ENGLAND INVADED BY THE NORMANS.
"Down royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence!
And to the English court assemble now,
From every region, apes of idleness!
Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum:
Have you a ruffian, that will swear, drink, dance,
Revel the night; rob, murder, and commit
The oldest sins the newest kind of ways?
Be happy, he will trouble you no more:
England shall double gild his treble guilt;
England shall give him office, honour, might."--SHAKSPERE.
We must now carry our readers to Normandy, to the life and stir, and
busy preparation which nearly eight hundred years ago took place in
that country. We must waft their imagination across the ocean to those
masses of living and moving men who then existed, and endeavour to
look at them, as if they still lived, and were actuated then as now.
At the busy workmen who were employed in building ships, labouring all
the more eagerly in hopes that amid the scramble of the war they might
become the commanders of the vessels they were helping to construct--at
the smiths and armourers, who were then forging lances and swords, and
coats of mail, trusting that when their work was done, and the victory
won, they should in England become great lords, and have a score or
two of followers to carry before them the very lances which their own
hard hands had hammered out. At the tailor, who sat hemming gonfannons,
and the embroiderer who worked the figures of lions' and bulls' heads,
dragons, and all imaginable monsters, upon pennon or banner, fondly
dreaming they should one day sit in the lordly halls of England with
the banner, the cunning workmanship of their hands fluttering above
their heads, while they, no longer "knights of the shears and thimble,"
should throw aside the goose and needle, and become great rulers in
conquered England. At the cooper, who thundered away cheerfully as
he drove his hoops down the casks, believing that when his work was
finished, he should on the other side of the ocean become a count; the
shoemaker, who hammered and stitched for every shoeless vagabond who
came toiling up the dusty roads from Maine and Anjou, under promise
that he should have the fairest Saxon wife he could capture. The
tinker, who had clouted pots and pans, but now turned his hand to the
riveting of helmets, under the hope of becoming a rich thane when he
landed in Britain. For hedgers and ditchers, weavers, and drovers--all
the scum and outcast of Poitou, and Brittany, France, and Flanders,
now came in rags and tatters--the "shoeless-stocracy" from Aquitaine
and Burgundy, hurried up under the hope of one day becoming the
aristocracy of England--some offered to murder and burn for their food
and lodging only--others brought their bread and cheese and garlic,
ready bundled up, and were willing to slay and desolate, and do any
damnable deed for their passage alone, so that they might be allowed to
pick up a stray Saxon princess or two, or take possession of any old
comfortable castle, when the burning and murdering were over. Such a
collection of thieves and vagabonds, and un-hung rascals, were never
covered in under the hatches of all the ships that have carried out
convicts since the day that England first discharged its cargoes of
vice and wretchedness upon the shores of Australia. All these ragged
and unprincipled rascals--no matter from what quarter they came--were
instantly set at work; some, who were fit for nothing else, rubbed and
scrubbed and polished corslets and helmets, shields and spurs; others
sharpened spears and pikes and javelins, grinding and rubbing the
points upon any stone they could find; many were beasts of burthen,
and toiled from morning till night, in carrying stores to the ships;
and all these ragamuffins were destined to sail under a banner, which
the pope himself had consecrated, and under a bull to which a ring was
appended, containing one of the hairs of St. Peter set in a diamond of
great value. All these dogs in doublets, hounds in armour, murderers
in mail, cut-throats in corslets, and robbers at heart, were, about
eight hundred years ago, congregated on that great mustering-ground of
villany, Normandy; and there they matured their plans for breaking into
the peaceful homes, and slaying the unoffending inhabitants of England.
The Evil One, doubtless, cast his triumphant eye over that vast
assembly, then hurried off to enlarge his fiery dominion against their
coming.
Before setting out on his invasion, the crafty Norman had, by laying
an accusation of sacrilege against Harold, at the court of Rome,
obtained permission to bring back England to the obedience of the
holy church, and to enforce the payment of the tax of Peter's-pence.
Added to this, he got a bull of excommunication against the Saxon
king and his adherents; and armed with such credentials, he set
out to murder, burn, and desolate, under the sanction of the holy
church. Thus, William was armed with a power more dreaded, in that
superstitious age, by the blinded and ignorant multitude, than the
edge of the sword. Nor is it probable, considering the breach which
existed between England and Rome, that the pontiff for a moment took
into consideration the circumstances under which William extorted
the oath from Harold. Besides obtaining the vindictive sanction of
that church which professed only peace and good-will towards all
mankind--whose harshest emblem was a pastoral crook, with which to
draw back tenderly the sheep that had wandered from the fold--but who,
instead of this, consecrated (solemn mockery!) the banner which was
so soon to wave over a field steeped with the blood of Christians.
Besides obtaining this unholy power, the Norman duke made use of all
the duplicity he was master of, to persuade and compel his subjects to
furnish the funds which were so necessary to fit out his expedition.
He summoned his brothers, by the mother's side, Eudes and Robert, sons
of the old tanner of Falaise, who had now turned down the sleeves of
their doublets, cast aside their leathern aprons, and having got rid
of the aroma of the tan-pit, one had become bishop of Bayeux, and the
other count of Mortain. These, together with his barons, summoned to
the conference, pledged themselves, not only to serve him with their
body and their goods, but even to the selling or mortgaging of their
estates, although they were pretty sure, in case of success, of having
whatever they might advance returned to them an hundred-fold. They were
of opinion, that those who were not so likely to become partakers of
the spoil, should be compelled to contribute to the cost. On this hint,
which was probably his own, duke William convoked a large assembly of
men from all professions and stations of life in Normandy, amongst whom
were many of the richest merchants in his dominions. When they met,
he explained his wants, and solicited their assistance. They listened,
then withdrew, in order to consult each other as to what measures
should be taken.
Seldom had there been such a hubbub in Normandy as this assembly
presented. Some, whom there is but little doubt had previously made
their arrangements with either the duke or his officials, were ready to
give ships, money, or anything they possessed; others, who had come to
no understanding as to what return was to be made, would give nothing,
but said that they were already burthened with more debts than they
could pay. In the midst of this confusion, when fifty were talking
like one, and they could scarcely hear each other speak for their own
clamour, William Fitz-Osbern, the seneschal, or ducal lieutenant of
Normandy, entered the hall, and raising his voice high above the rest,
he exclaimed, "Why dispute ye thus? He is your lord--he has need of
you; it were better your duty to make your offers, and not to await his
request. If you fail him now, and he gain his end, he will remember
it; prove, then, that you love him, and act accordingly." "Doubtless,"
cried the opponents, "he is our lord; but is it not enough for us to
pay him his dues? We owe him no aid beyond the seas; he has already
enough oppressed us with his wars; let him fail in his new enterprise,
and our country is undone."[20]
It was at last resolved that Fitz-Osbern should lead the way, and
make the best terms he could with the duke. He did; and they followed
him probably not further than the next apartment, where William was
awaiting their decision; and great must have been their astonishment
when the seneschal commenced his oration. In vain did they shrug up
their shoulders, lift up their eyes, and exclaim, "No, no! we did not
say this; we will not do that." Onward plunged Fitz-Osbern deeper and
deeper, declaring that they were the most loyal and zealous people
in the world--that they were ready to serve him here, there, and
everywhere,--that they would give him all they possessed; and, more
than that, that those who had supplied him with two mounted soldiers
would now furnish four. In vain they roared out, "No, no! we will serve
him in his own country, but nowhere beside." Fitz-Osbern had in his
imagination jerked them across the ocean, and furnished William with an
army in no time; and when he had finished, he left them to settle as
they best could with the duke,--for there is no doubt the matter had
been previously concocted between the seneschal and William.
The duke of Normandy either was, or pretended to be surprised and
enraged beyond measure. Could his seneschal have deceived him, or
could they be so disloyal as to refuse to furnish him with the aid
he required? Such a matter must be looked into--and it was. He sent
separately for the most influential of the leaders; had a private
conference with each; and, when they came out, they were ready to grant
him everything. He gave them sealed letters for security; and what they
contained we may readily guess--for the man who consented to portion
out England to his followers before they had conquered it, was not
likely to stick at giving away all Europe [on parchment] to secure his
ends. By such tricks as these, sorry are we to write it, he obtained
the aid of many brave and honourable men. But for this, we might have
ranked his invasion with an army of unprincipled adventurers, amongst
the ravages of those Goths and Vandals who in the darker ages overran
Greece and Rome. "He published his proclamation," says Thierry, "in the
neighbouring countries, and offered good pay and the pillage of England
to every man who would serve him with lance, sword, or cross-bow; and
multitudes accepted the invitation, coming by every road, far and
near, from north and south. All the professional adventurers, all
the military vagabonds of western Europe, hastened to Normandy by
long marches; some were knights and chiefs of war, the others simple
foot-soldiers and serjeants-of-arms, as they were then called. Some
demanded money-pay, others only their passage, and all the booty they
might make. Some asked for land in England, a domain, a castle, a town;
others simply required some rich Saxon in marriage. Every thought,
every desire of human avarice presented itself; "William rejected no
one," says the Norman chronicle, "and satisfied every one as well as he
could."
From spring to autumn, Normandy was the great rallying point for every
one who had strength enough to wield arms, and were willing to dash
out the brain of his fellow-men. The three-lion banner threw its folds
over more crime and cruelty than was, perhaps, ever found amongst the
same number of men; and the doors of this huge inhuman stye were about
to be opened, and the grim, savage, and tusked herd turned loose, to
slay, root-up, overrun, and desecrate a country to which Alfred the
Great had given laws--a kingdom that already stood second to none in
the wide world for civilization. These man-slayers ran together to
hunt in couples--they became sworn brothers in arms--they vowed to
share all they gained--they made these promises in churches--they
knelt hand in hand before the holy altars, and blasphemously called
God to witness that they would equally divide what they obtained by
bloodshed and robbery. Prayers were said, and psalms chaunted, and
tapers burnt in churches for the success of these armed marauders; yet
neither the thunder nor the lightning nor an avenging arm descended to
strike dead the impious priests who thus dared to invoke His sacred
name in so unholy a cause; and for ages after, many a golden cross
and sacred vessel of gold or silver, which had once decorated the
altars of the English monasteries, were seen in the mis-called sacred
buildings of Normandy--rewards which were given by the Norman Bastard
to these mitred blasphemers. Some were honourable enough to refuse to
co-operate with the Norman on any terms, like the high-minded Gilbert
Fitz-Richard, who came over with the duke because he was his liege
lord; and when the period of his servitude had expired, returned
again to his own country, no richer than when he came. But there were
few, we fear, like him. Thierry says, "He was the only one among the
knights who accompanied the Norman that claimed neither lands nor
gold." Many, we know, while the army was encamped near the river Dive,
did homage for the lands which were then in the peaceable possession
of the Saxons, who little dreamed, while they were superintending the
gathering in of their harvest, that the Norman Bastard was already
portioning out their fair domains amongst men who had sworn to do his
"bloody business."
When William applied to Philip of France for his assistance--and in
the most humiliating terms offered to do homage for England, and to
hold it as the vassal of France--Philip refused to assist him. With the
count of Flanders, his brother-in-law, he fared no better; and when
Conan, king of Brittany, heard that duke William, whom he looked upon
as an usurper, and the murderer of his father, was preparing for the
invasion of England, he sent him the following message by one of his
chamberlains:--"I hear that thou art about to cross the sea, to conquer
the kingdom of England. Now, duke Robert, whose son thou pretendest
to be, on departing for Jerusalem, remitted all his heritage to count
Allan, my father, who was his cousin; but thou and thy accomplices
poisoned my father. Thou hast appropriated to thyself his seigneury,
and hast detained it to this day, contrary to all justice, seeing that
thou art a bastard. Restore me, then, the duchy of Normandy, which
belongs to me, or I will make war upon thee to the last extremity with
all the forces at my disposal."
The Norman historians state that William was somewhat alarmed at this
message, as such an attack must have prevented his meditated invasion;
but the king of Brittany did not survive his threat many days. The
Norman succeeded in bribing the chamberlain to murder his royal master,
and this he accomplished by rubbing the mouth-piece of his hunting
horn with deadly poison, so that when Conan next rode to the chase,
he blew his last blast. Many of William's enemies were at this time,
beyond doubt, removed by similar means. Nor do such deeds startle the
historian as he draws nearer to that land of horrors; to the threshold
of that country which, by his command, was stained with the blood of a
hundred thousand murders. The successor of Conan, warned by the fate of
father and son, patched up a peace with the Norman, and allowed many of
his subjects to accompany the expedition.
When all was in readiness for this long threatened invasion, a contrary
wind set in, and kept the large fleet, which amounted to many hundred
sail, for nearly a whole month at the mouth of the Dive, a river
which falls into the sea between the Seine and the Orne. After this
a southerly breeze sprang up, and wafted the mighty armament as far
as the roadsteads of St. Valery, near Dieppe; then the wind suddenly
changed, and there they were compelled to lie at anchor for several
days. Many of the vessels were wrecked; and lest an alarm should
spread amongst his troops, William caused the bodies of the drowned
men to be buried with speed, and in privacy. Nor did such disasters
fail in producing their effects upon his superstitious followers. Some
deserted his standard, for they thought that an expedition, which the
very elements seemed to oppose, could only be attended with evil.
Murmurs broke out in the fleet--the soldiers began to converse with
each other, and to exaggerate the number of dead bodies which had been
buried in the sand--to conjure up perils and difficulties which they
had never before seen. "The man is mad," said they, "who seeks to seize
the land of another. God is offended with such designs, and proves it
by refusing us a favourable wind." In vain did William increase the
rations of provisions, and supply them with larger portions of strong
liquor--the same low feeling of despondency reigned along the shore and
in the ships. The soldiers were weary of watching the monotonous waves
that ever rolled from the same quarter--they were tired of feeling
the wind blow upon their faces from the same direction--but there was
no help--no change; the breeze shifted not; and they paced wearily!
wearily! along the shore; reckoning up again the number of dead bodies
which had already been buried in the sand, then shaking their heads,
and muttering to each other, "So many have perished, and yet we are no
nearer the battle than when we set out." Others deserted on the morrow.
In vain did duke William attend the church of St. Valery daily, and
pray before the shrine of the saint--the little weathercock on the
bell-tower still pointed in the same direction day after day--his
prayers were of no avail; and sometimes he came out of the church
with such an expression on his countenance, as led the beholder to
conclude that, from the bottom of his heart, he wished the wind, the
weathercock, and the saint, with that dusky gentleman after whom the
Normans had nicknamed his father. Weary and disheartened, like his
followers, at this long delay, William at last hit upon a device, that
at least served to arouse the spirits of his soldiers from the state
of despondency into which they had sunk, and to chase from their minds
the gloomy doubts and forebodings with which they had been so long
overcast. To accomplish this, he took from the church of St. Valery
the coffer that contained the relics of the patron saint, and this he
had carried with great ceremony through the camp in the centre--it was
at last set down; and prayers having been offered up for a favourable
wind, the soldiers in procession passed by the relics of the reputed
saint, each throwing upon it what he could best afford, until the
"shrine was half buried in the heaps of gold, silver, and precious
things, which were showered upon it. Thus artfully did he, instead of
interposing the authority of a sovereign and a military leader, to
punish the language of sedition and mutiny among his troops, oppose
superstition to superstition, to amuse the short-sighted instruments of
his ambition."[21]
On the following night the wind chanced to change, to the great delight
of the priests who attended the camp, and who, while they packed up
the rich offerings which had been thrown over the dry and marrowless
bones of a good and pious old man, failed not to attribute the natural
change in the current of the atmosphere to the intercession of St.
Valery. At daybreak, on the twenty-seventh of September, the sky was
bright and beautiful--the wind blowing in a favourable direction
from the south, and the sun, which had for many days been enveloped
in mists and clouds, now rose with a summer-like splendour, throwing
long trails of golden light over the green and ridgy sea. The camp was
immediately broken up, the sails were hoisted, and in a few hours the
large fleet, which contained upwards of sixty thousand men, launched
forth into the open sea amid the deep braying of the Norman trumpets.
Foremost in the van rode the beautiful vessel which contained William,
duke of Normandy. At its mast-head fluttered the consecrated banner
which had been sent by the pope, and below this streamed out another
flag, marked with the cross of Calvary, for so was the emblem of our
salvation profaned. The sails were of various colours, and on them were
emblazoned in gold the three lions, the haughty arms of Normandy. The
prow of the vessel was decorated with the figure of a child, bearing
a bent bow in its hand, as if in the act of discharging an arrow.
When night closed in over the sea, a large lantern was hoisted to the
mast-head of this magnificent vessel, and through the hours of darkness
that vast fleet marched from wave to wave, every billow rolling it
nearer to the shores of England. When the grey morning again dawned
upon the sea, the Norman chief, finding that he had far outsailed his
fleet, sent one of his sailors up the mast to see if he could descry
the lagging ships in the distance. At first, the man who was despatched
to look out saw nothing but sea and sky; but on his third ascent, he
exclaimed, "I see a forest of masts and sails!" William then either
dropped his anchor, or took in his canvas, until the foremost vessels
approached, and in a few hours after, the vast armament was riding
safely in Pevensey Bay; only one or two vessels having been lost,
while crossing the English channel, and in one of these was a famous
astrologer who had predicted that the voyage would terminate without a
disaster; but when William heard of his death, he shrewdly remarked,
"that he who could not foresee his own fate, was ill adapted to foretel
the fate of others."
It appears that the Saxon vessels which had so long been cruising upon
the coast of Sussex, awaiting the arrival of the Normans, had returned
to port from want of provisions. Thus William was enabled to land his
troops without opposition; and on the 28th of September, his forces
disembarked at Pevensey, on the coast of Sussex. The archers, who wore
short coats, and had their hair cut close, were the first to land. They
were followed by the knights, who wore corslets of burnished mail, and
conical shaped helmets of glittering steel; each bore in his hand a
strong lance, while at his side hung a long, straight, double-edged
sword. Then came the pioneers, the carpenters, and the smiths, each
wheeling up and forming themselves into separate divisions, until the
whole shore was covered with armed men and horses, above whose heads
fluttered the gonfannons and the larger banners, which were so soon to
serve as beacons in the rallying points of battle. William was the last
to land, and his foot had scarcely touched the sandy shore before he
stumbled and fell. A murmur arose amid the assembled host, and voices
were heard to exclaim, "This is an evil sign." But the duke, with that
ready talent which enabled him to give a favourable appearance to
serious as well as trifling disasters, suddenly sprang up, and showing
the sand which he had grasped in his fall, exclaimed, "Lords, what is
it you say? What, are you amazed? I have taken seizin of this land with
my hands, and, by the splendour of God, all that it contains is ours."
One of the soldiers then ran hastily forward, and tearing a handful
of thatch from the roof of a neighbouring cottage, an ancient mode of
conveyance, which still exists, he presented it to the duke, saying,
"Sire, I give you _seizin_, in token that the realm is yours." William
answered, "I accept it, and may God be with us." Refreshments were then
distributed to the soldiers as they rested upon the beach.
The army moved a little onward in the direction of Hastings, a spot
favourable to encamp upon having been selected, two strong wooden
fortresses, which had been prepared in Normandy, were erected; and
thus strongly fortified, William awaited the coming of the Saxons. On
the following day, the work of pillage commenced. Troops of Normans
over-ran the country--the whole coast was in a state of alarm; the
inhabitants fled from their houses, concealing their cattle and goods,
and congregating in the churches and churchyards, as if they trusted
that the dust of the dead would be a protection to them against their
foreign invaders. The peasants assembled on the distant hills, and
looked with terror upon the strong fortresses, and the immense body of
men which they could see moving about the coast. A Saxon knight mounted
his horse, and hurried off, without slackening his rein, to carry the
tidings to Harold. Day and night did he ride, scarcely allowing himself
time for either food or refreshment, until, reaching the ancient hall
at York, where Harold was seated at his dinner, he rushed into the
presence of the Saxon king, and delivering his message in four brief
ominous words, exclaimed, "The Normans are come!"[22]