EARL HAROLD'S VISIT TO NORMANDY.
"RICHARD. -------- Now do I play the touch,
To try if thou be current gold, indeed:--
Edward lives:--Think now what I would speak.
BUCKINGHAM. Say on, my loving lord.
RICHARD. I say I would be king--"
We have already given what we believe to be the real motive of Harold's
visit to Normandy. That he went at the request of Edward to announce
the king's intention of appointing William as his successor, the
incidents which we shall record, on Harold's arrival, clearly disprove;
for if such were the case, what occasion would there have been for the
duke to entrap the son of Godwin into taking the oath on the relics as
he did?
The Saxon earl had not been long out at sea before a contrary wind
arose; and after buffeting about for some time, he was at last driven
upon the opposite coast of France, near the mouth of the river Somme,
and upon the territory which was then held by Guy, count of Ponthieu.
Adhering to the maxims of the old sea-kings, the count considered all
his own that he either found upon the ocean or picked up along the
coast; so he seized Harold and his followers, and held them prisoners
until they could pay the ransom he demanded. The captives were taken
to the fortress of Beaurain, near Montreuil. Harold communicated with
William of Normandy, and the latter speedily sent messengers demanding
the release of the prisoners, under the plea that they were sent on
matters of business to his own court, and, for that reason, he was
bound to protect them. The duke is said to have accompanied his message
with a menace. This the count paid no regard to, and William, who had
many reasons for keeping on good terms with his French neighbours,
was too wary to execute the threat he had thrown out; so he paid the
ransom, and liberated Harold, whom he was anxious to have in his own
possession.
When the Saxon earl reached Rouen, William received him with an
apparent warmth, and a cordiality, that looked as if he had some
end to obtain. He overwhelmed him with kindness, declared that the
hostages were his, and might accompany him back at once; but, as a
courteous guest, he trusted Harold would remain a few days with him,
visit the country, and join in the festivals which he had prepared
for his welcome. It would have required a clearer-sighted and more
suspicious man than earl Harold appears to have been, to have seen
into duke William's motives through all this professed friendship; but
the Saxon's eyes were opened at last; William did not lead him from
castle to castle for nothing; he well knew the price he had fixed upon
the knighthood he conferred upon Harold, and never was a glittering
sword, a silver baldric, and a bannered lance, purchased more dearly
than those the son of Godwin received from the son of Robert the Devil.
Harold went gaily with his brother and nephew to war against the
Bretons, at William's request; the Saxons distinguished themselves by
their valour, and no one was praised more in the camp than Harold the
Saxon, who, with his own hand, had saved several Norman soldiers when
they were nigh perishing amongst the quicksands of Coësnon. While the
war lasted, it is recorded that William and Harold slept in the same
tent, and ate at the same table. This was the first act of the drama in
which William played so masterly a part.
The curtain again draws up, and we behold the duke and the earl riding
lovingly side by side on their way to the castle of Bayeux. William
begins to talk about his youthful days, of the happy hours he had spent
with Edward of England, when he was in Normandy; no doubt he mentioned
some of their boyish pranks, told anecdotes that drew a peal of
laughter from the unsuspicious Saxon, when all at once he said, "When
Edward and I lived under the same roof, like two brothers, he promised
me, that if ever he became king of England, he would make me heir to
his kingdom." No doubt the son of Robert the Devil looked down upon
his saddle-bow, or out of the corner of his keen cunning eye, or threw
off the sentence as if he had no meaning in it; then made some passing
remarks upon his horse, or any object near at hand. After he had done
speaking, Harold, it appears, was taken by surprise, and either made
no reply, or merely uttered some such unmeaning word as "indeed!"
when William, having ventured one foot upon the ice, tried the other,
and thus proceeded: "Harold, if thou wouldst aid me in realising this
promise, be sure that if I obtain the kingdom, whatever thou askest of
me that shalt thou have."
Harold, be it remembered, was in the enemy's country, surrounded by
those who had ever been foes to his family; his brother and nephew were
also, like himself, in duke William's power; and there cannot be a
doubt but that, if he had openly declared himself opposed to the duke's
views, neither he nor they would again have set foot upon the shores of
England. The Saxon had no alternative but to appear to acquiesce to his
wishes, though we can fancy with what an ill grace he seemed to comply.
It was the armed ruffian alone with the victim in his power, who,
thinking that he can borrow more than he shall get by murdering his
companion, boldly asks for the loan, and, having through fear extorted
the promise, presents a bond, gets it signed, then appoints the time
and place where it is to be paid; and should the victim seek to evade
the responsibility which self-preservation alone compelled him to
incur, the other upbraids him as a perjurer and a villain, proclaims to
the world what he has done, and gets the consent of all his creditors,
who hoped to be enriched by the loan, to assist in murdering the
helpless and unfortunate wretch he has entrapped.
Having extracted something like a vague promise, William then presented
the bond, and said, "Since thou consentest to serve me, thou must
engage to fortify Dover castle, to dig there a well of fresh water, and
deliver it up, when the time comes, to my people. Thou must also give
thy sister in marriage to one of my barons" (Did he mean queen Editha?)
"and thyself marry my daughter, Adeliza; moreover, on thy departure,
thou must leave me, as guarantee for thy promise, one of the two
hostages thou claimest, and I will restore him to thee in England when
I come there as king."[14]
So far the wily Norman duke had succeeded, and he was now resolved to
make assurance doubly sure. In both instances he had won. And now we
see the third act of this "eventful history" revealing duke William
seated upon his throne in the castle of Bayeux; he is surrounded by
his nobles. Harold, who is ushered into his presence, has not a friend
amongst the number. William does not yet want "his pound of flesh;"
but he is resolved to test the validity of the bond he has possessed
himself of. He objects not to the signature, but wishes others to be
witness that it is the handwriting of Harold--this admitted, he is
willing to await the time of payment, and lock it up in that great
iron-safe--his heart. Not content with living witnesses, this ancient
Shylock summoned the dead to add solemnity to the oath he was about
to administer. Had the bones of Godwin been in Normandy, there is but
little doubt William would have dug them up as dumb witnesses. They
were not; so he collected all the bones of the reputed saints that
could be found in the neighbouring churches. He summoned the priests to
strip their shrines; a bone or a body was all one to William; a tooth
or a toe-nail came not amiss to the Norman--all were emptied into the
great vessel he had prepared for their reception; and how each church
would pick out its own again concerned not the son of Robert the Devil.
"Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe,
Ditch-delivered by a drab."
So that "the charm was firm and good," was all the duke cared for;
and when the relics were ready, the unsuspecting Saxon earl was called
in. How the Norman thieves, who had been kicked out of England, and
been witness to what was prepared and covered carefully up against
Harold's coming, must have grinned when they saw the son of Godwin
enter. William sat upon a throne, holding a drawn sword in his hand.
A crucifix was placed upon the cloth of gold that covered the relics,
and concealed them entirely from the eyes of Harold; the whole formed,
no doubt, to resemble a table, when the duke, bowing to the Saxon,
began thus: "Harold, I require of thee, before this noble assembly,
to confirm by oath the promises thou hast made to me, to aid me to
obtain the kingdom of England after the death of Edward, to marry my
daughter Adeliza, and to send thy sister, that I may wed her to one
of my barons." Harold swore to do all--he had no alternative--so he
"grinned and bided his time," no more meaning to keep his promise
than a man would to send a fifty pound note by return of post to the
address of the ruffian who had met him on a lonely moor at midnight,
and presented a pistol to his ear. When Harold had sworn, the assembled
nobles exclaimed, "God aid him!" The third act was then over, and again
the curtain fell; the figure of William was seen near the foot-lights,
the cloth of gold lying at his feet, and Harold looking on the relics
on which he had unconsciously sworn. Well might the Saxon shudder.
William had shown himself worthy of the name his father had borne.
We want but the thunder and the lightning, the red fire and the grey
spirits, to outdo all that the presiding genius of scenic horrors ever
invented. Were not the motives so deep, devilish, and villanous, we
might sit as spectators, and enjoy the horrors; but when we know that
the whole was real--that the motive was serious--that the death's head
and cross bones were real representatives of the red warm human blood
that was doomed to flow, ere the terrible tragedy ended; we turn away,
like Harold, pale and trembling; and as we retreat, we look round in
affright, and are still followed by the skeletons of the dead.
From a land filled with such plots and pitfalls, Harold was glad to
escape under any promise or at any price, and though he brought away
his nephew with him, he was compelled to leave his younger brother in
the hands of the Norman.
[Illustration: _Harold swearing on the Relics of the Saints._]
The duke of Normandy was a man who boggled at nothing, so long
as it aided him in accomplishing his ends. Whether he attempted to
win a kingdom or a wife, he considered all means fair that he could
avail himself of. Thus, after having for some time courted Matilda,
daughter of Baldwin, earl of Flanders, and found himself objected to
by the father on account of his birth, and by the maiden because she
was already in love with another, he hit upon the strangest stratagem
that a lover ever had recourse to, to make his way into a fair lady's
affections. Weary of sighing and suing, of continued entreaty which
was only met by successive rejections, he resolved boldly to win the
inner fortress by battering down the outward walls, and carrying by
force that citadel, the lady's heart, which he had so long besieged.
Any other lover would have been content with carrying off his fair
captive. Duke William acted very differently. He began by beating his
prisoner into compliance, leaving it to herself to decide between
another thrashing and surrendering at once; neither did he take her
in her dishabille, but waited until the lady was very neatly attired;
and lest he should kill her in the strange way he took of displaying
his affection, he first permitted her to attend mass. This over, he
began his suit in downright earnest. He waylaid her in the street of
Bruges, and after rolling her very lovingly in the dirt, and making
her, as a lady might say, a perfect fright, he then by way of finish,
and as a proof of the strength of his affection, administered to her a
few good solid hearty cuffs, and without either stopping to pick her
up or wishing her good-bye, he mounted his horse and galloped off.
This new mode of wooing had its desired effect. Matilda had often been
threatened by Love, but never before had he visited her in such a
substantial shape. She little dreamed that the fluttering of his purple
pinions after such soft hoverings, and gentle breathings, would end in
downright hard blows from his clenched fists, but finding such was the
case, she went home, rubbed her bruises, changed her attire, and got
married as quickly as possible.
Matilda herself, taking a lesson out of the same book, resolved
that the lover who had so long stood between herself and William's
affections, should not escape scathless, after what she had suffered
for his sake; and, although it was long after her marriage, she
obtained possession of the estates of the Saxon nobleman, Brihtric,
who had had the misfortune to be sent ambassador to her father's court
when she first fell in love with him; and the pretty tigress, now
finding that her claws were full-grown, in revenge for the slight she
had endured, and the thrashing she had borne, after having robbed him
of all he possessed, threw him into prison, and was the cause of his
death. A frail fair maiden, the niece of a Kentish nobleman, whom
Matilda suspected of conquering the heart of her husband while he was
conquering England, it is believed fared little better in her hands,
but that she caused her to be mutilated like Elgiva of old, and either
ham-strung her, or slit open the beautiful mouth which had won the
Conqueror from his allegiance to his savage lady. For this cruel deed,
Matilda is said to have received another beating from her husband,
and this time from a bridle which he brought in his hand for the
purpose.[15]
When Harold returned to England, he presented himself before king
Edward, and made him acquainted with all that had occurred between duke
William and himself in Normandy. The king became pale and pensive,
and said, "Did I not forewarn thee that I knew this William, and that
thy journey would bring great evils both upon thyself and upon thy
nation? Heaven grant that they happen not in my time." These words,
which are given both by Eadmar and Roger of Hovedon, although they
prove that it was far from the wish of Edward that duke William should
be his successor, still leave the matter doubtful, whether or not in
his younger years he had rashly promised to leave him the crown at
his death. William, however, had already obtained a great advantage.
An oath, sworn upon relics, no matter under what circumstances, was
sure, if violated, to be visited with the fullest vengeance of the
ecclesiastical power; and we have already shown that England at this
time was looked upon with an unfavourable eye by the church of Rome.
The rumour of the oath which Harold had taken was soon made known in
England. "Gloomy reports flew from mouth to mouth; fears and alarms
spread abroad, without any positive cause for alarm; predictions were
dug up from the graves of the saints of the old time. One of these
prophesied calamities such as the Saxons had never experienced since
their departure from the banks of the Elbe; another announced the
invasion of a people from France, who would subject the English people,
and abase their glory in the dust for ever. All these rumours, hitherto
unheeded or unknown, perhaps indeed purposely forged at the time, were
now thoroughly credited."[16]
In addition to all these imaginary terrors, and before the monarch
was borne to his tomb, a large comet became visible in England. The
greatest Danish army that ever landed upon our island never spread
such consternation as was produced by this fiery messenger. Such a
phenomenon as this was but wanted to crown their superstitious horrors.
The people assembled to gaze on it with pale and terror-stricken
countenances in the streets of the towns and villages. In their eyes
it denoted death, desolation, famine, invasion, slaughter, and "all
the ills which flesh is heir to." A monk of Malmesbury, who professed
the study of astronomy, gave utterance to the following ominous
declaration:--"Thou hast, then, returned at length; thou that wilt
cause so many mothers to weep! many years have I seen thee shine; but
thou seemest to me more terrible now, that thou announcest the ruin of
my country."
Edward never held up his head again, nor uttered another cheerful
word after the return of Harold. From that time, until he expired, he
scarcely ever ceased to reproach himself for having caused the war
which hung so threateningly over England, by entrusting foreigners,
instead of his own countrymen, with the affairs of his government. Day
and night these thoughts beset him, and he endeavoured in vain to drive
them away by religious exercises, and by adding donation upon donation
to the churches and monasteries. In vain did the priests pray--in vain
did he seek respite by listening to the Bible, which was read to him,
for those passages of sublime and fearful grandeur which figuratively
announce the coming of the Most High, to punish the nations who had
rebelled against His commandments, fell upon his ear like an ominous
knell. Writhing upon his death-bed, he would exclaim, "The Lord hath
bent His bow--He hath prepared His sword, and hath manifested his
anger." Such words struck horror into the souls of all who surrounded
his bed, with the exception of Stigand, the archbishop of Canterbury,
who, it is said, smiled with contempt upon those who trembled at the
ravings of a sick old man. According to the authority of the Saxon
Chronicle, Eadmar, Roger of Hoveden, Florence of Worcester, Simeon of
Durham, and partially by William of Malmesbury, and Thierry, a careful
ransacker of ancient chronicles, it is said, "However weak the mind of
the aged Edward, he had the courage, before he expired, to declare to
the chiefs who consulted him as to the choice of his successor, that,
in his opinion, the man worthy to reign was Harold, the son of Godwin."
Edward just lived to see the opening of the most eventful year in our
annals--that in which England was invaded by the Normans. He expired
on the eve of Epiphany, in the sixty-sixth year of his age, and was
buried in Westminster Abbey, where his shrine, though mutilated by
time and rude hands, still remains standing in that edifice which his
own piety caused him to rebuild, and which illness alone prevented him
from being present to witness its consecration. He was long remembered
by the Saxons for the body of laws he compiled, which his oppressed
countrymen made their rallying cry, whenever they gained an ascendancy
over their stern task-masters, the Normans. His conduct to Editha,
doubtless, arose from his dislike to earl Godwin, and the persuasions
of his Norman favourites, for he seems to have ever been a man of a
wavering mind, and who seldom acted from an opinion of his own. With
him perished the last king who was legitimately descended from the
great Alfred; for although Harold was a Saxon, and displayed as much
military and political genius as any (excepting Alfred) in whose veins
flowed the blood of kings, he was still the son of the cowherd Godwin,
a humble, but more honourable line of descent than that of William the
Bastard, against whom he was so soon to measure his strength, for he
was at this period busily though silently preparing for the invasion of
England.
The Danes were heathens; they professed not Christianity--this Norman
did; yet when England was ruled over by a king who had been elected by
the voice of the whole witena-gemot, an election that had scarcely ever
been disputed, this Norman bastard, this son of Robert the Devil, came
over with his hired cut-throats, and armed robbers, and having drenched
a once happy country with blood, he covered its smiling shores and
cheerful fields with desolation and blackened ashes.