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Title: William the Conqueror Author: Jacob Abbott * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 1400541h.html Language: English Date first posted: Jan 2014 Most recent update: Jan 2014 This eBook was produced by Roy Glashan. Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.auGO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
William the Conqueror
Map of William's Possessions in 1087
William and Arlotte
William's Escape
He remained for some time in his hiding-place, and then cautiously emerged
from it to continue his way. He did not dare to keep the public road,
although it was night, but took a wild and circuitous route, in lanes and
bypaths, which conducted him, at length, to the vicinity of the sea. Here,
about day-break, he was passing a mansion, supposing that no one would
observe him at so early an hour, when, suddenly, he perceived a man sitting
at the gate, armed and equipped, and in an attitude of waiting. He was
waiting for his horse. He was a nobleman named Hubert. He recognized William
immediately as the duke, and accosted him in a tone of astonishment, saying,
"Why, my lord duke, is it possible that this is you?" He was amazed to see
the ruler of the realm out at such an hour, in such a condition, alone,
exhausted, his dress all in disorder from the haste with which he had put it
on, and his steed breathless and covered with dust, and ready, apparently, to
drop down with fatigue and exhaustion.
William, finding that he was recognized, related his story. It appeared,
in the end, that Hubert held his own castle and village as a tenant of one of
the principal conspirators, and was bound, according to the feudal ideas of
the time, to espouse his landlord's cause. He told William, however, that he
had nothing to fear. "I will defend your life," said he,﹃as if it were my
own.﹄So saying, he called his three sons, who were all athletic and
courageous young men, and commanded them to mount their horses and get ready
for a march. He took William into his castle, and gave him the food and
refreshment that he needed. Then he brought him again into the court-yard of
the house, where William found the three young horsemen mounted and ready,
and a strong and fleet steed prepared for himself. He mounted. Hubert
commanded his sons to conduct the prince with all dispatch to Falaise,
without traveling at all upon the highway or entering a town. They took,
accordingly, a straight course across the country—which was probably
then, as now, nearly destitute of inclosures—and conducted William
safely to his castle at Falaise.
In the course of the morning, William's pursuers came to Hubert's castle,
and asked if the duke had been seen going by. Hubert replied in the
affirmative, and he mounted his steed with great readiness to go and show
them the road which the fugitive had taken. He urged them to ride hard, in
hopes of soon overtaking the object of their pursuit. They drove on,
accordingly, with great impetuosity and ardor, under Hubert's guidance; but,
as he had purposely taken a wrong road, he was only leading them further and
further astray. Finally they gave up the chase, and Hubert returned with the
disappointed pursuers to his fortress, William having in the mean time
arrived safely at Falaise.
The conspirators now found that it was useless any longer to attempt to
conceal their plans. In fact, they were already all exposed, and they knew
that William would immediately summon his troops and come out to seize them.
They must, therefore, either fly from the country or attempt an open
rebellion. They decided on the latter—the result was a civil war. In
the end, William was victorious. He took a large number of the rebels
prisoners, and he adopted the following very singular plan for inflicting a
suitable punishment upon them, and at the same time erecting a permanent
monument of his victory. He laid out a public road across the country, on the
line over which he had been conducted by the sons of Hubert, and compelled
the rebels to make it. A great part of this country was low and marshy, and
had been for this reason avoided by the public road, which took a circuitous
course around it. The rebel prisoners were now, however, set at work to raise
a terrace or embankment, on a line surveyed by William's engineers, which
followed almost exactly the course of his retreat. The high road was then
laid out upon this terrace, and it became immediately a public thoroughfare
of great importance. It continued for several centuries one of the most
frequented highways in the realm, and was known by the name of the Raised
Road—Terre levée—throughout the kingdom. In fact, the
remains of it, appearing like the ruins of an ancient rail-road embankment,
exist to the present day.
In the course of the war with these rebels a curious incident occurred at
one of the battles, or, rather, is said to have occurred, by the historians
who tell the story, which, if true, illustrates very strikingly the romantic
and chivalrous ideas of the times. Just as the battle was commencing, William
perceived a strong and finely-equipped body of horsemen preparing to charge
upon the very spot where he himself, surrounded by his officers, was
standing. Now the armor worn by knights in battle in those times covered and
concealed the figure and the face so fully, that it would have been
impossible even for acquaintances and friends to recognize each other, were
it not that the knights were all accustomed to wear certain devices upon some
part of their armor—painted, for instance, upon their shields, or
embroidered on little banners which they bore—by means of which they
might be known. These devices became at length hereditary in the great
families—sons being proud to wear, themselves, the emblems to which the
deeds of their fathers had imparted a trace of glory and renown. The devices
of different chieftains were combined, sometimes, in cases of intermarriage,
or were modified in various ways; and with these minor changes they would
descend from generation to generation as the family coat of arms. And this
was the origin of heraldry.
Now the body of horsemen that were advancing to the charge, as above
described, had each of them his device upon a little flag or banner attached
to their lances. As they were advancing, William scrutinized them closely,
and presently recognized in their leader a man who had formerly been upon his
side. His name was Rollo de Tesson. He was one of those who had sworn fealty
to him at the time when his father Robert presented him to the council, when
setting out upon his pilgrimage. William accordingly exclaimed, with a loud
voice, "Why, these are my friends!" The officers and the soldiers of the
body-guard who were with him, taking up the cry, shouted﹃Friends!
friends!﹄Rollo de Tesson and the other knights, who were slowly coming
up, preparing to charge upon William's party, surprised at being thus
accosted, paused in their advance, and finally halted. Rollo said to the
other knights, who gathered around him, "I was his friend. I gave my
oath to his father that I would stand by him and defend him with my life; and
now I have this morning sworn to the Count of Cotentin"—the Count of
Cotentin was the leader of the rebellion—"that I would seek out William
on the battle-field, and be the first to give him a blow. I know not what to
do." "Keep both oaths," replied one of his companions.﹃Go and strike him a
gentle blow, and then defend him with your life.﹄The whole troop seconded
this proposal by acclamation. Rollo advanced, followed by the other knights,
with gestures and shouts denoting that they were friends. He rode up to
William, told him that he had that morning sworn to strike him, and then
dealt him a pretended blow upon his shoulder; but as both the shoulder and
the hand which struck it were armed with steel, the clanking sound was all
the effect that was produced. Rollo and his troop—their sworn
obligation to the Count of Cotentin being thus fulfilled—turned now
into the ranks of William's soldiery, and fought valiantly all day upon his
side.
Although William was generally victorious in the battles that he fought,
and succeeded in putting down one rebellion after another with promptness and
decision, still, new rebellions and new wars were constantly breaking out,
which kept his dominions in a continual state of commotion. In fact, the
chieftains, the nobles, and the knights, constituting the only classes of
society that exercised any influence, or were regarded with any respect in
those days, were never contented except when actively employed in military
campaigns. The excitements and the glory of war were the only excitements and
glory that they understood, or had the means of enjoying. Their dwellings
were great fortresses, built on the summits of the rocks, which, however
picturesque and beautiful they appear as ruins now, were very gloomy
and desolate as residences then. They were attractive enough when their
inmates were flying to them for refuge from an enemy, or were employed within
the walls in concentrating their forces and brightening up their arms for
some new expedition for vengeance or plunder, but they were lonely and
lifeless scenes of restlessness and discontent in times of quietness and
peace.
It is difficult for us, at this day, to conceive how destitute of all the
ordinary means of comfort and enjoyment, in comparison with a modern
dwelling, the ancient feudal castles must have been. They were placed in
situations as nearly inaccessible as possible, and the natural impediments of
approach were increased by walls, and gates, and ditches, and draw-bridges.
The door of access was often a window in the wall, ten or fifteen feet from
the ground, to which the inmates or their friends mounted by a ladder. The
floors were of stone, the walls were naked, the ceiling was a
rudely-constructed series of arches. The apartments, too, were ordinarily
small, and were arranged one above another, in the successive stories of a
tower. Nor could these cell-like chambers be enlivened by the wide and
cheerful windows of modern times, which not only admit the light to animate
the scene within, but also afford to the spectator there, wide-spread, and
sometimes enchanting views of the surrounding country. The castle windows of
ancient days were, on the contrary, narrow loop-holes, each at the bottom of
a deep recess in the thick wall. If they had been made wide they would have
admitted too easily the arrows and javelins of besiegers, as well as the wind
and rain of wintery storms. There were no books in these desolate dwellings,
no furniture but armor, no pleasures but drinking and carousals.
Nor could these noble and valiant knights and barons occupy themselves in
any useful employment. There was nothing which it was respectable for them to
do but to fight. They looked down with contempt upon all the industrial
pursuits of life. The cultivation of farms, the rearing of flocks and herds,
arts, manufactures, and commerce—every thing of this sort, by which man
can benefit his fellow-man, was entirely beneath them. In fact, their
descendants to the present day, even in England, entertain the same ideas.
Their younger sons can enter the army or the navy, and spend their lives in
killing and destroying, or in awaiting, in idleness, dissipation, and vice,
for orders to kill and destroy, without dishonor; but to engage in any way in
those vast and magnificent operations of peaceful industry, on which the true
greatness and glory of England depend, would be perpetual and irretrievable
disgrace. A young nobleman can serve, in the most subordinate official
capacity, on board a man-of-war, and take pay for it, without degradation;
but to build a man-of-war itself and take pay for it, would be to
compel his whole class to disown him.
It was in consequence of this state of feeling among the knights and
barons of William's day that peace was always tedious and irksome to them,
and they were never contented except when engaged in battles and campaigns.
It was this feeling, probably, quite as much as any settled hostility to
William's right to reign, that made his barons so eager to engage in
insurrections and rebellions. There was, however, after all, a real and
deep-seated opposition to William's right of succession, founded in the ideas
of the day. They could not well endure that one of so humble and even
ignominious birth, on the mother's side, should be the heir of so illustrious
a line as the great dukes of Normandy. William's enemies were accustomed to
designate him by opprobrious epithets, derived from the circumstances of his
birth. Though he was patient and enduring, and often very generous in
forgiving other injuries, these insults to the memory of his mother always
stung him very deeply, and awakened the strongest emotions of resentment. One
instance of this was so conspicuous that it is recorded in almost all the
histories of William that have been written.
It was in the midst of one of the wars in which he was involved, that he
was advancing across the country to the attack of a strong castle, which, in
addition to the natural strength of its walls and fortifications, was
defended by a numerous and powerful garrison. So confident, in fact, were the
garrison in their numbers and power, that when they heard that William was
advancing to attack them, they sent out a detachment to meet him. This
detachment, however, were not intending to give him open battle. Their plan
was to lay in ambuscade, and attack William's troops when they came to the
spot, and while they were unaware of the vicinity of an enemy, and off their
guard.
William, however, they found, was not off his guard. He attacked the
ambuscade with so much vigor as to put the whole force immediately to flight.
Of course the fugitives directed their steps toward the castle. William and
his soldiers followed them in headlong pursuit. The end was, that the
detachment from the garrison had scarcely time, after making good their own
entrance, to raise the draw-bridges and secure the gates, so as to keep their
pursuers from entering too. They did, however, succeed in doing this, and
William, establishing his troops about the castle, opened his lines and
commenced a regular siege.
The garrison were very naturally vexed and irritated at the bad success of
their intended stratagem. To have the ambuscade not only fail of its object,
but to have also the men that formed it driven thus ignominiously in, and so
narrowly escaping, also, the danger of letting in the whole troop of their
enemies after them, was a great disgrace. To retaliate upon William, and to
throw back upon him the feelings of mortification and chagrin which they felt
themselves, they mounted the walls and towers, and shouted out all sorts of
reproaches and insults. Finally, when they found that they could not make
mere words sufficiently stinging, they went and procured skins and hides, and
aprons of leather, and every thing else that they could find that was
connected with the trade of a tanner, and shook them at the troops of their
assailants from the towers and walls, with shouts of merriment and
derision.
William was desperately enraged at these insults. He organized an
assaulting party, and by means of the great exertions which the exasperation
of his men stimulated them to make, he carried some of the outworks, and took
a number of prisoners. These prisoners he cut to pieces, and then caused
their bloody and mangled limbs and members to be thrown, by great slings,
over the castle walls.
At one time during the period which is included within the limits of this
chapter, and in the course of one of those intervals of peace and quietness
within his own dominions which William sometimes enjoyed, the King of France
became involved in a war with one of his own rebellious subjects, and William
went, with an army of Normans, to render him aid. King Henry was at first
highly gratified at this prompt and effectual succor, but he soon afterward
began to feel jealous of the universal popularity and renown which the young
duke began soon to acquire. William was at that time only about twenty-four
years old, but he took the direction of every thing—moved to and fro
with the utmost celerity—planned the campaigns—directed the
sieges, and by his personal accomplishments and his bravery, he won all
hearts, and was the subject of every body's praises. King Henry found himself
supplanted, in some measure, in the regard and honorable consideration of his
subjects, and he began to feel very envious and jealous of his rival.
Sometimes particular incidents would occur, in which William's feats of
prowess or dexterity would so excite the admiration of the army that he would
be overwhelmed with acclamations and applause. These were generally exploits
of combat on the field, or of escape from pursuers when outnumbered, in which
good fortune had often, perhaps, quite as much to do in securing the result
as strength or courage. But in those days a soldier's good luck was perhaps
as much the subject of applause as his muscular force or his bravery; and, in
fact, it was as deservedly so; for the strength of arm, and the coolness, or,
rather, the ferocity of courage, which make a good combatant in personal
contests on a battle-field, are qualities of brutes rather than of men. We
feel a species of respect for them in the lion or tiger, but they deserve
only execration when exercised in the wantonness of hatred and revenge by man
against his brother man.
One of the instances of William's extraordinary success was the following.
He was reconnoitering the enemy on one occasion, accompanied only by four or
five knights, who acted as his attendants and body-guard. The party were at a
distance from the camp of the enemy, and supposed they were not observed.
They were observed, however, and immediately a party of twelve chosen
horsemen was formed, and ordered to ride out and surprise them. This
detachment concealed themselves in an ambuscade, at a place where the
reconnoitering party must pass, and when the proper moment arrived, they
burst out suddenly upon them and summoned them to surrender. Twelve against
six seemed to render both flight and resistance equally vain. William,
however, advanced immediately to the attack of the ambuscaders. He poised his
long lance, and, riding on with it at full speed, he unhorsed and killed the
foremost of them at a blow. Then, just drawing back his weapon to gather
strength for another blow, he killed the second of his enemies in the same
manner. His followers were so much animated at this successful onset, that
they advanced very resolutely to the combat. In the mean time, the shouts
carried the alarm to William's camp, and a strong party set off to rescue
William and his companions. The others then turned to fly, while William
followed them so eagerly and closely, that he and they who were with him
overtook and disabled seven of them, and made them prisoners. The rest
escaped. William and his party then turned and began to proceed toward their
own camp, conveying their prisoners in their train.
They were met by King Henry himself at the head of a detachment of three
hundred men, who, not knowing how much necessity there might be for efficient
aid, were hastening to the scene of action. The sight of William coming home
victorious, and the tales told by his companions of the invincible strength
and daring which he had displayed in the sudden danger, awakened a universal
enthusiasm, and the plaudits and encomiums with which the whole camp
resounded were doubtless as delicious and intoxicating to him as they were
bitter to the king.
It was by such deeds, and by such personal and mental characteristics as
these, that William, notwithstanding the untoward influences of his birth,
fought his way, during the twenty years of which we have been speaking, into
general favor, and established a universal renown. He completely organized
and arranged the internal affairs of his own kingdom, and established himself
firmly upon the ducal throne. His mind had become mature, his resources were
well developed, and his soul, always ambitious and aspiring, began to reach
forward to the grasping of some grander objects of pursuit, and to the
entering upon some wider field of action than his duchy of Normandy could
afford. During this interval, however, he was married; and, as the
circumstances of his marriage were somewhat extraordinary, we must make that
event the subject of a separate chapter.
From the Bayeux Tapestry — Plowing and Sowing
We often have occasion to observe, in watching the course of human
affairs, the frailty and transitoriness of things apparently most durable and
strong. In the case of this embroidery, on the contrary, we are struck with
the durability and permanence of what would seem to be most frail and
fleeting. William's conquest of England took place in 1066. This piece of
tapestry, therefore, if Matilda really worked it, is about eight hundred
years old. And when we consider how delicate, slender, and frail is the fibre
of a linen thread, and that the various elements of decay, always busy in the
work of corrupting and destroying the works of man, have proved themselves
powerful enough to waste away and crumble into ruin the proudest structures
which he has ever attempted to rear, we are amazed that these slender
filaments have been able to resist their action so long. The Bayeux tapestry
has lasted nearly a thousand years. It will probably last for a thousand
years to come. So that the vast and resistless power, which destroyed Babylon
and Troy, and is making visible progress in the work of destroying the
Pyramids, is foiled by the durability of a piece of needle-work, executed by
the frail and delicate fingers of a woman.
We may have occasion to advert to the Bayeux tapestry again, when we come
to narrate the exploits which it was the particular object of this historical
embroidery to illustrate and adorn. In the mean time, we return to our
story.
The matrimonial negotiations of princes and princesses are always
conducted in a formal and ceremonious manner, and through the intervention of
legates, embassadors, and commissioners without number, who are, of course,
interested in protracting the proceedings, so as to prolong, as much as
possible, their own diplomatic importance and power. Besides these accidental
and temporary difficulties, it soon appeared that there were, in this case,
some real and very formidable obstacles, which threatened for a time entirely
to frustrate the scheme.
Among these difficulties there was one which was not usually, in such
cases, considered of much importance, but which, in this instance, seemed for
a long time to put an effectual bar to William's wishes, and that was the
aversion which the young princess herself felt for the match. She could have,
one would suppose, no personal feeling of repugnance against William, for he
was a tall and handsome cavalier, highly graceful and accomplished, and
renowned for his bravery and success in war. He was, in every respect, such a
personage as would be most likely to captivate the imagination of a maiden
princess in those warlike times. Matilda, however, made objections to his
birth. She could not consider him as the legitimate descendant and heir of
the dukes of Normandy. It is true, he was then in possession of the throne,
but he was regarded by a large portion of the most powerful chieftains in his
realm as a usurper. He was liable, at any time, on some sudden change of
fortune, to be expelled from his dominions. His position, in a word, though
for the time being very exalted, was too precarious and unstable, and his
personal claims to high social rank were too equivocal, to justify her
trusting her destiny in his hands. In a word, Matilda's answer to William's
proposals was an absolute refusal to become his wife.
These ostensible grounds, however, on which Matilda based her refusal,
plausible as they were, were not the real and true ones. The secret motive
was another attachment which she had formed. There had been sent to her
father's court in Flanders, from the English king, a young Saxon embassador,
whose name was Brihtric. Brihtric remained some little time at the court in
Flanders, and Matilda, who saw him often at the various entertainments,
celebrations, and parties of pleasure which were arranged for his amusement,
conceived a strong attachment to him. He was of a very fair complexion, and
his features were expressive and beautiful. He was a noble of high position
in England, though, of course, his rank was inferior to that of Matilda. As
it would have been deemed hardly proper for him, under the circumstances of
the case, to have aspired to the princess's hand, on account of the
superiority of her social position, Matilda felt that it was her duty to make
known her sentiments to him, and thus to open the way. She did so; but she
found, unhappy maiden, that Brihtric did not feel, himself, the love which he
had inspired in her, and all the efforts and arts to which she was impelled
by the instinct of affection proved wholly unavailing to call it forth.
Brihtric, after fulfilling the object of his mission, took leave of Matilda
coldly, while her heart was almost breaking, and went away.
As the sweetest wine transforms itself into the sharpest vinegar, so the
warmest and most ardent love turns, when it turns at all, to the most bitter
and envenomed hate. Love gave place soon in Matilda's heart to indignation,
and indignation to a burning thirst for revenge. The intensity of the first
excitement subsided; but Matilda never forgot and never forgave the
disappointment and the indignity which she had endured. She had an
opportunity long afterward to take terrible revenge on Brihtric in England,
by subjecting him to cruelties and hardships there which brought him to his
grave.
In the mean time, while her thoughts were so occupied with this
attachment, she had, of course, no heart to listen favorably to William's
proposals. Her friends would have attached no importance to the real cause of
her aversion to the match, but they felt the force of the objections which
could justly be advanced against William's rank, and his real right to his
throne. Then the consanguinity of the parties was a great source of
embarrassment and trouble. Persons as nearly related to each other as they
were, were forbidden by the Roman Catholic rules to marry. There was such a
thing as getting a dispensation from the pope, by which the marriage would be
authorized. William accordingly sent embassadors to Rome to negotiate this
business. This, of course, opened a new field for difficulties and
delays.
The papal authorities were accustomed, in such cases, to exact as the
price, or, rather, as the condition of their dispensation, some grant or
beneficial conveyance from the parties interested, to the Church, such as the
foundation of an abbey or a monastery, the building of a chapel, or the
endowment of a charity, by way as it were, of making amends to the Church, by
the benefit thus received, for whatever injury the cause of religion and
morality might sustain by the relaxation of a divine law. Of course, this
being the end in view, the tendency on the part of the authorities at Rome
would be to protract the negotiations, so as to obtain from the suitor's
impatience better terms in the end. The embassadors and commissioners, too,
on William's part, would have no strong motive for hastening the proceedings.
Rome was an agreeable place of residence, and to live there as the embassador
of a royal duke of Normandy was to enjoy a high degree of consideration, and
to be surrounded continually by scenes of magnificence and splendor. Then,
again, William himself was not always at leisure to urge the business forward
by giving it his own close attention; for, during the period while these
negotiations were pending, he was occupied, from time to time, with foreign
wars, or in the suppression of rebellions among his barons. Thus, from one
cause and another, it seemed as if the business would never come to an
end.
In fact, a less resolute and determined man than William would have given
up in despair, for it was seven years, it is said, before the affair was
brought to a conclusion. One story is told of the impetuous energy which
William manifested in this suit, which seems almost incredible.
It was after the negotiations had been protracted for several years, and
at a time when the difficulties were principally those arising from Matilda's
opposition, that the occurrence took place. It was at an interview which
William had with Matilda in the streets of Bruges, one of her father's
cities. All that took place at the interview is not known, but in the end of
it William's resentment at Matilda's treatment of him lost all bounds. He
struck her or pushed her so violently as to throw her down upon the ground.
It is said that he struck her repeatedly, and then, leaving her with her
clothes all soiled and disheveled, rode off in a rage. Love quarrels are
often the means of bringing the contending parties nearer together than they
were before, but such a terrible love quarrel as this, we hope, is very
rare.
Violent as it was, however, it was followed by a perfect reconciliation,
and in the end all obstacles were removed, and William and Matilda were
married. The event took place in 1052.
The marriage ceremony was performed at one of William's castles, on the
frontiers of Normandy, as it is customary for princes and kings to be married
always in their own dominions. Matilda was conducted there with great pomp
and parade by her parents, and was accompanied by a large train of attendants
and friends. This company, mounted—both knights and ladies—on
horses beautifully caparisoned, moved across the country like a little army
on a march, or rather like a triumphal procession escorting a queen. Matilda
was received at the castle with distinguished honor, and the marriage
celebrations, and the entertainments accompanying it, were continued for
several days. It was a scene of unusual festivity and rejoicing.
The dress both of William and Matilda, on this occasion, was very
specially splendid. She wore a mantle studded with the most costly jewels;
and, in addition to the other splendors of his dress, William too wore a
mantle and a helmet, both of which were richly adorned with the same costly
decorations. So much importance was attached, in those days, to this outward
show, and so great was the public interest taken in it, that these dresses of
William and Matilda, with all the jewelry that adorned them, were deposited
afterward in the great church at Bayeux, where they remained a sort of public
spectacle, the property of the Church, for nearly five hundred years.
From the castle of Augi, where the marriage ceremonies were performed,
William proceeded, after these first festivities and rejoicings were over, to
the great city of Rouen, conducting his bride thither with great pomp and
parade. Here the young couple established themselves, living in the enjoyment
of every species of luxury and splendor which were attainable in those days.
As has already been said, the interiors, even of royal castles and palaces,
presented but few of the comforts and conveniences deemed essential to the
happiness of a home in modern times. The European ladies of the present day
delight in their suites of retired and well-furnished apartments, adorned
with velvet carpets, and silken curtains, and luxuriant beds of down, with
sofas and couches adapted to every fancy which the caprice of fatigue or
restlessness may assume, and cabinets stored with treasures, and libraries of
embellished books—the whole scene illuminated by the splendor of
gas-lights, whose brilliancy is reflected by mirrors and candelabras,
sparkling with a thousand hues. Matilda's feudal palace presented no such
scenes as these. The cold stone floors were covered with mats of rushes. The
walls—if the naked masonry was hidden at all—were screened by
hangings of coarse tapestry, ornamented with uncouth and hideous figures. The
beds were miserable pallets, the windows were loop-holes, and the castle
itself had all the architectural characteristics of a prison.
Still, there was a species of luxury and splendor even then. Matilda had
splendid horses to ride, all magnificently caparisoned. She had dresses
adorned most lavishly with gold and jewels. There were troops of valiant
knights, all glittering in armor of steel, to escort her on her journeys, and
accompany and wait upon her on her excursions of pleasure; and there were
grand banquets and carousals, from time to time, in the long castle hall,
with tournaments, and races, and games, and other military shows, conducted
with great parade and pageantry. Matilda thus commenced her married life in
luxury and splendor.
In luxury and splendor, but not in peace. William had an uncle, whose name
was Mauger. He was the Archbishop of Rouen, and was a dignitary of great
influence and power. Now it was, of course, the interest of William's
relatives that he should not be married, as every increase of probability
that his crown would descend to direct heirs diminished their future chances
of the succession, and of course undermined their present importance. Mauger
had been very much opposed to this match, and had exerted himself in every
way, while the negotiations were pending, to impede and delay them. The point
which he most strenuously urged was the consanguinity of the parties, a point
to which it was incumbent on him, as he maintained—being the head of
the Church in Normandy—particularly to attend. It seems that,
notwithstanding William's negotiations with the pope to obtain a
dispensation, the affair was not fully settled at Rome before the marriage;
and very soon after the celebration of the nuptials, Mauger fulminated an
edict of excommunication against both William and Matilda, for intermarrying
within the degrees of relationship which the canons of the Church
proscribed.
An excommunication, in the Middle Ages, was a terrible calamity. The
person thus condemned was made, so far as such a sentence could effect it, an
outcast from man, and a wretch accursed of Heaven. The most terrible
denunciations were uttered against him, and in the case of a prince, like
that of William, his subjects were all absolved from their allegiance, and
forbidden to succor or defend him. A powerful potentate like William could
maintain himself for a time against the influence and effects of such a
course, but it was pretty sure to work more and more strongly against him
through the superstitions of the people, and to wear him out in the end.
William resolved to appeal at once to the pope, and to effect, by some
means or other, the object of securing his dispensation. There was a certain
monk, then obscure and unknown, but who afterward became a very celebrated
public character, named Lanfranc, whom, for some reason or other, William
supposed to possess the necessary qualifications for this mission. He
accordingly gave him his instructions and sent him away. Lanfranc proceeded
to Rome, and there he managed the negotiation with the pope so dexterously as
soon to bring it to a conclusion.
The arrangement which he made was this. The pope was to grant the
dispensation and confirm the marriage, thus removing the sentence of
excommunication which the Archbishop Mauger had pronounced, on condition that
William should build and endow a hospital for a hundred poor persons, and
also erect two abbeys, one to be built by himself, for monks, and one by
Matilda, for nuns. Lanfranc agreed to these conditions on the part of William
and Matilda, and they, when they came to be informed of them, accepted and
confirmed them with great joy. The ban of excommunication was removed; all
Normandy acquiesced in the marriage, and William and Matilda proceeded to
form the plans and to superintend the construction of the abbeys.
They selected the city of Caen for the site. The place of this city will
be seen marked upon the map near the northern coast of Normandy.[7] It was
situated in a broad and pleasant valley, at the confluence of two rivers, and
was surrounded by beautiful and fertile meadows. It was strongly fortified,
being surrounded by walls and towers, which William's ancestors, the dukes of
Normandy, had built. William and Matilda took a strong interest in the plans
and constructions connected with the building of the abbeys. William's was a
very extensive edifice, and contained within its inclosures a royal palace
for himself, where, in subsequent years, himself and Matilda often
resided.
[Footnote 7: See map, chapter ix.]
The principal buildings of these abbeys still stand, though the walls and
fortifications of Caen are gone. The buildings are used now for other
purposes than those for which they were erected, but they retain the names
originally given them, and are visited by great numbers of tourists, being
regarded with great interest as singular memorials of the past—twin
monuments commemorating an ancient marriage.
The marriage being thus finally confirmed and acquiesced in, William and
Matilda enjoyed a long period of domestic peace. The oldest child was a son.
He was born within a year of the marriage, and William named him Robert,
that, as the reader will recollect, having been the name of William's father.
There was, in process of time, a large family of children. Their names were
Robert, William Rufus, Henry, Cecilia, Agatha, Constance, Adela, Adelaide,
and Gundred. Matilda devoted herself with great maternal fidelity to the care
and education of these children, and many of them became subsequently
historical personages of the highest distinction.
The object which, it will be recollected, was one of William's main
inducements for contracting this alliance, namely, the strengthening of his
power by thus connecting himself with the reigning family of Flanders, was,
in a great measure, accomplished. The two governments, leagued together by
this natural tie, strengthened each other's power, and often rendered each
other essential assistance, though there was one occasion, subsequently, when
William's reliance on this aid was disappointed. It was as follows:
When he was planning his invasion of England, he sent to Matilda's
brother, Baldwin, who was then Count of Flanders, inviting him to raise a
force and join him. Baldwin, who considered the enterprise as dangerous and
Quixotic, sent back word to inquire what share of the English territory
William would give him if he would go and help him conquer it. William
thought that this attempt to make a bargain beforehand, for a division of
spoil, evinced a very mercenary and distrustful spirit on the part of his
brother-in-law—a spirit which he was not at all disposed to encourage.
He accordingly took a sheet of parchment, and writing nothing within, he
folded it in the form of a letter, and wrote upon the outside the following
rhyme:
"Beau frère, en Angleterre vous aures
Ce qui dedans escript, vous trouveres."
Which royal distich might be translated thus:
"Your share, good brother, of the land we win,
You'll find entitled and described within."
The Rescue
With such unfriendly relations between the king and his son, who seems to
have been the ablest general in his father's army, there could be little hope
of making head against such an enemy as Canute the Dane. In fact, the course
of public affairs went on from bad to worse, Emma leading all the time a life
of unceasing anxiety and alarm. At length, in 1016, Ethelred died, and Emma's
cup of disappointment and humiliation was now full. Her own sons, Edward and
Alfred, had no claims to the crown; for Edmund, being the son by a former
marriage, was older than they. They were too young to take personally an
active part in the fierce contests of the day, and thus fight their way to
importance and power. And then Edmund, who was now to become king, would, of
course, feel no interest in advancing them, or doing honor to
her. A son who would thwart and counteract the plans and measures of a
father, as Edmund had done, would be little likely to evince much deference
or regard for a mother-in-law, or for half brothers, whom he would naturally
consider as his rivals. In a word, Emma had reason to be alarmed at the
situation of insignificance and danger in which she found herself suddenly
placed. She fled a second time, in destitution and distress, to her brother's
in Normandy. She was now, however, a widow, and her children were fatherless.
It is difficult to decide whether to consider her situation as better or
worse on this account, than it was at her former exile.
Her sons were lads, but little advanced beyond the period of childhood;
and Edward, the eldest, on whom the duty of making exertions to advance the
family interests would first devolve, was of a quiet and gentle spirit,
giving little promise that he would soon be disposed to enter vigorously upon
military campaigns. Edmund, on the other hand, who was now king, was in the
prime of life, and was a man of great spirit and energy. There was a
reasonable prospect that he would live many years; and even if he were to be
suddenly cut off, there seemed to be no hope of the restoration of Emma to
importance or power; for Edmund was married and had two sons, one of whom
would be entitled to succeed him in case of his decease. It seemed,
therefore, to be Emma's destiny now, to spend the remainder of her days with
her children in neglect and obscurity. The case resulted differently,
however, as we shall see in the end.
Edmund, notwithstanding his prospect of a long and prosperous career, was
cut off suddenly, after a stormy reign of one year. During his reign, Canute
the Dane had been fast gaining ground in England, notwithstanding the vigor
and energy with which Edmund had opposed him. Finally, the two monarchs
assembled their armies, and were about to fight a great final battle. Edmund
sent a flag of truce to Canute's camp, proposing that, to save the effusion
of blood, they should agree to decide the case by single combat, and that he
and Canute should be the champions, and fight in presence of the armies.
Canute declined this proposal. He was himself small and slender in form,
while Edmund was distinguished for his personal development and muscular
strength. Canute therefore declined the personal contest, but offered to
leave the question to the decision of a council chosen from among the leading
nobles on either side. This plan was finally adopted. The council convened,
and, after long deliberations, they framed a treaty by which the country was
divided between the two potentates, and a sort of peace was restored. A very
short period after this treaty was settled, Edmund was murdered.
Canute immediately laid claim to the whole realm. He maintained that it
was a part of the treaty that the partition of the kingdom was to continue
only during their joint lives, and that, on the death of either, the whole
was to pass to the survivor of them. The Saxon leaders did not admit this,
but they were in no condition very strenuously to oppose it. Ethelred's sons
by Emma were too young to come forward as leaders yet; and as to Edmund's,
they were mere children. There was, therefore, no one whom they could produce
as an efficient representative of the Saxon line, and thus the Saxons were
compelled to submit to Canute's pretensions, at least for a time. They would
not wholly give up the claims of Edmund's children, but they consented to
waive them for a season. They gave Canute the guardianship of the boys until
they should become of age, and allowed him, in the mean time, to reign,
himself, over the whole land.
Canute exercised his power in a very discreet and judicious manner,
seeming intent, in all his arrangements, to protect the rights and interests
of the Saxons as well as of the Danes. It might be supposed that the lives of
the young Saxon princes, Edmund's sons, would not have been safe in his
hands; but the policy which he immediately resolved to pursue was to
conciliate the Saxons, and not to intimidate and coerce them. He therefore
did the young children no harm, but sent them away out of the country to
Denmark, that they might, if possible, be gradually forgotten. Perhaps he
thought that, if the necessity should arise for it, they might there, at any
time, be put secretly to death.
There was another reason still to prevent Canute's destroying these
children, which was, that if they were removed, the claims of the
Saxon line would not thereby be extinguished, but would only be transferred
to Emma's children in Normandy, who, being older, were likely the sooner to
be in a condition to give him trouble as rivals. It was therefore a very wise
and sagacious policy which prompted him to keep the young children of Edmund
alive, but to remove them to a safe distance out of the way.
In respect to Emma's children, Canute conceived a different plan for
guarding against any danger which came from their claims, and that was, to
propose to take their mother for his wife. By this plan her family would come
into his power, and then her own influence and that of her Norman friends
would be forever prevented from taking sides against him. He accordingly made
the proposal. Emma was ambitious enough of again returning to her former
position of greatness as English queen to accept it eagerly. The world
condemned her for being so ready to marry, for her second husband, the deadly
enemy and rival of the first; but it was all one to her whether her husband
was Saxon or Dane, provided that she could be queen.
The boys, or, rather, the young men, for they were now advancing to
maturity, were very strongly opposed to this connection. They did all in
their power to prevent its consummation, and they never forgave their mother
for thus basely betraying their interests. They were the more incensed at
this transaction, because it was stipulated in the marriage articles between
Canute and Emma that their future children—the offspring of the
marriage then contracted—should succeed to the throne of England, to
the exclusion of all previously born on either side. Thus Canute fancied that
he had secured his title, and that of his descendants, to the crown forever,
and Emma prepared to return to England as once more its queen. The marriage
was celebrated with great pomp and splendor, and Emma, bidding Normandy and
her now alienated children farewell, was conducted in state to the royal
palace in London.
We must now pass over, with a very few words, a long interval of twenty
years. It was the period of Canute's reign, which was prosperous and
peaceful. During this period Emma's Norman sons continued in Normandy. She
had another son in England a few years after her marriage, who was named
Canute, after his father, but he is generally known in history by the name of
Hardicanute, the prefix being a Saxon word denoting energetic or strong.
Canute had also a very celebrated minister in his government named Godwin.
Godwin was a Saxon of a very humble origin, and the history of his life
constitutes quite a romantic tale.[8] He was a man of extraordinary talents
and character, and at the time of Canute's death he was altogether the most
powerful subject in the realm.
[Footnote 8: It is given at length in the last chapter of
our history of Alfred the Great.]
When Canute found that he was about to die, and began to consider what
arrangements he should make for the succession, he concluded that it would
not be safe for him to fulfill the agreement made in his marriage contract
with Emma, that the children of that marriage should inherit the kingdom; for
Hardicanute, who was entitled to succeed under that covenant, was only about
sixteen or seventeen years old, and consequently too young to attempt to
govern. He therefore made a will, in which he left the kingdom to an older
son, named Harold—a son whom he had had before his marriage with Emma.
This was the signal for a new struggle. The influence of the Saxons and of
Emma's friends was of course in favor of Hardicanute, while the Danes
espoused the cause of Harold. Godwin at length taking sides with this
last-named party, Harold was established on the throne, and Emma and all her
children, whether descended from Ethelred or Canute, were set aside and
forgotten.
Emma was not at all disposed to acquiesce in this change of fortune. She
remained in England, but was secretly incensed at her second husband's breach
of faith toward her; and as he had abandoned the child of his marriage with
her for his former children, she now determined to abandon him for
hers. She gave up Hardicanute's cause, therefore, and began secretly
to plot among the Saxon population for bringing forward her son Edward to the
throne. When she thought that things were ripe for the execution of the plot,
she wrote a letter to her children in Normandy, saying to them that the Saxon
population were weary of the Danish line, and were ready, she believed, to
rise in behalf of the ancient Saxon line, if the true representative of it
would appear to lead them. She therefore invited them to come to London and
consult with her on the subject. She directed them, however, to come, if they
came at all, in a quiet and peaceful manner, and without any appearance of
hostile intent, inasmuch as any thing which might seem like a foreign
invasion would awaken universal jealousy and alarm.
When this letter was received by the brothers in Normandy, the eldest,
Edward, declined to go, but gave his consent that Alfred should undertake the
expedition if he were disposed. Alfred accepted the proposal. In fact, the
temperament and character of the two brothers were very different. Edward was
sedate, serious, and timid. Alfred was ardent and aspiring. The younger,
therefore, decided to take the risk of crossing the Channel, while the elder
preferred to remain at home.
The result was very disastrous. Contrary to his mother's instructions,
Alfred took with him quite a troop of Norman soldiers. He crossed the Channel
in safety, and advanced across the country some distance toward London.
Harold sent out a force to intercept him. He was surrounded, and he himself
and all his followers were taken prisoners. He was sentenced to lose his
eyes, and he died in a few days after the execution of this terrible
sentence, from the mingled effects of fever and of mental anguish and
despair. Emma fled to Flanders.
Finally Harold died, and Hardicanute succeeded him. In a short time
Hardicanute died, leaving no heirs, and now, of course, there was no one
left[9] to compete with Emma's oldest son Edward, who had remained all this
time quietly in Normandy. He was accordingly proclaimed king. This was in
1041. He reigned for twenty years, having commenced his reign about the time
that William the Conqueror was established in the possession of his dominions
as Duke of Normandy. Edward had known William intimately during his long
residence in Normandy, and William came to visit him in England in the course
of his reign. William, in fact, considered himself as Edward's heir; for as
Edward, though married, had no children, the dukes of the Norman line were
his nearest relatives. He obtained, he said, a promise from Edward that
Edward would sanction and confirm his claim to the English crown, in the
event of his decease, by bequeathing it to William in his will.
[Footnote 9: The children of Ethelred's oldest son,
Edmund, were in Hungary at this time, and seem to have been wellnigh
forgotten.]
Emma was now advanced in years. The ambition which had been the ruling
principle of her life would seem to have been well satisfied, so far as it is
possible to satisfy ambition, for she had had two husbands and two sons, all
kings of England. But as she advanced toward the close of her career, she
found herself wretched and miserable. Her son Edward could not forgive her
for her abandonment of himself and his brother, to marry a man who was their
own and their father's bitterest enemy. She had made a formal treaty in her
marriage covenant to exclude them from the throne. She had treated them with
neglect during all the time of Canute's reign, while she was living with him
in London in power and splendor. Edward accused her, also, of having connived
at his brother Alfred's death. The story is, that he caused her to be tried
on this charge by the ordeal of fire. This method consisted of laying red-hot
irons upon the stone floor of a church, at certain distances from each other,
and requiring the accused to walk over them with naked feet. If the accused
was innocent, Providence, as they supposed, would so guide his footsteps that
he should not touch the irons. Thus, if he was innocent, he would go over
safely; if guilty, he would be burned. Emma, according to the story of the
times, was subjected to this test, in the Cathedral of Winchester, to
determine whether she was cognizant of the murder of her son. Whether this is
true or not, there is no doubt that Edward confined her a prisoner in the
monastery at Winchester, where she ended her days at last in neglect and
wretchedness.
When Edward himself drew near to the close of his life, his mind was
greatly perplexed in respect to the succession. There was one descendant of
his brother Edmund—whose children, it will be remembered, Canute had
sent away to Denmark, in order to remove them out of the way—who was
still living in Hungary. The name of this descendant was Edward. He was, in
fact, the lawful heir to the crown. But he had spent his life in foreign
countries, and was now far away; and, in the mean time, the Earl Godwin, who
has been already mentioned as the great Saxon nobleman who rose from a very
humble rank to the position of the most powerful subject in the realm,
obtained such an influence, and wielded so great a power, that he seemed at
one time stronger than the king himself. Godwin at length died, but his son
Harold, who was as energetic and active as his father, inherited his power,
and seemed, as Edward thought, to be aspiring to the future possession of the
throne. Edward had hated Godwin and all his family, and was now extremely
anxious to prevent the possibility of Harold's accession. He accordingly sent
to Hungary to bring Edward, his nephew, home. Edward came, bringing his
family with him. He had a young son named Edgar. It was King Edward's plan to
make arrangements for bringing this Prince Edward to the throne after his
death, that Harold might be excluded.
The plan was a very judicious one, but it was unfortunately frustrated by
Prince Edward's death, which event took place soon after he arrived in
England. The young Edgar, then a child, was, of course, his heir. The king
was convinced that no government which could be organized in the name of
Edgar would be able to resist the mighty power of Harold, and he turned his
thoughts, therefore, again to the accession of William of Normandy, who was
the nearest relative on his mother's side, as the only means of saving the
realm from falling into the hands of the usurper Harold. A long and vexatious
contest then ensued, in which the leading powers and influences of the
kingdom were divided and distracted by the plans, plots, maneuvers, and
counter maneuvers of Harold to obtain the accession for himself, and of
Edward to secure it for William of Normandy. In this contest Harold conquered
in the first instance, and Edward and William in the end.
Harold's Interview with Edward
At all events, the storm was real, whether his being compelled to
leave the English shores by the power of it was real or pretended. It carried
him, too, out of his course, driving him up the Channel to the eastward of
Normandy, where he had intended to land, and at length throwing his galley, a
wreck, on the shore, not far from the mouth of the Somme. The galley itself
was broken up, but Harold and his company escaped to land. They found that
they were in the dominions of a certain prince who held possessions on that
coast, whose style and title was Guy, count of Ponthieu.
The law in those days was, that wrecks became the property of the lord of
the territory on the shores of which they occurred; and not only were the
ships and the goods which they contained thus confiscated in case of such a
disaster, but the owners themselves became liable to be seized and held
captive for a ransom. Harold, knowing his danger, was attempting to secrete
himself on the coast till he could get to Normandy, when a fisherman who saw
him, and knew by his dress and appearance, and by the deference with which he
was treated by the rest of the company, that he was a man of great
consequence in his native land, went to the count, and said that for ten
crowns he would show him where there was a man who would be worth a thousand
to him. The count came down with his retinue to the coast, seized the
unfortunate adventurers, took possession of all the goods and baggage that
the waves had spared, and shut the men themselves up in his castle at
Abbeville till they could pay their ransom.
Harold remonstrated against this treatment. He said that he was on his way
to Normandy on business of great importance with the duke, from the King of
England, and that he could not be detained. But the count was very decided in
refusing to let him go without his ransom. Harold then sent word to William,
acquainting him with his situation, and asking him to effect his release.
William sent to the count, demanding that he should give his prisoner up. All
these things, however, only tended to elevate and enlarge the count's ideas
of the value and importance of the prize which he had been so fortunate to
secure. He persisted in refusing to give him up without ransom. Finally
William paid the ransom, in the shape of a large sum of money, and the
cession, in addition, of a considerable territory. Harold and his companions
in bondage were then delivered to William's messengers, and conducted by them
in safety to Rouen, where William was then residing.
William received his distinguished guest with every possible mark of the
most honorable consideration. He was escorted with great parade and ceremony
into the palace, lodged in the most sumptuous manner, provided with every
necessary supply, and games, and military spectacles, and feasts and
entertainments without number, were arranged to celebrate his visit. William
informed him that he was at liberty to return to England whenever he pleased,
and that his brother and his nephew, the hostages that he had come to seek,
were at his disposal. He, however, urged him not to return immediately, but
to remain a short time in Normandy with his companions. Harold accepted the
invitation.
All this exuberance of hospitality had its origin, as the reader will
readily divine, in the duke's joy in finding the only important rival likely
to appear to contest his claims to the English crown so fully in his power,
and in the hope which he entertained of so managing affairs at this visit as
to divert Harold's mind from the idea of becoming the King of England
himself, and to induce him to pledge himself to act in his, that is,
William's favor. He took, therefore, all possible pains to make him enjoy his
visit in Normandy; he exhibited to him the wealth and the resources of the
country—conducting him from place to place to visit the castles, the
abbeys, and the towns—and, finally, he proposed that he should
accompany him on a military expedition into Brittany.
Harold, pleased with the honors conferred upon him, and with the novelty
and magnificence of the scenes to which he was introduced, entered heartily
into all these plans, and his companions and attendants were no less pleased
than he. William knighted many of these followers of Harold, and made them
costly presents of horses, and banners, and suits of armor, and other such
gifts as were calculated to captivate the hearts of martial adventurers such
as they. William soon gained an entire ascendency over their minds, and when
he invited them to accompany him on his expedition into Brittany, they were
all eager to go.
Brittany was west of Normandy, and on the frontiers of it, so that the
expedition was not a distant one. Nor was it long protracted. It was, in
fact, a sort of pleasure excursion, William taking his guest across the
frontier into his neighbor's territory, on a marauding party, just as a
nobleman, in modern times, would take a party into a forest to hunt. William
and Harold were on the most intimate and friendly terms possible during the
continuance of this campaign. They occupied the same tent, and ate at the
same table. Harold evinced great military talents and much bravery in the
various adventures which they met with in Brittany, and William felt more
than ever the desirableness of securing his influence on his, that is,
William's side, or, at least, of preventing his becoming an open rival and
enemy. On their return from Brittany into Normandy, he judged that the time
had arrived for taking his measures. He accordingly resolved to come to an
open understanding with Harold in respect to his plans, and to seek his
co-operation.
He introduced the subject, the historians say, one day as they were riding
along homeward from their excursion, and had been for some time talking
familiarly on the way, relating tales to one another of wars, battles,
sieges, and hair-breadth escapes, and other such adventures as formed,
generally, the subjects of narrative conversation in those days. At length
William, finding Harold, as he judged, in a favorable mood for such a
communication, introduced the subject of the English realm and the
approaching demise of the crown. He told him, confidentially, that there had
been an arrangement between him, William, and King Edward, for some time,
that Edward was to adopt him as his successor. William told Harold,
moreover, that he should rely a great deal on his co-operation and assistance
in getting peaceable possession of the kingdom, and promised to bestow upon
him the very highest rewards and honors in return if he would give him his
aid. The only rival claimant, William said, was the young child Edgar, and he
had no friends, no party, no military forces, and no means whatever for
maintaining his pretensions. On the other hand, he, William, and Harold, had
obviously all the power in their own hands, and if they could only co-operate
together on a common understanding, they would be sure to have the power and
the honors of the English realm entirely at their disposal.
Harold listened to all these suggestions, and pretended to be interested
and pleased. He was, in reality, interested, but he was not pleased. He
wished to secure the kingdom for himself, not merely to obtain a share,
however large, of its power and its honors as the subject of another. He was,
however, too wary to evince his displeasure. On the contrary, he assented to
the plan, professed to enter into it with all his heart, and expressed his
readiness to commence, immediately, the necessary preliminary measures for
carrying it into execution. William was much gratified with the successful
result of his negotiation, and the two chieftains rode home to William's
palace in Normandy, banded together, apparently, by very strong ties. In
secret, however, Harold was resolving to effect his departure from Normandy
as soon as possible, and to make immediate and most effectual measures for
securing the kingdom of England to himself, without any regard to the
promises that he had made to William.
Nor must it be supposed that William himself placed any positive reliance
on mere promises from Harold. He immediately began to form plans for binding
him to the performance of his stipulations, by the modes then commonly
employed for securing the fulfillment of covenants made among princes. These
methods were three—intermarriages, the giving of hostages, and solemn
oaths.
William proposed two marriages as means of strengthening the alliance
between himself and Harold. Harold was to give to William one of his
daughters, that William might marry her to one of his Norman chieftains. This
would be, of course, placing her in William's power, and making her a hostage
all but in name. Harold, however, consented. The second marriage proposed was
between William's daughter and Harold himself; but as his daughter was a
child of only seven years of age, it could only be a betrothment that could
take place at that time. Harold acceded to this proposal too, and
arrangements were made for having the faith of the parties pledged to one
another in the most solemn manner. A great assembly of all the knights,
nobles, and ladies of the court was convened, and the ceremony of pledging
the troth between the fierce warrior and the gentle and wondering child was
performed with as much pomp and parade as if it had been an actual wedding.
The name of the girl was Adela.
In respect to hostages, William determined to detain one of those whom
Harold, as will be recollected, had come into Normandy to recover. He told
him, therefore, that he might take with him his nephew Hacune, but that
Ulnoth, his brother, should remain, and William would bring him over himself
when he came to take possession of the kingdom. Harold was extremely
unwilling to leave his brother thus in William's power; but as he knew very
well that his being allowed to return to England himself would depend upon
his not evincing any reluctance to giving William security, or manifesting
any other indication that he was not intending to keep his plighted faith, he
readily consented, and it was thus settled that Ulnoth should remain.
Finally, in order to hold Harold to the fulfillment of his promises by
every possible form of obligation, William proposed that he should take a
public and solemn oath, in the presence of a large assembly of all the great
potentates and chieftains of the realm, by which he should bind himself,
under the most awful sanctions, to keep his word. Harold made no objection to
this either. He considered himself as, in fact, in duress, and his actions as
not free. He was in William's power, and was influenced in all he did by a
desire to escape from Normandy, and once more recover his liberty. He
accordingly decided, in his own mind, that whatever oaths he might take he
should afterward consider as forced upon him, and consequently as null and
void, and was ready, therefore, to take any that William might propose.
The great assembly was accordingly convened. In the middle of the council
hall there was placed a great chair of state, which was covered with a cloth
of gold. Upon this cloth, and raised considerably above the seat, was the
missal, that is, the book of service of the Catholic Church, written
on parchment and splendidly illuminated. The book was open at a passage from
one of the Evangelists—the Evangelists being a portion of the Holy
Scriptures which was, in those days, supposed to invest an oath with the most
solemn sanctions.
Harold felt some slight misgivings as he advanced in the midst of such an
imposing scene as the great assembly of knights and ladies presented in the
council hall, to repeat his promises in the very presence of God, and to
imprecate the retributive curses of the Almighty on the violation of them,
which he was deliberately and fully determined to incur. He had, however,
gone too far to retreat now. He advanced, therefore, to the open missal, laid
his hand upon the book, and, repeating the words which William dictated to
him from his throne, he took the threefold oath required, namely, to aid
William to the utmost of his power in his attempt to secure the succession to
the English crown, to marry William's daughter Adela as soon as she should
arrive at a suitable age, and to send over forthwith from England his own
daughter, that she might be espoused to one of William's nobles.
As soon as the oath was thus taken, William caused the missal and the
cloth of gold to be removed, and there appeared beneath it, on the chair of
state, a chest, containing the sacred relics of the Church, which William had
secretly collected from the abbeys and monasteries of his dominions, and
placed in this concealment, that, without Harold's being conscious of it,
their dreadful sanction might be added to that which the Holy Evangelists
imposed. These relics were fragments of bones set in caskets and frames, and
portions of blood—relics, as the monks alleged, of apostles or of the
Savior—and small pieces of wood, similarly preserved, which had been
portions of the cross of Christ or of his thorny crown. These things were
treasured up with great solemnity in the monastic establishments and in the
churches of these early times, and were regarded with a veneration and awe,
of which it is almost beyond our power even to conceive. Harold trembled when
he saw what he had unwittingly done. He was terrified to think how much more
dreadful was the force of the imprecations that he had uttered than he had
imagined while uttering them. But it was too late to undo what he had done.
The assembly was finally dismissed. William thought he had the conscience of
his new ally firmly secured, and Harold began to prepare for leaving
Normandy.
He continued on excellent terms with William until his departure. William
accompanied him to the sea-shore when the time of his embarkation arrived,
and dismissed him at last with many farewell honors, and a profusion of
presents. Harold set sail, and, crossing the Channel in safety, he landed in
England.
He commenced immediately an energetic system of measures to strengthen his
own cause, and prepare the way for his own accession. He organized his party,
collected arms and munitions of war, and did all that he could to ingratiate
himself with the most powerful and wealthy nobles. He sought the favor of the
king, too, and endeavored to persuade him to discard William. The king was
now old and infirm, and was growing more and more inert and gloomy as he
advanced in age. His mind was occupied altogether in ecclesiastical rites and
observances, or plunged in a torpid and lifeless melancholy, which made him
averse to giving any thought to the course which the affairs of his kingdom
were to take after he was gone. He did not care whether Harold or William
took the crown when he laid it aside, provided they would allow him to die in
peace.
He had had, a few years previous to this time, a plan of making a
pilgrimage to Jerusalem, but had finally made an arrangement with the pope,
allowing him to build a Cathedral church, to be dedicated to St. Peter, a few
miles west of London, in lieu of his pilgrimage. There was already a
Cathedral church or minster in the heart of London which was dedicated
to St. Paul. The new one was afterward often called, to distinguish it from
the other, the west minster, which designation, Westminster, became
afterward its regular name. It was on this spot, where Westminster Abbey now
stands, that Edward's church was to be built. It was just completed at the
time of which we are speaking, and the king was preparing for the dedication
of it. He summoned an assembly of all the prelates and great ecclesiastical
dignitaries of the land to convene at London, in order to dedicate the new
Cathedral. Before they were ready for the service, the king was taken
suddenly sick. They placed him upon his couch in his palace chamber, where he
lay, restless, and moaning in pain, and repeating incessantly, half in sleep
and half in delirium, the gloomy and threatening texts of Scripture which
seemed to haunt his mind. He was eager to have the dedication go on, and they
hastened the service in order to gratify him by having it performed before he
died. The next day he was obviously failing. Harold and his friends were very
earnest to have the departing monarch declare in his favor before he
died, and their coming and going, and their loud discussions, rude soldiers
as they were, disturbed his dying hours. He sent them word to choose whom
they would for king, duke or earl, it was indifferent to him, and thus
expired.
Harold had made his arrangements so well, and had managed so effectually
to secure the influence of all the powerful nobles of the kingdom, that they
immediately convened and offered him the crown. Edgar was in the court of
Edward at the time, but he was too young to make any effort to advance his
claims. He was, in fact, a foreigner, though in the English royal line. He
had been brought up on the Continent of Europe, and could not even speak the
English tongue. He acquiesced, therefore, without complaint, in these
proceedings, and was even present as a consenting spectator on the occasion
of Harold's coronation, which ceremony was performed with great pomp and
parade, at St. Paul's, in London, very soon after King Edward's death. Harold
rewarded Edgar for his complaisance and discretion by conferring upon him the
honor of knighthood immediately after the coronation, and in the church where
the ceremony was performed. He also conferred similar distinctions and honors
upon many other aspiring and ambitious men whom he wished to secure to his
side. He thus seemed to have secure and settled possession of the throne.
Previously to this time, Harold had married a young lady of England, a
sister of two very powerful noblemen, and the richest heiress in the realm.
This marriage greatly strengthened his influence in England, and helped to
prepare the way for his accession to the supreme power. The tidings of it,
however, when they crossed the Channel and reached the ears of William of
Normandy, as the act was an open and deliberate violation of one of the
covenants which Harold had made with William, convinced the latter that none
of these covenants would be kept, and prepared him to expect all that
afterward followed.
William Receiving Tostig's Tidings
When Tostig arrived at Rouen, William was in a park which lay in the
vicinity of the city, trying a new bow that had been recently made for him.
William was a man of prodigious muscular strength, and they gave him the
credit of being able to use easily a bow which nobody else could bend. A part
of this credit was doubtless due to the etiquette which, in royal palaces and
grounds, leads all sensible courtiers to take good care never to succeed in
attempts to excel the king. But, notwithstanding this consideration, there is
no doubt that the duke really merited a great portion of the commendation
that he received for his strength and dexterity in the use of the bow. It was
a weapon in which he took great interest. A new one had been made for him, of
great elasticity and strength, and he had gone out into his park, with his
officers, to try its powers, when Tostig arrived. Tostig followed him to the
place, and there advancing to his side, communicated the tidings to him
privately.
William was greatly moved by the intelligence. His arrow dropped upon the
ground. He gave the bow to an attendant. He stood for a time speechless,
tying and untying the cordon of his cloak in his abstraction. Presently he
began slowly to move away from the place, and to return toward the city. His
attendants followed him in silence, wondering what the exciting tidings could
be which had produced so sudden and powerful an effect.
William went into the castle hall, and walked to and fro a long time,
thoughtful, and evidently agitated. His attendants waited in silence, afraid
to speak to him. Rumors began at length to circulate among them in respect to
the nature of the intelligence which had been received. At length a great
officer of state, named Fitzosborne, arrived at the castle. As he passed
through the court-yard and gates, the attendants and the people, knowing that
he possessed in a great degree the confidence of his sovereign, asked him
what the tidings were that had made such an impression.﹃I know nothing
certain about it,﹄said he, "but I will soon learn." So saying, he advanced
toward William, and accosted him by saying, "Why should you conceal from us
your news? It is reported in the city that the King of England is dead, and
that Harold has violated his oaths to you, and has seized the kingdom. Is
that true?"
William acknowledged that that was the intelligence by which he had been
so vexed and chagrined. Fitzosborne urged the duke not to allow such events
to depress or dispirit him. "As for the death of Edward," said he, "that is
an event past and sure, and can not be recalled; but Harold's usurpation and
treachery admits of a very easy remedy. You have the right to the throne, and
you have the soldiers necessary to enforce that right. Undertake the
enterprise boldly. You will be sure to succeed."
William revolved the subject in his mind for a few days, during which the
exasperation and anger which the first receipt of the intelligence had
produced upon him was succeeded by calm but indignant deliberation, in
respect to the course which he should pursue. He concluded to call a great
council of state, and to lay the case before them—not for the purpose
of obtaining their advice, but to call their attention to the crisis in a
formal and solemn manner, and to prepare them to act in concert in the
subsequent measures to be pursued. The result of the deliberations of this
council, guided, doubtless, by William's own designs, was, that the first
step should be to send an embassy to Harold to demand of him the fulfillment
of his promises.
The messenger was accordingly dispatched. He proceeded to London, and laid
before Harold the communication with which he had been intrusted. This
communication recounted the three promises which Harold had made, namely, to
send his daughter to Normandy to be married to one of William's generals; to
marry William's daughter himself; and to maintain William's claims to the
English crown on the death of Edward. He was to remind Harold, also, of the
solemnity with which he had bound himself to fulfill these obligations, by
oaths taken in the presence of the most sacred relics of the Church, and in
the most public and deliberate manner.
Harold replied,
1. That as to sending over his daughter to be married to one of William's
generals, he could not do it, for his daughter was dead. He presumed, he
said, that William did not wish him to send the corpse.
2. In respect to marrying William's daughter, to whom he had been
affianced in Normandy, he was sorry to say that that was also out of his
power, as he could not take a foreign wife without the consent of his people,
which he was confident would never be given; besides, he was already married,
he said, to a Saxon lady of his own dominions.
3. In regard to the kingdom: it did not depend upon him, he said, to
decide who should rule over England as Edward's successor, but upon the will
of Edward himself, and upon the English people. The English barons and nobles
had decided, with Edward's concurrence, that he, Harold, was their legitimate
and proper sovereign, and that it was not for him to controvert their will.
However much he might be disposed to comply with William's wishes, and to
keep his promise, it was plain that it was out of his power, for in promising
him the English crown, he had promised what did not belong to him to
give.
4. As to his oaths, he said that, notwithstanding the secret presence of
the sacred relics under the cloth of gold, he considered them as of no
binding force upon his conscience, for he was constrained to take them as the
only means of escaping from the duress in which he was virtually held in
Normandy. Promises, and oaths even, when extorted by necessity, were null and
void.
The messenger returned to Normandy with these replies, and William
immediately began to prepare for war.
His first measure was to call a council of his most confidential friends
and advisers, and to lay the subject before them. They cordially approved of
the plan of an invasion of England, and promised to co-operate in the
accomplishment of it to the utmost of their power.
The next step was to call a general council of all the chieftains and
nobles of the land, and also the notables, as they were called, or
principal officers and municipal authorities of the towns. The main
point of interest for the consideration of this assembly was, whether the
country would submit to the necessary taxation for raising the necessary
funds. William had ample power, as duke, to decide upon the invasion and to
undertake it. He could also, without much difficulty, raise the necessary
number of men; for every baron in his realm was bound, by the feudal
conditions on which he held his land, to furnish his quota of men for any
military enterprise in which his sovereign might see fit to engage. But for
so distant and vast an undertaking as this, William needed a much larger
supply of funds than were usually required in the wars of those days.
For raising such large supplies, the political institutions of the Middle
Ages had not made any adequate provision. Governments then had no power of
taxation, like that so freely exercised in modern times; and even now, taxes
in France and England take the form of grants from the people to the
kings. And as to the contrivance, so exceedingly ingenious, by which
inexhaustible resources are opened to governments at the present
day—that is, the plan of borrowing the money, and leaving posterity to
pay or repudiate the debt, as they please, no minister of finance had, in
William's day, been brilliant enough to discover it. Thus each ruler had to
rely, then, mainly on the rents and income from his own lands, and other
private resources, for the comparatively small amount of money that he needed
in his brief campaigns. But now William perceived that ships must be built
and equipped, and great stores of provisions accumulated, and arms and
munitions of war provided, all which would require a considerable outlay; and
how was this money to be obtained?
The general assembly which he convened were greatly distracted by the
discussion of the question. The quiet and peaceful citizens who inhabited the
towns, the artisans and tradesmen, who wished for nothing but to be allowed
to go on in their industrial pursuits in peace, were opposed to the whole
project. They thought it unreasonable and absurd that they should be required
to contribute from their earnings to enable their lord and master to go off
on so distant and desperate an undertaking, from which, even if successful,
they could derive no benefit whatever. Many of the barons, too, were opposed
to the scheme. They thought it very likely to end in disaster and defeat; and
they denied that their feudal obligation to furnish men for their sovereign's
wars was binding to the extent of requiring them to go out of the country,
and beyond the sea, to prosecute his claims to the throne of another
kingdom.
Others, on the other hand, among the members of William's assembly, were
strongly disposed to favor the plan. They were more ardent or more courageous
than the rest, or perhaps their position and circumstances were such that
they had more to hope from the success of the enterprise than they, or less
to fear from its failure. Thus there was great diversity of opinion; and as
the parliamentary system of rules, by which a body of turbulent men, in
modern times, are kept in some semblance of organization and order during a
debate, had not then been developed, the meeting of these Norman deliberators
was, for a time, a scene of uproar and confusion. The members gathered in
groups, each speaker getting around him as many as he could obtain to listen
to his harangue; the more quiet and passive portion of the assembly moving to
and fro, from group to group, as they were attracted by the earnestness and
eloquence of the different speakers, or by their approval of the sentiments
which they heard them expressing. The scene, in fact, was like that presented
in exciting times by a political caucus in America, before it is called to
order by the chairman.
Fitzosborne, the confidential friend and counselor, who has already been
mentioned as the one who ventured to accost the duke at the time when the
tidings of Edward's death and of Harold's accession first reached him, now
seeing that any thing like definite and harmonious action on the part of this
tumultuous assembly was out of the question, went to the duke, and proposed
to him to give up the assembly as such, and make the best terms and
arrangements that he could with the constituent elements of it, individually
and severally. He would himself, he said, furnish forty ships, manned,
equipped, and provisioned; and he recommended to the duke to call each of the
others into his presence, and ask them what they were individually willing to
do. The duke adopted this plan, and it was wonderfully successful. Those who
were first invited made large offers, and their offers were immediately
registered in form by the proper officers. Each one who followed was emulous
of the example of those who had preceded him, and desirous of evincing as
much zeal and generosity as they. Then, besides, the duke received these
vassals with so much condescension and urbanity, and treated them with so
much consideration and respect, as greatly to flatter their vanity, and raise
them in their own estimation, by exalting their ideas of the importance of
the services which they could render in carrying so vast an enterprise to a
successful result. In a word, the tide turned like a flood in favor of
granting liberal supplies. The nobles and knights promised freely men, money,
ships, arms, provisions—every thing, in short, that was required; and
when the work of receiving and registering the offers was completed, and the
officers summed up the aggregate amount, William found, to his extreme
satisfaction, that his wants were abundantly supplied.
There was another very important point, which William adopted immediate
measures to secure, and that was obtaining the Pope's approval of his
intended expedition. The moral influence of having the Roman pontiff on his
side, would, he knew, be of incalculable advantage to him. He sent an
embassage, accordingly, to Rome, to lay the whole subject before his
holiness, and to pray that the pope would declare that he was justly entitled
to the English crown, and authorize him to proceed and take possession of it
by force of arms. Lanfranc was the messenger whom he employed—the same
Lanfranc who had been so successful, some years before, in the negotiations
at Rome connected with the confirmation of William and Matilda's
marriage.
Lanfranc was equally successful now. The pope, after examining William's
claims, pronounced them valid. He decided that William was entitled to the
rank and honors of King of England. He caused a formal diploma to be made out
to this effect. The diploma was elegantly executed, signed with the cross,
according to the pontifical custom, and sealed with a round leaden
seal.[10]
[Footnote 10: The Latin name for such a seal was
bulla. It is on account of this sort of seal, which is customarily
affixed to them, that papal edicts have received the name of
bulls.]
It was, in fact, very natural that the Roman authorities should take a
favorable view of William's enterprise, and feel an interest in its success,
as it was undoubtedly for the interest of the Church that William, rather
than Harold, should reign over England, as the accession of William would
bring the English realm far more fully under the influence of the Roman
Church. William had always been very submissive to the pontifical authority,
as was shown in his conduct in respect to the question of his marriage. He
himself, and also Matilda his wife, had always taken a warm interest in the
welfare and prosperity of the abbeys, the monasteries, the churches, and the
other religious establishments of the times. Then the very circumstance that
he sent his embassador to Rome to submit his claims to the pontiff's
adjudication, while Harold did not do so, indicated a greater deference for
the authority of the Church, and made it probable that he would be a far more
obedient and submissive son of the Church, in his manner of ruling his realm,
if he should succeed in gaining possession of it, than Harold his rival. The
pope and his counselors at Rome thought it proper to take all these things
into the account in deciding between William and Harold, as they honestly
believed, without doubt, that it was their first and highest duty to exalt
and aggrandize, by every possible means, the spiritual authority of the
sacred institution over which they were called to preside.
The pope and his cardinals, accordingly, espoused William's cause very
warmly. In addition to the diploma which gave William formal authority to
take possession of the English crown, the pope sent him a banner and a ring.
The banner was of costly and elegant workmanship; its value, however, did not
consist in its elegance or its cost, but in a solemn benediction which his
holiness pronounced over it, by which it was rendered sacred and inviolable.
The banner, thus blessed, was forwarded to William by Lanfranc with great
care.
It was accompanied by the ring. The ring was of gold, and it contained a
diamond of great value. The gold and the diamond both, however, served only
as settings to preserve and honor something of far greater value than they.
This choice treasure was a hair from the head of the Apostle Peter! a sacred
relic of miraculous virtue and of inestimable value.
When the edict with its leaden seal, and the banner and the ring arrived
in Normandy, they produced a great and universal excitement. To have bestowed
upon the enterprise thus emphatically the solemn sanction of the great
spiritual head of the Church, to whom the great mass of the people looked up
with an awe and a reverence almost divine, was to seal indissolubly the
rightfulness of the enterprise, and to insure its success. There was
thenceforward no difficulty in procuring men or means. Every body was eager
to share in the glory, and to obtain the rewards, of an enterprise thus
commended by an authority duly commissioned to express, in all such cases,
the judgment of Heaven.
Finding that the current was thus fairly setting in his favor, William
sent proclamations into all the countries surrounding Normandy, inviting
knights, and soldiers, and adventurers of every degree to join him in his
projected enterprise. These proclamations awakened universal attention. Great
numbers of adventurous men determined to enter William's service. Horses,
arms, and accoutrements were everywhere in great demand. The invasion of
England and the question of joining it were the universal topics of
conversation. The roads were covered with knights and soldiers, some on
horseback and alone, others in bands, large or small, all proceeding to
Normandy to tender their services. William received them all, and made
liberal promises to bestow rewards and honors upon them in England, in the
event of his success. To some he offered pay in money; to others, booty; to
others, office and power. Every one had his price. Even the priests and
dignitaries of the Church shared the general enthusiasm. One of them
furnished a ship and twenty armed men, under an agreement to be appointed
bishop of a certain valuable English diocese when William should be
established on his throne.
While all these movements were going on in the interior of the country,
all the sea-ports and towns along the coast of Normandy presented a very busy
scene of naval preparation. Naval architects were employed in great numbers
in building and fitting out vessels. Some were constructed and furnished for
the transportation of men, others for conveying provisions and munitions of
war; and lighters and boats were built for ascending the rivers, and for
aiding in landing troops upon shelving shores. Smiths and armorers were
occupied incessantly in manufacturing spears, and swords, and coats of mail;
while vast numbers of laboring men and beasts of burden were employed in
conveying arms and materials to and from the manufactories to the ships, and
from one point of embarkation to another.
As soon as William had put all these busy agencies thus in successful
operation, he considered that there was one more point which it was necessary
for him to secure before finally embarking, and that was the co-operation and
aid of the French king, whose name at this time was Philip. In his character
of Duke of Normandy the King of France was his liege lord, and he was bound
to act, in some degree, under an acknowledgment of his superior authority. In
his new capacity, that is, as King of England, or, rather, as heir to the
English kingdom, he was, of course, wholly independent of Philip, and,
consequently, not bound by any feudal obligation to look to him at all. He
thought it most prudent, however, to attempt, at least, to conciliate
Philip's favor, and, accordingly, leaving his officers and his workmen to go
on with the work of organizing his army and of building and equipping the
fleet, he set off, himself, on an expedition to the court of the French king.
He thought it safer to undertake this delicate mission himself, rather than
to intrust it to an embassador or deputy.
He found Philip at his palace of St. Germain's, which was situated at a
short distance from Paris. The duke assumed, in his interview with the king,
a very respectful and deferential air and manner. Philip was a very young
man, though haughty and vain. William was very much his superior, not only in
age and experience, but in talents and character, and in personal renown.
Still, he approached the monarch with all the respectful observance due from
a vassal to his sovereign, made known his plans, and asked for Philip's
approbation and aid. He was willing, he said, in case that aid was afforded
him, to hold his kingdom of England, as he had done the duchy of Normandy, as
a dependency of the French crown.
Philip seemed not at all disposed to look upon the project with favor. He
asked William who was going to take care of his duchy while he was running
off after a kingdom. William replied, at first, that that was a subject which
he did not think his neighbors need concern themselves about. Then thinking,
on reflection, that a more respectful answer would be more politic, under the
circumstances of the case, he added, that he was providentially blessed with
a prudent wife and loving subjects, and that he thought he might safely leave
his domestic affairs in their hands until he should return. Philip still
opposed the plan. It was Quixotic, he said, and dangerous. He strongly
advised William to abandon the scheme, and be content with his present
possessions. Such desperate schemes of ambition as those he was contemplating
would only involve him in ruin.
Before absolutely deciding the case, however, Philip called a council of
his great nobles and officers of state, and laid William's proposals before
them. The result of their deliberations was to confirm Philip in his first
decision. They said that the rendering to William the aid which he desired
would involve great expense, and be attended with great danger; and as to
William's promises to hold England as a vassal of the King of France, they
had no faith in the performance of them. It had been very difficult, they
said, for many years, for the kings of France to maintain any effectual
authority over the dukes of Normandy, and when once master of so distant and
powerful a realm as England, all control over them would be sundered
forever.
Philip then gave William his final answer in accordance with these
counsels. The answer was received, on William's part, with strong feelings of
disappointment and displeasure. Philip conducted the duke to his retinue when
the hour of departure arrived, in order to soothe, as far as possible, his
irritated feelings, by dismissing him from his court with marks of his
honorable consideration and regard. William, however, was not in a mood to be
pleased. He told Philip, on taking leave of him, that he was losing the most
powerful vassal that any lord sovereign ever had, by the course which he had
decided to pursue. "I would have held the whole realm of England as a part of
your dominions, acknowledging you as sovereign over all, if you had consented
to render me your aid, but I will not do it since you refuse. I shall feel
bound to repay only those who assist me."
William returned to Normandy, where all the preparations for the
expedition had been going on with great vigor during his absence, and
proceeded to make arrangements for the last great measure which it was
necessary to take previous to his departure; that was, the regular
constitution of a government to rule in Normandy while he should be gone. He
determined to leave the supreme power in the hands of his wife Matilda,
appointing, at the same time, a number of civil and military officers as a
council of regency, who were to assist her in her deliberations by giving her
information and advice, and to manage, under her direction, the different
departments of the government. Her title was "Duchess Regent," and she was
installed into her office in a public and solemn manner, at a great assembly
of the estates of the realm. At the close of the ceremonies, after William
had given Matilda his charge, he closed his address by adding, "And do not
let us fail to enjoy the benefit of your prayers, and those of all the ladies
of your court, that the blessing of God may attend us, and secure the success
of our expedition."
We are not necessarily to suppose, as we might at first be strongly
inclined to do, that there was any special hypocrisy and pretense in
William's thus professing to rely on the protection of Heaven in the personal
and political dangers which he was about to incur. It is probable that he
honestly believed that the inheritance of the English crown was his right,
and, that being the case, that a vigorous and manly effort to enforce his
right was a solemn duty. In the present age of the world, now that there are
so many countries in which intelligence, industry, and love of order are so
extensively diffused that the mass of the community are capable of organizing
and administering a government themselves, republicans are apt to look upon
hereditary sovereigns as despots, ruling only for the purpose of promoting
their own aggrandizement, and the ends of an unholy and selfish ambition.
That there have been a great many such despots no one can deny; but then, on
the other hand, there have been many others who have acted, in a greater or
less degree, under the influence of principles of duty in their political
career. They have honestly believed that the vast power with which, in coming
forward into life, they have found themselves invested, without, in most
cases, any agency of their own, was a trust imposed upon them by divine
Providence, which could not innocently be laid aside; that on them devolved
the protection of the communities over which they ruled from external
hostility, and the preservation of peace and order within, and the promotion
of the general industry and welfare, as an imperious and solemn duty; and
they have devoted their lives to the performance of this duty, with the usual
mixture, it is true, of ambition and selfishness, but still, after all, with
as much conscientiousness and honesty as the mass of men in the humbler walks
of life evince in performing theirs. William of Normandy appears to have been
one of this latter class; and in obeying the dictates of his ambition in
seeking to gain possession of the English crown, he no doubt considered
himself as fulfilling the obligations of duty too.
However this may be, he went on with his preparations in the most vigorous
and prosperous manner. The whole country were enthusiastic in the cause; and
their belief that the enterprise about to be undertaken had unquestionably
secured the favor of Heaven, was confirmed by an extraordinary phenomenon
which occurred just before the armament was ready to set sail. A comet
appeared in the sky, which, as close observers declared, had a double tail.
It was universally agreed that this portended that England and Normandy were
about to be combined, and to form a double kingdom, which should exhibit to
all mankind a wonderful spectacle of splendor.
Map of Normandy
The gathering of the fleet in the estuary of the Dive, and the assembling
of the troops on the beach along its shores, formed a very grand and imposing
spectacle. The fleets of galleys, ships, boats, and barges covering the
surface of the water—the long lines of tents under the cliffs on the
land—the horsemen, splendidly mounted, and glittering with
steel—the groups of soldiers, all busily engaged in transporting
provisions and stores to and fro, or making the preliminary arrangements for
the embarkation—the thousands of spectators who came and went
incessantly, and the duke himself, gorgeously dressed, and mounted on his
war-horse, with the guards and officers that attended him—these, and
the various other elements of martial parade and display usually witnessed on
such occasions, conspired to produce a very gay and brilliant, as well as
magnificent scene.
Of course, the assembling of so large a force of men and of vessels, and
the various preparations for the embarkation, consumed some time, and when at
length all was ready—which was early in September—the equinoctial
gales came on, and it was found impossible to leave the port. There was, in
fact, a continuance of heavy winds and seas, and stormy skies, for several
weeks. Short intervals, from time to time, occurred, when the clouds would
break away, and the sun appear; but these intervals did not liberate the
fleet from its confinement, for they were not long enough in duration to
allow the sea to go down. The surf continued to come rolling and thundering
in upon the shore, and over the sand-bars at the mouth of the river, making
destruction the almost inevitable destiny of any ship which should undertake
to brave its fury. The state of the skies gradually robbed the scene of the
gay and brilliant colors which first it wore. The vessels furled their sails,
and drew in their banners, and rode at anchor, presenting their heads
doggedly to the storm. The men on the shore sought shelter in their tents.
The spectators retired to their homes, while the duke and his officers
watched the scudding clouds in the sky, day after day, with great and
increasing anxiety.
In fact, William had very serious cause for apprehension in respect to the
effect which this long-continued storm was to have on the success of his
enterprise. The delay was a very serious consideration in itself, for the
winter would soon be drawing near. In one month more it would seem to be out
of the question for such a vast armament to cross the Channel at all. Then,
when men are embarking in such dark and hazardous undertakings as that in
which William was now engaged, their spirits and their energy rise and sink
in great fluctuations, under the influence of very slight and inadequate
causes; and nothing has greater influence over them at such times than the
aspect of the skies. William found that the ardor and enthusiasm of his army
were fast disappearing under the effects of chilling winds and driving rain.
The feelings of discontent and depression which the frowning expression of
the heavens awakened in their minds, were deepened and spread by the
influence of sympathy. The men had nothing to do, during the long and dreary
hours of the day, but to anticipate hardships and dangers, and to entertain
one another, as they watched the clouds driving along the cliffs, and the
rolling of the surges in the offing, with anticipations of shipwrecks,
battles, and defeats, and all the other gloomy forebodings which haunt the
imagination of a discouraged and discontented soldier.
Nor were these ideas of wrecks and destruction wholly imaginary. Although
the body of the fleet remained in the river, where it was sheltered from the
winds, yet there were many cases of single ships that were from time to time
exposed to them. These were detached vessels coming in late to the
rendezvous, or small squadrons sent out to some neighboring port under some
necessity connected with the preparations, or strong galleys, whose
commanders, more bold than the rest, were willing, in cases not of
absolute necessity, to brave the danger. Many of these vessels were wrecked.
The fragments of them, with the bodies of the drowned mariners, were driven
to the shore. The ghastly spectacles presented by these dead bodies, swollen
and mangled, and half buried in the sand, as if the sea had been endeavoring
to hide the mischief it had done, shocked and terrified the spectators who
saw them. William gave orders to have all these bodies gathered up and
interred secretly, as fast as they were found; still, exaggerated rumors of
the number and magnitude of these disasters were circulated in the camp, and
the discontent and apprehensions grew every day more and more alarming.
William resolved that he must put to sea at the very first possible
opportunity. The favorable occasion was not long wanting. The wind changed.
The storm appeared to cease. A breeze sprang up from the south, which headed
back the surges from the French shore. William gave orders to embark. The
tents were struck. The baggage of the soldiers was sent on board the
transport vessels. The men themselves, crowded into great flat-bottomed
boats, passed in masses to the ships from the shore. The spectators
reappeared, and covered the cliffs and promontories near, to witness the
final scene. The sails were hoisted, and the vast armament moved out upon the
sea.
The appearance of a favorable change in the weather proved fallacious
after all, for the clouds and storm returned, and after being driven, in
apprehension and danger, about a hundred miles to the northeast along the
coast, the fleet was compelled to seek refuge again in a harbor. The port
which received them was St. Valery, near Dieppe. The duke was greatly
disappointed at being obliged thus again to take the land. Still, the attempt
to advance had not been a labor wholly lost; for as the French coast here
trends to the northward, they had been gradually narrowing the channel as
they proceeded, and were, in fact, so far on the way toward the English
shores. Then there were, besides, some reasons for touching here, before the
final departure, to receive some last re-enforcements and supplies. William
had also one more opportunity of communicating with his capital and with
Matilda.
These delays, disastrous as they seemed to be, and ominous of evil, were
nevertheless attended with one good effect, of which, however, William at the
time was not aware. They led Harold, in England, to imagine that the
enterprise was abandoned, and so put him off his guard. There were in those
days, as has already been remarked, no regular and public modes of
intercommunication, by which intelligence of important movements and events
was spread every where, as now, with promptness and certainty. Governments
were obliged, accordingly, to rely for information, in respect to what their
enemies were doing, on rumors, or on the reports of spies. Rumors had gone to
England in August that William was meditating an invasion, and Harold had
made some extensive preparations to meet and oppose him; but, finding that he
did not come—that week after week of September passed away, and no
signs of an enemy appeared, and gaining no certain information of the causes
of the delay, he concluded that the enterprise was abandoned, or else,
perhaps, postponed to the ensuing spring. Accordingly, as the winter was
coming on, he deemed it best to commence his preparations for sending his
troops to their winter quarters. He disbanded some of them, and sent others
away, distributing them in various castles and fortified towns, where they
would be sheltered from the rigors of the season, and saved from the exposure
and hardships of the camp, and yet, at the same time, remain within reach of
a summons in case of any sudden emergency which might call for them. They
were soon summoned, though not, in the first instance, to meet Harold, as
will presently appear.
While adopting these measures, however, which he thought the comfort and
safety of his army required, Harold did not relax his vigilance in watching,
as well as he could, the designs and movements of his enemy. He kept his
secret agents on the southern coast, ordering them to observe closely every
thing that transpired, and to gather and send to him every item of
intelligence which should find its way by any means across the Channel. Of
course, William would do all in his power to intercept and cut off all
communication, and he was, at this time, very much aided in these efforts by
the prevalence of the storms, which made it almost impossible for the fishing
and trading vessels of the coast to venture out to sea, or attempt to cross
the Channel. The agents of Harold, therefore, on the southern coast of
England, found that they could obtain but very little information.
At length the king, unwilling to remain any longer so entirely in the
dark, resolved on sending some messengers across the sea into Normandy
itself, to learn positively what the true state of the case might be.
Messengers going thus secretly into the enemy's territory, or into the
enemy's camp, become, by so doing, in martial law, spies, and incur,
if they are taken, the penalty of death. The undertaking, therefore, is
extremely hazardous; and as the death which is inflicted in cases of
detection is an ignominious one—spies being hung, not shot—most
men are very averse to encountering the danger. Still, desperate characters
are always to be found in camps and armies, who are ready to undertake it on
being promised very extraordinary pay.
Harold's spies contrived to make their way across the Channel, probably at
some point far to the east of Normandy, where the passage is narrow. They
then came along the shore, disguised as peasants of the country, and they
arrived at St. Valery while William's fleets were there. Here they began to
make their observations, scrutinizing every thing with close attention and
care, and yet studiously endeavoring to conceal their interest in what they
saw. Notwithstanding all their vigilance, however, they were discovered,
proved to be spies, and taken before William to receive their sentence.
Instead of condemning them to death, which they undoubtedly supposed would
be their inevitable fate, William ordered them to be set at liberty.﹃Go
back,﹄said he, "to King Harold, and tell him he might have saved himself the
expense of sending spies into Normandy to learn what I am preparing for him.
He will soon know by other means—much sooner, in fact, than he
imagines. Go and tell him from me that he may put himself, if he pleases, in
the safest place he can find in all his dominions, and if he does not find my
hand upon him before the year is out, he never need fear me again as long as
he lives."
Nor was this expression of confidence in the success of the measures which
he was taking a mere empty boast. William knew the power of Harold, and he
knew his own. The enterprise in which he had embarked was not a rash
adventure. It was a cool, deliberate, well-considered plan. It appeared
doubtful and dangerous in the eyes of mankind, for to mere superficial
observers it seemed simply an aggressive war waged by a duke of Normandy, the
ruler of a comparatively small and insignificant province, against a king of
England, the monarch of one of the greatest and most powerful realms in the
world. William, on the other hand, regarded it as an effort on the part of
the rightful heir to a throne to dispossess a usurper. He felt confident of
having the sympathy and co-operation of a great part of the community, even
in England, the moment he could show them that he was able to maintain his
rights; and that he could show them that, by a very decisive demonstration,
was evident, visibly, before him, in the vast fleet which was riding at
anchor in the harbor, and in the long lines of tents, filled with soldiery,
which covered the land.
On one occasion, when some of his officers were expressing apprehensions
of Harold's power, and their fears in respect to their being able
successfully to cope with it, William replied, that the more formidable
Harold's power should prove to be, the better he should be pleased, as the
glory would be all the greater for them in having overcome it.﹃I have no
objection,﹄said he, "that you should entertain exalted ideas of his
strength, though I wonder a little that you do not better appreciate our own.
I need be under no concern lest he, at such a distance, should learn too
much, by his spies, about the force which I am bringing against him, when
you, who are so near me, seem to know so little about it. But do not give
yourselves any concern. Trust to the justice of your cause and to my
foresight. Perform your parts like men, and you will find that the result
which I feel sure of, and you hope for, will certainly be attained."
The storm at length entirely cleared away, and the army and the fleet
commenced their preparations for the final departure. In the midst of this
closing scene, the attention of all the vast crowds assembled on board the
ships and on the shores was one morning attracted by a beautiful ship which
came sailing into the harbor. It proved to be a large and splendid vessel
which the Duchess Matilda had built, at her own expense, and was now bringing
in, to offer to her husband as her parting gift. She was herself on board,
with her officers and attendants, having come to witness her husband's
departure, and to bid him farewell. Her arrival, of course, under such
circumstances, produced universal excitement and enthusiasm. The ships in
harbor and the shores resounded with acclamations as the new arrival came
gallantly in.
Matilda's vessel was finely built and splendidly decorated. The sails were
of different colors, which gave it a very gay appearance. Upon them were
painted, in various places, the three lions, which was the device of the
Norman ensign. At the bows of the ship was an effigy, or figure-head,
representing William and Matilda's second son shooting with a bow. This was
the accomplishment which, of all others, his father took most interest in
seeing his little son acquire. The arrow was drawn nearly to its head,
indicating great strength in the little arms which were guiding it, and it
was just ready to fly. The name of this vessel was the Mira. William made it
his flag ship. He hoisted upon its mast head the consecrated banner which had
been sent to him from Rome, and went on board accompanied by his officers and
guards, and with great ceremony and parade.
At length the squadron was ready to put to sea. At a given signal the
sails were hoisted, and the whole fleet began to move slowly out of the
harbor. There were four hundred ships of large size, if we may believe the
chronicles of the times, and more than a thousand transports. The decks of
all these vessels were covered with men; banners were streaming from every
mast and spar; and every salient point of the shore was crowded with
spectators. The sea was calm, the air serene, and the mighty cloud of canvas
which whitened the surface of the water moved slowly on over the gentle swell
of the waves, forming a spectacle which, as a picture merely for the eye, was
magnificent and grand, and, when regarded in connection with the vast results
to the human race which were to flow from the success of the enterprise, must
have been considered sublime.
The splendidly decorated ship which Matilda had presented to her husband
proved itself, on trial, to be something more than a mere toy. It led the van
at the commencement, of course; and as all eyes watched its progress, it soon
became evident that it was slowly gaining upon the rest of the squadron, so
as continually to increase its distance from those that were following it.
William, pleased with the success of its performance, ordered the sailing
master to keep on, without regard to those who were behind; and thus it
happened that, when night came on, the fleet was at very considerable
distance in rear of the flag ship. Of course, under these circumstances, the
fleet disappeared from sight when the sun went down, but all expected that it
would come into view again in the morning. When the morning came, however, to
the surprise and disappointment of every one on board the flag ship, no signs
of the fleet were to be seen. The seamen, and the officers on the deck, gazed
long and intently into the southern horizon as the increasing light of the
morning brought it gradually into view, but there was not a speck to break
its smooth and even line.
They felt anxious and uneasy, but William seemed to experience no concern.
He ordered the sails to be furled, and then sent a man to the mast head to
look out there. Nothing was to be seen. William, still apparently
unconcerned, ordered breakfast to be prepared in a very sumptuous manner,
loading the tables with wine and other delicacies, that the minds of all on
board might be cheered by the exhilarating influence of a feast. At length
the lookout was sent to the mast head again. "What do you see now?" said
William. "I see," said the man, gazing very intently all the while toward the
south, "four very small specks just in the horizon." The intense
interest which this announcement awakened on the deck was soon at the same
time heightened and relieved by the cry, "I can see more and
more—they are the ships—yes, the whole squadron is coming into
view."
The advancing fleet soon came up with the Mira, when the latter spread her
sails again, and all moved slowly on together toward the coast of
England.
The ships had directed their course so much to the eastward, that when
they made the land they were not very far from the Straits of Dover. As they
drew near to the English shore, they watched very narrowly for the appearance
of Harold's cruisers, which they naturally expected would have been stationed
at various points, to guard the coast; but none were to be seen. There had
been such cruisers, and there still were such off the other harbors; but it
happened, very fortunately for William, that those which had been stationed
to guard this part of the island had been withdrawn a few days before, on
account of their provisions being exhausted. Thus, when William's fleet
arrived, there was no enemy to oppose their landing. There was a large and
open bay, called the Bay of Pevensey, which lay smiling before them,
extending its arms as if inviting them in. The fleet advanced to within the
proper distance from the land, and there the seamen cast their anchors, and
all began to prepare for the work of disembarkation.
A strong body of soldiery is of course landed first on such occasions. In
this instance the archers, William's favorite corps, were selected to take
the lead. William accompanied them. In his eagerness to get to the shore, as
he leaped from the boat, his foot slipped, and he fell. The officers and men
around him would have considered this an evil omen; but he had presence of
mind enough to extend his arms and grasp the ground, pretending that his
prostration was designed, and saying at the same time,﹃Thus I seize this
land; from this moment it is mine.﹄As he arose, one of his officers ran to a
neighboring hut which stood near by upon the shore, and breaking off a little
of the thatch, carried it to William, and, putting it into his hand, said
that he thus gave him seizin of his new possessions. This was a
customary form, in those times, of putting a new owner into possession of
lands which he had purchased or acquired in any other way. The new proprietor
would repair to the ground, where the party whose province it was to deliver
the property would detach something from it, such as a piece of turf from a
bank, or a little of the thatch from a cottage, and offering it to him, would
say, "Thus I deliver thee seizin," that is, possession,﹃of
this land.﹄This ceremony was necessary to complete the conveyance of the
estate.
The soldiers, as soon as they were landed, began immediately to form an
encampment, and to make such military arrangements as were necessary to guard
against an attack, or the sudden appearance of an enemy. While this was going
on, the boats continued to pass to and fro, accomplishing, as fast as
possible, the work of disembarkation. In addition to those regularly attached
to the army, there was a vast company of workmen of all kinds, engineers,
pioneers, carpenters, masons, and laborers, to be landed; and there were
three towers, or rather forts, built of timber, which had been framed and
fashioned in Normandy, ready to be put up on arriving: these had now to be
landed, piece by piece, on the strand. These forts were to be erected as soon
as the army should have chosen a position for a permanent encampment, and
were intended as a means of protection for the provisions and stores. The
circumstance shows that the plan of transporting buildings ready made, across
the seas, has not been invented anew by our emigrants to California.
While these operations were going on, William dispatched small squadrons
of horse as reconnoitering parties, to explore the country around, to see if
there were any indications that Harold was near. These parties returned, one
after another, after having gone some miles into the country in all
directions, and reported that there were no signs of an enemy to be seen.
Things were now getting settled, too, in the camp, and William gave
directions that the army should kindle their camp fires for the night, and
prepare and eat their suppers. His own supper, or dinner, as perhaps it might
be called, was also served, which he partook, with his officers, in his own
tent. His mind was in a state of great contentment and satisfaction at the
successful accomplishment of the landing, and at finding himself thus safely
established, at the head of a vast force, within the realm of England.
Every circumstance of the transit had been favorable excepting one, and
that was, that two of the ships belonging to the fleet were missing. William
inquired at supper if any tidings of them had been received. They told him,
in reply, that the missing vessels had been heard from; they had, in some way
or other, been run upon the rocks and lost. There was a certain astrologer,
who had made a great parade, before the expedition left Normandy, of
predicting its result. He had found, by consulting the stars, that William
would be successful, and would meet with no opposition from Harold. This
astrologer had been on board one of the missing ships, and was drowned.
William remarked, on receiving this information, "What an idiot a man must
be, to think that he can predict, by means of the stars, the future fate of
others, when it is so plain that he can not foresee his own!"
It is said that William's dinner on this occasion was served on a large
stone instead of a table. The stone still remains on the spot, and is called
"the Conqueror's Stone" to this day.
The next day after the landing, the army was put in motion, and advanced
along the coast toward the eastward. There was no armed enemy to contend
against them there or to oppose their march; the people of the country,
through which the army moved, far from attempting to resist them, were filled
with terror and dismay. This terror was heightened, in fact, by some excesses
of which some parties of the soldiers were guilty. The inhabitants of the
hamlets and villages, overwhelmed with consternation at the sudden descent
upon their shores of such a vast horde of wild and desperate foreigners, fled
in all directions. Some made their escape into the interior; others, taking
with them the helpless members of their households, and such valuables as
they could carry, sought refuge in monasteries and churches, supposing that
such sanctuaries as those, not even soldiers, unless they were pagans, would
dare to violate. Others, still, attempted to conceal themselves in thickets
and fens till the vast throng which was sweeping onward like a tornado should
have passed. Though William afterward always evinced a decided disposition to
protect the peaceful inhabitants of the country from all aggressions on the
part of his troops, he had no time to attend to that subject now. He was
intent on pressing forward to a place of safety.
William reached at length a position which seemed to him suitable for a
permanent encampment. It was an elevated land, near the sea. To the westward
of it was a valley formed by a sort of recess opened in the range of chalky
cliffs which here form the shore of England. In the bottom of this valley,
down upon the beach, was a small town, then of no great consequence or power,
but whose name, which was Hastings, has since been immortalized by the battle
which was fought in its vicinity a few days after William's arrival. The
position which William selected for his encampment was on high land in the
vicinity of the town. The lines of the encampment were marked out, and the
forts or castles which had been brought from Normandy were set up within the
inclosures. Vast multitudes of laborers were soon at work, throwing up
embankments, and building redoubts and bastions, while others were
transporting the arms, the provisions, and the munitions of war, and storing
them in security within the lines. The encampment was soon completed, and the
long line of tents were set up in streets and squares within it. By the time,
however, that the work was done, some of William's agents and spies came into
camp from the north, saying that in four days Harold would be upon him at the
head of a hundred thousand men.
The Norwegians at Scarborough
They reached, at length, the town of Scarborough, and landed to attack it.
The inhabitants retired within the walls, shut the gates, and bid the
invaders defiance. The town was situated under a hill, which rose in a steep
acclivity upon one side. The story is, that the Norwegians went upon this
hill, where they piled up an enormous heap of trunks and branches of trees,
with the interstices filled with stubble, dried bark, and roots, and other
such combustibles, and then setting the whole mass on fire, they rolled it
down into the town—a vast ball of fire, roaring and crackling more and
more, by the fanning of its flames in the wind, as it bounded along. The
intelligent reader will, of course, pause and hesitate, in considering how
far to credit such a story. It is obviously impossible that any mere
pile, however closely packed, could be made to roll. But it is,
perhaps, not absolutely impossible that trunks of trees might be framed
together, or fastened with wet thongs or iron chains, after being made in the
form of a rude cylinder or ball, and filled with combustibles within, so as
to retain its integrity in such a descent.
The account states that this strange method of bombardment was successful.
The town was set on fire; the people surrendered. Tostig and the Norwegians
plundered it, and then, embarking again in their ships, they continued their
voyage.
The intelligence of this descent upon his northern coasts reached Harold
in London toward the close of September, just as he was withdrawing his
forces from the southern frontier, as was related in the last chapter, under
the idea that the Norman invasion would probably be postponed until the
spring; so that, instead of sending his troops into their winter quarters, he
had to concentrate them again with all dispatch, and march at the head of
them to the north, to avert this new and unexpected danger.
While King Harold was thus advancing to meet them, Tostig and his
Norwegian allies entered the River Humber. Their object was to reach the city
of York, which had been Tostig's former capital, and which was situated near
the River Ouse, a branch of the Humber. They accordingly ascended the Humber
to the mouth of the Ouse, and thence up the latter river to a suitable point
of debarkation not far from York. Here they landed and formed a great
encampment. From this encampment they advanced to the siege of the city. The
inhabitants made some resistance at first; but, finding that their cause was
hopeless, they offered to surrender, and a treaty of surrender was finally
concluded. This negotiation was closed toward the evening of the day, and
Tostig and his confederate forces were to be admitted on the morrow. They
therefore, feeling that their prize was secure, withdrew to their encampment
for the night, and left the city to its repose.
It so happened that King Harold arrived that very night, coming to the
rescue of the city. He expected to have found an army of besiegers around the
walls, but, instead of that, there was nothing to intercept his progress up
to the very gates of the city. The inhabitants opened the gates to receive
him, and the whole detachment which was marching under his command passed in,
while Tostig and his Norwegian allies were sleeping quietly in their camp,
wholly unconscious of the great change which had thus taken place in the
situation of their affairs.
The next morning Tostig drew out a large portion of the army, and formed
them in array, for the purpose of advancing to take possession of the city.
Although it was September, and the weather had been cold and stormy, it
happened that, on that morning, the sun came out bright, and the air was
calm, giving promise of a warm day; and as the movement into the city was to
be a peaceful one—a procession, as it were, and not a hostile
march—the men were ordered to leave their coats of mail and all their
heavy armor in camp, that they might march the more unencumbered. While they
were advancing in this unconcerned and almost defenseless condition, they saw
before them, on the road leading to the city, a great cloud of dust arising.
It was a strong body of King Harold's troops coming out to attack them. At
first, Tostig and the Norwegians were completely lost and bewildered at the
appearance of so unexpected a spectacle. Very soon they could see weapons
glittering here and there, and banners flying. A cry of﹃The enemy! the
enemy!﹄arose, and passed along their ranks, producing universal alarm.
Tostig and the Norwegian Harold halted their men, and marshaled them hastily
in battle array. The English Harold did the same, when he had drawn up near
to the front of the enemy; both parties then paused, and stood surveying one
another. Presently there was seen advancing from the English side a squadron
of twenty horsemen, splendidly armed, and bearing a flag of truce. They
approached to within a short distance of the Norwegian lines, when a herald,
who was among them, called out aloud for Tostig. Tostig came forward in
answer to the summons. The herald then proclaimed to Tostig that his brother
did not wish to contend with him, but desired, on the contrary, that they
should live together in harmony. He offered him peace, therefore, if he would
lay down his arms, and he promised to restore him his former possessions and
honors.
Tostig seemed very much inclined to receive this proposition favorably. He
paused and hesitated. At length he asked the messenger what terms King Harold
would make with his friend and ally, the Norwegian Harold. "He shall have,"
replied the messenger,﹃seven feet of English ground for a grave. He shall
have a little more than that, for he is taller than common men.﹄"Then,"
replied Tostig, "tell my brother to prepare for battle. It shall never be
said that I abandoned and betrayed my ally and friend."
The troop returned with Tostig's answer to Harold's lines, and the battle
almost immediately began. Of course the most eager and inveterate hostility
of the English army would be directed against the Norwegians and their king,
whom they considered as foreign intruders, without any excuse or pretext for
their aggression. It accordingly happened that, very soon after the
commencement of the conflict, Harold the Norwegian fell, mortally wounded by
an arrow in his throat. The English king then made new proposals to Tostig to
cease the combat, and come to some terms of accommodation. But, in the mean
time, Tostig had become himself incensed, and would listen to no overtures of
peace. He continued the combat until he was himself killed. The remaining
combatants in his army had now no longer any motive for resistance. Harold
offered them a free passage to their ships, that they might return home in
peace, if they would lay down their arms. They accepted the offer, retired on
board their ships, and set sail. Harold then, having, in the mean time, heard
of William's landing on the southern coast, set out on his return to the
southward, to meet the more formidable enemy that menaced him there.
His army, though victorious, was weakened by the fatigues of the march,
and by the losses suffered in the battle. Harold himself had been wounded,
though not so severely as to prevent his continuing to exercise the command.
He pressed on toward the south with great energy, sending messages on every
side, into the surrounding country, on his line of march, calling upon the
chieftains to arm themselves and their followers, and to come on with all
possible dispatch, and join him. He hoped to advance so rapidly to the
southern coast as to surprise William before he should have fully intrenched
himself in his camp, and without his being aware of his enemy's approach. But
William, in order to guard effectually against surprise, had sent out small
reconnoitering parties of horsemen on all the roads leading northward, that
they might bring him in intelligence of the first approach of the enemy.
Harold's advanced guard met these parties, and saw them as they drove rapidly
back to the camp to give the alarm. Thus the hope of surprising William was
disappointed. Harold found, too, by his spies, as he drew near, to his utter
dismay, that William's forces were four times as numerous as his own. It
would, of course, be madness for him to think of attacking an enemy in his
intrenchments with such an inferior force. The only alternative left him was
either to retreat, or else to take some strong position and fortify himself
there, in the hope of being able to resist the invaders and arrest their
advance, though he was not strong enough to attack them.
Some of his counselors advised him not to hazard a battle at all, but to
fall back toward London, carrying with him or destroying every thing which
could afford sustenance to William's army from the whole breadth of the land.
This would soon, they said, reduce William's army to great distress for want
of food, since it would be impossible for him to transport supplies across
the Channel for so vast a multitude. Besides, they said, this plan would
compel William, in the extremity to which he would be reduced, to make so
many predatory excursions among the more distant villages and towns, as would
exasperate the inhabitants, and induce them to join Harold's army in great
numbers to repel the invasion. Harold listened to these counsels, but said,
after consideration, that he could never adopt such a plan. He could not be
so derelict to his duty as to lay waste a country which he was under
obligations to protect and save, or compel his people to come to his aid by
exposing them, designedly, to the excesses and cruelties of so ferocious an
enemy.
Harold determined, therefore, on giving William battle. It was not
necessary, however, for him to attack the invader. He perceived at once that
if he should take a strong position and fortify himself in it, William must
necessarily attack him, since a foreign army, just landed in the
country, could not long remain inactive on the shore. Harold accordingly
chose a position six or seven miles from William's camp, and fortified
himself strongly there. Of course neither army was in sight of the other, or
knew the numbers, disposition, or plans of the enemy. The country between
them was, so far as the inhabitants were concerned, a scene of consternation
and terror. No one knew at what point the two vast clouds of danger and
destruction which were hovering near them would meet, or over what regions
the terrible storm which was to burst forth when the hour of that meeting
should come, would sweep in its destructive fury. The inhabitants, therefore,
were every where flying in dismay, conveying away the aged and the helpless
by any means which came most readily to hand; taking with them, too, such
treasures as they could carry, and hiding, in rude and uncertain places of
concealment, those which they were compelled to leave behind. The region,
thus, which lay between the two encampments was rapidly becoming a solitude
and a desolation, across which no communication was made, and no tidings
passed to give the armies at the encampments intelligence of each other.
Harold had two brothers among the officers of his army, Gurth and Leofwin.
Their conduct toward the king seems to have been of a more fraternal
character than that of Tostig, who had acted the part of a rebel and an
enemy. Gurth and Leofwin, on the contrary, adhered to his cause, and, as the
hour of danger and the great crisis which was to decide their fate drew nigh,
they kept close to his side, and evinced a truly fraternal solicitude for his
safety. It was they, specially, who had recommended to Harold to fall back on
London, and not risk his life, and the fate of his kingdom, on the uncertain
event of a battle.
As soon as Harold had completed his encampment, he expressed a desire to
Gurth to ride across the intermediate country and take a view of William's
lines. Such an undertaking was less dangerous then than it would be at the
present day; for now, such a reconnoitering party would be discovered from
the enemy's encampment, at a great distance, by means of spy-glasses, and a
twenty-four-pound shot or a shell would be sent from a battery to blow the
party to pieces or drive them away. The only danger then was of being
pursued by a detachment of horsemen from the camp, or surrounded by an
ambuscade. To guard against these dangers, Harold and Gurth took the most
powerful and fleetest horses in the camp, and they called out a small but
strong guard of well-selected men to escort them. Thus provided and attended,
they rode over to the enemy's lines, and advanced so near that, from a small
eminence to which they ascended, they could survey the whole scene of
William's encampment: the palisades and embankments with which it was
guarded, which extended for miles; the long lines of tents within; the vast
multitude of soldiers; the knights and officers riding to and fro, glittering
with steel; and the grand pavilion of the duke himself, with the consecrated
banner of the cross floating above it. Harold was very much impressed with
the grandeur of the spectacle.
After gazing on this scene for some time in silence, Harold said to Gurth
that perhaps, after all, the policy of falling back would have been the
wisest for them to adopt, rather than to risk a battle with so overwhelming a
force as they saw before them. He did not know, he added, but that it would
be best for them to change their plan, and adopt that policy now. Gurth said
that it was too late. They had taken their stand, and now for them to break
up their encampment and retire would be considered a retreat and not a
maneuver, and it would discourage and dishearten the whole realm.
After surveying thus, as long as they desired to do so, the situation and
extent of William's encampment, Harold's party returned to their own lines,
still determined to make a stand there against the invaders, but feeling
great doubt and despondency in respect to the result. Harold sent over, too,
in the course of the day, some spies. The men whom he employed for this
purpose were Normans by birth, and they could speak the French language.
There were many Normans in England, who had come over in King Edward's time.
These Norman spies could, of course, disguise themselves, and mingle, without
attracting attention, among the thousands of workmen and camp followers that
were going and coming continually around the grounds which William's army
occupied. They did this so effectually, that they penetrated within the
encampment without difficulty, examined every thing, and, in due time,
returned to Harold with their report. They gave a formidable account of the
numbers and condition of William's troops. There was a large corps of bowmen
in the army, which had adopted a fashion of being shaven and shorn in such a
manner that the spies mistook them for priests. They told Harold,
accordingly, on their return, that there were more priests in
William's camp than there were soldiers in all his army.
During this eventful day, William too sent a body of horsemen across the
country which separated the two encampments, though his emissaries were not
spies, but embassadors, with propositions for peace. William had no wish to
fight a battle, if what he considered as rightfully his kingdom could be
delivered to him without it; and he determined to make one final effort to
obtain a peaceable surrender of it, before coming to the dreadful resort of
an appeal to arms. He accordingly sent his embassy with
threepropositions to make to the English king. The principal messenger
in this company was a monk, whose name was Maigrot. He rode, with a proper
escort and a flag of truce, to Harold's lines. The propositions were these,
by accepting either of which the monk said that Harold might avoid a battle.
1. That Harold should surrender the kingdom to William, as he had solemnly
sworn to do over the sacred relics in Normandy. 2. That they should both
agree to refer the whole subject of controversy between them to the pope, and
abide by his decision. 3. That they should settle the dispute by single
combat, the two claimants to the crown to fight a duel on the plain, in
presence of their respective armies.
It is obvious that Harold could not accept either of these propositions.
The first was to give up the whole point at issue. As for the second, the
pope had already prejudged the case, and if it were to be referred to him,
there could be no doubt that he would simply reaffirm his former decision.
And in respect to single combat, the disadvantage on Harold's part would be
as great in such a contest as it would be in the proposed arbitration. He was
himself a man of comparatively slender form and of little bodily strength.
William, on the other hand, was distinguished for his size, and for his
extraordinary muscular energy. In a modern combat with fire-arms these
personal advantages would be of no avail, but in those days, when the weapons
were battle-axes, lances, and swords, they were almost decisive of the
result. Harold therefore declined all William's propositions, and the monk
returned.
William seems not to have been wholly discouraged by this failure of his
first attempt at negotiation, for he sent his embassage a second time to make
one more proposal. It was, that if Harold would consent to acknowledge
William as King of England, William would assign the whole territory to him
and to his brother Gurth, to hold as provinces, under William's
general sway. Under this arrangement William would himself return to
Normandy, making the city of Rouen, which was his capital there, the capital
of the whole united realm. To this proposal Harold replied, that he could
not, on any terms, give up his rights as sovereign of England. He therefore
declined this proposal also. He, however, now made a proposition in his turn.
He was willing, he said, to compromise the dispute, so far as it could be
done by the payment of money. If William would abandon his invasion
and return to Normandy, giving up his claims to the English crown, he would
pay him, he said, any sum of money that he would name.
William could not accept this proposal. He was, as he believed, the true
and rightful heir to the throne of England, and there was a point of honor
involved, as well as a dictate of ambition to be obeyed, in insisting on the
claim. In the mean time, the day had passed, while these fruitless
negotiations had been pending. Night was coming on. William's officers and
counselors began to be uneasy at the delay. They said that every hour new
re-enforcements were coming into Harold's camp, while they themselves were
gaining no advantage, and, consequently, the longer the battle was delayed,
the less was the certainty of victory. So William promised them that he would
attack King Harold in his camp the very next morning.
As the time for the great final struggle drew near, Harold's mind was
oppressed more and more with a sense of anxiety and with foreboding fears.
His brothers, too, were ill at ease. Their solicitude was increased by the
recollection of Harold's oath, and of the awful sanctions with which they
feared the sacred relics might have invested it. They were not sure that
their brother's excuse for setting it aside would save him from the guilt and
curse of perjury in the sight of Heaven. So they proposed, on the eve of the
battle, that Harold himself should retire, and leave them to conduct the
defense. "We can not deny," they said, "that you did take the oath; and,
notwithstanding the circumstances which seem to absolve you from the
obligation, it is best to avoid, if possible, the open violation of it. It
will be better, on the whole, for you to leave the army and go to London. You
can aid very effectually in the defense of the kingdom by raising
re-enforcements there. We will stay and encounter the actual battle. Heaven
can not be displeased with us for so doing, for we shall be only discharging
the duty incumbent on all, of defending their native land from foreign
invasion."
Harold would not consent to adopt this plan. He could not retire himself,
he said, at the hour of approaching danger, and leave his brothers and his
friends exposed, when it was his crown for which they were
contending.
Such were the circumstances of the two armies on the evening before the
battle; and, of course, in such a state of things, the tendency of the minds
of men would be, in Harold's camp, to gloom and despondency, and in
William's, to confidence and exultation. Harold undertook, as men in his
circumstances often do, to lighten the load which weighed upon his own heart
and oppressed the spirits of his men, by feasting and wine. He ordered a
plentiful supper to be served, and supplied his soldiers with abundance of
drink; and it is said that his whole camp exhibited, during the whole night,
one wide-spread scene of carousing and revelry, the troops being gathered
every where in groups around their camp fires, some half stupefied, others
quarreling, and others still singing national songs, and dancing with wild
excitement, according to the various effects produced upon different
constitutions by the intoxicating influence of beer and wine.
In William's camp there were witnessed very different scenes. There were a
great many monks and ecclesiastics in the train of his army, and, on the
night before the battle, they spent the time in saying masses, reading
litanies and prayers, chanting anthems, and in other similar acts of worship,
assisted by the soldiers, who gathered, in great congregations, for this wild
worship, in the open spaces among the tents and around the camp fires. At
length they all retired to rest, feeling an additional sense of safety in
respect to the work of the morrow by having, as they supposed, entitled
themselves, by their piety, to the protection of Heaven.
In the morning, too, in William's camp, the first thing done was to
convene the army for a grand celebration of mass. It is a curious
illustration of the mingling of the religious, or, perhaps, we ought rather
to say, the superstitious sentiment of the times, with the spirit of war,
that the bishop who officiated in this solemn service of the mass wore a coat
of mail under his pontifical attire, and an attendant stood by his side,
while he was offering his prayers, with a steel-pointed spear in his hand,
ready for the martial prelate to assume as soon as the service should be
ended. Accordingly, when the religious duty was performed, the bishop threw
off his surplice, took his spear, and mounting his white charger, which was
also all saddled and bridled beside him, he headed a brigade of horse, and
rode on to the assault of the enemy.
William himself mounted a very magnificent war-horse from Spain, a present
which he had formerly received from one of his wealthy barons. The name of
the horse was Bayard. From William's neck were suspended some of the most
sacred of the relics over which Harold had taken his false oath. He imagined
that there would be some sort of charm in them, to protect his life, and to
make the judgment of Heaven more sure against the perjurer. The standard
which the pope had blessed was borne by his side by a young standard bearer,
who was very proud of the honor. An older soldier, however, on whom the care
of this standard officially devolved, had asked to be excused from carrying
it. He wished, he said, to do his work that day with the sword. While
making these preliminary arrangements for going into battle, William, with
the party around him, stood upon a gentle eminence in the middle of the camp,
and in sight of the whole army. Every one was struck with admiration at the
splendid figure which their commander made—his large and well-formed
limbs covered with steel, and his horse, whose form was as noble as that of
his master, prancing restlessly, as if impatient for the battle to begin.
When all were ready, the Norman army advanced gayly and joyously to attack
the English lines; but the gayety and joyousness of the scene soon
disappeared, as corps after corps got fairly engaged in the awful work of the
day. For ten long hours there reigned over the whole field one wide-spread
scene of havoc and death—every soul among all those countless thousands
delivered up to the supreme dominion of the most dreadful passions, excited
to a perfect phrensy of hatred, rage, and revenge, and all either mercilessly
killing others, or dying themselves in agony and despair. When night came,
the Normans were every where victorious. They were in full possession of the
field, and they rode triumphantly to and fro through Harold's camp, leaping
their horses over the bodies of the dead and dying which covered the ground.
Those of King Harold's followers that had escaped the slaughter of the day
fled in hopeless confusion toward the north, where the flying masses strewed
the roads for miles with the bodies of men who sank down on the way, spent
with wounds or exhausted by fatigue.
In the morning, William marshaled his men on the field, and called over
the names of the officers and men, as they had been registered in Normandy,
for the purpose of ascertaining who were killed. While this melancholy
ceremony was going on, two monks came in, sent from the remains of the
English army, and saying that King Harold was missing, and that it was
rumored that he had been slain. If so, his body must be lying somewhere, they
said, upon the field, and they wished for permission to make search for it.
The permission was granted. With the aid of some soldiers they began to
explore the ground, turning over and examining every lifeless form which, by
the dress or the armor, might seem to be possibly the king's. Their search
was for a long time vain; the ghastly faces of the dead were so mutilated and
changed that nobody could be identified. At length, however, a woman who had
been in Harold's family, and knew his person more intimately than they, found
and recognized the body, and the monks and the soldiers carried it away.
Excerpt from the Domesday Book
The passage, deciphered and expressed in full, stands thus—the
letters omitted in the original, above, being supplied in italics:
IN BRIXISTAN HUNDredo.
Rex tenet BERMUNDESYE. HERALDUS
comestenuit. Tunc se defendebatpro xiii.
hidis, modo pro xii. hidis. Terra est
viii. carrucatarum. In dominio est una carrucata
et xxv. villani et xxxiii. bordariicumuna
carrucata. Ibi nova et pulchra ecclesia, et xx. acræprati. Silva v. porcis de pasnagio.
The English translation is as follows:
IN BRIXISTAN HUNDRED.
The king holds BERMUNDESYE. Earl HERALD held it [before]. At
that time it was rated at thirteen hides; now, at twelve. The arable land is
eight carrucates [or plow-lands]. There is one carrucate in demesne,
and twenty-five villans, and thirty-three bordars, with one carrucate. There
is a new and handsome church, with twenty acres of meadow, and woodland for
five hogs in pasnage [pasturage] time.
William's Horse Stepping on the Embers
They took the suffering monarch to Rouen. The ablest physicians were
summoned to his bed-side. After examining his case, they concluded that he
must die. The tidings threw the unhappy patient into a state of extreme
anxiety and terror. The recollection of the thousand deeds of selfish
ambition and cruelty which he had been perpetrating, he said, all his days,
filled him with remorse. He shrunk back with invincible dread from the hour,
now so rapidly approaching, when he was to appear in judgment before God, and
answer, like any common mortal, for his crimes. He had been accustomed all
his life to consider himself as above all law, superior to all power, and
beyond the reach of all judicial question. But now his time had come. He who
had so often made others tremble, trembled now in his turn, with an acuteness
of terror and distress which only the boldest and most high-handed offenders
ever feel. He cried bitterly to God for forgiveness, and brought the monks
around him to help him with incessant prayers. He ordered all the money that
he had on hand to be given to the poor. He sent commands to have the churches
which he had burned at Mantes rebuilt, and the other injuries which he had
effected in his anger repaired. In a word, he gave himself very earnestly to
the work of attempting, by all the means considered most efficacious in those
days, to avert and appease the dreaded anger of heaven.
Of his three oldest sons, Robert was away; the quarrel between him and his
father had become irreconcilable, and he would not come to visit him, even in
his dying hours. William Rufus and Henry were there, and they remained very
constantly at their father's bed-side—not, however, from a principle of
filial affection, but because they wanted to be present when he should
express his last wishes in respect to the disposal of his dominions. Such an
expression, though oral, would be binding as a will. When, at length, the
king gave his dying directions in respect to the succession, it appeared
that, after all, he considered his right to the English throne as very
doubtful in the sight of God. He had, in a former part of his life, promised
Normandy to Robert, as his inheritance, when he himself should die; and
though he had so often refused to surrender it to him while he himself
continued to live, he confirmed his title to the succession now.﹃I have
promised it to him,﹄he said,﹃and I keep my promise; and yet I know that
that will be a miserable country which is subject to his government. He is a
proud and foolish knave, and can never prosper. As for my kingdom of
England,﹄he continued,﹃I bequeath it to no one, for it was not bequeathed
to me. I acquired it by force, and at the price of blood. I leave it in the
hands of God, only wishing that my son William Rufus may have it, for he has
been submissive to me in all things.﹄"And what do you give me,
father?" asked Henry, eagerly, at this point. "I give you," said the king,
"five thousand pounds from my treasury."﹃But what shall I do with my five
thousand pounds,﹄asked Henry, "if you do not give me either house or land?"
"Be quiet, my son," rejoined the king, "and trust in God. Let your brothers
go before you; your turn will come after theirs."
The object which had kept the young men at their father's bed-side having
been now attained, they both withdrew. Henry went to get his money, and
William Rufus set off immediately for England, to prepare the way for his own
accession to the throne, as soon as his father should be no more.
The king determined to be removed from his castle in Rouen to a monastery
which was situated at a short distance from the city, without the walls. The
noise of the city disturbed him, and, besides, he thought he should feel
safer to die on sacred ground. He was accordingly removed to the monastery.
There, on the tenth of September, he was awakened in the morning by hearing
the city bells ringing. He asked what it meant. He was told that the bells
were ringing for the morning service at the church of St. Mary. He lifted up
his hands, looked to heaven, and said,﹃I commend myself to my Lady Mary, the
holy Mother of God,﹄and almost immediately expired.
The readers of history have frequent occasion to be surprised at the
sudden and total change which often takes place at the moment of the death of
a mighty sovereign, and even sometimes before his death, in the indications
of the respect and consideration with which his attendants and followers
regard him. In William's case, as has happened in many other cases since, the
moment he ceased to breathe he was utterly abandoned. Every body fled,
carrying with them, as they went, whatever they could seize from the
chamber—the arms, the furniture, the dresses, and the plate; for all
these articles became their perquisites on the decease of their master. The
almost incredible statement is made that the heartless monsters actually
stripped the dead body of their sovereign, to make sure of all their dues,
and left it naked on the stone floor, while they bore their prizes to a place
of safety. The body lay in this neglected state for many hours; for the
tidings of the great monarch's death, which was so sudden at last, produced,
as it spread, universal excitement and apprehension. No one knew to what
changes the event would lead, what wars would follow between the sons, or
what insurrections or rebellions might have been secretly formed, to break
out suddenly when this crisis should have arrived. Thus the whole community
were thrown into a state of excitement and confusion.
The monk and lay brethren of the monastery at length came in, took up the
body, and prepared it for burial. They then brought crosses, tapers, and
censers, and began to offer prayers and to chant requiems for the repose of
the soul of the deceased. They sent also the Archbishop of Rouen, to know
what was to be done with the body. The archbishop gave orders that it should
be taken to Caen, and be deposited there in the monastery which William had
erected at the time of his marriage.
The tale which the ancient historians have told in respect to the
interment is still more extraordinary, and more inconsistent with all the
ideas we naturally form of the kind of consideration and honor which the
remains of so great a potentate would receive at the hands of his household
and his officers of state, than the account of his death. It is said that all
the members of his household, and all his officers, immediately after his
decease, abandoned the town—all eagerly occupied in plans and maneuvers
to secure their positions under the new reign. Some went in pursuit of
Robert, and some to follow William Rufus. Henry locked up his money in a
strong box, well ironed, and went off with it to find some place of security.
There was nobody left to take the neglected body to the grave.
At last a countryman was found who undertook to transport the heavy burden
from Rouen to Caen. He procured a cart, and conveyed it from the monastery to
the river, where it was put on board a vessel, and taken down the Seine to
its mouth, and thence by sea to Caen. The Abbot of St. Stephen's, which was
the name of William's monastery there, came, with some monks and a procession
of the people, to accompany the body to the abbey. As this procession was
moving along, however, a fire broke out in the town, and the attendants,
actuated either by a sense of duty requiring them to aid in extinguishing the
flames, or by curiosity to witness the conflagration, abandoned the funeral
cortège. The procession was broken up, and the whole multitude, clergy and
laity, went off to the fire, leaving the coffin, with its bearers, alone. The
bearers, however, went on, and conveyed their charge to the church within the
abbey walls.
When the time arrived for the interment, a great company assembled to
witness the ceremonies. Stones had been taken up in the church floor, and a
grave dug. A stone coffin, a sort of sarcophagus, had been prepared, and
placed in the grave as a receptacle for the body. When all was ready, and the
body was about to be let down, a man suddenly came forward from the crowd and
arrested the proceedings. He said that the land on which the abbey stood
belonged to him; that William had taken forcible possession of it, for the
abbey, at the time of his marriage; that he, the owner, had been compelled
thus far to submit to this wrong, inasmuch as he had, during William's
life-time, no means of redress, but now he protested against a spoliation.
"The land," he said, "is mine; it belonged to my father. I have not sold it,
or forfeited it, nor pledged it, nor given it. It is my right. I claim it. In
the name of God, I forbid you to put the body of the spoiler there, or to
cover him with my ground."
When the excitement and surprise which this denunciation had awakened had
subsided a little, the bishops called this sudden claimant aside, examined
the proofs of his allegations, and, finding that the case was truly as he
stated it, they paid him, on the spot, a sum equal to the value of ground
enough for a grave, and promised to take immediate measures for the payment
of the rest. The remonstrant then consented that the interment might
proceed.
In attempting to let the body down into the place prepared for it, they
found that the sarcophagus was too small. They undertook to force the body
in. In attempting this, the coffin was broken, and the body, already, through
the long delays, advanced in decomposition, was burst. The monks brought
incense and perfumes, and burned and sprinkled them around the place, but in
vain. The church was so offensive that every body abandoned it at once,
except the workmen who remained to fill the grave.
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