authority of one who was not of royal blood, and that the best hope
of preserving the power he had acquired in the latter reigns, was by
setting up a weak king, and governing in his name. He therefore replied
by tendering his submission to Edward, and promising to support him on
the throne, on condition that he would marry Edith, his daughter, so
fair, so gentle, and pious a lady, that it was a saying, “Even as the
rose springs from the thorn, so springs Edith from Godwin.” She was very
learned, and Ingulf, who afterward was the secretary of the Conqueror,
and Abbot of Croyland, loved to remember how, when he was a boy come
from his convent-school to visit his father at the court, the Lady Edith
would send for him, examine him in his studies, and end by causing her
maiden to count out three or four coins into his hand, and sending him
to the royal larder for refreshment.
Edward was thus placed upon the throne, and every act performed of his
own free will showed his gentleness and desire for his people’s good. At
the request of Edith, he abolished the Danegeld, or money raised first
to bribe the Danes, and then as their tribute; indeed, it was said
that he had seen a vision of an evil spirit dancing on the gold thus
collected. He made new laws in hopes of preventing crime, and set so
strict an example of attention to every rule of the Church, and giving
alms so largely, that he gained the love of his people, and fixed his
memory in their hearts so strongly, that he was revered as a Saint, and
the title of Confessor was given to him, though it properly only applies
to one who has suffered everything short of martyrdom, for the sake of
the Christian faith.
The times were too rude and violent for a king of so soft a mould:
crimes were committed which he had no power to restrain, and,
weak-handed and bewildered, he seems to have acted in great matters much
as he did in the following adventure: He was lying on his bed, when a
person came into the apartment, and, thinking him asleep, stole some
money out of a chest. The King let this pass; but when the thief
returned for a second handful, he quietly said, “Sirrah, you had better
take care, for if Hugolin, my chamberlain, catches you, he will give you
a sound beating.” Hugolin soon came in, and was much concerned at the
loss. “Never mind,” said the King; “the poor man wants it more than we
do.”
The sons of Godwin were growing up rude, high-spirited young men, who
presumed on their connection with the King to hold him cheap, and laugh
at him to his face. Sweyn, the eldest, was the worst, and at last caused
himself to be banished from the realm by the crime of carrying off the
Abbess from the Convent of Leominster. He then spent the life of
a pirate, in the course of which he visited the coast, and, while
pretending to attempt to be reconciled to his family, treacherously
murdered his cousin Biorn. After six years he repented, went barefoot on
pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and died while returning. The other brothers
were stained with no such enormities, but they were dreaded and disliked
by the King, who naturally turned to the friends of his youth, the
Normans.
Norman dresses and customs were introduced, the King’s own handwriting
was in the foreign character, and he expressed his assent to the laws by
appending to them an impression of his seal, after the fashion of the
kings of France. He likewise invited many of his old friends from
Normandy, gave some of them lands in England, where they built
fortified castles, and bestowed the bishopries and abbeys upon Norman
ecclesiastics. Great discontent arose upon this, and Godwin and his
sons took advantage of them to gain popularity, by strenuously opposing
everything Norman, and maintaining, as they said, the old English
customs.
Eustace als Gernons (the Whiskered), Count de Mantes, who had married
the King’s sister, came to visit Edward. At Dover a squabble took place
between his followers and the townspeople, in which several persons
on both sides were killed. Edward ordered Godwin to chastise the
townspeople, but, instead of this, the Earl collected an army, and
marched upon the King himself. They would have made him prisoner but for
Leofric of Mercia, and Siward, Earl of Northumbria, who both came to his
rescue, and drove Godwin and his family into exile.
Edward now felt himself truly King of England, and was able to enjoy a
short visit from the Duke of Normandy, who came to see him, and probably
then first conceived the hope of obtaining the crown of the ill-governed
and divided country that seemed ready to fall a prey to the first
vigorous enemy.
Earl Godwin was not long in assembling his friends, and making a descent
on the coast. All Kent and London rose in his favor, and Edward was
obliged to permit his return, and be reconciled to him.
Very shortly after his return, he was struck with a fit of apoplexy,
while feasting with the King at Easter. He was borne from the table by
his two eldest surviving sons, Harold and Tostig, and died five days
after, in the year 1052. The Norman chroniclers give the following
account of his death: One of the cup-bearers, while serving the King,
happened to make a false step, but saved himself from falling by the
foot, at which Godwin observed, “See how one brother helps another!”
“Yes,” said the king, “so would my brother have helped me, had he
lived.”
“I know you suspect me of his death,” replied Godwin, “but may God, who
is true and just, cause this morsel of bread to choke me, if I am guilty
of his murder.”
Scarcely had he spoken the words before he fell back, struck by the hand
of Heaven, and never uttered another word. Much doubt has been cast upon
this story, since it comes to us through Normans, who were great enemies
of his house. There is, however, nothing incredible in it; and other
instances have been known of persons who thus defied and brought upon
themselves the judgment of Heaven, in the full course of their crimes.
There is a propensity in these days to exalt the character of Godwin,
as if he had been an honest supporter of the old English habits against
foreign innovations. It is an entirely mistaken view, since Godwin
climbed into power by the favor of the enemies and destroyers of his
country, murdered the prince of the ancient line, and throughout the
reign of the lawful successor disturbed his peace, and attempts at
civilization, by factious opposition. Norman customs would have done
far less harm to England than the Danish invaders among whom Godwin had
contentedly spent the best years of his life. He seems throughout to
have listened only to his own ambition, and to have scrupled at nothing
that could promote his interest. Eloquence, and attention to the humors
of the nation, won for him wealth and power that rendered him formidable
to the King, and he built up a great name and fortune for himself, but
brief and fleeting was the inheritance that he bequeathed to his sons.
In fourteen years from his death only one of his brave band of sons
survived, and he was a miserable captive, who spent his whole existence
in the dungeons of his chief enemy. It seemed as if nothing that Godwin
had acquired could be enduring, for the very lands he left behind him no
longer exist, his chief estate on the coast of Kent was swallowed by the
sea, and now forms the dangerous shoal called the Goodwin Sands.
“Wise men also die and perish together, as well as the ignorant and
foolish, and leave their riches for other.
“And yet they think their houses shall continue forever; and that their
dwelling-places shall endure from one generation to another, and call
the lands _after their own names_.”
Far more enduring have been the memorials left by the meek Edward the
Confessor, though he had no son to carry on his name. He had vowed,
during his exile, to go on pilgrimage to Rome, but the Witenagemot
refused to consent to his leaving England, and he sent the Archbishop
of York to ask the advice of the Pope, Leo IX., who recommended him to
perform some work of piety at home.
This was the foundation of the Church of St. Peter’s, in the open
country, at the west end of London, and therefore called Westminster. It
was built with all the skill of Norman architects, and occupied several
years. Edward’s last illness prevented him from being present at its
consecration, and he was represented there by his wife, but he soon
found his rest there. It was dedicated on the Holy Innocents’ day, 1065,
and he was buried there on the 5th of January following. His memory
seemed to give an additional sacredness to the spot in the eyes of the
loving English, and the pavement round his tomb was worn away by their
knees.
CAMEO V. THE TWO HAROLDS. (1060-1066.)
_Kings of England_.
1041. Edward the
Confessor.
1066. Harold.
_Kings of France_.
1059. Philippe I.
_Emperors of Germany_.
1055. Heinrich IV.
The death of Godwin did not at first seem likely to diminish the power
of his family. Harold, his eldest surviving son, was highly endowed with
mental powers and personal beauty and prowess, and was much preferred
by Edward the Confessor to the old Earl himself. He obtained all his
father’s lands, and, shortly after, distinguished himself in a war with
the Welsh, showing, however, that vainglory was his characteristic; for
he set up mounds of stones along the course of his march, bearing the
inscription, “Here Harold conquered.”
The earls who had hitherto balanced the power of the Godwin family,
were, about this time, removed by death. Leofric, of Mercia, and his son
Algar, died within a few years of each other; and Algar’s sons, Edwin
and Morkar, were as yet young and timid. Old Earl Siward Biorn fought
his last battle when he assisted Malcolm Canmore in overthrowing the
murderous usurper, Macbeth, in Scotland. In the battle, Siward’s
eldest-son, of the same name as himself, was killed. The father only
asked if his death-wound was in front, and when he heard it was, “I
heartily rejoice,” said he; “no other death is worthy of my son.”
He himself was obliged, much against his will, to die in peace. “I am
ashamed,” he said, “after so many battles, to die like a cow; case me
in my armor, gird on my sword, put on my helmet, give me my shield and
battle-axe, lift me to my feet, that I may die like a man!”
The fierce old Earl’s younger son, Waltheof, was a mere child, and the
earldom of Northumbria was therefore given to Tostig, the son of Godwin,
but he so misgoverned it that he was, by command of the King, sent into
exile by his brother Harold, whom he thenceforth regarded with the
utmost hatred.
Harold stood so high in favor, both with King and people, that his views
began to take a still loftier flight, especially after the death of
Edward the Stranger, the only grown-up person excepting the King who
inherited the blood of Alfred. The stranger had indeed left an infant
son, but his rights were entirely overlooked. The King wished to leave
his crown to his cousin William, Duke of Normandy; and Harold, trusting
to the general hatred of the Norman race, hoped to secure it for
himself, much in the same way as Hugh Capet had lately dethroned the
line of Charles le Magne in France.
Edward the Confessor, desirous of a affording William some means of
curbing Harold’s ambition, sent to him as hostages Ulfnoth and Hako,
a son and grandson of Godwin. Harold, however, contrived to extort
permission to go to Rouen, and request their liberation, and set out
from Bosham, in Sussex. A storm wrecked him in Ponthieu; he was taken
captive by the count of that district, who gave him up to William in
exchange for a considerable manor, and thus, though he entered Rouen
in state, he found himself, instead of the ambassador of the King of
England, in effect the prisoner of the Duke of Normandy.
He was treated with great courtesy, accompanied William on an expedition
against the Duke of Brittany, and gave great help to the Normans by
his personal strength, when some of them were in danger, in crossing a
river, and, apparently, was in high honor; but William was determined
not to miss the advantage chance had thrown in his way; and when Harold,
alter spending some months at Rouen, proposed to return, he, in the
first place, insisted on drawing up a treaty of alliance and friendship
with his good friend the Earl of Wessex, to be sworn to on both sides.
Very distasteful must this promise of friendship have been to Harold,
since the first article required him to assist the Duke with all his
power in obtaining the crown of England upon Edward’s death; but he
found it impossible to resist, and declared himself perfectly willing to
engage himself as required.
An oath taken on the relics of the Saints was, at that time, considered
as more binding than one taken on the Holy Scriptures; and William
commanded that the most honored of these remains should be collected
from various churches and placed in a chest, covered with cloth of gold
on which a copy of the Gospels was laid. Harold, laying his hand on the
book, swore to observe the treaty faithfully; and when he had so done,
William removed the cloth and showed him the relics, at the sight of
which he turned pale and trembled--a sure sign, as was thought by the
Normans who stood round, that his conscience would not allow him to
break an oath which was believed to have thus acquired double force and
sanctity. Yet Harold soon proved that no oaths can bind a man who will
not be bound by his simple word.
A few months after his return from Normandy, he was standing by the
bedside of the dying Edward the Confessor, importuning his last moments
with entreaties to him to declare his successor.
“Ye know, full well,” said the poor old King, “that I have bequeathed my
kingdom to the Duke of Normandy; nay, some be here who have sworn oaths
to him.”
Harold pressed him for some other answer, and he replied, “Take it,
Harold, if such be thy will, but the gift will be thy ruin. Against the
Duke and his barons no might of thine will avail thee.”
“Fear not for me,” replied Harold, joyfully; “I fear neither Norman, nor
aught else.”
“May it fall to the most worthy!” was the faint answer of Edward. His
thoughts began to wander, and he uttered many passages of Scripture
speaking of desolation and destruction, which were afterward regarded by
his subjects as the last prophecies of their saintly king. He died two
days afterward, and, on the feast of Epiphany, 1066, Harold assumed the
crown. The coronation was solemnized by Alfred, Archbishop of York; but
whether the absence of the Primate Stigand was occasioned by his dislike
to the usurpation, or by the sentence of excommunication under which he
had been laid by the Pope, is not known. Be that as it may, there was
little joy to welcome the accession of Harold; the people were full of
melancholy forebodings, excited by the predictions of King Edward,
as well as by the appearance of a comet, then supposed to denote the
approach of misfortune; the great earls, Edwin and Morkar, were his
enemies, the nobles envied him, and stood aloof, significantly relating
a story of his boyhood, when he is said to have met with a severe fall
in a foolish attempt to fly from the top of a tower with wings of his
own contrivance. There is a Spanish proverb which, in truth, suited
Harold well: “The ant found wings for her destruction.” The bitterest of
all his enemies was his own brother, Tostig, who, having been banished
partly by his means, on account of his misgovernment of Northumbria, was
living in Flanders, whence, the instant he heard of Harold’s coronation,
he hastened with the tidings to Normandy; and not thinking William’s
preparations speedy enough to satisfy the impatience of his hatred, he
went to Norway, where he found a willing ally in Harald Hardrada, the
last sea-king.
A curious story is told of the childhood of this Harald Hardrada, who
was the half-brother of the kingly St. Olaf, being the son of the
haughty Aasta and the peaceful Sigurd Syr. When Harald was about three
years old, St. Olaf was on a visit to his mother, and calling to his
little brothers, took the two eldest, Guttorm and Halfdan, one on each
knee, and looked at them, with a fierce countenance, at which both the
little boys were frightened, and ran away to hide themselves. He then
took Harald on his knee, and put on the same fierce look at him, but the
child looked boldly up in his face in return. As a further trial of
his courage, the king pulled his hair, upon which the little fellow
undauntedly pulled the king’s whiskers, and Olaf said, “Thou wilt be
revengeful, some day, my friend.”
The next day, Olaf found his little brothers at play; the two eldest
building little barns and enclosing cornfields, and Harald lying by the
side of a pool of water, in which he was floating small chips of wood.
“What are these?” asked the king.
“My ships of war,” said little Harald.
“Ha! my friend,” said the King, “the time may come when thou wilt
command ships.”
He then called the other two, and asked Guttorm what he would like best
to have.
“Corn land,” said he.
“And how great wouldst thou like thy corn land to be?”
“I would have the whole ness (peninsula) that goes out into the lake
sown with corn every summer.”
“And what wouldst thou like best?” he asked of Halfdan.
“Cows,” said the boy.
“How many wouldst thou like to have?”
“So many, that when they went to the lake to drink, they should stand as
tight round the lake as they could stand.”
“That would be a great house-keeping!” said the king; “and now, Harald,
what wouldst thou have?” “Followers.”
“And how many of them?”
“Oh, so many as would eat up all Halfdan’s cows at a single meal!”
Olaf laughed, and said, “Here, mother, thou art bringing up a king.”
In fact, Guttorm and Halfdan followed the quiet life of their father,
but Harald was of far different temper. When Olaf returned from his
exile in Russia, young Harald, who was scarcely fifteen, joined him with
all the followers he could muster, and insisted on taking part in the
battle of Stiklestad.
Olaf told him he was too young; but Harald boldly answered, “I am not
so weak but I can handle the sword; and as to that, I have a notion
of tying the sword to my hand;” and then the brave boy sung out some
verses, composed on the spur of the moment, according to a talent often
found among the Northmen, and highly valued:
“Our army’s wing, where I shall stand,
I will hold good with heart and hand;
My mother’s eye shall joy to see,
A batter’d, blood-stain’d shield from me.
The brave young skald should gaily go
Into the fray, change blow for blow;
Cheer on his men, gain inch by inch,
And from the spear-point never flinch.”
Olaf saw plainly that his high-spirited mother had infused her own
temper into her youngest son as entirely as into himself, and yielded
his consent that Harald should take part in the battle. It was a
mournful beginning for a young warrior. Harald beheld the fall of his
noble brother, and was himself severely wounded. He was led from the
field by a faithful bonder, who hid him in his house; but the spirit of
the young minstrel warrior was undaunted, and, during his recovery, he
sung thus:
“My wounds were bleeding as I rode,
And down the hill the bonders strode,
Killing the wounded with the sword,
The followers of their rightful lord.
From wood to wood I crept along,
Unnoticed by the bonder throng;
‘Who knows,’ I thought, ‘a day may come,
My name may yet be great at home.’”
As soon as his wounds were healed, Harald took refuge in Russia, and
thence travelled to Constantinople, where he became one of the renowned
guards of the Greek Emperor, composed of hired Northmen and Saxons, and
called Vaeringer, or Varangians, from the word _Wehr_, a defence. He
went from Constantinople to the Holy Land, bathed in the Jordan, paid
his devotions at Jerusalem, and killed the robbers on the way. Strange
stories were told of his adventures at Constantinople, of the Empress
Zoe having fallen in love with him, and of his refusal to return her
affection; upon which she raised an accusation against him, that he had
misapplied the pay of the Vaeringers, and threw him into prison,
whence, as the story related, he was freed by a lady, who was
commissioned to rescue him by St. Olaf, his brother, who appeared to
her in a dream. She brought him a rope ladder, and he escaped to his
ship, broke through the chains that guarded the harbor, and sailed
northward through the Black Sea, composing on his voyage sixteen songs
in honor of Elisif, the Russian king’s daughter, whom he married on his
arrival at Novogorod. He obtained with her great riches, which he added
to the treasures he had brought from Constantinople.
St. Olaf’s son, Magnus, was reigning in Norway, and Harald Hardrada
designed to obtain from him a portion of the kingdom, to winch, by the
old Norwegian law, every descendant of Harald Harfagre had an equal
claim. Harald united with his cousin Swend, who had been dispossessed
of an earldom by Magnus, and they advanced together; but Harald was
inclined, if possible, rather to decide the matter by a treaty, than
by force of arms; while Swend, on the other hand, wished for war and
revenge.
One evening, as the two allies were sitting together, Swend asked Harald
what he valued most of all his property.
“My banner, Land-Waster,” answered Harald.
“And wherefore?”
“It has always been said that this banner carries victory with it, and
so I have ever found it.”
“I will believe in that when thou hast borne it in three battles with
thy nephew Magnus, and won them all.”
“I know my kindred with king Magnus,” answered Harald, “without thy
recalling it; and though we are now in arms against him, our meeting may
be of another sort.”
They came to high words, Swend reproaching his ally with breaking his
agreement. Harald distrusted his intentions, and, at night, did not, as
usual, sleep in a tent on the deck of his ship, but left a billet of
wood in his place. At midnight a man rowed silently up to the side of
the ship, crept up to the tent, and struck so violent a blow with his
axe, that it remained sticking in the wood, while the murderer retired
to his boat, and rowed away in the dark.
Harald, convinced of this treachery, deserted Swend, and went to join
Magnus, who met him in a friendly manner, and invited him, with sixty of
his men, to a banquet.
After the feast, Magnus went round the table, distributing gifts of
robes and weapons to the sixty men; but when he came to Harald, he held
up two sticks, and asked which of them he would choose. Harald took the
nearest, and Magnus declared that therewith he gave up to him half his
power and land in Norway, making him of equal right with himself, and
only reserving the first seat when they should be together at any time.
Harald sent for all the treasure he had brought home, declaring that
they would likewise divide their riches; and the gold was weighed out,
and placed in two equal heaps, each on an ox-hide. But Magnus had no
riches to contribute, for he said that the turmoils in the country had
so impoverished him, that all the gold he possessed was the ring on
his finger, which his father, St. Olaf, had given him at their last
parting. Even this, Harald said, smiling, perhaps belonged rightfully
to him, since it was, at first, the property of his father, Sigurd Syr.
However, the two kings parted amicably, and reigned together without
disagreements of any consequence, for the remembrance of St. Olaf seemed
always to be a link between his son and brother. Magnus, the more gentle
of the two, died just as his uncle had led him to enter on a war of
ambition with Swend, King of Denmark.
Norwegian traditions relate that he dreamt that his father, St. Olaf,
appeared to him, saying, “Wilt thou choose, my son, to follow me, or to
become a long-lived and powerful king, at the cost of a crime that can
never be expiated?”
“Do thou choose for me, father,” he answered.
“Then follow me,” replied the spirit.
Magnus awoke, told the dream, sickened, and died, leaving the whole of
Norway to Harald Hardrada, and declaring that it would be just not to
molest Swend in his possession of Denmark.
Harald reigned prosperously, until, in an evil hour, he received Tostig,
the son of Godwin, and listened to his invitation to come and invade
England, and revenge him on his brother Harold. He fitted out a great
armament, sailed up the Humber, plundered and burnt Scarborough,
defeated the young earls of Mercia and Northumberland, and summoned York
to surrender.