EDMUND, SURNAMED IRONSIDE.
"His death, whose spirit lent a fire
Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,
Being bruited once, took fire and heat away
From the best tempered courage in his troops:
For from his metal was his party steeled;
Which, once in him abated, all the rest
Turned on themselves, like dull and heavy lead."
SHAKSPERE.
Edmund, who, for his valour and hardy constitution, was surnamed
Ironside, had already distinguished himself against the Danes, and
shown signs of promise, which foretold that, whenever the sceptre
fell into his hand, it would be ably wielded. Like those meteoric
brilliancies which startle us by their sudden splendour, then instantly
depart, so was his career--bright, beautiful, and brief. We perceive
a trailing glory along the sky over which he passed, but no steady
burning of the star that left it behind. Had he ascended the throne at
a peaceful and prosperous period, he might probably have dozed away his
days in apathy; for he was one of those spirits born to blaze upon the
fiery front of danger, and either speedily to consume, or be consumed.
He began by measuring his stature against a giant, and raised himself
so high by his valiant deportment, that had a little longer time been
allowed him to develope his growth, he would have overtopped the great
Canute, by whose side he stood.
He had scarcely leisure to put off the mourning which he had worn at
his father's funeral, before he was compelled to arm in defence of the
capital of the kingdom; for the Danish forces, headed by Canute, had
already laid siege to London, and nearly the half of England was at
that period in the possession of his enemies. The struggle to carry
the capital was maintained with great spirit by the besiegers, and as
bravely repelled by the besieged; and the wall which then ran along the
whole front of the city, beside the Thames, was the scene of many a
valorous exploit. A bridge, even at this early period, stretched over
into Southwark, and on the Surrey side it was stoutly defended by
the enemy, who for a long time held the Saxons at bay; for they were
strengthened by the ships which Canute had brought up from Greenwich,
and placed on the west side of the bridge; thus cutting off all aid
from the river; while he left a part of his fleet below, to guard
against surprise from the mouth of the Thames. London was so strongly
protected by its fortresses and citizens, that Edmund was enabled to
remove a great portion of his army, and to fight two battles in the
provinces during the time it was besieged.
The most important of these was his engagement at Scearstan, where he
addressed his soldiers before commencing the battle, and so kindled
their valour by his eloquence, that at the first onset, which was
sounded by the braying of the trumpets, the Danish soldiers staggered
as if the weight of a mighty avalanche had come thundering down amongst
them. Edmund himself fought amid the foremost ranks--there was no sword
that went deeper into the advanced line of the enemy than his own--no
arm that made such bleeding gaps as the sovereign's. He seemed as if
present in almost every part of the field at once--wherever his eager
eye caught a wavering motion in the ranks, there he was seen to rally,
and cheer them on. Edric, who had long been in the service of Ethelred,
fought on the side of Canute, and by his influence arrayed the men of
Wiltshire and Somerset against Edmund. So obstinately was the battle
maintained on both sides, that neither party could claim the victory
when night settled down upon the hard-fought field.
The dawn of a summer morning saw the combat renewed. While yet the
silver dew hung pure and rounded upon the blood-stained grass, the
Saxon trumpets sounded the charge. Foremost as ever in the conflict,
Edmund fought his way into the very thickest of the strife, until he
found himself face to face with Canute. The first blow which the Saxon
king aimed at his enemy, Canute received upon his shield: it was cloven
asunder; and with such force had the sword of Edmund descended, that
after severing the buckler, the edge of the weapon went deep into the
neck of the horse which the Danish king bestrode. The English monarch
still stood alone amid a crowd of Danes, making such destructive
circles with his two-handed sword, that no one dared approach him.
After having slightly wounded Canute, and slain several of his choicest
warriors, Edmund was compelled to fall back amongst his own soldiers,
whom he now found in retreat and confusion.
While Edmund was thus busily engaged in the very heart of the battle,
the traitor Edric had struck off the head of a soldier, named Osmear,
whose countenance closely resembled that of the king, and holding it
by the hair, he had ridden rapidly along the Saxon lines, exclaiming:
"Fly! fly! and save yourselves--behold the head of your king." Edmund
had just succeeded in fighting his way through the Danish ranks, when
he beheld the panic which Edric had spread amongst the soldiers--his
first act was to seize a spear and hurl it at the traitor--he stooped,
missed the blow, and the weapon pierced two soldiers who stood near
him. Edmund then threw down his helmet, and taking the advantage of a
rising ground, stood up bareheaded, and called upon his warriors to
renew the combat; but many were already beyond hearing. It was now
near sunset, for the conflict had lasted all day long, and those who
rallied around him were just sufficient to keep up the struggle without
retreating, until darkness again dropped down upon the scene. So ended
the second day, and neither side could claim the victory. Edmund again
encamped upon the battle-field, for he had still sufficient faith in
the force that remained with him to renew the contest in the morning.
Day-dawn, however, revealed the departure of the Danes, and the Saxons
found themselves alone, surrounded by the wounded and the dead; for
Canute had taken advantage of the midnight darkness, and retreated
from the field. The Danish king hurried off with his army to renew the
siege of London; Edmund followed him, and drove the enemy as far as
Brentford. Here another battle took place; and as we find Canute, soon
after, once more beleaguering the capital, the advantages the Saxon
king gained could only have been slight. Seeing that he could make no
impression upon London, Canute next led his army into Mercia, where
he appears to have met with but little opposition; he is said to have
burnt every town he approached. At Otford, in Kent, Edmund once more
attacked the Danish king, and drove him to Sheppey. Unfortunately,
the Saxon sovereign had admitted Edric the traitor again into his
friendship, and he betrayed him; but for this, it is questionable if
Canute could have maintained another attack.
It was on the eve of one of these battles, in which the northmen were
defeated, that a Danish chief, named Ulfr, who was hotly pursued by
the Saxons, rushed into a wood, in the hurry of defeat, and lost his
way. It was no uncommon hardship for a sea-king to throw himself at
the foot of the nearest oak, pillow his head upon the root, and sleep
soundly until the morning; he would only miss the murmur of the ocean,
and, to make up for its lulling sound, would be saved the trouble of
raising his hand every now and then to sweep off the salt spray that
dashed over him. But the dawn of day found him no better off than
the midnight; he would have known what course to have steered had he
been out alone upon the open ocean, but in a forest, where one tree
looked, in his eyes, just like another, he knew not on what tack to
sail. After wandering about for some time, he met a Saxon peasant, who
was driving home his oxen, at that early hour, for it was probably
dangerous to allow them to be found in the forest after daylight, as
the forest-laws were already severe. The Danish chief first accosted
the churl, by inquiring his name. "It is Godwin," answered the peasant;
"and you are one of the Danes who were compelled yesterday to fly
for your life." The sea-king acknowledged it was true, and asked the
herdsman if he could guide him either to the Danish ships, or to where
the army was encamped. "The Dane must be mad," answered Godwin, "who
trusts to a Saxon for safety." Ulfr entreated this rude Gurth of the
forest to point him out the way, at the same time urging his argument
by presenting the herdsman with a massive gold ring, to win his favour.
Godwin looked at the ring--it was probably the first time in his life
he had ever seen so costly a treasure--and after having carefully
examined it, he again placed it in the hand of the sea-king, and said,
"I will not take this, but will show you the way." Ulfr spent the day
at the herdsman's cottage; night came, and found Godwin in readiness to
be his guide. The herdsman had an aged father, who, before he permitted
his son to depart, thus addressed the Danish chief--"It is my only son
whom I allow to accompany you; to your good faith I entrust him; for,
remember, that there will no longer be any safety for him amongst his
countrymen, if it is once known that he has been your guide. Present
him to your king, and entreat him to take my son into his service."
Ulfr promised, and he kept his word, since there is no doubt that the
young herdsman had gained upon his favour during the journey, for when
the sea-king reached the Danish encampment, he took the peasant into
his own tent, placed him upon a seat, (a great honour in those days,)
which was as high as the one he himself occupied, and treated him as
if he had been his own son. This humble cowherd, who afterwards married
the sea-king's sister, will, ere long, have to figure amongst the most
prominent characters in our history, but we must leave him for a time,
and follow the fortunes of the Saxon king, Edmund.
After sustaining the alternations of victory and defeat--having been
again betrayed by Edric, and making an offer to Canute to decide the
fate of the kingdom by single combat, a challenge which the Danish
king is generally believed to have declined--a treaty was entered
into by the rival sovereigns, in which it was agreed that England
should be divided between them. They then, to all appearance, became
friends, exchanged gifts and garments, and the opposing armies for a
time separated: Edmund to reign in the south, and Canute to be king
of the north--the exact division of the kingdom is not recorded. It
was, however, a hollow treaty on the part of the Dane, who is said
afterwards to have rewarded every one who brought him the head of a
Saxon.
Edmund did not long survive this treaty; that he was assassinated,
there remains not a doubt, but where, or by whose hand, is unknown.
Two of his own chamberlains are said to have been bribed, by either
Edric or Canute, to destroy him. His death took place in the year
1016. Unlike Ethelred, "he was long and deeply lamented by his
people," though his reign was so short. With his death, all hopes of
regaining the kingdom from the power of the Danes seems, for a time,
to have departed, and Canute was allowed to sit down upon the Saxon
throne without opposition. More than five hundred years, with but few
intervals of peace between, had elapsed since Hengist and Horsa first
landed in the Isle of Thanet; yet all the blood which during that long
period had been spilt, had been insufficient to cement firmly together
the foundation on which the tottering throne was erected. Neither the
blood of Britons, Romans, Saxons, nor Danes, could extinguish the
volcano which was ever bursting from beneath it; the cry that issued
forth was still, "Give, give!"