PENDA, THE PAGAN MONARCH OF MERCIA.
"The gates of mercy shall be all shut up:
And the fleshed soldier,--rough and hard of heart,--
In liberty of bloody hand, shall range
With conscience wide as hell: mowing like grass
Your fresh fair virgins and your flowering infants."
SHAKSPERE.
Hitherto the kingdom of Mercia has scarcely arrested our attention,
but the time at last came when it was destined to rise with a
startling distinctiveness above the rest of the Saxon states, under
the sovereignty of Penda. As the midland counties bordered upon the
Deiri, it is not improbable that Mercia had been subject to the sway
of the more northern monarchs, until the grandson of Crida appeared,
and, struck by its fallen state, resolved at once to raise it to its
true dignity. We have seen him before figure in the battle where he
joined Cadwallon, and overthrew the once-powerful Edwin; then he
gained but an empty victory, he now resolved to retrace his steps
and reap a more substantial harvest or perish in the attempt. Above
sixty years had already rolled over his head, yet for military skill
and talent he had scarcely an equal, and when, ten years before, he
was crowned king of Mercia, many foresaw that his would be a terrible
reign; he had linked himself with the British--daringly thrown down his
gauntlet and challenged all comers; no one was found bold enough to
pick it up. Wherever he appeared, Mercy fled with a shiver, and Hope
placed her fair hands before her eyes to weep: from step to step did
he advance as he grew grey in crime, still glorying in the hoariness
of his iniquities. Bold, ambitious, and cruel, he sought out danger
wherever it was to be found, and attacked Power in the very heart of
his stronghold; he knew only Mercy by the name of Death, nor shunned
he the fate to which he consigned others. He hated not the Christians
who adhered rigidly to the tenets of their new creed, but if they
halted between two opinions, he abhorred them; while on his part he
worshipped Odin, and never left the altars of his grim war-god dry for
want of a victim. Endowed with a strong and fearless mind, and a body
that age only seemed to harden, he led the way from battle to battle,
and victory to victory, while the neighbouring kings looked on and
trembled. No marvel that such a conqueror found ready allies amongst
the Cymry, or that they were ever eager to join him when he required
their aid, while he in return seems to have stood ready armed for any
cause, that might chance to fall in his way, and but for his assistance
to Cadwallon, Edwin might probably have died an old man in his bed,
with Edilburga and his children kneeling beside him. But ambition was
the rock on which nearly all these ancient kings were wrecked; the
open ocean was not wide enough for them; wherever it was rumoured that
danger lurked, there they at once steered--they deemed it but cowardly
to wait for the coming of death, so seized the helm and sailed boldly
out to look for his dark dominions. To be chained to the domestic
hearth was to them a misery, the bark of the old hound, and the
recognising flutter of the familiar hawk, and the prattle of children
became weary! weary! Old household affections but palled; Edilburga
might smile, and Paulinus pray, but the tramp of the war-horse, and the
ringing of the sword upon the buckler, and the clang of the battle-axe,
as it cleaved its way through helmet and armour, were sweeter sounds
than these; the spirit within but yearned for the sleep which was
purchased by a dearly won victory; even the eyes of grey-headed old men
brightened when the contest was talked over in which they had fought,
and they went out of the hall, tottering at every step, to bask in
the sunshine, and sigh over the deeds done in those "good old times."
Wearisome was the morning light to their eyes, which dawned not upon
the tented field; they loved better to see the banner of the red dragon
of the Britons waving upon some distant height, opposite to which their
own standard of the white horse fluttered, than to watch the motion of
the trees, or the rustle of the yellow corn, or to hear the bleating
and the lowing of "the cattle upon a thousand hills:" to such belonged
Penda, the ruler of Mercia.
Whether the death of Cadwallon, the British king, with whom Penda's
forces were allied when Edwin was defeated at the battle of
Hatfield-chase, caused the Mercian monarch to invade Bernicia, to
revenge his fall and defeat, or whether the love of conquest alone
induced Penda to undertake this expedition, is not recorded, neither
is it clearly made out that he was not present at the battle in which
Cadwallon was slain. Whatever were his motives, he attacked and slew
Oswald, without any apparent cause of quarrel, and in him perished one
of the best of the Northern kings. It is said that while the barbed
javelin which caused his death was still fixed in his breast, he never
for a moment ceased to pray; and that for centuries after his death
his name was ever linked with the following pious sentence: "May the
Lord have mercy on their souls! as Oswald said, when he fell on the
battle-field." It is also recorded of Oswald that one day, as he was
about to partake of the refreshments which were placed before him in
a silver dish, the almoner, whose office it was to relieve the poor,
stepped in and informed him that a number of beggars were waiting
without soliciting alms:--when his eye alighted upon the rich vessel
in which the dainties were piled, the thoughts of their wants, and
his own unnecessary luxuries, rose before him with so striking a
contrast, that he ordered the untouched food to be distributed amongst
the beggars, and the silver dish to be broken up and given to them;
yet Penda caused the head and limbs of this pious and charitable king
to be severed from the body, transfixed on stakes, and exposed to the
public gaze. He then marched through Northumbria, spreading death
and desolation wherever he trod; attacked the castle of Bamborough,
and, unable to carry it by storm, demolished all the buildings in the
neighbourhood, and piled up the wood and thatch around the strong
fortress, and then set fire to the ruins he had heaped together.
Fortunately for the besieged, the wind changed just as the flames began
to rise, and the eddying gust blew back the blazing ruins upon the
besiegers. Penda then turned his back upon Northumbria, and we next
meet with him in Wessex, where he makes war upon Cenwalch, for some
insult the latter had offered to Penda's sister; Cenwalch is driven
out of his kingdom, remains in exile three years, and then returns,
having doubtless reconciled himself to the Mercian king. When he had
finished his work in Wessex, and Sigebert had resigned his crown, he
directed his steps to East Anglia, for Redwald had long since slept
with his fathers: he had also founded a school, from which it is not
improbable the present University of Cambridge sprung; and having given
his kingdom to his kinsman Ecgric, and built a monastery, into which
he at last retired, he had long since taken a farewell of all his
greatness. But Sigebert had been renowned in his day; and now danger
was knocking at the door, the East Anglians were unwilling that an old
warrior should be pattering his prayers when he ought to be wielding
his battle-axe; and it is recorded that his former subjects drew him
forcibly out of the monastery, and compelled him to lead them on
against Penda. With only a white wand in his hand, and probably robed
in his monkish habiliments, the old soldier took the command of the
battle; his religious scruples, however, preventing him from using any
warlike weapon. We can almost picture him, pale with his ascetic life,
for no one had adhered more rigidly to the monastic rules than he had
done, standing with his white wand uplifted amid a throng of warriors,
pointing to the most salient points of the opposing army, with a
martial glimmer just lighting up for a moment the cold grey eye, which
for years had only contemplated that glory which he hoped to enjoy
beyond the grave. We can imagine the sudden contrast of sounds--from
the low muttered prayer, or the holy hymns chaunted within the walls
of his monastery, to the shout, the rush, the struggle, and the
clanging of arms. Nor is it difficult to picture the look of contempt
with which the pagan king Penda would gaze upon his ghostly opponent,
or to imagine the bitter jeers to which the hardened heathen would
give utterance as he wiped his bloody battle-axe, and gazed upon the
monk-king and his crowned kinsman, as they lay together amid the
slain--for both Sigebert and Ecgric fell, and their whole army was
routed or slaughtered by the hitherto invincible Penda.
Anna succeeded Ecgric, and Sigebert; but scarcely was he seated upon
the perilous throne of East Anglia, before the pagan warrior again made
his appearance; for although Penda was now an old man, grey-headed, and
eighty years of age, he could no more live without fighting than he
could without food. Anna had been guilty of sheltering Cenwalch, the
king of Wessex, after Penda had dethroned him; an unpardonable offence
in the eyes of the hoary old heathen; so he marched once more into East
Anglia, and slew him. He had by this time sent five kings and thousands
of their followers as offerings to Odin, and not yet satisfied, he
resolved once more to visit the northern kingdoms, for the pleasant
vallies which stretched on either side the Trent had no charms for
Penda. The "thirty-armed river," as Milton has called it, could not
retain him within its boundaries; he liked not the air of our midland
counties, so set off to pay another visit to the Deiri or Bernicia,
with every mile of which he was doubtless familiar. He had grown grey
in fighting battles, had been a king thirty years, and during the whole
period was either preparing to attack, marching, or fighting. The
old chroniclers compare him to a vulture, a wild beast, ravenous for
prey, and one whose chief delight was in the clashing of arms, and the
shedding of human blood.
After having slain Oswald and brutally exhibited his remains, he
appears to have paid frequent visits to Oswy, who succeeded him. But
Oswy had no disposition to fight, and therefore endeavoured to keep
the quarrelsome old Mercian quiet by exhausting the Northumbrian
treasury. Growling like a tiger, Penda refused to accept all the
treasures he could heap together; he was neither to be bought over by
gold nor prayers; he came to fight, and fight he would; he seemed like
a drunken man who is determined to quarrel, even if he has to run his
head against the first post he meets with. He had come, he said, to
extirpate the whole race of the Northumbrians--the Deiri, Bernicia, and
all--he came to kill.
When Oswy found that all entreaties were in vain, he mustered his
forces together, which were far inferior to Penda's in number. Before
commencing the battle, Oswy vowed, like Jephthah of old, that if he
obtained the victory, he would dedicate his daughter to the service of
the Lord; and having formed this resolution, he issued forth to meet
the mighty man-slayer, who had hitherto scarcely sustained a single
defeat. The Northumbrian, with a heavy heart, divided the command of
his little army between himself and his son Alfred. The battle took
place somewhere in Yorkshire, but where cannot now with certainty
be pointed out; it was in the neighbourhood of a river, and not far
distant from York. The contest was terrible; the army under the command
of Penda appears to have been made up of Britons and Saxons, some of
whom were dragged reluctantly into the battle, and but waited the first
favourable moment to turn their arms against the dreaded chieftain.
The low land in the rear of Penda's army was flooded; beyond, the
deep-swollen river was already roaring as if in expectation of its
prey. Penda charged as usual--hot, eager, and impetuous, as if the
victory was already his own; but the old man's arms were not so strong
as they had been,--he could not see his way so clearly as he had done
beforetime. Odilwald, who occupied a favourable position, had not yet
stirred a step. It seems as if one portion of Penda's mighty force
was jealous of another; there was the river roaring behind, and Oswy
bearing down upon them before. Midway all was confusion, and in the
midst of it stood Penda, blinded with fury, and bleeding from his
wounds. Over the dying and the dead trampled the victorious army of
Oswy. Over Penda they trod, who lay upon the ground a hideous mass,
his grey head cloven open by a blow from a battle-axe. None paused to
survey him. Before the Northumbrians the routed host rushed onward,
onward, until the ringing of armour, and the clashing of blade upon
blade, sunk into a gurgle, and a moan, and a splash; and still the
river tore on its way, as if in haste to make room for more. Downward
the defeated plunged, into deep beds, where the hungry pike slept, and
the slimy eel lay coiled. The flooded fields were manured with the
dead; hideous sights which many a rich harvest has since covered; the
river-bed was clogged up with the bodies of the slain, which fishes
fed upon, and winter rains at last washed away--rich relics to pave
the floor of that gloomy hall, where Hela the terrible reigned. If
ever there was a clattering of skulls in Valhalla it was then; or if
Odin ever rushed out with open arms, to meet the bloodiest of his
worshippers, it was when the soul of Penda came. What a crimson country
is ours! what rivers of gore has it taken to make our green England
what it is! No marvel that even the rims of our daisies are dyed
crimson by contact with such a sanguinary soil.
Oswy, after this unexpected victory, now overran Mercia, and subjected
it to his sway. His daughter Alchfleda he also gave in marriage to
Peada, the son of Penda, and installed him in his father's kingdom, on
condition that he should introduce Christianity into his dominions.
Alfred, the son of Oswy, in return married the daughter of Penda,
whose name was Cyneburga. Thus on each side a pagan was united to a
Christian, and the work of conversion went on prosperously; for there
were now but few corners of the British dominions in which the true
faith was not introduced. Such changes were enough to make the stern
old Saxon heathen leap out of his grave. In his lifetime no one would
have been found bold enough to have proposed them. Alchfleda's mother
was still living, and remained a firm follower of the old idolatrous
creed; she seems to have accompanied her daughter into Mercia, and had
doubtless in her train many a grey old veteran, who still bowed the
knee before the altars of Odin, and who looked upon a religion which
taught peace, good will, and charity to all mankind, with disdain. It
is not clearly made out by whose instigation Peada was assassinated.
Both his wife and her mother stand accused of the deed, but no cause
is assigned for the former perpetrating so dreadful a crime; nor can
any other reason be assigned for the latter having done it, beyond what
we have given. Peada, however, fell at the holy time of Easter, which
seems to have been a favourite season for assassination amongst the
pagan Saxons, in proof of which numerous instances might be quoted.
Before his death, Peada commenced the famous monastery of Peterborough,
which his brother Wulfhere completed. Nor was Wulfhere content with
only finishing the minster, for he gave to the Abbot Saxulf, to the
monks, and their successors for ever, all the lands and waters, meads,
fens, and weirs, which lay for many miles around it, and covered in
extent what forms more than one English shire. Wulfhere, like Sigebert,
appears to have been as much of a monk as a warrior, though a little
of old Penda's blood still flowed in his veins; and when Cenwalch, of
Wessex, who had been humbled and disgraced by Penda, resolved to have
his revenge upon the son, although he was at first successful, the
Mercians at last became conquerors, and Cenwalch was again exiled, and
his kingdom fell into the hands of the Mercian sovereign.
The king of Essex, about this time, made frequent visits to Oswy's
court, and the Northumbrian sovereign lost no opportunity of dissuading
him from following his idol worship. The arguments Oswy used, though
simple, were convincing; he told him that such objects as were
fashioned out of stone or wood, and which the axe or the fire could
so readily destroy and consume, could not contain a Godhead. Such
reasoning had the desired effect, and the king of Essex, together with
numbers of his subjects, abandoned their pagan belief. The sovereign
of Sussex was also converted through the instrumentality of Wulfhere,
who was as eager to spread the doctrines of Christianity as his father
had ever been to uphold the worship of Woden. Cenwalch, the king of
Wessex, who, like so many others about this period, keeps crossing the
busy stage at intervals, only to fill up the scenes, at length died,
but whether in exile or not is uncertain. Saxburga, the widowed queen,
stepped into the vacant throne; but the Wessex nobles refused to be
governed by a woman, although she wielded the sceptre with a firmer
hand, and ruled the kingdom better than her husband had ever done;
strengthening her forces, and ever holding herself in readiness in
case of an invasion. Still there was ever some one amongst her nobles
who shared her rule; and one of these, a descendant from the renowned
Cerdric, led her forces against the king of Mercia. Essex was at this
time under the sway of Wulfhere, and it is likely enough that he
looked with a jealous eye upon the bold front which Saxburga's kingdom
presented, after the death of Cenwalch, who had been so frequently
conquered. A battle was fought in Wiltshire, in which neither party
appear to have reaped any material advantage; and in little more than
a year after the contest, both the leaders were in their graves. Oswy,
the conqueror of Penda, had before this died, and his son Ecgfrid
became the king of Northumbria, in which the Deiri and Bernicia were
now united. Alfred, who had married Penda's daughter, after having
aided in destroying her father and his powerful army, at the battle
in Yorkshire, was not allowed to succeed Oswy, on account of some
flaw in his birth. Nearly all beside, of any note, who figured in
this busy period, had passed away, excepting the last son of Penda,
named Ethelred, who, after the death of Wulfhere, ascended the Mercian
throne. Ecgfrid fell in a battle against the Picts, though not before
he had invaded Mercia, for although Ethelred had married his sister,
it seemed as if the hostile blood which had so long flowed between the
sons, Oswy and Penda, was not to be blended by marriage. The archbishop
Theodore stepped in between the combatants, and healed up the breach
long before Ecgfrid perished. About this time, also, died Cadwaladyr,
the last of the Cymry who aspired to the sovereignty of Britain. His
death was the cause of a battle being fought. Similar unimportant
events make up the catalogue which closes the account of this period.
The Saxon kingdoms seemed to stand upon an ever-moving earthquake: one
was swallowed to-day, and cast up again on the morrow: the earth was
ever rocking and reeling: kings came and went, as the images shift in a
kaleidoscope. If one year saw a sovereign victorious, the next beheld
him dethroned and an exile; he put on his crown, or laid it aside,
just as his more powerful neighbour bade him. When fortune placed him
uppermost, he retaliated in the same way on his former conqueror. Still
we have before us the stirring times of Offa the Terrible; Egbert and
Ethelwulf followed by the stormy sea-kings, whose invasions were more
merciless than those of the Saxons; for the history of this period is
like an ocean studded with islands, some of which lie near together,
others wide apart; and many which, from the distance, seem to have a
barren and forbidding look, are, on a nearer approach, found rich in
ancient remains; and though now silent and desolate, we discover in
what is left behind traces of the once mighty inhabitants, that ages
ago have passed away. Such is the history of the early Saxon kingdoms.
Where an idle voyager would yawn and grow weary, his intelligent
companion would linger, and gaze, and ponder in silent wonder and
reverential awe.