SAXON SAINTS AND NORMAN SOLDIERS.

At the time when William the Conqueror was north of the Humber; when

the Normans were ruthlessly ravaging Northumberland with fire and

sword; when the bishop and clergy of Durham were carrying off the body

of St. Cuthbert to Holy Island; and when the invaders were

slaughtering man and beast without a thought of mercy, one spot of

ground escaped, as if by miracle, from devastation, and remained

cultivated and covered with buildings, when every other part of the

country around was laid waste or given to the flames. The land thus

miraculously saved from the spoiler's hand lay around, and belonged

to, the church of St. John of Beverley.

It appears that, in 1070, when the Normans were encamped about seven

miles from Beverley, many Northumbrians, in utter despair of resisting

the invaders with the slightest success, remembered, in the hour of

darkness, that St. John of Beverley was a saint of Saxon race, and, in

accordance with the ideas prevalent at the time, believed he was

potent enough to afford them protection. Alarmed beyond measure at the

approach of the Conqueror, and at the accounts of atrocities

perpetrated by the victorious Normans, many women of rank whose

husbands and brothers had fallen, and old men on the verge of the

grave, taking with them their most valuable property, gathered to the

church of Beverley, and prostrating themselves at the shrine of St.

John, prayed to their canonized countryman, "that he, remembering in

heaven he was born a Saxon, might protect them and their property from

the fury of the foreigners." Having thus committed themselves to the

care of St. John, the refugees awaited the issue, with fear and

trembling indeed, but not without hope of salvation.

In the meantime, there reached the Norman camp tidings that many

Northumbrians of great riches had sought shelter in the church of

Beverley, and that most of the wealth of the neighbourhood had been

lodged in safety within the walls. This report roused the avarice of

the invaders; nor did any thought of the sacred character of the

edifice, or of the saint to whom it was dedicated, restrain their

aspirations after plunder. Whatever an Umfraville or a Merley might

think of sacrilege, the crime was one which the majority of the

conquerors lightly regarded. Every consideration, however holy,

vanished in presence of the temptation presented by the prospect of

booty; and the warriors of the Conquest had as little hesitation in

robbing a church as in plundering a henhouse.

Among the military adventurers encamped near Beverley was a soldier

named Toustain. This man, who seems to have had neither scruples nor

fears, on hearing that spoil was to be easily come by, immediately

resolved on a foray. Buckling on his mail, calling out his men, and

mounting his horse, Toustain, at the head of his troops, rode from the

camp, and dashed across the country to Beverley, eager to commence the

work of pillage, and only uneasy at the possibility of any one being

before him.

But Toustain was destined to disappointment. Entering Beverley with

his band at his back, he rode on, and pursued his way towards the

church without encountering resistance, and found that the people had

taken refuge and crowded together in the cemetery. Giving his horse

the spur, Toustain leaped the wall; and running his keen eye along the

crowd, he was attracted by an old man, whose attire was of the richest

description.

The individual on whose figure the eye of Toustain thus rested was an

aged thane--so advanced in years, indeed, that he probably remembered

the days of Earl Uchtred. With his long, loose robe, long white hair,

and long white moustache, the aspect of the man was venerable and

striking. But what attracted Toustain's attention was not the white

beard, nor the long robes, but the bracelets with which, according to

the custom of the country, the arms of the aged thane were loaded. In

fact, the sight of the bracelets caused Toustain's eye to gleam with

avarice; and drawing his sword, he spurred forward with the intention

of making them his own.

But, according to the proverb, there is much between the cup and the

lip; and the truth of this Toustain now found to his cost. Terrified

at the Norman's drawn blade and menacing manner, the old thane

tottered hastily to the church, to place himself under the protection

of the patron saint of the place; and Toustain, who had no more

respect for the Saxon saint than for those who invoked his aid,

pursued sword in hand. Scarcely, however, had the Norman, with avarice

at his heart and blasphemy on his lips, spurred through the doorway,

when his horse, touching the pavement, slipped, lost its footing, and

fell, bearing its rider to the ground with a crash which seemed

sufficient to break every bone in his body.

On seeing their leader fall, and lie as if dead, the Norman soldiers

were seized with superstitious terror. It seemed as if the Saxon saint

had, in his wrath, struck Toustain down. Hurriedly turning their

horses' heads, they left Beverley at a gallop, hastened in terror to

their camp, and related to the companions of their enterprise the

terrible example which St. John of Beverley had just given of his

power. The accident produced a lasting effect on the invading army;

and when the Normans again marched to slay and plunder, not one

soldier in their ranks was daring enough to expose himself to

supernatural vengeance by molesting any person under the protection of

St. John of Beverley.

[Illustration]

XXVIII.

THE REDUCTION OF CHESTER.

While the conquerors of Northumberland passed the winter of 1070 at

York, and rested from the fatigues they had undergone in their

campaign north of the Humber, William occupied his mind with schemes

for the reduction of the country around Chester--"the one great city

of England that had not yet heard the tramp of the foreigners'

horses." When winter passed, and spring began to bring back the grass

to the fields and leaves to the trees, the Norman king intimated his

intention of setting out on the important expedition.

But the effect produced by William's orders, that war-steeds should be

saddled, and warriors should mount, to encounter new perils, was such

as he could hardly have anticipated. Loud murmurs immediately arose in

the army, especially among the auxiliaries from Anjou and Brittany.

Exaggerated accounts of the ruggedness of the province of Chester and

of the ferocity of the inhabitants circulated through the camp; and

the terrible hardships suffered in Northumberland utterly disinclined

the soldiers for a campaign on the banks of the Dee.

"This service," said they, "is more intolerable than slavery. We

demand leave to return to our homes."

"Wait awhile," said William, coaxingly: "after victory I promise you

repose; and with repose, great estates, as the reward of your

exertions."

After some difficulty the murmurs of the Normans were silenced; and

William, leading his army over the intervening mountains by paths till

then deemed impracticable for cavalry, entered the city of Chester as

a conqueror. Having erected a strong castle to keep the natives in

awe, he gave the command of the province to a Fleming, named Gherbaud,

with the title of Earl of Chester.

Elate, doubtless, with his good fortune, Gherbaud entered on his

duties with vigour. His ardour, however, was speedily damped. It

appeared that the accounts of the ferocity of the men of Chester that

had reached York were not altogether without foundation. The English

and Welsh, hitherto sworn foes, and continually at strife, seemed to

vie with each other in their attacks on the invaders. Harassed on

every hand, and exposed to continual anxiety and peril, Gherbaud grew

tired of Chester, abandoned his earldom, and intensely disgusted with

his taste of the conquered country, retired to Flanders.

It now appeared necessary to place the earldom of Chester in the hands

of a man who, while gifted with the governing faculty, could laugh at

danger, and fatigue, and ferocious foes. Accordingly, William, duly

weighing the circumstances of the case, conferred the post of danger

on that feudal personage who figures in the history of the period as

Hugh d'Avranches, and who, from bearing a wolf's head painted on his

shield, was familiarly known among his contemporaries as Hugh le Loup.

Hugh le Loup was son of Richard Gosse, and, on the mother's side,

stood to William in the relationship of nephew. Full of courage and

ambition, he shrunk neither from the perils nor the toils that had

disgusted and dismayed Gherbaud. Passing the Dee with his two

lieutenants, Robert de Malpas and Robert d'Avranches, Hugh conquered

Flintshire, and built a castle at Rhuddlan, which was occupied by

Robert d'Avranches; while Robert de Malpas having built a castle on a

high hill, gave the place his name, which it still bears. Both of

these warriors exhibited high courage, carried on a fierce war with

the natives, and fought sanguinary battles, in which they dyed their

spears in Welsh blood.

When Hugh le Loup found himself installed as Earl of Chester, but

surrounded on all sides by implacable foes, he naturally felt desirous

of having some of his countrymen at hand to share his fortunes. With

this view he sent to Normandy for an old friend, named Nigel, who

brought with him five brothers, to whom Hugh granted lands in the

earldom of Chester. Besides appointing Nigel Constable and Hereditary

Marshal of Chester, Hugh granted him the town of Halton, near the

Mersey, and all four-legged beasts of more than one colour taken from

the Welsh, besides other privileges; and the five brothers were all

provided for. One was gifted with the office of Constable of Halton,

and the lands of Weston and Ashton, with all the bulls taken from the

Welsh, and the best ox for the man-at-arms who carried his banner; the

second of the brothers received as much land as an ox could plough in

two days; the third, who was a priest, was gifted with the church of

Runcorn; and two others became lords of a domain in that village.

About the time that Hugh le Loup was consolidating his power in

Chester, Gilbert de Lacy, to whom William had granted the magnificent

domain of Pontefract, passed the mountains west of York, advancing

boldly into the county of Lancaster, which then formed part of

Chester. Gilbert took possession of this immense territory, extending

south and east to the borders of Yorkshire, forcibly expelled the

ancient proprietors, and constituted himself lord of the towns of

Blackburn and Rochdale, and all the land which he overran.

[Illustration: Flint Castle, on the Estuary of the Dee]

XXIX.

[Illustration: Ruins of the Forum at Rome]

LANFRANC OF PAVIA.

About Easter, 1070, three ecclesiastics of high rank, sent by the

Pope, at King William's request, arrived in England in the capacity of

legates. One was bishop of Sion, the other two were cardinals, and

their errand was to set the Church of England in order. After being

received by William with great honour, and magnificently entertained

in the castle of Winchester, the legates convoked a great assembly of

Norman priests and warriors, and summoned to it the Anglo-Saxon

prelates and abbots. Having opened the business of the assembly by

solemnly placing the Confessor's crown on the Conqueror's head, they

proceeded to the discharge of their harsh duties, and pronounced

sentence of deposition on many abbots and prelates.

Among those who were deposed, the most important, from his position

and influence, was Robert Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury. The

difficulty of finding a proper successor to Stigand was not

overlooked. Without delay, the legates prepared to bestow the

archbishopric of Canterbury on Lanfranc of Pavia, one of the greatest

scholars and most remarkable men of the century in which he lived.

Lanfranc was a native of the city of Pavia, and a man of gentle blood.

A scholar by nature, he early applied himself to those studies which

enabled him to figure as the leader of the intellectual movement of

the age. It has been said that, "to comprehend the extent of his

talents, one must be Herodian in grammar, Aristotle in dialectics,

Cicero in rhetoric, Augustine and Jerome in scriptural lore."

Becoming a monk of Bec-Hellouin, Lanfranc rapidly raised that humble

monastery to the dignity of a university, and came to be acknowledged

as the great teacher of Latin Christendom. So signal was his success,

and so high his reputation, that, from the remotest parts of Western

Europe, and even from Greece, students resorted to Bec-Hellouin as to

a new Athens.

While at Bec-Hellouin, Lanfranc had the gratification to gain the

confidence of William the Norman, and he became zealously attached to

the ambitious duke's fortunes. But a serious difference arose.

Lanfranc happened to set himself in opposition to William's marriage

with Matilda of Flanders, as being within the degrees of relationship

prohibited by the Church; and as, in regard to this affair, the duke

would brook no contradiction, the priest of Pavia was commanded to

depart. It is related that William, to speed Lanfranc on his way back

to his native land, sent him a horse so lame of one foot, that it

might be said to go on three legs, and that Lanfranc, meeting William

on the road, begged at least to have a quadruped, and not a tripod,

for his journey. But however that may have been, Lanfranc found his

way to Rome, and placed himself under the wing of the Pope.

Once at Rome, Lanfranc began carefully to examine the case of

William's relationship to Matilda in all its bearings. Ere long, his

opinion as to its merits underwent a change. After examining canon and

precedent, he arrived at the conclusion that, though the letter of the

law was against the union of the duke and the Flemish princess, yet

that the alliance came under the category of those to which the Church

should accord dispensation. Having convinced himself on this point,

Lanfranc exerted his efforts earnestly as William's advocate, and

though dealing with a Pope decidedly averse to the marriage, he

managed matters so skilfully as to obtain a formal dispensation, which

not only restored him to the Norman duke's good opinion, but gave him

a higher place in the martial magnate's favour than he before

occupied.

Removed from the cloisters of Bec-Hellouin to figure as Abbot of Caen,

Lanfranc became the soul of William's councils and his plenipotentiary

at Rome. He it was who, in that capacity, brought to a successful

issue the negotiations regarding the invasion of England.

When the papal legate proposed Lanfranc as Stigand's successor in the

archbishopric of Canterbury, William gladly approved of the selection.

Lanfranc was then at Caen. No time, however, was lost in sending him

to England. Matilda hastened his departure; and his arrival was

celebrated by the Normans with joy. "He is," said they, "an institutor

sent from God to reform the habits of the English."

The gratification which the elevation of Lanfranc caused was not

confined to the conquerors of Neustria and England. The Pope evinced

his high satisfaction by sending his own pallium to the new

archbishop, with an epistle worded in the most complimentary strain.

"I long to see your face," wrote the Pontiff, "and am only consoled

for your absence by reflecting on the happy fruits which England will

derive from your care."

When Lanfranc made his entry into Canterbury, the condition to which

the church was reduced filled his heart with sadness. During the

Conquest the edifice had met with rough treatment. It had been

pillaged, despoiled of its ornaments, and even set on fire, and the

high altar was half buried beneath a heap of rubbish.

It was not difficult for a man of Lanfranc's influence to repair the

church; but there was a grave question, whether Canterbury or York

should possess the primacy of England, which had long furnished matter

for dispute. It was a serious controversy, and one from which Lanfranc

felt that it would ill become him to shrink.

By this time the Saxon Alred, bowed down with sorrow, had gone where

the weary are at rest, and Thomas, one of William's Norman chaplains,

figured as Archbishop of York. Thomas was naturally reluctant to give

up his claims; and some of the earlier evidences were so ambiguous,

that he had a fair excuse for being pertinacious. After a long

process, however, Lanfranc established his claim to the primacy;

became, as such, first member of the Grand Council of State, and by

his success established the great principle, "that whatever rights had

legally subsisted before the Conquest were to be preserved and

maintained, unaffected by the accession of a new dynasty."

After thus being recognised as primate, Lanfranc was hailed as, "by

the grace of God, father of all the churches," and as such undertook a

task of great delicacy. Owing to the ignorance of Anglo-Saxon

transcribers, the text of the biblical books had become much

corrupted; and Lanfranc employed himself in a new edition of the Holy

Scriptures, diligently occupying himself with the work, and executing

much of it with his own hand. The Saxons, incapable of comprehending

the necessity that existed for such revision, raised a cry that the

primate was falsifying the sacred books. But Lanfranc went on with his

labours, and without heeding the hostile attitude assumed towards him

by the vanquished islanders, was ever zealous in standing up for their

rights. He endeavoured to enact the part of a father to the conquered

populace; he devoted his whole energies to the service of his adopted

country, and he ever rejoiced in the name of Englishman.

[Illustration]

XXX.

[Illustration: Edwin, Earl of Mercia, and the daughters of the

Conqueror.]

EDWIN AND MORKAR.

While Lanfranc was, as Archbishop of Canterbury, establishing his

claims to the primacy of England, the year 1071 witnessed the utter

ruin of that great Saxon House of which, in the days of Edward the

Confessor, Leofric, Earl of Mercia, had been the head.

Edwin and Morkar, the sons of Algar, and grandsons of Leofric and

Godiva, were fair to look upon and pleasant to converse with. They

were proud, indeed, but their pride did not detract from their

popularity. The people rather thought it became them; for it was well

known that, while the immediate forefathers of most Saxon thanes had

held the plough or enriched themselves by trade, the Mercian earls

could justly boast of a long pedigree. Leofric, the husband of Godiva,

was sixth in descent from his renowned ancestor of the same name; and

his heirs were all the prouder of the circumstance, that their

position had been maintained with honour and dignity, while other

families, yielding to wars, revolutions, and confiscations, had ceased

to exist or degenerated into ceorles.

Edwin, Earl of Mercia, was considered the handsomest man of his age.

With the earldom of Leofric, he had inherited the beauty of Godiva.

His frank features, valiant spirit, and engaging manners made him a

great favourite with men; and few women, whether peasant girls or

princesses, could look without admiration upon his fair face, blue

eyes, handsome figure, and the long light hair that flowed over his

manly shoulders.

Edwin and Morkar had taken no part in the battle of Hastings. That,

however, was no fault of theirs, for Harold, rashly as it would seem,

had left London to encounter the Normans before his brothers-in-law

could possibly bring up the men of the north to his aid. On reaching

London they heard of his defeat and fall.

The idea of aspiring to the vacant throne was not unnatural to men

situated as Edwin and Morkar were. They accordingly appeared as

candidates for the difficult post of King of England. What might have

been the result if one of them had been elected it would be useless to

speculate. Sufficient it is to say that the adherents of Edgar

Atheling were too resolute to be influenced and too numerous to be

overawed. Finding their claims disregarded, Edwin and Morkar took

their sister Aldith, the widow of Harold, from the palace of

Westminster, escorted her to Chester, and then repaired to York with

some dream of separating the northern provinces from the rest of

England, and defending them to the death against the Norman invaders.

Events speedily opened the eyes of the northern earls to the absurdity

of their project. Almost every day brought to York such intelligence

as convinced them that they were pursuing an impolitic course; and

when they learned that William the Norman had obtained possession of

London and the Confessor's crown, they deemed it prudent to hasten

southward to present themselves to the Conqueror, to profess their

friendship, and offer their allegiance.

William, well understanding the importance of being recognised as king

by such men as Edwin and Morkar, treated the sons of Algar with

distinction. Moreover, to insure the fidelity of the two brothers,

William promised Edwin one of his daughters in marriage; and,

fascinated by the prospects opened up to their view, they remained

quietly and submissively at the Conqueror's court. It does not appear

to have occurred to them that they were regarded in the light either

of captives or of hostages.

As months passed on, however, and William, anxious to display himself

on the Continent in his new character, prepared to embark at Pevensey

for Normandy, Edwin and Morkar suddenly learned their real position.

The Conqueror peremptorily commanded the attendance of the two Saxon

earls, and they were fain to obey. But it was with sullen reluctance;

and when, after having been duly admired and criticised by the dames

and damsels at the court of Rouen, they returned to England, it was

with a determination to break their chains without delay.

Matters were soon brought to a crisis. Edwin reminded William of the

promise of his daughter's hand, and demanded her in marriage. William

made a reply which sounded like a refusal, and seemed to savour of

insult. The Saxon earl tossed back his head with an air of defiance,

as if to indicate his opinion that the granddaughter of Arlette would

have been highly honoured by becoming the wife of the grandson of

Godiva. Soon after, it was publicly known that Edwin and Morkar,

having escaped from the court, had departed for the north; and the

prayers of the people accompanied them in their flight, while monks

and priests offered up fervent orisons for their safety and success.

The prayers and orisons, however, cannot be said to have proved of

much avail. The enterprise of Edwin and Morkar resulted in failure;

the Saxon earls were fain to retreat to the borders of Scotland; and

events ere long seeming to render the Saxon cause hopeless, the

chiefs, after William's coronation at York, lost heart and hope, and

consented to capitulate. On the banks of the Tees, where William was

encamped, a formal reconciliation took place. Edwin and Morkar, with

other Saxons of high name, made their peace with the Conqueror, and

with a sigh for the freedom they left behind, returned to his court.

Brief, however, was the residence of the Saxon earls in the halls of

the Norman king. In fact, the deposition of the Saxon bishops, and the

sufferings they had to endure, fired the soul of every Saxon with

fierce indignation. A mighty conspiracy was formed, with ramifications

over all England; and men, driven to the last stage of despair,

determined to establish an extensive armed station.

At that time the district to the north of Cambridgeshire, of which Ely

and Croyland formed part, was almost a moving bog, intersected by

rivers, overgrown with rushes and willows, clouded with fogs and

vapours, and presenting the appearance of a vast lake interspersed

with islands. On these islands there stood, as monuments of the piety

of the Saxon kings, religious houses, built on piles and earth brought

from a distance--here an abbey, there a hermitage.

It was to this district, wholly impracticable for cavalry and

heavily-armed troops, that Saxon chiefs despoiled of their lands, and

Saxon priests deprived of their livings, repaired in great numbers.

Constructing intrenchments of earth and wood, they formed what was

called the Camp of Refuge. Thither, from Scotland, came Robert

Stigand, the deposed Archbishop of Canterbury, and Eghelwin, the

deposed Bishop of Durham; and thither, from the court of the Norman,

after having escaped countless perils, and wandered for months in

woods and solitary places, came Edwin and Morkar, the Saxon earls.

William was startled at this second escape of his long-haired

captives, and by no means easy at the idea of their being at liberty.

He immediately contrived to convey to them promises never intended to

be kept, and Morkar was sufficiently credulous to listen. Yielding to

the temptations held out, the young earl abandoned the camp at Ely.

Scarcely, however, had he left the intrenchments when he was seized,

bound hand and foot, carried to a Norman castle, put forcibly in

irons, and left under the custody of Robert de Beaumont--one of those

men from whose keeping there was small chance of escaping.

Edwin, hearing of his brother's imprisonment, became somewhat

desperate. He resolved to leave Ely, not to surrender, but to struggle

so long as life remained. With a few adherents he wandered for six

months from place to place, vainly endeavouring to rouse his

countrymen to a great effort for their deliverance. While thus

occupied he was betrayed by three of his officers, who basely sold him

to the Normans. Warned of his danger, Edwin was one day riding, with

twenty attendants, towards the sea, with some notion of reaching the

coast of Scotland, when a band of Normans suddenly rushed upon him.

Endeavouring to escape, the Saxon earl galloped on; but stopped by a

brook so swollen with the tide that it was impossible to cross, he

dismounted from his steed and turned desperately to bay.

Nor in that hour did the young and popular Saxon earl bear himself in

a manner unworthy of his position as one of the great race which for

six centuries had given kings and war-chiefs to the British isles. For

a long time he defended himself with heroic courage against a host of

assailants; and at last--when overborne by numbers and forced to his

knees, he fell as, in such circumstances, a brave man should--he died

without fear, as he had fought without hope.

The death of Edwin was lamented by Normans as well as Saxons; even the

grim Conqueror's heart was touched to the core. When the head of the

Saxon earl, with its long, flowing hair, was carried to London,

William could not restrain his tears. The king, says the chronicler,

wept over the fate of one whom he loved, and whom he would fain have

attached to his fortunes.

XXXI.

[Illustration: OLD FOREST LAWS]

IVO TAILLE-BOIS.

Among the martial adventurers of the Continent whom William the

Norman, before sailing to the Conquest, allured to his standard, and

whose services he rewarded with the lands and lordships of the

Saxons, slain, imprisoned, or expatriated during his progress from the

coast of Sussex to the verge of "mountainous Northumberland," one of

the most unpopular with the vanquished islanders was Ivo Taille-Bois.

Nevertheless, Ivo Taille-Bois was a remarkable man in his way. A

native of Angers, he came to the Conquest as a captain of Angevin

auxiliaries, with a spirit equally mercenary and unscrupulous. Fortune

favoured his career; and having done much work from which a Norman

noble would have shrunk, he found that his aspirations after wealth

and power were likely to be realized. It was on the ruins of the great

House of Leofric that Ivo eventually contrived to exalt himself.

When Edwin was killed, under circumstances so touching, and Morkar was

imprisoned, under circumstances so melancholy, Ivo Taille-Bois

received in marriage Lucy, the youngest sister of the two earls, and

with her a large part of their hereditary domains. This immediately

made Ivo a man of importance; and as the bulk of his land was situated

about Spalding, towards the borders of Cambridge and Lincoln, he

called himself Viscount of Spalding, and began to let the inhabitants

feel his territorial power in such a way, that they cursed the chance

which had metamorphosed a captain of mercenaries into a feudal lord.

Among a band of conquerors such as accompanied William the Norman to

England, there must always be many more or less tyrannical to the

vanquished; but the tyranny of Ivo Taille-Bois was something by

itself. He was so fond of outraging the feelings and invading the

rights of the populace, that he seemed to indulge in it as a luxury;

and no humility on their part could in the slightest degree mitigate

his violence. It was in vain that they paid all the rents he demanded;

that they rendered all the services he required; that they appeared in

his presence on bended knee; and that they addressed him in the most

deferential tone: he only became the more cruel and more exacting.

The account given by a contemporary chronicler of the oppressions

practised by Ivo Taille-Bois on the inhabitants of the district

subject to his sway is sufficient, even at this distance of time, to

excite strong indignation. Though they rendered him all possible

honour, he showed them neither affability nor kindness; on the

contrary, he vexed them, imprisoned them, tormented them, and tortured

them. Often he hounded his dogs on their cattle while quietly grazing,

drove their beasts into the marshes, drowned them in ponds, broke

their backs or limbs, and by mutilating them in various ways, rendered

them unfit for service.

Ivo seemed to delight in cruelty for cruelty's sake; and under such

treatment, the people who were his victims gradually gave way to

despair. Selling what little they still possessed, they sought in

other lands the peace no longer to be found at home. Ivo, however,

feeling the necessity of somebody to oppress, and looking round, fixed

his eyes on some Saxon monks.

It happened that there stood near Spalding, and by the gates of the

terrible Angevin, a religious house which was dependent on the abbey

of Croyland and inhabited by some of the Croyland monks. Ivo, having

forced the peasantry of the neighbourhood to decamp, turned his

attention to this religious house, and soon succeeded in making it an

earthly purgatory. The monks attempted to save themselves by

refraining from giving the slightest offence; but this only added to

his bitterness. He lamed their horses and cattle, killed their sheep

and poultry, attacked their servants on the highway, and oppressed

their tenants in every way which his ingenuity could invent.

Nevertheless, the monks held on. Not by any means inclined to yield

their home without a struggle, they did all they could, by prayers,

supplications, and presents to his dependents, to soften Ivo's heart.

But they were utterly unsuccessful. They found that matters became

worse and worse. Their patience and long-suffering came to an end.

They packed up their books and their sacred vessels, and committing

their house to God's keeping, prepared to depart. "We have tried all,

and suffered all," said they; "now let us begone;" and shaking the

dust from their feet, they repaired to Croyland.

On the departure of the monks Ivo was rejoiced beyond measure. He

immediately despatched a messenger to his native town of Angers, and

requested to have some holy men sent over to England. A prior and five

monks soon appeared, and took possession of the religious house at

Spalding. The Abbot of Croyland, who was an Anglo-Saxon, protested

against their installation, and complained to the king's council

against proceedings so lawless. But no redress could be obtained; and

Ivo Taille-Bois continued in the daily perpetration of enormities, for

which, had he lived two centuries later, he would have been tried

before a jury at Westminster, and hanged at the Nine Elms.

[Illustration: Norman rustic (from Strutt)]

XXXII.

[Illustration: Tattershall Castle, Lincolnshire.]

HEREWARD THE SAXON.

While Edgar Atheling was seeking refuge in Scotland, and while Edwin

and Morkar were, by their wavering, bringing ruin on the House of

Leofric, and rendering the Saxon cause utterly hopeless, there was

living in Flanders a native of England, who bore the name of Hereward

and a high reputation for courage and prowess.

Hereward, having long been settled in Flanders, had taken no part in

the earlier struggle between Normans and Saxons. Some of the

vanquished islanders, however, flying from the Conqueror's sword,

sought their countryman, and intimated that they brought him bad news.

"Your father," said the exiles, "has been dead for a year; your mother

has been exposed to many indignities and vexations; and your heritage

is in possession of a foreigner."

"By the Holy Rood!" exclaimed Hereward, "if such are the tidings you

bring from England, it is high time for me to be there."

After this, Hereward was not guilty of any delay. He prepared for a

voyage, embarked for England, reached the coast, and made his way to

Lincolnshire, where, surrounded by woodland and marshes, with a wide

avenue in front, and an orchard in the rear, near the abbeys of

Croyland and Peterborough, and near the Isle of Ely, stood the rude

wooden mansion which his fathers had called their own. The sight of

his birthplace fired Hereward's patriotism; and making himself known

to such of his friends and kinsmen as had survived the struggle, he

induced them to arm. Having, without exciting the suspicion of the

Normans, assembled them in a body, he attacked the foreigner who had

evicted his mother, and conducted the enterprise with such courage,

that he was enabled to take possession of his property.

But scarcely had Hereward installed himself in his paternal property,

when he found that he could not, with safety, limit his operations to

a single exploit. Accordingly he commenced a partisan warfare in the

neighbourhood of his dwelling, and at the head of his little band

encountered the garrisons of towns and strongholds. Such were the

skill and courage he displayed, that his name soon became celebrated

over England. Songs in his praise were sung in the streets, and the

Saxons turned their eyes towards him with hope long unfelt.

On hearing of the exploits of Hereward, the Saxons who had formed the

Camp of Refuge at Ely requested him to become their captain; and

Hereward, most readily consenting, passed, with the comrades of his

victories, to the Isle. His arrival excited the courage and revived

the hopes of the Saxons. Before taking the command, however, he

desired to become a member of the high Saxon militia, and to be

admitted with the proper ceremonies into that body.

The demand was suggestive of some difficulties, for it was necessary

to have the services of a priest of high rank to bless the arms, and

at this stage of the Conquest few priests of high rank were

sufficiently courageous to defy the wrath of the conquerors. Among

those, however, who regarded Hereward as the hero destined to save his

country was Brand, the Abbot of Peterborough. This abbot, a man of

high temper and indomitable spirit, consented to perform the ceremony;

and Hereward repaired to the abbey. Having confessed at evening, and

watched all night in the church, he laid his sword on the altar at the

hour of mass in the morning, received, while kneeling, his blade from

the hand of the abbot, took the sacrament, and rose to go forth and

wield it in the cause of his country.

The ceremony that was performed in the abbey of Peterborough was no

secret to the Normans in the neighbourhood. The knights with whom

Hereward had crossed swords soon learned that he had repaired to the

abbey, and sneered scornfully at the idea of a warrior's belt being

girded on by an abbot.

"He who has his sword girded on by a priest," said they, "is not

knight, but a degenerate burgess."

But it was against the Saxon abbot, in the first place, and not

against Hereward, that the wrath of the conquerors was directed. No

sooner did news of the ceremony at Peterborough reach the ears of

those high in authority, than Brand was doomed; and ere long soldiers

appeared to seize him in the king's name. They, however, were too

late. Before their arrival he had breathed his last; and a foreigner

was, without delay, appointed to fill the bold Saxon's place.

Among the fighting churchmen whom the Conquest had introduced to

England was a native of Fécamp, named Turauld. Accommodated with an

abbey at the expense of the vanquished, this man had rendered himself

notorious by the stern method he used of drilling the Saxon monks into

discipline. Whenever they proved refractory he was in the habit of

crying, "A moi, mes hommes d'armes;" and he made his abbey the scene

of military violence.

The system pursued by Turauld in his abbey soon became a matter of

notoriety, and reached the king's ears. William thought himself bound

to interfere, but was at some loss to decide in what way such an

offender should be punished. On the death of Abbot Brand, however, the

difficulty vanished, and Turauld was immediately appointed to the

abbey of Peterborough.

"That is somewhat near the Saxon Camp of Refuge," remarked Turauld.

"It is a dangerous post, doubtless," said William, smiling grimly;

"but very fit for an abbot who is so good a soldier."

Attended by Norman warriors, Turauld in due time approached

Peterborough to take possession. But apprehensive of danger, he halted

some leagues from the abbey, and sent men forward to ascertain the

position of the refugees.

The monks of Peterborough, in the utmost trepidation, determined to

admit the foreigner; and Hereward, not unaware of their intentions,

made a descent on the abbey. Finding that the monks could not be

relied on, he resolved on a desperate expedient. While the scouts of

Turauld were making observations, he carried off the crosses,

chalices, sacred vessels, and whatever valuable ornaments the abbey

contained, and conveyed them by water to the camp.

"Now," he said, "we have hostages for the fidelity of the monks."

Soon after Hereward left the abbey of Peterborough, Turauld,

encompassed by Norman lances, presented himself at the gates. The

monks, trembling for their lives, bent their shaven crowns, and

admitted their new abbot without hesitation; and Turauld, having taken

possession, was forthwith installed. At the same time he appropriated

sixty-two hides of land belonging to the abbey to his soldiers, to

reward their services and encourage their zeal.

Meantime, Ivo Taille-Bois, clad in his linked mail, and followed by

armed men, rode to the abbey of Peterborough. On being admitted to the

abbot's presence Ivo proposed an expedition to the Isle of Ely, to

destroy the Camp of Refuge and crush the insurgents. Turauld

sanctioned the expedition, but declined to take an active part in it;

and everything having been arranged, the Angevin viscount advanced

boldly with his men through the forests and willows which served the

Saxons as intrenchments, while the abbot, surrounded by Normans of

high rank, remained at what he considered a safe distance.

But Ivo Taille-Bois was destined to miss his foes, and Turauld to meet

those whom Ivo sought. Aware of the projects of the Normans and of

their movements, Hereward was on the alert. Contriving to escape

unobserved from the wood by one side while Ivo entered by the other,

the Saxon chief, leaving the Angevin viscount to pursue his search in

vain, fell suddenly upon the abbot and the abbot's Norman attendants,

seized them without difficulty as prisoners, and kept them securely in

the marshes till they paid a large ransom.

Nevertheless, the position of Hereward and his comrades became every

day more perilous. About this time, however, they were reinforced by

allies, whose presence inspired them with some hope of accomplishing

their country's deliverance. Indignant at his brother's conduct at

York, Sweyn, King of Denmark, fitted out a new fleet, and came in

person to the aid of the vanquished islanders. But the royal Dane soon

tired of an enterprise which he found was much less promising than he

had anticipated. After sailing up the Humber without receiving any

particular encouragement, he returned to Denmark.

But, however disappointed he might have been, Sweyn, while departing

from the shores of England, did not withdraw his fleet. Entering

Boston Wash, the Danish ships, by the mouth of the Ouse and the Glen,

succeeded in reaching the Isle of Ely. Hereward hailed with joy the

arrival of the Danes, and welcomed them as friends and liberators.

William was startled at the arrival of Danish auxiliaries, but he was

not particularly perplexed. Perfectly comprehending how to deal with

King Sweyn, the Conqueror hastened to send ambassadors to Denmark with

artful messages and costly presents. The successor of Canute,

completely won over to the Norman cause, did without scruple that

which he had, some months earlier, punished his brother for doing; and

Hereward and his comrades soon learned to their dismay that they were

once more betrayed by their Northern allies.

When the Danes at Ely, on whose powerful aid Hereward had built such

hopes, received orders to return home, they were far from manifesting

any reluctance. They seemed determined, however, not to go

empty-handed. In fact, the temptation of carrying off the ornaments

and sacred vessels which Hereward had brought from the abbey of

Peterborough was more than the grisly Northmen could resist; and

seizing everything in the way of treasure upon which they could lay

hands, they embarked, and turning the prows of their ships homewards,

gave their sails to the wind, laughing grimly at the ridiculous plight

in which they left the men they had come to save.

Affairs now hurried to a catastrophe. Ivo Taille-Bois and Abbot

Turauld rejoiced in the hope of triumph and revenge; and Hereward

could not but confess that the prospects of the Saxons at Ely were

dismal in the extreme. By-and-by news reached the Camp of Refuge that

William was assembling forces, and that a great blow was to be struck,

and as weeks passed on, the Camp of Refuge was invested by land and

water. On every side workmen were set to form dykes and causeways over

the marshes; and on the west, over waters covered with reeds and

willows, the Normans commenced the construction of a road three

hundred paces in length.

But most of the labour was found to be in vain. The Normans had no

rest. Hereward and his friends, incessant in their attacks and artful

in their stratagems, constantly interrupted the work; and the workmen,

finding themselves disturbed in the most sudden and unexpected manner,

gave way to superstitious terror.

"Assuredly," they exclaimed, "this Hereward is in league with the Evil

One."

"Think you so?" cried Ivo Taille-Bois; "then we must fight him with

his own weapons."

The idea of the Angevin viscount was highly approved of; and he soon

procured the services of a witch, whose enchantments, he declared,

would disenchant Hereward's operations. Accordingly this woman was

brought to the scene of action, and posted in a wooden tower at the

place where the work was in progress. The result, however, was not

such as Ivo had predicted. In fact, while the Norman pioneers and

soldiers were all confident in the potency of the witch's charms,

Hereward suddenly made a sally, set fire to the osiers that covered

the marsh like a forest, and gave witch, workmen, and warriors to the

flames.

At this fresh misfortune the Normans began to consider their

enterprise hopeless, and the blood of Ivo Taille-Bois boiled at the

thought of being baffled by a "degenerate burgess" like Hereward. The

address and activity of the Saxon chief really seemed to preclude the

possibility of success. Nevertheless, the Normans persevered; and for

months the Isle of Ely was blockaded so closely that provisions were

with extreme difficulty obtained from without.

When the operations reached this stage, William bethought him of the

monks of Ely, and devised a scheme for enforcing their aid. Without

warning he seized all the manors belonging to the abbey situated

without the Isle; and the monks, unable to endure poverty and misery,

and the famine that stared them in the face, resolved to put an end to

the contest. With this view they sent to the Norman camp, and offered

to show a passage, on condition of being left in possession of their

property. Gilbert de Clare and William Warren having plighted their

faith, and a treaty having been entered into, the monks fulfilled

their promise, and the Normans prepared to penetrate into the Isle.

Hereward and the Saxons, utterly unsuspicious of the treachery of the

monks of Ely, were resting from their arduous exertions, when the

sound of arms and the war-cry of Normans intimated that their foes

were upon them. Completely taken by surprise, the Saxons were in no

position to resist; and after a thousand of them had fallen, the camp

was closely surrounded, and the majority were forced to lay down their

arms. But better far would it have been for them to fight to the last.

Many of those who submitted had their hands cut off and their eyes put

out, and were then turned adrift as warnings against future revolts;

others--and among them Archbishop Stigand and Bishop Eghelwin--were

incarcerated and sentenced to imprisonment for life.

But in the midst of carnage and disaster, Hereward was undaunted. When

others laid down their arms, he still disdained the thought of

yielding. Closely attended by a few zealous adherents, the Saxon

chief broke from the assailants, retreated by paths into which the

Normans did not venture to follow, passed from marsh to marsh, and

overcoming every obstacle, made his way to the lowlands of

Lincolnshire.

It happened that the Normans had a station in the immediate

neighbourhood of the place where Hereward and his friends found

themselves after their hair-breadth escape. The temptation of a daring

adventure was, under the circumstances, irresistible. Hereward made

himself known to some fishermen, who were in the habit of every day

taking fish to the garrison; and the fishermen, sympathizing with his

views, were induced to lend their aid. Receiving Hereward and his

companions into the boats, and concealing them under straw, the

fishermen, next day, approached the station as usual; and the Normans,

who were just sitting down to dinner, preparatory to riding forth on

an expedition, were not in the least apprehensive of danger. Suddenly

strange voices were heard, and Hereward and his men entering with

their axes in their hands, rushed upon the Normans, and hewed down

many before they knew what was taking place. Alarmed and despairing,

the survivors fled, leaving their horses, which were ready saddled, a

prey to the victors.

After this exploit, which struck dismay into the hearts of his

enemies, and considerably modified the joy with which the Normans

announced their success at Ely, Hereward resumed operations with his

old spirit. With a band of patriotic men, which gradually swelled to

the number of a hundred, the indomitable Saxon performed countless

feats of valour. Ever lying in ambush, and granting no quarter, he

exerted his skill and energy with such effect, that he well avenged,

if he could not redeem, the disaster of Ely. His comrades, all well

armed and inspired by his example, encountered the foe with a degree

of courage seldom equalled, and appearing suddenly at various points,

never shrunk from odds save such as appeared overwhelming. Not one of

them was known to have declined a conflict with fewer than four

Normans; and Hereward, on his part, often fought with as many as

seven.

While Hereward was signalizing his prowess and courage in such a way

that his name was idolized all over England, a lady of large

property, named Alswithe, hearing of his fame and admiring his

exploits, offered him her hand. Grateful for such a mark of esteem,

Hereward accepted the proposal, and married her without delay. But

Alswithe, dreading her husband's continual exposure to danger,

employed all her influence to induce him to make his peace with the

Conqueror; and Hereward, who loved his wife tenderly, gradually

yielded to her entreaties, and at length accepted the king's peace.

Having exchanged peril for security, and glory for ease, Hereward

indulged in dreams of peace and comfort. But the Normans were not

disposed to spare so formidable a foe. Determined to rid the country,

by some means, of one who might again prove a mighty adversary, they

several times attacked his house without success. One day, however,

Fortune placed him in their power.

It was a summer afternoon; and, after having dined, Hereward stretched

himself in his orchard, with his hound at his feet, to enjoy some

repose. He was without a coat of mail, but beside him lay his sword

and a short spear, which Saxons of his rank always carried with them.

As Hereward slept, a band of armed men, led by Asselm, a Norman, and

Raoul de Dol, a knight of Brittany, cautiously penetrated into the

orchard; and he, suddenly awakened by the barking of the hound, found

himself hemmed in. But even in this emergency the heart of the hero

did not fail him. Rising with a bound, before which the armed band

recoiled, he faced his foes and demanded their errand.

"Whom seek you?" he asked, sternly.

"You," was the significant answer.

"False traitors!" he cried; "the king has granted me his peace. Seek

you me for my goods or my life?"

"Both."

"Then," exclaimed Hereward, "ye shall pay for them dearly!" and with

these words he thrust his short spear with such force against a Norman

knight who stood near, that it pierced through the hauberk into the

heart, and came out dripping with life's blood.

The Normans, startled, but confident in their numbers, now attempted

to close with Hereward, and inflicted numerous wounds. But the Saxon

hero returned blow for blow. When his spear broke he drew his sword,

and made so desperate a resistance, that, at times, the issue of the

combat appeared doubtful. Even when his sword broke on the helmet of

one of his antagonists, he continued to fight with the pommel; and

fifteen Normans had fallen beneath his hand, when he, at once,

received four lance thrusts, and felt himself borne to the ground.

Still he continued to struggle. Seizing a buckler, he struck Raoul de

Dol so fiercely in the face, that the warlike Breton fell dead on the

spot. But strength and life were now spent, and Hereward sank and

expired.

As Hereward lay dead, Asselm, the Norman, cut off the hero's head, but

not without an emphatic expression of admiration. "By the virtue of

God!" he exclaimed, "I swear that I have never in my life seen so

valiant a man!"

[Illustration: Fen country near Boston.]

XXXIII.

BUILDING OF BATTLE ABBEY.

While pursuing his victorious career, William the Conqueror did not

forget the vow which, immediately after the battle of Hastings, he

made to erect an abbey, to be dedicated to the Holy Trinity and to St.

Martin, the patron of the warriors of Gaul.

It is related that, when the foundations were dug, and the first

stones of the edifice laid, the architects discovered that there would

be a deficiency of water. Somewhat disconcerted, they repaired to

William, and acquainted him with the untoward circumstance.

"Never mind," said the Conqueror, in a tone more jovial than his wont;

"work away, and, if God give me life, there shall be more wine among

the monks of Battle Abbey than there is in the best convent of

Christendom."

According to William's orders, the work was proceeded with: the outer

walls were traced round the hill which Harold and his men had covered

with their bodies; and the adjacent land was granted to the abbey.

When the building of Battle Abbey was finished, William offered his

sword and the regal robe he had worn at his coronation; and

seven-score monks were brought from the great convent of Marmontiers,

near Tours, to inhabit the edifice and pray for the souls of all who

had died on the field. This magnificent structure is now in ruins, and

the altar-stone, standing amid stagnant water, marks the spot where

the Pope's consecrated banner was planted by William in the hour of

carnage and victory.

[Illustration]

XXXIV.

MALCOLM CANMORE.

After devastating Northumberland, reducing the men of Chester, and

entirely crushing the refugees in the camp of Ely, William turned his

attention towards the reduction of Scotland, where reigned a king who

had some power and much inclination to work him annoyance.

Malcolm Canmore was son of Duncan, King of Scots, whose murder by

Macbeth, Buchanan has narrated and Shakspeare immortalized. In danger

of being destroyed by the usurper, Malcolm and his brother, Donald

Bane, after lurking for awhile in Scotland, resolved to fly--one made

for Northumberland, the other for the Western Isles.

At that time Siward the Dane ruled Northumberland; and of that great

and sapient earl the mother of Malcolm had been a near kinswoman. This

circumstance was sufficient to insure the Scottish prince a friendly

reception; and, on reaching York, he had the consolation of being

treated with every possible kindness. Moreover, when Siward carried

him to the court of Westminster, the Confessor--who could not help

comparing Malcolm's circumstances to his own, while an exile in

Normandy--after expressing a strong sympathy with his misfortunes, and

a strong interest in his welfare, bade him be of good cheer.

At the Confessor's court, among Saxon thanes and Norman chevaliers,

Malcolm might have learned to forget the crown which he had lost and

the rude land from which he had been forced to fly; but it happened

that Macbeth, after forfeiting the popularity by the aid of which he

had usurped the Scottish throne, became a cruel and rapacious tyrant.

The Scots, in disgust, manifested a decided desire for Malcolm's

restoration; and Macduff, thane of Fife, abandoning Macbeth's cause,

espoused that of Malcolm with enthusiasm and energy.

About the time of Godwin's restoration to England, messages of

encouragement from the north of the Tweed reached Malcolm in his

exile; and, without much hesitation, the young prince, now grown to be

a man of huge stature, resolved on an expedition to regain his

father's crown. Powerful was the aid on which he had to rely; for the

Confessor readily lent his countenance to the enterprise, and Siward

undertook to conduct it to a successful issue.

A fleet was soon fitted out to land soldiers on the Scottish coast;

and an army of horse, commanded by Siward and his son, escorted

Malcolm across the Tweed and through Lothian. The enterprise proved

perfectly successful. In vain Hugh the Norman, Osborne, surnamed

Pentecost, and other foreigners who had fled into Scotland at the time

of Godwin's return, drew their swords in favour of the usurper. A

battle was fought; the son of Siward fell, and many Anglo-Danes. But

Malcolm was victorious; and Macbeth, who in the battle had lost all

his Norman allies, was deserted by his army, forced to fly, and

overtaken and slain at Lanfanan in Aberdeenshire. An effort was then

made by some of Macbeth's friends to raise a kinsman of the usurper,

named Lulach, to the throne; but the friends of Malcolm soon put an

end to Lulach's pretensions and his life, and the son of Duncan was,

without further opposition, crowned at Scone.

Nevertheless, a plot was soon after formed to put Malcolm to death,

and of this the chief author was a nobleman who frequented the court.

Malcolm early became aware of the existence of the plot, but affected

ignorance, till one day, when out hunting, he took the chief

conspirator aside, and severely reproached him.

"But," said Malcolm, "here is a fit place and time to do that manfully

which you have intended to do treacherously; and here draw your sword,

if you dare."

The nobleman, however, fell on his knees, confessed his fault, asked

forgiveness, and ever afterwards served his king faithfully.

It cannot be said that Malcolm Canmore, when seated securely on the

Scottish throne, displayed any particular gratitude to his

benefactors. Indeed, the nation under the protection of which he had

found safety in the day of adversity, and by the aid of which he had

gained his crown, had more than once strong reason to complain of his

enmity and denounce his ingratitude. But it was chiefly in the third

year after the landing of William the Norman that Malcolm offended.

When the Northumbrians drew together at York, to make head against the

Conqueror's power, Malcolm mustered an army to lead to their

assistance. Ere he was ready to take the field, however, the

Northumbrians were put down; but, unwilling to be baulked of carnage

and plunder, he marched by way of Carlisle, which, with Cumberland, he

then held from the English crown, into Northumberland, and let loose

all the fury of his barbarous subjects on the land where he had found

rest in his weariness and consolation in his despair.

The Scots proceeded with energy to the work of destruction and

bloodshed. Cleveland was savagely overrun; Wearmouth was sacked; St.

Peter's Church was burned; the banks of the Wear were ravaged without

mercy; and everywhere the inhabitants were treated with barbarous

cruelty. Able-bodied men and women were driven off captive, like

flocks of sheep, and in such numbers, that, for many years after,

there was scarcely a tenement in Scotland without English slaves of

one sex or the other. Blood, meanwhile, flowed like water.

Grandfathers and grandmothers, on the verge of the grave, and infants

torn from their mothers' arms, were ruthlessly slaughtered. Warriors,

calling themselves men and Christians, exhibited neither humanity nor

religion. Never had Pagan Danes or Norwegians been guilty of such

atrocities as were perpetrated on this memorable occasion.

One day, while the church of St. Peter was in flames, and while the

Scots were revelling in carnage and cruelty, Malcolm, as he rode along

and witnessed savage outrages which it is charitable to suppose he

could not prevent, received intelligence that Edgar Atheling, with his

mother Agatha, and his two sisters, Margaret and Christina--whom the

chronicler describes as "comely young women"--were on board a ship in

the harbour, waiting for a fair wind, but scarcely knew whither to

steer their course. The tale of their distress appears to have touched

the heart of Malcolm; he sent messages of kindness, invited them to

repair to Scotland, and assured them that they might there reside in

safety as long as they pleased. In their despair, the royal exiles

grasped at this invitation, and the mariners steered for Scotland.

Accordingly, when Malcolm Canmore returned to his own dominions, he

found that the heirs of Alfred and of Ironsides had sought refuge on

the Scottish shores. The young king hastened to make their

acquaintance; and the result was important in its influence on the

destinies of England. The sweetness and piety of Margaret Atheling,

endowed as she was with all the comeliness characteristic of Saxon

women, produced a strange effect on the royal Scot, and he soon

arrived at the conclusion that the opportunity of securing such a

bride ought not to be neglected. A marriage was, in due time,

celebrated; the Saxon Queen of Scots, by her precepts and example,

exercised a softening and civilizing influence on her fierce husband

and his savage subjects; their daughter Maude became the wife of Henry

Beauclerc; and from their ancestress--the heiress of Henry and Maude,

married to Geoffrey, the brave and accomplished Count of Anjou--the

Plantagenets inherited royal Saxon blood, and that sympathy with the

vanquished race which made them, when kings, the favourites and heroes

of the English people.

William the Conqueror was not, of course, inattentive to what was

passing in the north; nor, indeed, did Malcolm allow the Norman to

overlook his existence. In 1073, the Scottish king gathered an army,

and crossed the Border to vindicate the claim of his wife's family to

the English crown. By this time, however, William had put the Saxons

throughout England under his feet, and resolved to bring Malcolm to

reason by demanding the extradition of those who had taken refuge in

Scotland.

With this object William placed himself at the head of his army, and,

for the first time, crossed the Tweed. Not inclined to try conclusions

with an antagonist so formidable, Malcolm presented himself to the

Conqueror at a place near the frontier, which is supposed to have been

Berwick; and, though declining to surrender the Saxon emigrants, "met

King William in a peaceful attitude, touched his hand in sign of

friendship, promised that William's enemies should be his also, and

freely acknowledged himself his vassal and liegeman."

[Illustration: Fern Islands, off the Coast of Northumberland.]

XXXV.

[Illustration]

THE DEATH OF COSPATRICK.

It was the year 1072, when the destruction of the camp of Ely ruined

the last hope which the Saxons entertained of making head against the

Conqueror; and the year 1073 witnessed the exile of the last Saxon of

illustrious lineage whom the Conqueror allowed to occupy a high

position and exercise important functions.

It appears that after the installation of Cospatrick as Earl of

Northumberland, the peace of the North was unbroken save by the

terrible inroad of Malcolm, King of Scots. On that occasion,

Cospatrick, having no force sufficiently powerful to oppose that of

the Scottish king, endeavoured to draw Malcolm from Northumberland by

making an incursion into Cumberland in the direction of Carlisle,

which then lay in ruins. But finding the Scots too intent on carnage

and plunder to move, he was fain to return, to shut himself up in

Bamburgh, and in that fortress to listen, with unavailing regret, to

accounts of the barbarous atrocities perpetrated by the invaders.

At length affairs began to settle; and the Bishop of Durham and his

clergy, hearing that William had departed for the South, ventured back

to their church. They found everything in disorder. Even the

magnificent crucifix, the gift of Tostig and Judith, was stripped of

all its ornaments, and tossed upon the floor. Nor was this the worst

that was to befall. Ere long the bishop was degraded, and a native of

Lorraine, named Vaulcher, instituted in his place.

When Vaulcher, accompanied by a numerous train of Norman knights,

reached York, Cospatrick presented himself, and conducted the new

bishop to Durham. Perhaps, by this attention to Vaulcher, Cospatrick

hoped to escape such a fate as had befallen every other Saxon of high

rank. But if so, he was mistaken. Between the Norman king and the

Saxon earl no real confidence existed. Every movement in

Northumberland hostile to the Normans had exposed Cospatrick to

suspicion; and, after having received Malcolm's homage, William,

thinking he could dispense with the aid of the grandson of Uchtred,

alleged that he had taken part in the murder of Robert Comine and in

the siege of York, and formally deprived him of his earldom.

Cospatrick was now at his wits' end. Mortified at his own reverses,

and grieving at the oppression under which his countrymen were

labouring, but against which it seemed vain to struggle single-handed,

he left England and passed over to Flanders, to which the Saxons still

looked with hope of aid. But all efforts proved vain; and he returned

to die in poverty on the verge of the great northern province which he

had lately ruled.

It would seem that Cospatrick had, by advising the flight of the

bishop from Durham, lost favour with the clergy, and that they used

all their efforts to terrify him with threats of the wrath of St.

Cuthbert. An aged priest of Durham, while in Holy Island, professed

to have had a dream, in which he saw a great Northumbrian thane, who

had maltreated the bishop and his company during their flight,

suffering the torments of hell, and in which St. Cuthbert appeared

denouncing woes against Cospatrick. This dream derived importance from

the circumstance of the Northumbrian thane having died at the very

time; and when related to Cospatrick, now grown old and infirm, it

caused him much trouble of spirit. Indeed, he is said to have

forthwith taken the shoes from his feet, and set out on a pilgrimage

to Holy Island, to propitiate St. Cuthbert by prayers and offerings.

After his pilgrimage to Holy Island, Cospatrick found rest for a time

at Norham, on the Tweed. At that place, weary with adversity and woe,

he soon felt himself sinking under his infirmities. At length, sick

unto death, he bethought him of religious consolation, and intimated

his wish to have the spiritual aid of Aldwin and Turgot, two monks in

whose piety and prayers he had great confidence.

At Melrose--not on the spot occupied by the magnificent ruins of that

great abbey, to which Sir Walter Scott has, in our day, given so wide

a fame, but in a flat peninsula, described by Bede as "almost inclosed

by the windings of the river Tweed"--the Culdees had, in the seventh

century, erected a religious house. After flourishing for two hundred

years, this edifice had suffered at the hand of King Kenneth, and

gradually dwindled down to a chapel sacred to St. Cuthbert. In this

chapel Aldwin and Turgot were "living in poverty and contrite in

spirit for the sake of Christ." On receiving Cospatrick's message,

these holy men hurried down the Tweed, eager to comfort the expiring

sinner.

On reaching Norham the monks found the Saxon earl loudly lamenting his

shortcomings, and expressing penitence for his sins, and they

confessed him with all the ceremonies usual on such occasions. Before

their departure he gave them two dorsals, or pieces of tapestry which

were hung against walls as screens for the back, and begged that, in

whatever place the monks might chance to take rest, they would hang

the dorsals up in memory of him. This scene over, Cospatrick yielded

up his breath.

It was destined that the posterity of this great Saxon, who passed his

last days hovering between two countries, in neither of which he could

find a home, and who died in misery, and with lamentations on his

lips, should exercise the very highest authority in centuries then to

come. He left two sons. One of these was Cospatrick, founder of the

House of Dunbar, whose chiefs were so great in war and peace; the

other was Dolfin, male ancestor of the Nevilles, who became famous for

making and unmaking kings.

Meanwhile, Cospatrick was laid at rest in the porch of the church of

Norham. In the chancel of that ancient edifice, a recumbent effigy, in

the decorated style of the fourteenth century, when his descendants on

both sides of the Tweed were in all their glory, still recalls his

memory, when the places that once knew them know them no more--when

the castle of Dunbar is desolate, and when Raby no longer owns a

Neville as its lord.

[Illustration]

XXXVI.

[Illustration]

ATHELING AND HIS ALLIES.

When Edgar Atheling, after the disastrous defeat of the Saxons at

York, took refuge in Scotland, he found himself treated with great

respect. Malcolm Canmore, saluting the exiled prince as true King of

England, assured him of a secure asylum, and influenced, doubtless, by

the charms of the fair Margaret, still further evinced his sympathy

with the Saxon cause by bestowing offices and lands on the expatriated

chiefs. Moreover, he promised Atheling every aid to regain the throne

of his ancestors.

The King of Scots was probably quite sincere in his professions of

friendship and promises of support; but his power to assist the Saxons

was by no means equal to his will. Besides, the mighty energy of

William, bearing down all opposition, was calculated to daunt the

boldest foe. Malcolm was brave as a lion; yet he might, without

exposing himself to the imputation of cowardice, feel some degree of

alarm as he conjured up visions of Norman warriors crossing the river

Tweed, sweeping through the Merse and Lothian, and pursuing their

victorious career as far north as to cool the hoofs of their horses in

the waters of the Tay, and plant their standard on the towers of the

palace of Scone.

At all events, it is certain that, after a brief residence in

Scotland, Atheling recognised the necessity of seeking a

reconciliation with the Conqueror. This was, without difficulty,

obtained. Then, as ever, William was kind and forgiving to the heir of

Alfred. But, as the work of the Conquest went on, and as the Saxons,

exasperated by the deposition of their bishops and abbots, indicated

their intention of making a great effort to recover their liberty,

Atheling discovered that he was the object of suspicion. Indeed, it

was natural that such should have been the case; for his name was in

the mouth of all ardent patriots, and songs were sung in which he was

described as "the brave, the beautiful darling of England." Perceiving

that snares were set for him, Atheling effected his escape from court;

and, with all the haste he could, made for Scotland.

"Curse him!" exclaimed the Normans; "he is the most fickle of human

beings."

"Ah!" cried the Saxons, "he is young and handsome, and descended from

the true race--the best race of the country."

It must be admitted that, so far as appearances went, the Saxons had

reason to be proud of the heir of their ancient kings. Atheling was

now approaching manhood, and looked worthy, indeed, of a nation's

regard. His person was handsome, his figure tall and graceful, his

manner courteous to excess, his temper serene to a fault, and he spoke

with taste and eloquence. Brave he was beyond question, but somewhat

slow in action; and while ever and anon giving proof that he inherited

the courage of Ironsides, he constantly showed symptoms of having in

his veins the sluggish blood of Ethelred.

Indeed, the prospects of Edgar Atheling were at no time so encouraging

as to tempt him to heroic ventures to regain the crown which had, for

a brief season, been his. After the day on which Malcolm Canmore did

homage to William the Norman, aid from Scotland could not reasonably

be expected. Not yet content, however, to submit tamely to

circumstances, Atheling, in 1075, repaired to Flanders, probably when

Cospatrick, after being deprived of Northumberland, went thither to

crave the alliance of Count Robert, who, though Matilda's kinsman, was

William's political enemy, and, moreover, a descendant of Alfred the

Great. But Atheling's application was not attended with success, and

he returned to Scotland with the impression that the Saxon cause was

too hopeless to enlist the alliance of any European prince, when,

somewhat to his surprise, he was favoured with a friendly message from

the King of France.

Philip, though young, was no longer the mere boy whose countenance and

support William the Norman had asked before undertaking his expedition

against Harold. The heir of Hugh Capet was now in his thirty-third

year, perfectly capable of comprehending his position, and of

estimating the power of a Duke of Normandy who was also King of

England. In fact, he had somewhat recent evidence of William's

strength and his own weakness. While William, who had left England in

1073, was on the Continent, carrying on war in Maine with signal

success, Philip had taken up arms against the Count of Flanders, and

sustained a shameful defeat before Cassel. The idea of a man who had

been vanquished by Count Robert of Flanders having to encounter

William the Conqueror was not pleasant; and the French king, eager in

the extreme to multiply William's enemies on the English side of the

Channel, resolved to afford the Saxons such encouragement as to enable

them to keep their conqueror in his insular dominions.

It was under the influence of such apprehensions, and with a view of

accomplishing such an object, that Philip invited Atheling to France.

"Come hither," wrote the French king to the English prince--"come and

aid me with your counsel. I will give you the fortress of Montreuil,

which is so situated that thence you can either make a descent on

England or ravage Normandy."

Atheling was not proof against such temptation. On receiving Philip's

message, he prepared, with the companions of his exile, to embark for

France, and made arrangements for his voyage. Malcolm, as William's

liegeman, could not openly lend his countenance to the enterprise of

his brother-in-law. Nevertheless, he secretly supplied Atheling with

money, and furnished the companions of the exiled prince with arms.

But the expedition, and all the projects to which it was to lead, were

destined to come to nought. The voyage of the adventurers proved the

very reverse of fortunate. Scarcely had Atheling's fleet lost sight of

the Scottish shores when a violent tempest arose. The vessels were

scattered like leaves in autumn. Some sank, and others, going to

pieces on the northern coast of England, left their crews at the mercy

of the Norman officials, who made them prisoners. Atheling, and those

who sailed in his ship, were wrecked, but escaped captivity. However,

they lost everything; and in sadness and gloom they made their way,

some on foot, others miserably mounted, back to the Scottish court,

where Atheling, with his wonted eloquence, narrated to Malcolm and

Margaret the misfortunes of the voyage.

"And now," asked Atheling, in conclusion, "what is to be done?"

"It seems to me," answered Malcolm, "that fortune is decidedly against

you. Wherefore, struggle no longer with fate, but seek peace, once

more, of William the Norman."

At all times Atheling was easily persuaded; and, on this occasion, he

was in no frame of mind to dispute the wisdom of Malcolm's counsel.

Accordingly he sent a message to William, who was still on the

Continent; and William, responding frankly, asked him to repair to

Normandy. Entering England by the north, passing through the country

escorted by Norman counts, and entertained by them in the tall and

turretted castles which already crowned every height, and which

contrasted strangely with the low, irregular buildings, surrounded by

woods, in which dwelt such of the Saxons of rank as had escaped death

or banishment, Atheling could not fail to be impressed with a

conviction of the fact that the work of the Conquest had gone much too

far to be undone by force of arms, and that any thought of resistance

was absurd.

Embarking for the Continent, he reached Rouen in safety, and was

received by the Conqueror with kindness. A pension was granted to the

banished prince to defray his personal expenses; but, taking a fancy

to a charger in the stables of the palace, he afterwards parted with

his pension in order to become master of the animal. For years

Atheling remained at the palace of Rouen, amusing himself with hawks,

dogs, and horses, and reflecting, with philosophic calmness, on the

crown he had lost and the land from which he was exiled.

[Illustration: Hawk striking the quarry.]

XXXVII.

FITZOSBORNE AND DE GAEL.

One day in the course of the year 1074, when William the Conqueror was

in Normandy fighting with his Continental foes, and while Archbishop

Lanfranc governed England in the king's absence, a great marriage took

place in the castle of Norwich. Many guests of high rank were bidden;

and the occasion was rendered memorable by the circumstance that the

feast with which it was celebrated proved fatal to almost every

individual who happened to be present.

About the year 1073, William Fitzosborne, the Conqueror's famous

comrade in arms, departed this life, leaving two sons, named William

and Roger, and a daughter, named Emma. William, succeeding to his

father's lands in Normandy, was known as Lord of Breteuil; Roger,

inheriting his father's English possessions, became Earl of Hereford;

and Emma was sought in marriage by a young Breton, who figured as Earl

of Norfolk, and naturally felt ambitious of allying himself with the

high Norman nobility. But a union between Ralph de Gael and the

daughter of Fitzosborne did not meet with the Conqueror's approval. In

fact, William set his face decidedly against the matrimonial project,

and, being at the time in Normandy, sent a messenger to forbid, in the

most peremptory tone, the celebration of the marriage.

The interference of William was more than the high spirit of Roger

Fitzosborne could brook. He resolved at once to set the Conqueror's

prohibition at defiance; and, on a day appointed for the wedding,

conveyed his sister to Norwich.

The ceremony was performed with a pomp worthy of the rank of the

parties; and when the feast was spread in the castle hall, Norman

bishops, and lords of high degree, both Norman and Welsh, and ladies

fair to look upon, gathered around the board. So far all went

smoothly. But as dishes were carved and cups emptied the master of the

feast and his guests became rapidly excited and frank to excess. The

habitual respect displayed by the Norman nobles for the great

war-chief who had led them to conquest and plunder vanished as wine

flowed in abundance, and the two earls especially vociferated in a

strain which caused many present to stare in silent surprise.

"What is this man?" asked Roger Fitzosborne, in accents of supreme

contempt--"what is this man, who dictates who are to be the husbands

of ladies descended from the comrades of Rollo?--A bastard, owing this

kingdom to my father, to whose memory this interference is an insult."

"He is a bastard, and a man of low birth," cried the Normans. "He may

call himself a king; but 'tis clear that he is not made for one, and

that he is not agreeable in the sight of God."

"And," exclaimed the Saxons, "he invaded England, he massacred the

legitimate heirs of our kings and nobles, or obliged them to

expatriate themselves."

"What is worst of all," roared the military adventurers who had

followed William's banner in hopes of high reward, "he has not

honoured as he might those who came to his aid--those who raised him

higher than any of his predecessors."

"Yes," cried others; "what has he given to us, the conquerors covered

with wounds? Sterile tracts of land, of which he deprives us whenever

he sees them improving."

"It is true!" shouted the guests, tumultuously; "the man is odious to

all; his death would gladden the hearts of all. Let him die!"

After further vociferation, the two earls, several bishops and abbots,

many Normans and Saxons, and the Welsh chieftains, bound themselves by

oath to rise against William, and arranged to ask the aid of Sweyn,

King of Denmark, to insure the success of their perilous project.

Perhaps, with the morning, repentance came, and many rued the words

they had spoken and the promises they had made over wine at the

festive board. But it was too late to retreat; and the two earls, to

lessen the danger of being betrayed, resolved on immediate action.

Roger Fitzosborne hastened home to raise his banner at Hereford; and

Ralph de Gael prepared to shorten his honeymoon, leave the company of

his bride, and raise his banner at Cambridge.

On reaching the province of which he was earl, Roger Fitzosborne lost

no time in rallying his friends around him. Not only did he gather the

discontented Normans to his standard. The Welsh on the Marches rose at

his summons, and, with wild and vague hopes of recovering

independence, rushed with enthusiasm to his aid. Having assembled a

force which he deemed sufficiently formidable to inspire foes with

terror, he commenced his march eastward, with the intention of joining

De Gael. But, on reaching the Severn, and attempting to pass that

river by the bridge at Worcester, he found, somewhat to his surprise,

that preparations had been made to stop his progress.

In fact, the conspirators at Norwich had not very faithfully kept

their secret. By some means or other, Lanfranc had become acquainted

with the whole project; and when in possession of such intelligence

the great archbishop was not the man to sleep at his post. He

despatched soldiers from London to throw themselves in Roger's path;

and he so far made use of the spiritual artillery at his command as to

level a sentence of excommunication against the Norman earl.

Meanwhile, the king's friends were not idle in the west. Walter de

Lacy, a Norman baron, and Eghelwig, the Saxon abbot of Evesham, roused

the people of the country to take arms against Roger Fitzosborne and

his Welshmen; and the people, regarding the Welsh as their natural

enemies, obeyed the call of Walter and Eghelwig, and crowded to the

royal standard.

At length the royal soldiers and the insurgents met face to face. It

was on the banks of the Severn that the hostile armies encountered and

fought a sanguinary battle. The Welsh, however, were defeated, and

with such slaughter that the river was crimsoned with their blood.

Roger Fitzosborne was made prisoner, and with him many adherents were

taken with arms in their hands. The chief was kept in secure custody

till the Conqueror should decide what was to be his fate. But the

inferior captives were summarily disposed of. Some were hung on

gibbets, some had their eyes put out, and others underwent such

mutilation as to render them incapable of further mischief.

While such disasters attended the adventure of Roger Fitzosborne on

the Severn, Ralph de Gael did not yield to the temptation of lingering

with his fair bride at Norwich. Leaving that city, the bold Breton

encamped in the neighbourhood of Cambridge, and succeeded in alluring

a multitude of Saxons to his standard. But Ralph de Gael's part of the

enterprise proved little more successful than that of Roger

Fitzosborne had been. While the Breton earl was still gathering men to

his camp, William de Warren, with Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and Geoffrey,

Bishop of Coutance, took the field, and the insurgents found

themselves menaced by a force decidedly superior to them in number.

Not shrinking, however, from a conflict, they bravely faced the royal

force at a place named Fagadon. There a stubborn battle was fought;

but Ralph de Gael's men were completely defeated; and the chief

escaped from the lost field, while many of his adherents were taken

and treated with the utmost cruelty. Indeed, the victors are said to

have been so merciless as to cut off the right foot of every captive,

no matter what his rank or nation.

In the midst of this operation, Ralph de Gael had the fortune to reach

Norwich. He threw himself into the citadel with some vague and

desperate notions of defending himself to the last. Seeing, however,

the impossibility of holding out, he left the fortress under the

charge of his bride, and sailed to Brittany to implore the aid of his

friends. The daughter of Fitzosborne made a brave defence, but her

resistance proved vain. After a somewhat protracted struggle, the

men-at-arms, seeing famine staring them in the face, recognised the

necessity of yielding, and agreed, not only to surrender Norwich, but

to leave England in case of their lives being spared. Almost every

Breton who had come to England with the Conqueror was involved in the

ruin of Ralph de Gael, and departed from the English shores. "Glory be

to God in the highest!" Lanfranc wrote joyfully to King William, "your

kingdom is freed from the filthy Bretons."

On returning to England, William, at Christmas, held a great council

of barons, and dealt with the rebel chiefs. Both were condemned to

lose their estates. De Gael, being absent, could not, of course, be

punished in person; but Fitzosborne, who appeared before the assembly,

was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment.

When matters had reached this stage, a son of Sweyn, King of Denmark,

unaware of the ruin of those who had craved assistance, approached the

eastern coast. But the Danes made no attempt to land. On learning what

had happened they turned their helms towards Flanders, and left

Fitzosborne to his fate.

But even captivity and chains could not break the strong spirit nor

humble the haughty pride of Fitzosborne. Even in his dungeon he found

a way of braving and insulting the king whom he had attempted to

dethrone. One day, during Easter, the Conqueror, according to a Norman

custom, sent him a magnificent suit of precious stuff, as if he had

been at liberty. Fitzosborne received the vestments with a smile,

examined the coat and mantle of silk, and handled the jacket, trimmed

with foreign furs, as if highly pleased. Having done so, however,

Roger ordered a fire to be kindled, and committed coat, mantle, and

jacket to the flames.

"Thus," said he, "does the son of William Fitzosborne treat the gifts

of the bastard to whom his father gave a crown."

"By the splendour of God!" exclaimed the Conqueror, boiling with

anger, when informed of this scene, "the man who has thus insulted me

shall never leave his prison alive."

XXXVIII.

[Illustration: Thor.]

WALTHEOF, SON OF SIWARD.

Siward the Dane, when he expired at York, exhibiting his martial

spirit to the last--clad, at his own request, in all the habiliments

of war, with his helmet on his head, his coat of mail on his back, his

gilt battle-axe in his hand, and that mystic banner, "The Raven of

Earthly Terror," waving over his head--left, by his wife, the daughter

of Earl Alred, one son to inherit his renown. The name of the son of

Siward was Waltheof, and his career was anticipated with hope by the

inhabitants of the provinces which his great father had ruled.

At the time of Siward's death, however, Waltheof was too young to

succeed to Northumberland. Indeed, Tostig, as one of the sons of

Godwin, immediately grasped at the earldom. Waltheof, however, soon

began to figure as Earl of Huntingdon, and gave evidence of

inheriting his father's courage and prowess in the conflicts of the

Northumbrians with Tostig and Harold Hardrada.

After the battle of Hastings, Waltheof made his submission to the

Conqueror. As a consequence, when William visited the Continent, the

son of Siward was taken, with Edwin and Morkar, to grace the

Conqueror's triumphant return to Rouen. But the sympathies of Waltheof

were with the vanquished; and when the spirit of the country rose

against the invaders he left London, and hurried northward, to take

part in the operations of the Northumbrians. He was still very young;

but, like his father, he was remarkable for his tall stature, his

physical strength, and his strong arm; and the presence of the son of

Siward was hailed with delight by those whom Siward had so often led.

When the Northumbrians, after the tragical death of Robert Comine, and

the landing of the Danes, marched from Durham and besieged York,

Waltheof performed prodigies of valour. Placing himself in ambuscade

at one of the gates, battle-axe in hand, he fell upon some Normans who

were attempting to escape, and laid twenty of them dead on the ground.

A hundred men, who hoped to save themselves by flight, took refuge in

a neighbouring wood; but Waltheof, who pursued them closely, was in no

humour to allow them to escape.

"I will save myself further trouble," he said, "by setting the wood on

fire."

Putting his threat immediately into execution, Waltheof gave the wood

to the flames; and a Danish poet, who was also a warrior, celebrating

Waltheof's deeds in verse, compared his valour to that of Odin, and

congratulated him on having given the English wolves an ample repast

on Norman corses.

When William was interrupted, while hunting in the Forest of Dean,

with news of the outbreak beyond the Humber, and swore never again to

lay aside his lance till he had slain all the Northumbrians, and

marched suddenly with his choice troops to York, Waltheof once more

fought like a hero of romance. Planting himself in a breach, through

which only a single person could enter at a time, he cleft Norman

after Norman with his ponderous battle-axe. His prowess on the

occasion moved the admiration of his antagonists; and William was

unable to refrain from expressions of surprise.

"By the Divine splendour!" he exclaimed, "I must make a friend of the

man who dare do such deeds."

Accordingly a reconciliation was proposed; and a meeting was appointed

at the Norman camp on the banks of the Tees. Everything went smoothly.

Waltheof, in token of homage, placed his bare hand in that of the

Conqueror, and William bestowed the earldoms of Huntingdon and

Northampton on the son of Siward.

After this submission Waltheof received Judith, one of the Conqueror's

nieces, in marriage, became the father of two children, and, after the

deprivation of Cospatrick, had his highest ambition gratified by being

installed as Earl of Northumberland. In that capacity the Anglo-Dane

lived in the closest friendship with Vaulcher of Lorraine, Bishop of

Durham. Sitting with Vaulcher in the synods of his clergy, Waltheof

humbly and obediently put in execution the decrees of the bishop for

reforming religion within the diocese. Nor did he by such conduct lose

the favour of the English. All appeared prosperous; and Waltheof,

united to the king's niece, and occupying his father's seat, enjoyed

the favour of the Conqueror without having forfeited his popularity

with the vanquished, when the conspiracy of Norwich, for which he

cannot be considered to have been responsible, involved him in ruin

and cost him his life.

On that day, when Norman counts, Saxon thanes, and Welsh chiefs

assembled at Norwich to celebrate the marriage of Ralph de Gael with

the daughter of William Fitzosborne, conspicuous, by his high head and

gigantic stature appeared Waltheof, the Anglo-Dane. It would seem,

however, that Waltheof took no part in the abuse lavished upon the

uncle of his wife. But when the tumult was at the loudest, one of the

Norman earls, rising suddenly, hushed the assembly to silence, and

solemnly appealed to Waltheof to take part in the revolt.

"Brave man," said the earl, with that eloquence for which the Normans

were so famous, "this is a great moment for your country; this is, for

you, the hour of vengeance and fortune. Join us, and we will

re-establish the kingdom of England in every respect as it was in the

time of King Edward. One of us three shall be king, the other two

shall command under him, and all lordships shall be held of us.

William is occupied beyond sea; we are satisfied that he will not

again cross the Channel. Now, brave warrior, adopt our plan; 'tis the

best for thee, for thy family, and for thy crushed and fallen nation."

"It is! it is!" shouted the guests in chorus.

But Waltheof hesitated and remained silent. Warned by former failures,

and with the fate of Edwin and Morkar before his mind's eye, he shrunk

from embarking in an enterprise which he felt must terminate in

disaster. At length he allowed himself so far to be drawn into the

league that he promised secrecy.

It would seem, however, that Waltheof did not keep his word. The

secret preyed on his mind. Uneasy, restless, and sleepless, he

revealed the conspiracy first to his wife, Judith, and then to

Archbishop Lanfranc. It is even said that he was persuaded by the

primate to repair to Normandy and warn the Conqueror.

At all events, Waltheof did not escape punishment. When, in due time,

the fleet invited from Denmark, commanded by the son of King Sweyn,

approached the coast, Waltheof was accused of having invited the Danes

over, lodged in the Castle of Winchester, and, ere long, brought to

trial. He denied the charge. But the evidence given by Judith against

her husband, whom she disliked, appeared conclusive, and the court was

only divided in opinion as to the punishment to be inflicted.

"He deserves execution as a revolted Englishman," said some.

"No," argued others, "it should be perpetual imprisonment as a

revolted officer of the king's."

While Waltheof remained a prisoner in the Castle of Winchester, his

fate hung in the balance for nearly a year. But his enemies were eager

for his destruction. Judith was eager to be a widow; Ivo Taille-Bois

had set his heart on some of Waltheof's land which adjoined his own;

and many Normans had a keen eye to the great earldom which had been

enjoyed by the son of Siward. William did not resist the pressure, and

sentence of death was pronounced.

The 29th of April, 1075, was appointed for the execution of Waltheof.

But such was his popularity that the Normans apprehended an

insurrection as the consequence of openly beheading him. It was,

therefore, determined that the utmost secrecy should be observed.

Before daybreak, accordingly, while the citizens of Winchester still

slept, Norman officers, appearing in Waltheof's prison, informed him

that his hour was come; and Waltheof, rising, arrayed himself in his

earl's robes and walked forth to execution. Escorted by soldiers,

attended by priests, and followed by some of the poor whose home was

the street, the son of Siward directed his steps to a hill outside the

city. On reaching this place, where the last scene was to be enacted,

he prostrated himself on the ground, and, for a few moments, prayed in

a low and earnest tone.

"Rise, that we may fulfil our orders," said the Normans, alarmed at

the thought of the news spreading and a rescue being attempted.

"Wait," he replied calmly, "till I have said the Lord's Prayer for

myself and for you."

"Yes," said they, consenting.

Waltheof, rising from his prostrate attitude, but remaining on his

knees, said, in a loud voice, "Our Father, which art in Heaven."

However, when he reached the words "lead us not into temptation," the

executioner, growing impatient and uneasy, suddenly drew his large

sword, waved it in the air, and with one blow severed the earl's head

from his body. Alarmed at the approach of day, the Normans hastily dug

a hole between two roads, threw in the body, and covered it with

earth.

The possessions of Waltheof, and the earldom of Northampton, devolved

upon Judith, his widow; and that lady consoled herself in her

bereavement by regaling her imagination with the idea of sharing her

wealth and power with a husband of her own choosing. But it soon

appeared that in this respect the widow of Waltheof had made a serious

miscalculation. William, in fact, without consulting her taste,

destined her hand for Simon de Senlis, a French knight of unquestioned

courage, but lame and somewhat deformed; and Judith expressed her

utter horror of the match.

"What!" she exclaimed, "I marry a man who is lame and ill-shapen?

Never!"

"As you will, madam," said the Conqueror, grimly; "but, at all events,

Simon de Senlis shall be Earl of Northampton."

Meanwhile, the body of Waltheof was removed from the place where it

had been hastily buried to the Abbey of Croyland, and interred in the

chapter-house. Judith, disappointed in her hopes of a second husband,

and mortified at the spectacle of Simon de Senlis figuring as Earl of

Northampton, repaired to Croyland, and, as if to appease the spirit of

the man whom she had betrayed, offered a silken cloth at his

sepulchre. Left with her two children in poverty and obscurity, the

widow of Waltheof passed the remainder of her life mournfully in a

remote corner of England.

[Illustration]

XXXIX.

WULSTAN, BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

In that memorable day when Edgar Atheling appeared at the Norman camp

at Berkhampstead to make his submission to the conqueror of Hastings,

one of the Saxon prelates who accompanied the grandson of Edmund

Ironside was Wulstan, Bishop of Worcester.

Wulstan had taken part in the election of Edgar Atheling, and probably

felt as anxious as any of his neighbours to maintain the national

independence. But after having arrived at the conclusion that the game

was up, and sworn allegiance to William the Norman, he continued

faithful to his oath; and, in doing so, earned the distinction of

being described by a modern historian as "a simple, weak-minded man,

who, after a momentary impulse of patriotic enthusiasm, became

heartily reconciled with the conquerors."

It appears that long after the other prelates of Saxon race were

somewhat summarily deposed, Wulstan was, in consequence of his

fidelity to William, allowed to remain Bishop of Worcester. In that

capacity he rendered to the Norman cause services which only a Saxon

churchman could have rendered. When the violence shown towards the

Saxon clergy raised so much resentment throughout England that in some

provinces no Norman bishop durst show his face, Wulstan made pastoral

visitations, calmed the popular excitement, and proclaimed the

amnesties of the king; and when Roger Fitzosborne, raising the

standard of revolt, marched from Hereford, in hopes of crossing the

Severn and joining Ralph de Gael, Wulstan not only rallied the natives

of Worcester around the royal standard, but marched in person to

oppose the rebel earl's progress.

Wulstan, after these events, doubtless considered his position secure.

Indeed, it was quite natural that he should. But he was deficient in

that kind of erudition which Lanfranc deemed that a bishop ought to

possess--and Lanfranc, being no respecter of persons, reported him as

"insufficient for his place for want of learning."

It was the year 1076; and a great council of barons and bishops was

held in the church of Westminster, under the auspices of Lanfranc and

under the presidency of William. Before that assembly Wulstan was

cited; and by the assembly he was unanimously declared incapable of

exercising episcopal functions. When this judgment was pronounced,

William ordered Wulstan to take off his pontifical robes, and resign

his staff and ring, the ensigns of his ecclesiastical dignity.

Wulstan, however, was so amazed and indignant, that, instead of

obeying quietly, as was anticipated, he rose, turned towards the

Conqueror, and exclaimed, with energy--

"A better man than you, O king! bestowed these robes upon me, and to

him I will restore them!"

As Wulstan spoke, the Norman barons and bishops stared in mute

surprise, and they were astonished when the venerable man, as if under

Divine inspiration, walked to the Confessor's tomb.

"Thou, holy Edward," said he, "gavest me this staff, and to thee I

return and confide it!"

Suiting the action to the words, Wulstan energetically struck the

tombstone with the end of his pastoral staff; and then turning back to

the Normans, he said, with calm scorn--

"I received my staff from a better man than any of _you_! I have

returned it to him. Take it from him if you can!"

At this distant period it would be impossible adequately to describe

the effect produced on the assembled Normans by this scene. Had all

the heroes, saints, and martyrs of that great regal House whose throne

the son of Arlette so unworthily occupied come out of their graves,

and walked in procession before the council, the bishops and barons

could not have been more astonished. The air of Wulstan, his

unexpected energy, and the circumstances under which it was displayed,

produced a feeling of wonder mingled with superstitious awe. The king

did not repeat his demand; but Lanfranc mustered voice to entreat

Wulstan to put on his robes and remain in his bishopric.

But the effect produced on the bishops and barons within the church of

Westminster was trifling compared with the impression produced

throughout the country. According to popular report, something

resembling a miracle had been wrought. It must be confessed, indeed,

that the story lost nothing in the telling. The rumour ran, that when

Wulstan struck the tomb his staff penetrated into the stone as into

soft earth, and that no one was able to draw it but the bishop

himself. The story spread far and wide, and was told by many an

oppressed peasant at the cottage hearth, by many a bold outlaw under

the greenwood tree, and by many a sad-hearted Saxon, driven from his

country, dressed as a Varing, and guarding the palace of the Emperor

of Constantinople.

[Illustration: Herdsman (from Strutt)]

XL.

ROBERT CURTHOSE.

The conquest of England having been accomplished, and the Saxons

completely reduced to submission, the Conqueror, instead of enjoying

his triumph, became sad and uneasy. Doubts as to the fidelity of his

barons, and dismal forebodings as to the fate of his sons, haunted him

day and night; and he even went so far, in his intense anxiety, as to

consult some "wise men," who were supposed to have the gift of

divination, as to the future of his line. Had any magician really had

the power of revealing to him the fortune of his descendants in an

enchanted mirror, as conjurers in another age revealed to Catherine de

Medici the fortunes of her posterity, his worst apprehensions would

have been confirmed. As it was, the conduct of his son Robert filled

his heart with sadness and his mind with gloom.

Robert was the eldest son of William and Matilda. He drew his first

breath about the year 1053; and his appearance was hailed with delight

by his parents. Both William and Matilda appear to have indulged young

Robert in such a way as utterly to spoil him; and when he passed from

childhood to boyhood he acquired most dangerous notions of his

importance.

When William sailed to conquer England, Robert had reached his

thirteenth year. Ere that period he had been formally recognised by

the Norman barons as heir of the duchy, and affianced to the heiress

of the Counts of Maine; and when William sailed in the _Moira_, Robert

was associated with Matilda in the administration of affairs.

Flattered, complimented, and allowed to exercise enormous influence in

Normandy during the absence of his sire, Robert early assumed the airs

of an independent sovereign, and began to treat the parental authority

with undisguised contempt.

Notwithstanding the influence which unfortunate training produced on

the heir-apparent of Normandy, Robert, as he grew up to manhood,

displayed qualities which recommended him to the hearts of the Norman

chivalry. Brave and eloquent, intrepid and generous, he was just the

person to secure the affection of a martial and high-spirited race of

nobles. In war his prowess reminded men of the heroes of romance. But

his appearance was in no respect heroic. He was under the ordinary

height, fat to excess, and large in the bones. Rollo would have been

astonished at the aspect of his heir; and William was so impressed

with the shortness of Robert's legs, that the father, in ridicule,

called the son "Curthose."

While Curthose was emerging from his teens, the death of the heiress

of Maine and the annexation of that province to Normandy resulted in a

quarrel between William and his heir. Eager to have a dominion of his

own, Curthose claimed Maine as husband of the heiress; and the

inhabitants, eager to have a lord of their own, supported Curthose's

claim heart and soul. William, however, treated the idea with cold

contempt; and while Curthose was brooding over this as a serious

injury, circumstances occurred to fire his indignation.

It was the year 1077, and the Conqueror, Queen Matilda, and their sons

happened to be on a visit to Laigle. One day, about noon, Curthose,

with his friends around him, was standing in the courtyard of the

house in which he lodged, expatiating with his wonted eloquence on his

wrongs, and his brothers, William Rufus and Henry Beauclerc, who had

been in the habit of taking part against Curthose in the domestic

feud, coming thither, ascended to the upper rooms, where, making a

great noise, they began to play at dice, after the manner of the

soldiers of that age. Suddenly Rufus and Beauclerc conceived the idea

of varying their amusement, and, without calculating the consequences,

they threw a quantity of water on Curthose and those with whom he was

in earnest and animated conversation.

This insult stung Curthose to the quick. Giving way to irritation, he

swore that no man on earth should so treat him with impunity; and,

drawing his sword, with a gesture of menace he sprang to the doorway,

and rushed upstairs to inflict chastisement. Fortunately, his friends

interfered in time to prevent bloodshed. But high words passed,

defiances were exchanged, and the scene was so tumultuous that the

Conqueror's presence became necessary to prevent the disputants from

coming to blows.

At length order was restored. It was even supposed that the quarrel

was at an end. But, all the time, the blood of Curthose was boiling in

his veins, and his high spirit was swelling with anger and grief. Next

night he left Laigle with a choice band of friends, and proceeded to

Rouen. With some vague notion, he attempted to surprise the citadel.

The enterprise, however, failed, and many of his adherents were

arrested. Curthose, however, escaped, passed the frontier of Normandy,

took refuge in La Perche, and found shelter in the castle of Sorel.

The conduct of his heir naturally excited the Conqueror's wrath.

Curthose, however, had a powerful advocate in his mother, Matilda, and

a reconciliation took place. But this domestic peace was not of long

duration. The adherents of Curthose, generally gay and thoughtless

young men, exercised all their art to stimulate his ambition; and he

yielded somewhat too readily to their suggestions.

"Noble son of a king," said they, "thy father's people must take good

care of his treasure, since thou hast not a penny to bestow on thy

followers. Why endurest thou to remain so poor when thy father is so

rich?"

"But what can I do?" asked Curthose.

"Ask him for a portion of his England," they answered; "or, at least,

for the duchy of Normandy, which he promised thee before all his

barons."

Curthose did as he was advised. Excited and discontented, he went to

William, and demanded to be put in possession of either part of the

kingdom of England or the duchy of Normandy. William, instead of

complying, exhorted Curthose, in a paternal tone, to amend his life,

and to behave in a manner more worthy of the position he was destined

to occupy.

"Return to your duty as a son," said the Conqueror, "and then make

choice of better counsellors than you now have. Make choice of wise

and grave persons of mature age to guide you--such a man, for

instance, as Archbishop Lanfranc."

"Sir King!" replied Curthose, so sharply that William started, "I

came here to claim my right, and not to listen to sermons. I heard

enough of them, and wearisome enough they were, when I was at my

grammar. Answer me, therefore, distinctly, so that I may know what I

have to do; for I am firmly resolved not to live on the bread of

others, and not to receive the wages of any man."

"Know, then," exclaimed William, angrily, "that I will not divest

myself of Normandy, to which I was born, nor share England, which I

have acquired with so much labour."

"Well," said Curthose, "I will go and serve strangers, and perhaps

obtain from them what is refused me in my own country."

Without further ceremony, Curthose summoned his adherents, mounted his

horse, and, with a soul glowing with pride and a spirit swelling with

indignation, rode out from Rouen and away towards Flanders. Passing

from country to country, from castle to castle, and from court to

court, Curthose travelled over Europe, publishing his grievances and

demanding aid. Nor was his story, told in eloquent language, without

influence on the magnates whom he visited. Counts, dukes, and princes

testified their sympathy, and drew their purses. Their liberality,

however, had no beneficial influence on the wanderer's circumstances.

In fact, Curthose was one of those men who can give the most sapient

advice as to the affairs of their friends, while their own affairs are

going to ruin as rapidly as their enemies could wish. All that he

received to support his cause slipped through his fingers.

Mountebanks, parasites, and women of equivocal reputation perpetually

preyed upon him. All that Curthose obtained from barons and princes to

buy arms and equip men passed into the hands of those who ministered

to his amusement or contributed to his pleasure. Hard pressed for

money, inconvenienced by poverty and all its concomitant evils,

compelled to beg afresh, but, probably, with less success than on the

first occasion, he found himself under the necessity of going to the

usurers, and borrowing gold at exorbitant interest. Such were the

steps by which Curthose entered upon that fatal path which finally,

notwithstanding his great fame as a prince and soldier, and as a

champion of the Cross, conducted him to disaster and defeat, and to a

long and dismal captivity in the dungeons of Cardiff.

XLI.

THE CONQUEROR AND HIS HEIR.

While Robert Curthose was journeying from castle to castle and from

court to court, Philip, King of France, now in his twenty-seventh

year, and William the Conqueror's sworn foe, was offering bribes and

protection to all the discontented Normans. After wandering about

Flanders, Lorraine, and Aquitaine, Curthose at length turned his

horse's head towards France, made for St. Germain, and craved sympathy

and support from the great grandson of Hugh Capet.

Never did monarch listen to exiled prince with more eagerness than

Philip of France listened to the heir of Normandy. Fearing and hating

William as he did, Philip smiled with delight at the idea of setting

the son to pull down the father, and readily promised his utmost aid.

After much conversation on the subject, Curthose formed his plan of

action, and, under the auspices of the French king, repaired to

Gerberoy, a castle on the frontiers of Normandy.