Messire Mallet de Graville possessed in perfection that cunning
astuteness which characterised the Normans, as it did all the old
pirate races of the Baltic; and if, O reader, thou, peradveuture,
shouldst ever in this remote day have dealings with the tall men of
Ebor or Yorkshire, there wilt thou yet find the old Dane-father's wit
--it may be to thy cost--more especially if treating for those animals
which the ancestors ate, and which the sons, without eating, still
manage to fatten on.
But though the crafty knight did his best, during his progress from
London into Wales, to extract from Sexwolf all such particulars
respecting Harold and his brethren as he had reasons for wishing to
learn, he found the stubborn sagacity or caution of the Saxon more
than a match for him. Sexwolf had a dog's instinct in all that
related to his master; and he felt, though he scarce knew why, that
the Norman cloaked some design upon Harold in all the cross-
questionings so carelessly ventured. And his stiff silence, or bluff
replies, when Harold was mentioned, contrasted much the unreserve of
his talk when it turned upon the general topics of the day, or the
peculiarities of Saxon manners.
By degrees, therefore, the knight, chafed and foiled, drew into
himself; and seeing no farther use could be made of the Saxon,
suffered his own national scorn of villein companionship to replace
his artificial urbanity. He therefore rode alone, and a little in
advance of the rest, noticing with a soldier's eye the characteristics
of the country, and marvelling, while he rejoiced, at the
insignificance of the defences which, even on the Marches, guarded the
English country from the Cymrian ravager [156]. In musings of no very
auspicious and friendly nature towards the land he thus visited, the
Norman, on the second day from that in which he had conversed with the
abbot, found himself amongst the savage defiles of North Wales.
Pausing there in a narrow pass overhung with wild and desolate rocks,
the knight deliberately summoned his squires, clad himself in his ring
mail, and mounted his great destrier.
"Thou dost wrong, Norman," said Sexwolf, "thou fatiguest thyself in
vain--heavy arms here are needless. I have fought in this country
before: and as for thy steed, thou wilt soon have to forsake it, and
march on foot."
"Know, friend," retorted the knight, "that I come not here to learn
the horn-book of war; and for the rest, know also, that a noble of
Normandy parts with his life ere he forsakes his good steed."
"Ye outlanders and Frenchmen," said Sexwolf, showing the whole of his
teeth through his forest of beard, "love boast and big talk; and, on
my troth, thou mayest have thy belly full of them yet; for we are
still in the track of Harold, and Harold never leaves behind him a
foe. Thou art as safe here, as if singing psalms in a convent."
"For thy jests, let them pass, courteous sir," said the Norman; "but I
pray thee only not to call me Frenchman [157]. I impute it to thy
ignorance in things comely and martial, and not to thy design to
insult me. Though my own mother was French, learn that a Norman
despises a Frank only less than he doth a Jew."
"Crave your grace," said the Saxon, "but I thought all ye outlanders
were the same, rib and rib, sibbe and sibbe."
"Thou wilt know better, one of these days. March on, master Sexwolf."
The pass gradually opened on a wide patch of rugged and herbless
waste; and Sexwolf, riding up to the knight, directed his attention to
a stone, on which was inscribed the words, "Hic victor fuit
Haroldus,"--Here Harold conquered.
"In sight of a stone like that, no Walloon dare come," said the Saxon.
"A simple and classical trophy," remarked the Norman, complacently,
"and saith much. I am glad to see thy lord knows the Latin."
"I say not that he knows Latin," replied the prudent Saxon; fearing
that that could be no wholesome information on his lord's part, which
was of a kind to give gladness to the Norman--"Ride on while the road
lets ye--in God's name."
On the confines of Caernarvonshire, the troop halted at a small
village, round which had been newly dug a deep military-trench.
bristling with palisades, and within its confines might be seen,--some
reclined on the grass, some at dice, some drinking,--many men, whose
garbs of tanned hide, as well as a pennon waving from a little mound
in the midst, bearing the tiger heads of Earl Harold's insignia,
showed them to be Saxons.
"Here we shall learn," said Sexwolf, "what the Earl is about--and
here, at present, ends my journey."
"Are these the Earl's headquarters, then?--no castle, even of wood--no
wall, nought but ditch and palisades?" asked Mallet de Graville in a
tone between surprise and contempt.
"Norman," said Sexwolf, "the castle is there, though you see it not,
and so are the walls. The castle is Harold's name, which no Walloon
will dare to confront; and the walls are the heaps of the slain which
lie in every valley around." So saying, he wound his horn, which was
speedily answered, and led the way over a plank which admitted across
the trench.
"Not even a drawbridge!" groaned the knight.
Sexwolf exchanged a few words with one who seemed the head of the
small garrison, and then regaining the Norman, said: "The Earl and his
men have advanced into the mountainous regions of Snowdon; and there,
it is said, the blood-lusting Gryffyth is at length driven to bay.
Harold hath left orders that, after as brief a refreshment as may be,
I and my men, taking the guide he hath left for us, join him on foot.
There may now be danger: for though Gryffyth himself may be pinned to
his heights, he may have met some friends in these parts to start up
from crag and combe. The way on horse is impassable: wherefore,
master Norman, as our quarrel is not thine nor thine our lord, I
commend thee to halt here in peace and in safety, with the sick and
the prisoners."
"It is a merry companionship, doubtless," said the Norman; "but one
travels to learn, and I would fain see somewhat of thine uncivil
skirmishings with these men of the mountains; wherefore, as I fear my
poor mules are light of the provender, give me to eat and to drink.
And then shalt thou see, should we come in sight of the enemy, if a
Norman's big words are the sauce of small deeds."
"Well spoken, and better than I reckoned on," said Sexwolf, heartily.
While De Graville, alighting, sauntered about the village, the rest of
the troop exchanged greetings with their countrymen. It was, even to
the warrior's eye, a mournful scene. Here and there, heaps of ashes
and ruin-houses riddled and burned--the small, humble church,
untouched indeed by war, but looking desolate and forlorn--with sheep
grazing on large recent mounds thrown over the brave dead, who slept
in the ancestral spot they had defended.
The air was fragrant with spicy smells of the gale or bog myrtle; and
the village lay sequestered in a scene wild indeed and savage, but
prodigal of a stern beauty to which the Norman, poet by race, and
scholar by culture, was not insensible. Seating himself on a rude
stone, apart from all the warlike and murmuring groups, he looked
forth on the dim and vast mountain peaks, and the rivulet that rushed
below, intersecting the village, and lost amidst copses of mountain
ash. From these more refined contemplations he was roused by Sexwolf,
who, with greater courtesy than was habitual to him, accompanied the
theowes who brought the knight a repast, consisting of cheese, and
small pieces of seethed kid, with a large horn of very indifferent
mead.
"The Earl puts all his men on Welch diet," said the captain,
apologetically. "For indeed, in this lengthy warfare, nought else is
to be had!"
The knight curiously inspected the cheese, and bent earnestly over the
kid.
"It sufficeth, good Sexwolf," said he, suppressing a natural sigh.
"But instead of this honey-drink, which is more fit for bees than for
men, get me a draught of fresh water: water is your only safe drink
before fighting."
"Thou hast never drank ale, then!" said the Saxon; "but thy foreign
tastes shall be heeded, strange man."
A little after noon, the horns were sounded, and the troop prepared to
depart. But the Norman observed that they had left behind all their
horses: and his squire, approaching, informed him that Sexwolf had
positively forbidden the knight's steed to be brought forth.
"Was it ever heard before," cried Sire Mallet de Graville, "that a
Norman knight was expected to walk, and to walk against a foe too!
Call hither the villein,--that is, the captain."
But Sexwolf himself here appeared, and to him De Graville addressed
his indignant remonstrance. The Saxon stood firm, and to each
argument replied simply, "It is the Earl's orders;" and finally wound
up with a bluff--"Go or let alone: stay here with thy horse, or march
with us on thy feet."
"My horse is a gentleman," answered the knight, "and, as such, would
be my more fitting companion. But as it is, I yield to compulsion--I
bid thee solemnly observe, by compulsion; so that it may never be said
of William Mallet de Graville, that he walked, bon gre, to battle."
With that, he loosened his sword in the sheath, and, still retaining
his ring mail, fitting close as a shirt, strode on with the rest.
A Welch guide, subject to one of the Underkings (who was in allegiance
to England, and animated, as many of those petty chiefs were, with a
vindictive jealousy against the rival tribe of Gryffyth, far more
intense than his dislike of the Saxon), led the way.
The road wound for some time along the course of the river Conway;
Penmaen-mawr loomed before them. Not a human being came in sight, not
a goat was seen on the distant ridges, not a sheep on the pastures.
The solitude in the glare of the broad August sun was oppressive.
Some houses they passed--if buildings of rough stones, containing but
a single room, can be called houses--but they were deserted.
Desolation preceded their way, for they were on the track of Harold
the Victor. At length, they passed the cold Conovium, now Caer-hen,
lying low near the river. There were still (not as we now scarcely
discern them, after centuries of havoc,) the mighty ruins of the
Romans,--vast shattered walls, a tower half demolished, visible
remnants of gigantic baths, and, proudly rising near the present ferry
of Tal-y-Cafn, the fortress, almost unmutilated, of Castell-y-Bryn.
On the castle waved the pennon of Harold. Many large flat-bottomed
boats were moored to the river-side, and the whole place bristled with
spears and javelins.
Much comforted, (for,--though he disdained to murmur, and rather than
forego his mail, would have died therein a martyr,--Mallet de Graville
was mightily wearied by the weight of his steel,) and hoping now to
see Harold himself, the knight sprang forward with a spasmodic effort
at liveliness, and found himself in the midst of a group, among whom
he recognised at a glance his old acquaintance, Godrith. Doffing his
helm with its long nose-piece, he caught the thegn's hand, and
exclaimed:
"Well met, ventre de Guillaume! well met, O Godree the debonnair!
Thou rememberest Mallet de Graville, and in this unseemly guise, on
foot, and with villeins, sweating under the eyes of plebeian Phoebus,
thou beholdest that much-suffering man!"
"Welcome indeed," returned Godrith, with some embarrassment; "but how
camest thou hither, and whom seekest thou?"
"Harold, thy Count, man--and I trust he is here."
"Not so, but not far distant--at a place by the mouth of the river
called Caer Gyffin [158]. Thou shalt take boat, and be there ere the
sunset."
"Is a battle at hand? Yon churl disappointed and tricked me; he
promised me danger, and not a soul have we met."
"Harold's besom sweeps clean," answered Godrith, smiling. "But thou
art like, perhaps, to be in at the death. We have driven this Welch
lion to bay at last. He is ours, or grim Famine's. Look yonder;" and
Godrith pointed to the heights of Penmaen-mawr. "Even at this
distance, you may yet descry something grey and dim against the sky."
"Deemest thou my eye so ill practised in siege, as not to see towers?
Tall and massive they are, though they seem here as airy as roasts,
and as dwarfish as landmarks."
"On that hill-top, and in those towers, is Gryffyth, the Welch king,
with the last of his force. He cannot escape us; our ships guard all
the coasts of the shore; our troops, as here, surround every pass.
Spies, night and day, keep watch. The Welch moels (or beacon-rocks)
are manned by our warders. And, were the Welch King to descend,
signals would blaze from post to post, and gird him with fire and
sword. From land to land, from hill to hill, from Hereford to
Caerleon, from Caerleon to Milford, from Milford to Snowdon, through
Snowdon to yonder fort, built, they say, by the fiends or the giants,
--through defile and through forest, over rock, through morass, we have
pressed on his heels. Battle and foray alike have drawn the blood
from his heart; and thou wilt have seen the drops yet red on the way,
where the stone tells that Harold was victor."
"A brave man and true king, then, this Gryffyth," said the Norman,
with some admiration; "but," he added in a colder tone, "I confess,
for my own part, that though I pity the valiant man beaten, I honour
the brave man who wins; and though I have seen but little of this
rough land as yet, I can well judge from what I have seen, that no
captain, not of patience unwearied, and skill most consummate, could
conquer a bold enemy in a country where every rock is a fort."
"So I fear," answered Godrith, "that thy countryman Rolf found; for
the Welch beat him sadly, and the reason was plain. He insisted on
using horses where no horses could climb, and attiring men in full
armour to fight against men light and nimble as swallows, that skim
the earth, then are lost in clouds. Harold, more wise, turned our
Saxons into Welchmen, flying as they flew, climbing where they
climbed; it has been as a war of the birds. And now there rests but
the eagle, in his last lonely eyrie."
"Thy battles have improved thy eloquence much, Messire Godree," said
the Norman, condescendingly. "Nevertheless, I cannot but think a few
light horse----"
"Could scale yon mountain-brow?" said Godrith, laughing, and pointing
to Penmaen-mawr.
The Norman looked and was silent, though he thought to himself, "That
Sexwolf was no such dolt after all!"