 | The knights of England, France, and Scotland |  |
THE NORMAN'S VENGEANCE.
And Harold fall in height of all his pride.”
—Shakspere.
Edward the Confessor was dead; and dying, had bequeathed
the crown of merry England to Harold, son of Godwin,
destined, alas! to be the last prince of the Saxon race who
should possess the throne of the fair island. The oath which
he had sworn to Willian, duke of Normandy, engaging to
assist him in obtaining that same realm, which had now fallen
to himself, alike by testament of the late king, and by election
of the people, dwelt not in the new monarch's bosom! Selfishness
and ambition, aided, perhaps, and strengthened by the
suggestions of a sincere patriotism, that whispered to his soul
the baseness of surrendering his countrymen, their lives, their
liberties, their fortunes, and his loved native land, into the stern
hands of a foreign ruler, determined him to brave the worst,
rather than keep the oath, which, with its wonted sophistry,
self-interest was ready to represent involuntary and of no avail.
Not long, however, was he allowed to flatter himself with
hopes that the tempest, excited by his own weak duplicity,
might possibly blow over. The storm-clouds were already
charged with thunder destined to burst almost at once on his
devoted head. The cry of warfare had gone forth through
Christendom; the pope had launched the dreadful bolt of interdict
who should adhere to him in his extremity; nay, more, had
actually granted to the Norman duke, by virtue of holy
office as God's vicegerent and dispenser of all dignities on
earth, the sovereignty of the disputed islands. In token of his
perfect approbation of the justice of his cause, the Roman pontiff
had sent, moreover, to the duke, a ring of gold, containing
an inestimable relic, a lock of hair from the thrice-mitred temples
of St. Peter, the first Roman bishop; a consecrated banner
blest by himself—the same which had been reared, in token
of the greatness and supremacy of holy church, by those bold
Normans, Raoul and William of Montreuil, above the captured
battlements of every tower and castle through the bright kingdom
of Campania. Thus doubly armed, once by the justice
of his cause, and yet more strongly by the sanction of the
church, the bold duke hesitated not to strive by force of arms
to gain that rich inheritance, which he had hoped to win by
the more easy agency of guile and of persuasion.
A herald, sent with a most noble train, bore William's terms
to the new monarch. “William, the duke of Normandy,” he
said, boldly, but with all reverence due to his birth and present
station, “calls to your memory the oath, which you swore to him
by your hand and by your mouth, on good and holy relics!”
“True it is,” answered Harold, “that I did swear; but
under force I did so, not by free will of mine! Moreover, I
did promise that which 'twas not mine to grant. My royalty
belongs not to myself, but to my people, in trust of whom I hold
it. I may not yield it but at their demand; let them but second
William, and instantly the crown he seeks for shall be his!
Farther, without my people's leave, I may not wed a woman
of a stranger race. My sister, whom he would have espoused
unto the noblest of his barons—she hath been dead a year.
Will he, that I should send her corpse?”
A little month elapsed, and during that brief interval, Harold
neglected nothing that might preserve the crown he had determined
never, except with life, to yield to his fierce rival.
A powerful fleet was instantly appointed to cruise upon the
Downs, and intercept the French invaders; a mighty army was
collected on the coast, and each and all the Saxon landholders,
nobles, and thanes, and franklins, bound themselves by strong
oaths “never to entertain or truce, or treaty, with the detested
Normans, but to die freemen, or freemen to conquer.”
A second time the herald came in peace, demanding, in
tones fair and moderate, that Harold, if he might not keep all
the conditions of his oath, would fulfil part, at least, and wed
Alice, his betrothed wife already, the daughter of the puissant
duke, who, thereupon, would yield to him, as being his daughter's
dower, all right and title to the crown, which he now
claimed as his by heritage.
Harold again returned a brief and stern refusal; resolved,
that as he would not yield the whole, he would not, by conceding
part, risk the alienation of the love — which he possessed
in an extraordinary degree — of the whole English people.
Then burst the storm at once. From every part of Europe,
where the victorious banners of the Normans were spread to
the wind of heaven, adventurers flocked to the consecrated
standard of their kinsman.
Four hundred vessels of the largest class, and more than
twice that number of the transports of the day, were speedily
assembled in the frith of Dives, a stream which falls into the
sea between the Seine and Orne. There, for a month or better,
by contrary winds and furious storms, they were detained
inactive. At length, a southern breeze rose suddenly, and by
its aid they made the harbor of Saint Valery; but there, again,
they were detained by times more stormy than before; and,
superstitious as all men of that period were, the soldiers soon
prodigies were circulated, and the spirit of that vast host, of
late so confident and proud, sank hourly. At length, whether
at the instigation of their own fanatical belief, or as a last resource,
or hoping to distract the minds of men from gloomier
considerations, the Norman chiefs appointed a procession round
the harbor of Saint Valery; bearing the holiest relics, and
among them, the bones of the good saint himself, the patron
and nomenclator of the town; and ere the prayers were ended,
lo! the wind shifted once again, and now blew steadily and
fair, swelling the canvass with propitious breath, and driving
out each vane and streamer at full length, toward their destined
port.
The same storm, which had held William on his Norman
coast, windbound and motionless, which he had cursed as unpropitious
and disastrous, fifty times every day, for the last
month, had been, in truth — so little is the foresight, and so ignorant
the wisdom even of the most sagacious among mortals —
had been, in truth, the agent by which his future conquest was
to be effected. Those gales which pent the Norman galleys
in their harbors, had forced the English fleet, shattered and
storm-tossed, to put in for victuals and repairs, leaving the seas
unguarded to the approach of the invaders. Nor was this all!
Those self-same gales had wafted from the northward another
fleet of foemen, the Norwegian host of the bold sea-king, Harold
Hardrada, and the treacherous Tosti, the rebel brother of
the Saxon monarch. Debarking in the Humber, they had laid
waste the fertile borders of Northumberland and Yorkshire;
had vanquished, in a pitched battle, Morcar and Edwin, and
the youthful Waltheof — who had made head against them
with their sudden levies, raised from the neighboring countries
— had driven them into the walls of York, and there were now
besieging them with little hope of rescue or relief. Meanwhile,
of the realm, in Essex, Kent, or Sussex, awaiting, at the
head of the best warriors of his kingdom, the arrival of his
most inveterate foeman — summoned by news of this irruption,
unexpected, yet, as it seemed most formidable, into his northern
provinces, lulled into temporary carelessness by the long
tarrying of his Norman enemy; and hoping, as it indeed
seemed probable, that the prevailing wind would not change
so abruptly, but that he might, by using some extraordinary diligence
and speed, attack and overpower the besieging force at
York, and yet return to Dover in time to oppose, with the united
force of his whole nation, the disembarkation of the duke
— had left his post and travelled with all speed toward York,
leading the bravest and best-disciplined of his army against the
fierce Norwegians, while the shores of Sussex remained comparatively
naked and defenceless. A bloody and decisive battle,
fought at the bridge of Staneford, over the river Derwent,
rewarded his activity and valor — a battle in which he displayed
no less his generalship and valor, than the kind generosity and
mercy of his nature. Riding, himself, in person, up to the
hostile lines, before the first encounter, sheathed in the complete
armor of the Norman chivalry — which, since his visit to
the continent, he had adopted — “Where,” he cried, in his
loudest tones, “is Tosti, son of Godwin?”
“Here stands he,” answered the rebel, from the centre of
the Norwegian phalanx, which, with lowered spears, awaited
the attack.
“Thy brother,” replied Harold, concealed by the frontlet of
his barred helmet from all recognition, “sends thee his greeting
— offers thee peace, and friendship, and all thine ancient
honors.”
“Good words!” cried Tosti, “mighty good, and widely different
from the insults he bestowed on me last year! But if I
Sigurd?”
“Seven feet of English earth,” replied the king; “or, since
he be gigantic in his stature, he shall have somewhat more!”
“Let Harold, then address himself to battle,” answered
Tosti. “None but a liar ever shall declare that Tosti, son of
Godwin, has played a traitor's part to Harold, son of Sigurd!”
There was no more of parley. With a shock, that was
heard for leagues, the hosts encountered; and in the very first
encounter, pierced by an arrow in the throat, Hardrada fell,
and to his place succeeded that false brother and rebellious subject,
Tosti, the Saxon. Again the generous Harold offered
him peace and liberal conditions! again his offers were insultingly
rejected! and once again, with a more deadly fury than
before, the armies met, and, this time, fought it out, till not a
leader or a chief of the Norwegian host was left alive, save
Olaf, Harold's son, and the prince bishop of the Orkneys —
Tosti, himself, having at length obtained the fate he merited so
richly. A third time peace and amity were offered, and now
they were accepted; and swearing friendship to the English
king for ever, the Norsemen left the fatal land, whereon yet
weltered in their gore their king, the noblest of their chiefs,
and twice five thousand of the bravest men of their brave nation.
But glorious as that day was justly deemed — and widely
as it was sung and celebrated by the Saxon bards — perfect as
was the safety which it wrought to all the northern counties —
and freely as it suffered Harold to turn his undivided forces
against whatever foe might dare set hostile foot on English soil
inviolate — still was that day decisive of his fate! — decisive of
the victory of William, whose banners were already floating
over the narrow seas in proud anticipation of their coming triumph!
It was a bright and beauteous morning in September, when
duke leading. She was a tall ship, of the largest tonnage then
in use, well manned, and gallantly equipped; from the main-topmast
streamed the consecrated banner of the pope, and from
her peak, a broad flag with a blood-red cross. Her sails were,
not as now, of plain white canvass, but gorgeously adorned
with various colors, and blazoned with the rude incipient heraldry,
which, though not then a science, was growing gradually
into esteem and use. In several places might be seen depicted
the three Lions, which were even then the arms of Normandy;
and on her prow was carved, with the best skill of the
French artist, a young child with a bended bow, and a shaft
quivering on the string. Fair blew the breeze, and free the gallant
ship careered before it — before the self-same wind which
at the self-same moment was tossing on its joyous pinions the
victorious banners of the Saxon king. Fair blew the breeze, and
fast the ship of William sped through the curling billows — so
fast that, ere the sun set in the sea, the fleet was hull down in
the offing, though staggering along under all press of sail.
Night sank upon the sea; and faster flew the duke; and as the
morning broke, the chalky cliffs of Albion were in full view, at
two or three leagues distance. William, who had slept all that
night as soundly and as calmly as a child, stood on the deck
ere it was light enough to see the largest object on the sea,
one mile away. His first glance was toward the promised
land, he was so swiftly nearing; his second, toward the offing,
where he hoped to see his gallant followers. Brighter and
brighter grew the morning, but not a speck was visible upon
the clear horizon. “Up to the topmast, mariners,” cried the
bold duke; “up to the topmast-head! And now what see
ye?” he continued, as they sprang up in rapid emulation to
that giddy height.
“Naught,” cried the first — “naught but the sea and sky!”
“Anchor, then — anchor, presently; we will await their coming,
and in the meanwhile, Sir Seneschal, serve us a breakfast
of your best, and see there be no lack of wines, the strongest
and the noblest!” and, on the instant, the heavy plunge was
heard of the huge anchor in the deep; the sails were furled;
and like a living creature endowed with intellect, and moving
by volition, the gallant ship swung round, awaiting the arrival
of her consorts.
The feast was spread, and, from the high duke on the poop
to the most humble mariner on the forecastle, the red wine
flowed for all in generous profusion. Again a lookout was
sent up, and now he cried, “I see far, far, to seaward, the
topsails of four vessels.” A little pause consumed in revelry
and feasting, and once again the ship-boy climbed the mast.
“I see,” he said, the third time, “a forest on the deep, of
masts and sails!”
“God aid! God aid!” replied the armed crew — “God aid!”
and, with the word, again they weighed the anchor, and, ere
three hours had passed, the whole of that huge armament rode
at their moorings off the beach at Pevensey.
There was no sign of opposition or resistance; and on the
third day after Harold's victory at Staneford, the Norman host
set foot on English soil. The archers were the first to disembark
— armed with the six-foot bows, and cloth-yard shafts,
then, for the first time, seen in England, soon destined to become
the national weapon of its stout yeomanry. Their faces
closely shorn, and short-cut hair, their light and succinct
garments, were seen by the affrighted peasantry, who looked
upon their landing from a distance, with equal terror and astonishment.
Next came the men-at-arms, sheathed in their glittering
hauberks and bright hose-of-mail, with conical steel helmets
on their heads, long lances in their hands, and huge two-handed
swords transversely girt across their persons. After
made the complement of that immense army, bearing with them,
piece after piece, three fortresses of timber, arranged beforehand,
and prepared to be erected on the instant, wherever they
should come to land. Last of the mighty host, Duke William
left his galley, and the long lines fell into orderly and beautiful
array, as he was rowed to land. In leaping to that wished-for
shore, the Norman's right foot struck the gunwale of the shallop,
and he fell headlong on the sand, face downward. Instantly,
through the whole array, a deep and shuddering murmur
rose — “God guard us — 'tis a sign of evil!”
But ere the sounds had passed away, he had sprung to his
feet. “What is it that you fear?” he shouted, in clear and
joyous tones, “or what dismays you? Lo! I have seized
this earth in both mine hands, and, by the splendor of our God,
'tis yours!”
Loud was the cheer of gratulation which peeled seaward far,
and far into the bosom of the invaded land, at that most brilliant
and successful repartee — and with alacrity and glee —
confident of success, and high in daring courage — the Norman
host marched, unopposed, in regular and terrible array, toward
Hastings. Here on the well-known heights, to this day known
by the commemorative name of Battle, the wooden fortresses
were speedily erected; trenches were dug; and William's
army sat down for the night upon the land, which was thenceforth
to be their heritage — thenceforth for evermore.
The news reached Harold as he lay at York, wounded and
resting from his labors, and on the instant, with his victorious
army, he set forth, publishing, as he marched along, his proclamation
to all the chief of provinces and shires, to arm their
followers, and meet him with all speed at London. The western
levies came without delay; those from the north, owing to
distance, were some time behind; and yet, could Harold have
impatience, he would, ere four days had elapsed, have
found himself, at least, in the command of twice two hundred
men. But irritated to the utmost by the sufferings of his countrymen,
whose lands were pitilessly ravaged, whose tenements
were burned for miles around the Norman camp, whose wives
and daughters were subjected to every species of insult and
indignity, the Saxon king pressed onward. And though his
forces did not amount to one-fourth part of the great duke's.
array, still, he was resolved to encounter them, precipitate and
furious as a madman.
On the eighteenth day after the defeat of Tosti and Hardrada,
the Saxon army was encamped over against the fortified position
of the invaders. On that same day, a monk, Sir Hugues
Maigrot, came to find Harold, with proposals from the foe,
offering him peace on one of three conditions — either that he
should yield the kingdom presently — or leave it to the arbitration
of the pope — or, finally, decide the matter by appeal to
God in single combat.
To each and all of these proposals, the Saxon answered
bluntly in the negative. “I will not yield my kingdom! I
will not leave it to the pope! I will not meet the duke in
single combat!”
Again the monk returned. “I come again,” he said, “from
William. `Tell Harold,' said the duke, `if he will hold him
to his ancient compact, I yield him all the lands beyond the
Humber; I give his brother Gurth all the demesnes his father,
Godwin, held. If he refuse these my last proffers, tell him before
his people, he is a perjured liar, accursed of the pope, and
excommunicated — he, and all those that hold to him!”'
But no effect had the bold words of William on the stern
spirits of the English. “Battle,” they cried — “no peace with
the Normans. Battle — immediate battle!” and with that answer
for the appeal to that great arbiter, the sword.
Fairly the morning broke which was to look upon the slaughter
of so many thousands; broad and bright rose the sun before
whose setting one of those two magnificent and gallant armies
must necessarily be involved in utter ruin. As the first rays
were visible upon the eastern sky, Odo, the bishop of Bayeux,
William's maternal brother, performed high mass before the
marshalled troops, wearing his cope and rochet over his iron
harness. The holy rites performed, he leaped upon his snow-white
charger, and, with his truncheon in his hand, arrayed
the cavalry, which he commanded.
It was a glorious spectacle, that mighty host, arrayed in
three long columns of attack, marching with slow and orderly
precision against the palisaded trenches of the Saxons. The
men-at-arms of the great counts of Boulogne and Ponthieu
composed the first; the second being formed by the auxiliar
bands of Brittany, Poitou, and Maine; and in the third, commanded
by the duke in person — mounted on a superb Andalusian
charger, wearing about his neck the reliquary on which
his rival had sworn falsely, and accompanied by a young noble,
Tunstan the White, bearing the banner of the pope — were
marshalled all the flower and strength of Normandy. Scattered
along the front of the advance were multitudes of archers,
lightly equipped in quilted jerkins, with long yew bows, and
arrows of an ell in length, mingled with crossbow-men with
arbalasts of steel, and square, steel-headed quarrels.
Steadily they advanced, and in good order; while, in their
entrenched camp, guarded by palisades of oak morticed together
in a long line of ponderous trellis-work, the Englishmen awaited
their approach, drawn up around their standard, which — blazoned
with the white dragon, long both the ensign and the war-cry
of their race — was planted firmly in the earth, surrounded
of their array.
Just as the charge began, William rode out before the lines,
and thus addressed his soldiery: “Turn your hearts wholly to
the combat! set all upon the die, either to fall or conquer! For
if we gain, we shall be rich and glorious. That which I gain,
shall be your gain; that which I conquer, yours! If I shall
win this land, ye shall possess it! Know, too, and well remember
this, that not to claim my right have I come only, but to
revenge — ay, to revenge our gentle nation on all the felonies,
the perjuries, the treasons of the English! — the English, who,
in profound peace, upon Saint Brice's eve, ruthlessly slew the
unarmed and defenceless Danes; who decimated the bold followers
of Alfred, my kinsman and your countryman, and slew
himself by shameless treachery! On, then, with God's aid,
Normans! on, for revenge and victory!”
Then out dashed from the lines the boldest of his vavasours,
the Norman Taillefer, singing aloud the famous song — well
known through every province of proud France — the song of
Charlemagne and Rollo — tossing aloft the while his long, two-handed
war-sword, and catching it adroitly as it fell; while at
each close of that proud, spirit-stirring chant, each warrior of
that vast array thundered the burden of the song — “God aid!
God aid!”
Then, like a storm of hail, close, deadly, and incessant, went
forth the volleyed showers from arbalast and long-bow; while
infantry and horse charged in unbroken order against the gates
and angles of the fort. But with a cool and stubborn hardihood
the Saxon infantry stood firm. Protected by the massive
palisades from the appalling volleys of the archery, they hurled
their short and heavy javelins with certain aim and deadly execution
over their stout defences; while their huge axes, wherever
they came hand to hand, shivered the Norman spears like
and with all the hot, enthusiastic valor of their race, did the
assailants crowd around the ramparts; but it was all in vain —
they could not scale them in the face of that indomitable infantry;
they could not force one timber from its place; and
they at length recoiled, weary and half-subdued, toward the
reserve of William.
After a short cessation, again the archery advanced; but,
by the orders of the duke, their volleys were no longer sent
point-blank, but shot at a great elevation, so that they fell in a
thick, galling shower, striking the heads and wounding the unguarded
faces of the bold defenders. Harold himself, who
fought on foot beside his standard, lost his right eye at the first
flight; but not for that did he desert his post, or play less valiantly
the part of a determined soldier and wise leader. Again
with that tremendous shout of “Nôtre Dame — God aid! God
aid!” which had, in every realm of Europe, sounded the harbinger
of victory, the horse and foot rushed on to the attack;
while from their rear that heavy and incessant sleet of bolt, and
shaft, and bullet, fell fast and frequent into the dense ranks of
the still-undaunted English. At no point did they force their
way, however, even when fighting at this desperate advantage.
At no point did a single Norman penetrate a gate, or overtop a
palisade; while at one entrance so complete was the repulse
of the attacking squadrons, that they recoiled, hard pressed by
the defenders, to a ravine at some considerable distance from
the trenches, deep, dangerous, and filled with underwood and
brambles; these, as they fell back in confusion, their horses
stumbling and unable to recover, were overthrown and slain
pell-mell, and half defeated. One charge of cavalry, one shock
of barbed horse, would have insured the total rout of the invaders;
but — wo for England on that day! — cavalry she had
none, nor barbed horse, to complete gloriously the work her
the disorder, great was the disarray and peril, of the foreign
soldiery. The cry went through the host that the great duke
was slain; and, though he flung himself amid the flyers, with
his head bare, that they might recognise his features — threatening,
cursing, striking at friend and foe with undiscriminating
violence — it was well nigh an hour before he could restore the
semblance of any discipline or order. This, once accomplished,
he advanced again; and yet a third time, though he exerted
every nerve, was he repulsed at every point in terrible disorder,
and with tremendous loss.
Evening was fast approaching; and well did William know
that, if the following morning should find the Saxons firm in
their unforced entrenchments, his hopes were vain and hopeless!
The country, far and near, was rousing to the Saxon
war-cry; and to the Normans, not to conquer, was to be conquered
utterly; and to be conquered was to perish, one and all!
Valor or open force, it was too evident, could effect nothing
against men as valiant and as strong, posted with more advantage.
Guile was his last resource; and guile, as usual, prevailed!
A thousand of his cavaliers advanced, as though about to
charge the trenches at full speed, with lances lowered, and with
their wonted ensenzie, “God aid!” But as they neared the
palisades, by preconcerted stratagem, as if they had lost heart,
they suddenly drew bridle, all as a single man, and fled, as it
appeared, in irretrievable disorder, back, back to the main
body! Meanwhile, throughout the lines, the banners were
waved to and fro disorderly, and the ranks shifted, and spears
rose and fell, and all betokened their complete disorganization.
The sight was too much even for the cool hardihood of Saxon
courage. With one tremendous shout they rushed from their
entrenchments — which, had they held to them, not forty-fold
wielding with both hands their bills and axes, plunged headlong
in pursuit. That instant, all was over! For, at a moment's
notice, at a concerted signal of a single trumpet, the
very men they deemed defeated wheeled into line; and with
their spears projecting ten feet, at the least, before their chargers'
poitrels, their long plumes floating backward in the current
caused by their own quick motion, the chivalry of France
bore down on their pursuers, breathless, confused, and struggling.
It was a massacre, but not a rout; for not a man turned
on his heel, or even thought to fly: but back to back, in desperate
groups, they fought after their ranks were broken, hewing
with their short weapons at the mail-clad lancers, who securely
speared them from the backs of their barbed horses — asking
not, nor receiving quarter — true sons of England to the last,
annihilated but not conquered! Night fell, and Gurth, and
Leofwyn, and Harold, lay dead around their standard — pierced
with innumerable wounds, gory, and not to be discerned, so
were their features and their forms defaced and mangled by
friend or foeman. Yet still, when all was lost, without array
or order, standards, or chiefs, or hopes, the Englishmen fought
on — till total darkness sank down on the field of slaughter, and
utter inability to slay caused a brief pause in the unsparing
havoc. Such was the vengeance of the Norman!
| The knights of England, France, and Scotland | |