight — the lance, with its appropriate
bandrol — the huge, two-handed war-sword; and, above all,
the finest charger of his royal stables, which, constantly supplied
from the best blood of Andalusia, at that time were esteemed
honors such as these, coming too from a Norman, for the most
part esteemed the scornor of the Saxon race — nor this alone,
but from the most renowned and famous warrior of the day —
produced a powerful effect on the enthusiastic and ambitious
spirit of the young Englishman; nor did the wily duke fail to
observe the operation of his deep-laid manœuvres, nor, when
observed, did he neglect by every means to strengthen the impression
he had made. To this end, therefore, not courtesies
alone, nor the high-prized distinctions of military honor, nor
gorgeous gifts, nor personal deference, were deemed sufficient
instruments. To finish what he had himself so well begun, to
complete the ensnarement of the Saxon's senses, the aid of
woman was called in — woman, all-powerful, perilous, fascinating
woman! Nor did he lack a fair and willing bait wherewith
to give his prize. In his own court, filled as it was with the
most lovely, or at least — thanks to the prowess of the Norman
spear — the most renowned of Europe's ladies, there was not
one that could compete in beauty, wit, or grace, with Alice, his
bright daughter. Too keen a player with the passions and the
characters of men — too wise a judge of that most wondrous
compound, that strange mass of inconsistencies, of evil and of
good, of honor and deceit, the human heart — too close a calculator
of effects and causes, was William, to divulge his purpose,
or to hint his wishes, even to the obedient ear of Alice. He
cared not — he — whether she loved, or feigned to love, so that
his object was effected. Commanding ever his wildest passions,
using them but as instruments and tools to bend or break
men to his purposes, he never dreamed or recked of their ungovernable
force upon the minds of others. It was but a few
days after the arrival of his guest, that he discovered how he
gazed after, and with signs of evident and earnest admiration,
on the young damsel, to whose intimacy he had been studiously
and her father, to fan this flame on Harold's part, it needed
little art from so consummate an intriguer as the duke; while
as to Alice, young as she was, and thoughtless, delighted with
attention, and attracted by the fine form and high repute of the
young stranger, and yet more by the raciness and trifling singularities
of his foreign though high-bred deportment — a fond,
paternal smile, and an approving glance, as she toyed with her
young admirer, sufficed to give full scope to her vivacious inclinations.
Daily the Norman's game became more intricate, daily more
certain; when suddenly, just as the Saxon — flattered and half-enamored
as he was, began to feel that he had no excuse for
lingering longer at a distance from his country and his sovereign
— began to speak of a return before the setting-in of winter,
an accident occurred, which, with his wonted readiness of
wit, William turned instantly to good account.
The ducal territories, which had descended to the Norman
line from their first champion, Rollo, were separated by the
small stream of Coësnor from the neighboring tract of Brittany,
to which all the succeeding princes had possessed a claim
since Charles the Simple, in the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte,
had ceded it to that great duke, the founder of the Norman dynasty.
The consequence of this pretence — for such in fact it
was — were endless bickerings, small border wars, aggressions
and reprisals, burnings, and massacres, and vengeance! Some
trivial skirmish had occurred upon this frontier, just as the
duke had perceived that he must either suffer Harold to depart
before his projects were accomplished, or force him to remain
by open violence. In such a crisis he resolved at once upon
his line of action; and, instantly proclaiming war, he raised the
banner of his dukedom, summoned his vassals, great and small,
to render service for their military tenures; and in announcing
claimed his assistance in the field as a true host from his well-proved
guest, and a godfather-in-arms from the son whom he
had admitted to the distinguished honor of the knightly accolade.
Intoxicated with ambition and with love, madly desirous
of acquiring fame among the martial Normans, and fancying,
with a vanity not wholly inexcusable, that he was doing
service to his country in acquiring the respect of foreign powers,
he met half-way the proffer. And, in the parlance of the
day, right nobly did he prove his gilded spurs of knighthood.
In passing the Coësnor, which, like the See, the Seluna, and
the other streams that cross the great Greve of St. Michel, is
perilous from its spring-tide and awful quicksands, Harold displayed,
in recovering several soldiers, who, having quitted the
true line of march, were on the point of perishing, a noble
union of intrepidity and strength.
During the whole course of the war, the Norman and his
guest had but one tent and one table; side by side in the front
of war they charged the enemy, and side by side they rode
upon the march, beguiling the fatigue and labor with gay jests
or graver conversation: and now so intimate had they become,
so perfect was the confidence reposed by the frank Englishman
in his frank-seeming friend, that the sagacious tempter felt the
game absolutely in his power, and waited but a fitting opportunity
for aiming his last blow. Nor was it long ere the occasion
he had sought, occurred. Some brilliant exploits, performed
in the last skirmish of the campaign, by the intended
victim of his perfidy, gave him a chance to descant on the national
and well-proved hardihood and valor of this Saxon race.
Thence, by a stroke of masterly and well-timed tact, he touched
upon the beauties, the fertility, the noble forests, and the rich
fields of England — the happy days which he had passed amid
the hospitalities of that fair island. The praises of the reigning
united with his host.
“You were but young in those days,” William continued,
“and searce, I trow, can recollect the scenes which to my
older memory are but as things of yesterday. Then, then, indeed,
our races were at variance, and your good sire — peace
to his soul! — worked me and mine sore scathe and trouble.
Yet was it natural, most natural! For in those times your excellent
and venerable king — long may he sway the sceptre he
so honors! — lived with me upon terms of the most close and
cordial friendship. Ay, in good sooth, we were as two brothers
— living beneath the same roof, eating of the same board,
and drinking from one cup! Not thou and I, my Harold, are
more sure comrades. Ay! and he promised me — this in thy
private ear — if ever he should gain the throne of England, to
leave me by his will, in default of his own issue, heir to that
noble kingdom. I doubt not of his troth nor loyalty, though
it is years since we spoke of it. You have more lately been
about him: hast ever heard him speak of it? What thinkest
thou of his plighted faith? He is not one, I do believe, to
register a vow in heaven, and fall from it!”
Taken thus by surprise, annoyed and much embarrassed by
the turn their converse had thus taken, Harold turned pale, and
actually stammered, as he made reply:—
“He never had presumed to question his liege lord and king
on matters of such import. The king had never dropped the
slightest hint to him concerning the succession. If he had
sworn, doubtless he would perform his oath: he was famed,
the world over, for his strict sanctity; how, then, should he be
perjured? He doubted not, had he so promised, the duke
would have no reason to complain of any breach of faith in
good King Edward's testament.”
“Ay! it is so,” said William, musingly, as it appeared to
long before. “I had so hoped it would be; and, by my
faith, right glad am I that you confirm me in mine aspirations.
By your aid, my good friend — with the best Saxon on my side
— all else is certain; and by my faith, whatever you shall ask
of me, were it my daughter's hand in marriage, surely it shall
be yours when I am king of England!”
Again the words of the Confessor flashed on the mind of the
ill-fated Saxon, and he foresaw at once the terrible result of
this unwilling confidence. At the same time he saw no means
of present extrication, and, with an air of evident embarrassment,
he answered in words half-evasive, yet sufficiently conclusive,
as he hoped, to stop, for the time being, the unpleasing
topic. But this was far from the intent of William, who, having
read with an intuitive and almost supernatural sagacity the
thought that flashed across the brain of Harold, determined that
he should commit himself in terms decisive, and admitting of
no dubious explanation. Taking it, then, for granted that he
had replied fully in the affirmative —
“Since, then,” he said, “you do engage so loyally to serve
me, you shall engage to fortify for me the castle on the heights
of Dover; to dig in it good wells of living water; and, at my
summons, to surrender it! You shall give me your sister, that
she may be espoused unto the noblest of my barons; and you
shall have to wife my daughter Alice: some passages, I trow,
have gone between ye ere now. Moreover, as a warrant of
your faith, your brother Ulfnoth shall yet tarry with me; and
when I come to England to possess my crown, then will I yield
him to you!”
In all its force, the madness of his conduct now glared upon
the very soul of Harold. He saw the guilt he had iucurred
already; the peril he had brought upon the kinsmen he had
come to save; the wo that might result to his loved country!
with this unworthy project, holding himself at liberty to
break thereafter an unwilling promise.
No more was said upon the subject. They rode onward as
before, but the light-hearted pleasure of the Saxon was destroyed;
and though the great duke feigned not to perceive the
changed mood of his comrade, he had resolved already that he
should yet more publicly commit himself ere he should leave
the realm.
At Avranches, but three days after their discourse, William
convoked a grand assembly of his lords and barons — the mightiest
and the noblest of his vavasours and vassals — the pride
of Normandy. There, in the centre of the hall, he caused an
immense chest to be deposited, filled to the very brim with the
most holy relics — bones of the martyred saints — fragments of
the true cross — all that was deemed most sacred and most
awful by the true-hearted catholic — and covered with a superb
cloth of gold, as though it were an ordinary slab or table.
There, seated in high state, upon his chair of dignity — a drawn
sword in his hand, wearing his cap of maintenance, circled by
fleurs-de-lis, upon his head, and clad in ermined robes of state —
he held cour pleusêre of his nobles. The Saxon stood among
them, honored among the first at all times, and now the more
especially distinguished, that it was his farewell reception previous
to his departure for England. After presenting him with
the most splendid gifts, and making the most liberal professions
of attachment, “Harold,” exclaimed the duke, “before we part,
I call on you, before this noble company, here to confirm by
oath your promise made to me three days since, `to aid me in
obtaining, after the death of Edward, the throne and crown of
England; to take my daughter Alice to wife; and to send me
your sister hither, that I may find for her a princely spouse
among my vavasours!”
Taken a second time at fault, and daring not thus openly to
falsify his word — but with a blank and troubled aspect, unsatisfied
with his internal reservation, and conscious of his perjury
— Harold laid both his hands on two small reliquaries
which lay, as if by chance, upon the cloth of gold; and swore,
provided he should live, to make good all those promises —
“so might God aid him.” And with one deep, solemn acclamation,
the whole assembly echoed those last words: “So
may God aid him! may God aid! God aid!” At the same instant,
on a signal from the duke, the cloth of gold was drawn
aside, and Harold saw the sacrilege he must commit, so deeply
sworn on things so holy, should he repent, or falsify his oath!
He saw, and shuddered visibly, as though he had been stricken
by an ague; yet presently, by a powerful effort, rallying all his
courage to his aid, he made his last farewells, departed, loaded
with gifts and honors, but with a melancholy heart; and sailed
immediately for England, leaving the brother, for whose liberty
he came a suitor, ten times more deeply forfeit than he had
been before. On his first interview with Edward, he related
all that had occurred — even his own involuntary oath. And
the old sovereign trembled, and grew pale, but manifested nothing
of surprise or anger!
“I knew it,” he replied, in calm but hollow tones; “I knew
it, and I did forewarn you, how that your visit to the Norman
should bring misery on you, and ruin on our country! As I
forewarned you, so has it come to pass! So shall it come to
pass hereafter, till all hath been fulfilled: God only grant that
I live not to see it!”
| The knights of England, France, and Scotland | |