regard for his honor and his life, to conceal from the king that fatal
beauty which had lured him from his duty to his friend and monarch, and
led him into endless falsehoods. He had but his love to offer as a
warrant for his double faithlessness, and implored Elfrida, as she
returned his affection, to lend her aid to his exculpation. If she loved
him as she seemed, she would put on her homliest attire, employ the
devices of the toilette to hide her fatal beauty, and assume an awkward
and rustic tone and manner, that the king might be deceived.
Elfrida heard him in silence, her face scarcely concealing the
indignation which burned in her soul on learning the artifice by which
she had been robbed of a crown. In the end, however, she seemed moved by
his entreaties and softened by his love, and promised to comply with his
wishes and do her utmost to conceal her charms.
Gratified with this compliance, and full of hope that all would yet be
safe, Athelwold completed his preparations for the reception of the
king, and met him on his appearance with every show of honor and
respect. Edgar seemed pleased by his reception, entered the castle, but
was not long there before he asked to see its lady, saying merrily that
she had been the loadstone that had drawn him thither, and that he was
eager to behold her charming face.
"I fear I have little of beauty and grace to show you," answered
Athelwold; "but she is a good wife withal, and I love her for virtues
which few would call courtly."
He turned to a servant and bade him ask his mistress to come to the
castle hall, where the king expected her.
Athelwold waited with hopeful eyes; the king with curious expectation.
The husband knew how unattractive a toilet his wife could make if she
would; Edgar was impatient to test for himself the various reports he
had received concerning this wild rose of Devonshire.
The lady entered. The hope died from Athelwold's eyes; the pallor of
death overspread his face. A sudden light flashed into the face of the
king, a glow made up of passion and anger. For instead of the
ill-dressed and awkward country housewife for whom Athelwold looked,
there beamed upon all present a woman of regal beauty, clad in her
richest attire, her charms of face and person set off with all the
adornment that jewels and laces could bestow, her face blooming into its
most engaging smile as she greeted the king.
She had deceived her trusting husband. His story of treachery had driven
from her heart all the love for him that ever dwelt there. He had robbed
her of a throne; she vowed revenge in her soul; it might be hers yet;
with the burning instinct of ambition she had adorned herself to the
utmost, hoping to punish her faithless lord and win the king.
She succeeded. While Athelwold stood by, biting his lips, striving to
bring back the truant blood to his face, making hesitating remarks to
his guest, and turning eyes of deadly anger on his wife, the scheming
woman was using her most engaging arts of conversation and manner to win
the king, and with a success greater than she knew. Edgar beheld her
beauty with surprise and joy, his heart throbbing with ardent passion.
She was all and more than he had been told. Athelwold had basely
deceived him, and his new-born love for the wife was mingled with a
fierce desire for revenge upon the husband. But the artful monarch
dissembled both these passions. He was, to a certain extent, in
Athelwold's power. His train was not large, and those were days in which
an angry or jealous thane would not hesitate to lift his hand against a
king. He, therefore, affected not to be struck with Elfrida's beauty,
was gracious as usual to his host, and seemed the most agreeable of
guests.
But passion was burning in his heart, the double passion of love and
revenge. A day or two of this play of kingly clemency passed, then
Athelwold and his guests went to hunt in the neighboring forest, and in
the heat of the chase Edgar gained the opportunity he desired. He
stabbed his unsuspecting host in the back, left him dead on the field,
and rode back to the castle to declare his love to the suddenly-widowed
wife.
Elfrida had won the game for which she had so heartlessly played.
Ambition in her soul outweighed such love as she bore for Athelwold, and
she received with gracious welcome the king whose hands were still red
from the murder of her late spouse. No long time passed before Edgar and
Elfrida were publicly married, and the love romance which had
distinguished the life of the famed beauty of Devonshire reached its
consummation.
This romantic story has a sequel which tells still less favorably for
the Devonshire beauty. She had compassed the murder of her husband. It
was not her last crime. Edgar died when her son Ethelred was but seven
years of age. The king had left another son, Edward, by his first wife,
now fifteen years old. The ambitious woman plotted for the elevation of
her son to the throne, hoping, doubtless, herself to reign as regent.
The people favored Edward, as the rightful heir, and the nobility and
clergy, who feared the imperious temper of Elfrida, determined to thwart
her schemes. To put an end to the matter, Dunstan the monk, the
all-powerful king-maker of that epoch, had the young prince anointed and
crowned. The whole kingdom supported his act, and the hopes of Elfrida
were seemingly at an end.
But she was a woman not to be easily defeated. She bided her time, and
affected warm regard for the youthful king, who loved her as if he had
been her own son, and displayed the most tender affection for his
brother. Edward, indeed, was a character out of tone with those rude
tenth-century days, when might was right, and murder was often the first
step to a throne. He was of the utmost innocence of heart and amiability
of manners, so pure in his own thoughts that suspicion of others found
no place in his soul.
One day, four years after his accession, he was hunting in a forest in
Dorsetshire, not far from Corfe-castle, where Elfrida and Ethelred
lived. The chances of the chase led him to the vicinity of the castle,
and, taking advantage of the opportunity to see its loved inmates, he
rode away from his attendants, and in the evening twilight sounded his
hunting-horn at the castle gates.
This was the opportunity which the ambitious woman had desired. The
rival of her son had put himself unattended within her reach. Hastily
preparing for the reception she designed to give him, she came from the
castle, smiling a greeting.
"You are heartily welcome, dear king and son," she said. "Pray dismount
and enter."
"Not so, dear madam," he replied. "My company will miss me, and fear I
have met with some harm. I pray you give me a cup of wine, that I may
drink in the saddle to you and my little brother. I would stay longer,
but may not linger."
Elfrida returned for the wine, and as she did so whispered a few words
to an armed man in the castle hall, one of her attendants whom she could
trust. As she went on, this man slipped out in the gathering gloom and
placed himself close behind the king's horse.
In a minute more Elfrida reappeared, wine-cup in hand. The king took the
cup and raised it to his lips, looking down with smiling face on his
step-mother and her son, who smiled their love-greeting back to him. At
this instant the lurking villain in the rear sprang up and buried his
fatal knife in the king's back.
Filled with pain and horror, Edward involuntarily dropped the cup and
spurred his horse. The startled animal sprang forward, Edward clinging
to his saddle for a few minutes, but soon, faint with loss of blood,
falling to the earth, while one of his feet remained fast in the
stirrup.
The frightened horse rushed onward, dragging him over the rough ground
until death put an end to his misery. The hunters, seeking the king,
found the track of his blood, and traced him till his body was
discovered, sadly torn and disfigured.
Meanwhile, the child Ethelred cried out so pitifully at the frightful
tragedy which had taken place before his eyes, that his heartless mother
turned her rage against him. She snatched a torch from one of the
attendants and beat him unmercifully for his uncontrollable emotion.
The woman a second time had won her game,--first, by compassing the
murder of her husband; second, by ordering the murder of her step-son.
It is pleasant to say that she profited little by the latter base deed.
The people were incensed by the murder of the king, and Dunstan resolved
that Ethelred should not have the throne. He offered it to Edgitha, the
daughter of Edgar. But that lady wisely preferred to remain in the
convent where she lived in peace: so, in default of any other heir,
Ethelred was put upon the throne,--Ethelred the Unready, as he came
afterwards to be known.
Elfrida at first possessed great influence over her son; but her power
declined as he grew older, and in the end she retired from the court,
built monasteries and performed penances, in hopes of providing a refuge
for her pious soul in heaven, since all men hated her upon the earth.
As regards Edward, his tragical death so aroused the sympathy of the
people that they named him the Martyr, and believed that miracles were
wrought at his tomb. It cannot be said that his murder was in any sense
a martyrdom, but the men of that day did not draw fine lines of
distinction, and Edward the Martyr he remains.
_THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND._
We have two pictures to draw, preliminary scenes to the fatal battle of
Hastings Hill. The first belongs to the morning of September 25, 1066.
At Stamford Bridge, on the Derwent River, lay encamped a stalwart host,
that of Harold Hardrada, king of Norway. With him was Tostig, rebel
brother of King Harold of England, who had brought this army of
strangers into the land. On the river near by lay their ships.
Here Harold found them, a formidable force, drawn up in a circle, the
line marked out by shining spears. The English king had marched hither
in all haste from the coast, where he had been awaiting the coming of
William of Normandy. Tostig, the rebel son of Godwin, had brought ruin
upon the land.
Before the battle commenced, twenty horsemen rode out from Harold's
vanguard and moved towards the foe. Harold, the king, rode at their
head. As they drew near they saw a leader of the opposing host, clad in
a blue mantle and wearing a shining helmet, fall to the earth through
the stumbling of his horse.
"Who is the man that fell?" asked Harold.
"The king of Norway," answered one of his companions.
"He is a tall and stately warrior," answered Harold, "but his end is
near."
Then, under command of the king, one of his noble followers rode up to
the opposing line and called out,--
"Is Tostig, the son of Godwin, here?"
"It would be wrong to say he is not," answered the rebel Englishman,
stepping into view.
The herald then begged him to make peace with his brother, saying that
it was dreadful that two men, sons of the same mother, should be in arms
against each other.
"What will Harold give me if I make peace with him?" asked Tostig.
"He will give you a brother's love and make you earl of Northumberland."
"And what will he give to my friend, the king of Norway?"
"Seven feet of earth for a grave," was the grim answer of the envoy;
"or, as he seems a very tall man, perhaps a foot or two more."
"Ride back, then," said Tostig, "and bid Harold make ready for battle.
Whatever happens, it shall never be said of Tostig that he basely gave
up the friend who had helped him in time of need."
The fight began,--and quickly ended. Hardrada fought like a giant, but
an arrow in his throat brought him dead to the ground. Tostig fell also,
and many other chiefs. The Northmen, disheartened, yielded. Harold gave
them easy terms, bidding them take their ships and sail again to the
land whence they had come.
This warlike picture on the land may be matched by one upon the sea.
Over the waves of the English Channel moved a single ship, such a one as
had rarely been seen upon those waters. Its sails were of different
bright colors; the vanes at the mast-heads were gilded; the three lions
of Normandy were painted here and there; the figure-head was a child
with a bent bow, its arrow pointed towards the land of England. At the
mainmast-head floated a consecrated banner, which had been sent from
Rome.
It was the ship of William of Normandy, alone upon the waves. Three
thousand vessels in all had left with it the shores of France, six or
seven hundred of them large in size. Now, day was breaking, and the
king's ship was alone. The others had vanished in the night.
William ordered a sailor to the mast-head to report on what he could
see.
"I see nothing but the water and the sky," came the lookout's cry from
above.
"We have outsailed them; we must lay to," said the duke.
Breakfast was served, with warm spiced wine, to keep the crew in good
heart. After it was over the sailor was again sent aloft.
"I can see four ships, low down in the offing," he proclaimed.
A third time he was sent to the mast-head. His voice now came to those
on deck filled with merry cheer.
"Now I see a forest of masts and sails," he cried.
Within a few hours afterwards the Normans were landing in Pevensey Bay,
on the Sussex coast. Harold had been drawn off by the invasion in the
north, and the new invaders were free to land. Duke William was among
the first. As he set foot on shore he stumbled and fell. The hearts of
his knights fell with him, for they deemed this an unlucky sign. But
William had that ready wit which turns ill into good fortune. Grasping
two handfuls of the soil, he hastily rose, saying, cheerily, "Thus do I
seize upon the land of England."
Meanwhile, Harold was feasting, after his victory, at York. As he sat
there with his captains, a stir was heard at the doors, and in rushed a
messenger, booted and spurred, and covered with dust from riding fast
and far.
"The Normans have come!" was his cry. "They have landed at Pevensey Bay.
They are out already, harrying the land. Smoke and fire are the beacons
of their march."
That feast came to a sudden end. Soon Harold and his men were in full
march for London. Here recruits were gathered in all haste. Within a
week the English king was marching towards where the Normans lay
encamped. He was counselled to remain and gather more men, leaving some
one else to lead his army.
"Not so," he replied; "an English king must never turn his back to the
enemy."
We have now a third picture to draw, and a great one,--that of the
mighty and momentous conflict which ended in the death of the last of
the Saxon kings, and the Norman conquest of England.
The force of William greatly outnumbered that of Harold. It comprised
about sixty thousand men, while Harold had but twenty or thirty
thousand. And the Normans were more powerfully armed, the English having
few archers, while many of them were hasty recruits who bore only
pitchforks and other tools of their daily toil. The English king,
therefore, did not dare to meet the heavily-armed and mail-clad Normans
in the open field. Wisely he led his men to the hill of Senlac, near
Hastings, a spot now occupied by the small town of Battle, so named in
memory of the great fight. Here he built intrenchments of earth, stones,
and tree-trunks, behind which he waited the Norman assault. Marshy
ground covered the English right. In front, at the most exposed
position, stood the "huscarls," or body-guard, of Harold, men clad in
mail and armed with great battle-axes, their habit being to interlock
their shields like a wall. In their midst stood the standard of
Harold,--with the figure of a warrior worked in gold and gems,--and
beside it the Golden Dragon of Wessex, a banner of ancient fame. Back of
them were crowded the half-armed rustics who made up the remainder of
the army.
Duke William had sought, by ravaging the land, to bring Harold to an
engagement. He had until now subsisted by plunder. He was now obliged to
concentrate his forces. A concentrated army cannot feed by pillage.
There was but one thing for the Norman leader to do. He must attack the
foe in his strong position, with victory or ruin as his only
alternatives.
The night before the battle was differently passed by the two armies.
The Normans spent the hours in prayer and confession to their priests.
Bishop Odo celebrated mass on the field as day dawned, his white
episcopal vestment covering a coat of mail, while war-horse and
battle-axe awaited him when the benediction should be spoken. The
English, on their side, sat round their watch-fires, drinking great
horns of ale, and singing warlike lays, as their custom for centuries
had been.
Day had not dawned on that memorable 14th of October, of the year 1066,
when both sides were in arms and busily preparing for battle. William
and Harold alike harangued their men and bade them do their utmost for
victory. Ruin awaited the one side, slavery the other, if defeat fell
upon their banners.
William rode a fine Spanish horse, which a Norman had brought from
Galicia, whither he had gone on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Iago.
The consecrated standard was borne by his side by one Tonstain, "the
White," two barons having declined the dangerous honor. Behind him rode
the pride of the Norman nobility.
On the hill-side before them stood Harold and his stout body-guard,
trenches and earthworks in their front, their shields locked into a wall
of iron. In the first line stood the men of Kent, this being their
ancient privilege. Behind them were ranged the burgesses of London, the
royal standard in their midst. Beside the standard stood Harold himself,
his brothers Gurth and Leofwin by his side, and around them a group of
England's noblest thanes and warriors.
On came the Norman column. Steadily awaited them the English phalanx.
"Dieu aide!" or "God is our help!" shouted the assailing knights.
"Christ's rood! the holy rood!" roared back the English warriors. Nearer
they came, till they looked in each other's eyes, and the battle was
ready to begin.
And now, from the van of the Norman host, rode a man of renown, the
minstrel Taillefer. A gigantic man he was, singer, juggler, and champion
combined. As he rode fearlessly forward he chanted in a loud voice the
ancient "Song of Roland," flinging his sword in the air with one hand as
he sang, and catching it as it fell with the other. As he sang, the
Normans took up the refrain of his song, or shouted their battle cry of
"Dieu aide."
Onward he rode, thrusting his blade through the body of the first
Englishman he met. The second he encountered was flung wounded to the
ground. With the third the "Song of Roland" ended; the giant minstrel
was hurled from his horse pierced with a mortal wound. He had sung his
last song. He crossed himself and was at rest.
On came the Normans, the band of knights led by William assailing
Harold's centre, the mercenary host of French and Bretons attacking his
flanks. The Norman foot led the van, seeking to force a passage across
the English stockade. "Out, out!" fiercely shouted the men of Kent, as
they plied axe and javelin with busy hands. The footmen were driven
back. The Norman horse in turn were repulsed. Again and again the duke
rallied and led his knights to the fatal stockade; again and again he
and his men were driven back. The blood of the Norseman in his veins
burned with all the old Viking battle-thirst. The headlong valor which
he had often shown on Norman plains now impelled him relentlessly
forward. Yet his coolness and readiness never forsook him. The course of
the battle ever lay before his eyes, its reins in his grasp. At one time
during the combat the choicest of the Norman cavalry were driven upon a
deep trench which the English had dug and artfully concealed. In they
went in numbers, men and horses falling and perishing. Disaster
threatened Duke William's army. The Bretons, checked by the marshes on
the right broke in disorder. Panic threatened to spread through the
whole array, and a wild cry arose that the duke was slain. Men in
numbers turned their backs upon the foe; a headlong flight was begun.
At this almost fatal moment Duke William's power as a leader revealed
itself. His horse had been killed, but no harm had come to him.
Springing to the back of a fresh steed, he spurred before the fugitives,
and bade them halt, threatened them, struck them with his spear. When
the cry was repeated that the duke was dead, he tore off his helmet and
showed his face to the flying host. "Here I am!" he cried, in a
stentorian voice. "Look at me! I live, and by God's help will conquer
yet!"
Their leader's voice gave new courage to the Norman host, the flight
ceased; they rallied, and, following the headlong charge of the duke,
attacked the English with renewed fierceness and vigor. William fought
like an aroused lion. Horse after horse was killed under him, but he
still appeared at the head of his men, shouting his terrible war-cry,
striking down a foeman with every swing of his mighty iron club.
He broke through the stockade; he spurred furiously on those who guarded
the king's standard; down went Gurth, the king's brother, before a blow
of that terrible mace; down went Leofwin, a second brother of the king;
William's horse fell dead under him, a rider refused to lend him his
horse, but a blow from that strong mailed hand emptied the saddle, and
William was again horsed and using his mighty weapon with deadly effect.
Yet despite all his efforts the English line of defence remained
unbroken. That linked wall of shields stood intact. From behind it the
terrible battle-axes of Harold's men swung like flails, making crimson
gaps in the crowded ranks before them. Hours had passed in this
conflict. It began with day-dawn; the day was waning, yet still the
English held their own; the fate of England hung in the scale; it began
to look as if Harold would win.
But Duke William was a man of resources. That wall of shields must be
rent asunder, or the battle was lost. If it could not be broken by
assault, it might by retreat. He bade the men around him to feign a
disorderly flight. The trick succeeded; many of the English leaped the
stockade and pursued their flying foes. The crafty duke waited until the
eager pursuers were scattered confusedly down the hill. Then, heading a
body of horse which he had kept in reserve, he rushed upon the
disordered mass, cutting them down in multitudes, strewing the hill-side
with English slain.
Through the abandoned works the duke led his knights, and gained the
central plateau. On the flanks the French and Bretons poured over the
stockade and drove back its poorly-armed defenders. It was
mid-afternoon, and the field already seemed won. Yet when the sunset
hour came on that red October day the battle still raged. Harold had
lost his works of defence, yet his huscarls stood stubbornly around him,
and with unyielding obstinacy fought for their standard and their king.
The spot on which they made their last fight was that marked afterwards
by the high altar of Battle Abbey.
The sun was sinking. The battle was not yet decided. For nine hours it
had raged. Dead bodies by thousands clogged the field. The living fought
from a platform of the dead. At length, as the sun was nearing the
horizon, Duke William brought up his archers and bade them pour their
arrows upon the dense masses crowded around the standard of the English
king. He ordered them to shoot into the air, that the descending shafts
might fall upon the faces of the foe.
Victory followed the flight of those plumed shafts. As the sun went down
one of them pierced Harold's right eye. When they saw him fall the
Normans rushed like a torrent forward, and a desperate conflict ensued
over the fallen king. The Saxon standard still waved over the serried
English ranks. Robert Fitz Ernest, a Norman knight, fought his way to
the staff. His outstretched hand had nearly grasped it when an English
battle-axe laid him low. Twenty knights, grouped in mass, followed him
through the English phalanx. Down they went till ten of them lay
stretched in death. The other ten reached the spot, tore down the
English flag, and in a few minutes more the consecrated banner of
Normandy was flying in its stead.
The conflict was at an end. As darkness came the surviving English fled
into the woods in their rear. The Normans remained masters of the field.
Harold, the king, was dead, and all his brothers had fallen; Duke
William was England's lord. On the very spot where Harold had fallen the
conqueror pitched his tent, and as darkness settled over vanquished
England he "sate down to eat and drink among the dead."