ST. NICHOLAS FOR GUADER!
The original plan of campaign drawn out by the Earls of East Anglia and
Hereford had been sadly marred by the defection of Waltheof, whose
counties of Huntingdon and Northampton lay between them, so that,
instead of being a bond of union, they had now become adverse
territory.
With Waltheof assisting them, only Worcestershire and Warwickshire
would have divided them, but since he had left them in the lurch, they
must needs fight half across England to effect a junction. They had
this comfort, however, that Waltheof had left the country in order to
make his peace with the king, and would not personally encounter them,
while their positions at the extremes of east and west exposed any
force attacking either of them to be itself attacked in the rear by the
other. Further, the unsettled state of the Welsh border, and the
readiness of the Celts to seize any excuse for invasion, rendered
Hereford's movement doubly formidable for the king's lieutenants.
De Guader hoped that, for this reason, the main force of the opponents
might be turned towards Hereford, and that he might be upon them before
they were aware that he had taken the field. The hope proved delusive.
When he reached his manors at Swaffham, of which place he was lord, he
found that the royal army was almost upon him, and that he must give
battle there and then.
Ralph had need to put forth his best powers of generalship, for the
force against him was led by four of William's most brilliant
officers:--
Earl William de Warrenne and Surrey, the husband of the king's
stepdaughter Gundred, to whom had been given twenty-eight manors in
Yorkshire, and one hundred and thirty-nine lordships in Norfolk, and
who was building a fine castle at Acre near Swaffham, so that he was
Ralph's neighbour, and probably no very cordial one. The Norman earl
had won experience of Fenland fighting in the campaign against Hereward
a few seasons previously, and had never forgiven the English for
killing his brother, who was leading the king's men through the
terrible quagmires of the Isle of Ely; so he ground his teeth and swore
strange oaths, as was the way of the Normans, that now the time for
retribution had come.
Next there was Robert Malet, son of the brave old Sir William, who had
helped to bear the corse of Harold Godwinsson to its first burial, and
who took with him to his own grave the love and respect of Normans and
English alike, leaving his son an inheritance of lands in Norfolk and
Suffolk.
Besides were two warlike bishops: Odo of Bayeux, the king's
half-brother, and Geoffrey of Coutances, warriors whose prestige was
itself equal to a large body of troops.
After the death of Robert the Devil, Arlete of Falaise, the mother of
William the Conqueror, married a knight named Herluin de Conteville,
and bore him two sons, Robert, Count of Mortain, and Odo, Bishop of
Bayeux.
Odo had a large share of the military genius of his great half-brother;
nevertheless the chronicles say: 'He was no instigator to war, nor
could he be drawn thereto, and therefore much feared by the soldiers.
But upon great necessity, his counsels in military affairs were of
special avail, so far as might consist with the safety of religion. To
the king, whose brother he was by the mother, his affections were so
great that he could not be severed from him, no, not in the camp.' He
equipped one hundred ships of war as his contribution to the invasion
of England, and fought in person at Hastings, for which he was rewarded
by the earldom of Kent, one hundred and eighty-four lordships in that
county, and two hundred and fifty in other parts of England, including
Rising, in Norfolk, where he built a fine castle.
Affluence did not improve his character. He grew rapacious and greedy,
and degraded his sacred office by flagrant immoralities.
The followers of these four redoubtable leaders far out-numbered De
Guader's, and were better drilled and equipped; moreover, the defection
of Waltheof had caused many of the Saxon and Anglo-Danish nobles to
join the Norman camp, seeing a good opportunity to curry favour with
the Conqueror.
Ralph's naturally dauntless spirit was, however, strung by the
impossibility of turning back, and he formed his troops in the
strongest position he could, taking advantage of the great Saxon fosse
and rampart known as the Devil's Dyke, which runs from Eastmore to
Narborough, lining the steep vallum with his archers and slingers and
javelin men, and massing his cavalry on the firm open ground of
Beachamwell Heath, with the hope of forcing his foe into the morasses
that lay around Foulden; for in those days the Bedford level was
undrained, and there were no old and new Bedford rivers to gather the
waters, no Denver sluice to carry them off; the sweltering fens
stretched far and wide, and miles and miles of land that is now fertile
pasturage was haunted only by wildfowl and fishes.
Before commencing the attack, the leaders on the king's side sent
forward a knight with a herald carrying the royal standard, and
accompanied by trumpets to sound a parley. This being acceded to by De
Guader, and a knight bearing his standard sent forth to meet them, the
royal envoy, who was no less a person than the Bishop of Bayeux
himself, rode forward, and delivered his charge in so loud and clear a
voice, that it was audible to the cluster of knights who gathered round
De Guader, before the herald officially repeated it.
Ralph was not ill-pleased to see the Bishop of Bayeux come forward, for
the cruelties he had perpetrated while sharing the vice-regency of
England with William Fitzosbern had won him the hatred of the Saxons,
and the Normans regarded him with jealousy and distrust; so that of all
William's leaders he was least likely to win Ralph's followers to his
side by personal influence.
Yet the warlike bishop was well fitted to grace the saddle of a knight.
Tall, robust, and handsome, in the prime of youthful manhood, he looked
indeed a noble cavalier, and any who saw him might well deem that the
feats by which he had made himself famous at Hastings might be eclipsed
by his prowess on the field before him.
His eyes sparkled with the excitement of the coming struggle, and his
upright and muscular form was armed _cap-a-pie_ in all the trappings of
knightly harness. Only in one particular did his equipment differ from
that of the warriors around him. He bore neither lance nor sword, but
only, hanging from his saddle-bow, a huge mace with iron spikes, a
weapon more deadly than either, be it said, though less like to spill
blood; by this subterfuge professing to obey the law of the Church
which forbade his order to shed blood.
He now came as a messenger of peace--on conditions. But what
conditions!
'Noble barons and knights,' he shouted, 'here present in contumacious
assembly! In the name of our king-lord, William of Normandy, supreme
sovereign of these realms, by the will of the sainted Eadward the
Confessor, and the election of the Witanagemot'--('No!' thundered some
of the Anglo-Saxons who followed Ralph de Guader)--'By the will of the
sainted Eadward the Confessor, and the election of the Witanagemot!'
repeated the bishop in still louder tones, 'we, his representatives, do
here demand of you that ye deliver up the body of the vile and
audacious traitor, Ralph de Guader, sometime Earl of Norfolk and
Suffolk, but now under attainder for high treason; and the persons of
his Breton followers, here arranged in blank rebellion against their
liege lord and sovereign, William the Norman, upon which deliverance
and your immediate return to allegiance, your past misdeeds will
receive free pardon, be ye Norman or Saxon.'
Ralph de Guader's dark visage was convulsed with passion when he heard
himself and his countrymen thus singled out and excepted from all hope
of pardon; and he vowed within his throat that if his Norman and Saxon
vassals and allies accepted the terms, himself and his bold Bretons
would forthwith turn upon them, and so entreat them that few should
live to profit by their delinquency.
But the doubt was short-lived. Ralph was a brave leader and a generous
master, and, moreover, well skilled in raising the ambitions of such as
had embarked in his boat. A shout of derision hailed the bishop's
harangue before the herald had time to repeat it formally, rising first
from a dozen or so of lusty throats in Ralph's near neighbourhood, and
spreading afterwards through the whole host. Ralph himself flung back
the answer.
'Tell your base-born usurper,' he shouted, 'that the Normans have tired
of his ingratitude, and deem his offers of pardon as little like to be
fulfilled, as the fair promises of lands and honours he made them
before Hastings. Tell him that the Saxons have yet to avenge Harold
Godwinsson, and win back their broad acres, and that the Bretons are
not yet within the power of the murderer of Count Alain and Count
Conan.'
'It is well!' replied the bishop, who, notwithstanding the elasticity
of his ecclesiastical conscience, preferred honest fighting to the
chopping off the hands, ears, and noses of prisoners which must needs
have followed the acceptance of his terms. 'After such a message, we
need have no compunction in striking the first blow.'
The day was overcast, and heavy masses of grey cloud were scudding up
from the south-west, shedding blinding gushes of rain at intervals, and
a gusty, whistling wind swept the open heath. As Bishop Odo withdrew to
the ranks of the king's men, a wilder whistle shrilled through the air,
and sharp cries of pain startled the larks and the whin-chats from
their nests among the gorse.
The battle had commenced with an almost simultaneous flight of arrows
on each side. For a long time De Guader acted stubbornly on the
defensive. His only chance was to keep the king's forces at bay along
the Devil's Dyke. But the line to be guarded was very long, and the
number of the foe enabled them to attack many points at once.
He stood with his standard and his cavalry on the high ground towards
Beachamwell, where alone they had any chance to manoeuvre; but down in
the fens towards Fouldon the fierce clashing of axe on spear, the clang
of swords on buckler and mail, the whiz of arrows and the sharp
twanging of bows mingled strangely with the shrill screaming of
frightened waterfowl; and the wild shouts of the combatants frightened
many a skein of mallards and plovers in their reedy haunts, from which
they rose on whirring wings, with clamorous shrieks of fear.
Alike on the heath and in the fen, Normans were striving with Normans,
and Saxons with Saxons, while the Bretons fought with the courage of
desperation, well knowing that not only ruin, but the most terrible
tortures and mutilation awaited their defeat.
Time after time the assailants strove to throw bridges across the dyke,
and more than once succeeded in fixing their grappling-irons upon the
rampart.
Time after time they were beaten back, leaving so many dead and dying
behind them that the bodies of their friends might almost have served
for a bridge.
But numbers prevailed at length. There came an hour when De Guader's
archers and slingers, thinned by the continuous iron hail of arrows and
quarrels to which they had been unceasingly exposed, no longer sufficed
to guard the extended line of the rampart. While they were defending
one hotly-contested point, the enemy forced another, and before they
were well aware of their misfortune, a large body of knights had gained
the eastern side of the dyke.
De Guader instantly formed his cavalry and led them to the charge, with
the cry of 'St. Nicholas for Guader!' and the ground shook beneath the
thundering feet of the destriers.
'_Dex Aie et Notre Dame!_' shouted the warlike bishop, who led the foe,
and the mailed hosts closed with a crash that was heard by the warders
on the walls of the new castle that William de Warrenne was building at
Castle Acre.
But when De Guader and his followers had hewn their way through the
thick squadron that met them, a fresh body stood ready for them, and
further hosts were pouring across the dyke.
The odds were so overwhelming, that the East Anglian earl was forced to
fall back; an awful retreat, for his troops were harassed in the rear
by the remnant of the band they had just charged.
The royalist knights pressed after them, driving them back and back off
the firm heath towards the morasses near Fouldon; many a gallant
horseman floundering into the quagmires and stifling in the black ooze.
Carnage grew fierce round the East Anglian banner, and anxious eyes
followed the waving gold and black plumes upon De Guader's helm, for
many felt that to lose their leader would be to lose the day. In those
times individual prowess often turned the fortune of a field. It was
the era of single combats, and a thrill passed through all the host,
when, after long seeking, Ralph and Odo met at length. It was as if the
whole field paused to watch.
They had fought side by side at Hastings, these two splendid warriors,
to Ralph's shame be it spoken! They had sat side by side at many a
festive board, and had tried their strength and dexterity in the
friendly struggle of the tourney. Now they met as mortal foes, hurling
insult at each other.
'Pitiful renegade, twice told a traitor!' cried Odo, 'how darest thou
draw good steel to defend thine unknightly carcase?'
'Nay! My sword has better cause than ever hath thy mace, unsanctified
shaveling!' retorted Ralph 'the cause of a fell-monger's grandson!'
The taunt struck home, since it included Odo with William.
Striking the rowels into their horses, they flew at each other like
tigers.
The head of Ralph's lance had been chopped off a few moments before by
a blow from a Saxon seax, so he had but his sword to oppose to the
bishop's awful mace.
A gleam of steel, and a dull, horrible crash! A wild yell of execration
and triumph from a hundred throats! For both the champions were down.
Each party closed up to protect its leader, and a fearful conflict
began around the fallen heroes.
But though Odo was down, Geoffrey of Coutances, William de Warrenne,
and Robert Malet were ready to take his place, and shrewd blows were
given and taken in the neighbourhood of each of these redoubtable
champions, while, although the East Anglian earl had many brave knights
in his following, the insurgents were virtually without a leader.
Ralph's fall decided the fate of the day, if it had ever been doubtful.
The flight of his army was only delayed by the frantic valour of the
Bretons, who were bent on selling their lives as dearly as possible.
The tide of battle rolled eastwards, gradually degenerating into a
pursuit and butchery, and the original site of the struggle was left to
the dead and the dying.
The wind had risen, shaking the white tassels of the cotton-grass which
covered acres of the marshes, and bending the aspens till the white
undersides of their leaves alone were visible, as if it were preparing
white shrouds for the dead. As the clouds parted, the red sun shone
forth between their scudding masses, flushing them to vivid crimson,
and shedding a lurid light upon the ensanguined field of fight,
glittering redly on the harness of the fallen, and painting the pale
faces of the dying with a hue as bright as the life-blood that welled
from their wounds. But no wind could shake yonder tuft of reeds as it
is shaken! Behold a motley figure comes cautiously forth and advances
along the field, peering curiously into the faces of the fallen as it
comes.
It is Grillonne, the Earl of East Anglia's jester. Grim jests he must
make if he would suit his wit to his surroundings!
[Illustration: Bishop Odo meets De Guader.]
And grim jests he does make; for often, when, after considerable toil,
he has gained sight of the face of a dead or wounded man, half buried
under fallen friends and foes, he expresses his disgust and abhorrence
at recognising one of William of Normandy's supporters, by pulling his
nose or moustachios;--not very violently, it is true, and usually
following up the indignity by placing the victim's head in as
comfortable a position as the circumstances allowed.
But at last he found a face which he treated otherwise.
'Ah, my dear lord!' he cried, placing his hands tenderly under the
senseless head; he could do no more, for a heap of slain and the hoof
of a dead charger were piled above the earl.
'Oh, sweet nuncle, open thine eyes, thy dear eyes, and glad the heart
of thy poor faithful fool. God forbid! Thou canst not be dead! For thy
lady's sake thou canst not be dead!' He took from his breast a small
flask containing a strong cordial, and poured a portion of its contents
down the earl's throat, tenderly wiping away the blood which oozed from
a contused wound in his forehead; and after a time Ralph's eyes opened
languidly,--opened and closed again almost instantly.
'Good lad! Good lad!' exclaimed the old jester cheerfully. 'There is
life in thee yet, I well see, and we will have thee all safe and sound
yet, Holy Mary be praised! But I cannot do the job single-handed,
valiant hero as I am, and I like not to leave thee, lest thine enemies
return. Hist! I have a notion!'
He took off his little parti-coloured cape, and got it upon the earl's
shoulders; and he drew from his pocket his jester's cap, which he had
thrust therein to still the noise of the bells, and decorated therewith
the earl's stately head; and he took the earl's battered helm, which
had rolled off, and lay near by, with its gold and black plumes
mightily draggled, and fastened it upon the head of a dead Breton
knight, Sir Guy de Landerneau, who had fallen at a little distance from
his leader, and not long afterwards. Next, he armed himself with the
mail jerkin and steel-cap of one of the slain archers, added thereto a
short sword, then fled precipitately to find help to extricate the
earl.
And he was but just in time.
Scarcely had he disappeared, when a searching party of the king's men
came to that quarter of the field, and carried off triumphantly the
dead knight upon whom Grillonne had fixed the earl's helmet.[4]
[4] See Appendix, Note C.