HOW HEREWARD TOOK THE NEWS FROM STANFORD BRIGG AND HASTINGS.
After that, news came thick and fast.
News of all the fowl of heaven flocking to the feast of the great God,
that they might eat the flesh of kings, and captains, and mighty men,
and horses, and them that sit on them, and the flesh of all men, both
bond and free.
News from Rome, how England, when conquered, was to be held as a fief of
St. Peter, and spiritually, as well as temporarily, enslaved. News how
the Gonfanon of St. Peter, and a ring with a bit of St. Peter himself
enclosed therein, had come to Rouen, to go before the Norman host, as
the Ark went before that of Israel.
Then news from the North. How Tosti had been to Sweyn, and bid him come
back and win the country again, as Canute his uncle had done; and how
the cautious Dane had answered that he was a much smaller man than
Canute, and had enough to hold his own against the Norsemen, and could
not afford to throw for such high stakes as his mighty uncle.
Then how Tosti had been to Norway, to Harold Hardraade, and asked him
why he had been fighting fifteen years for Denmark, when England lay
open to him. And how Harold of Norway had agreed to come; and how he
had levied one half of the able-bodied men in Norway; and how he was
gathering a mighty fleet at Solundir, in the mouth of the Sogne Fiord.
Of all this Hereward was well informed; for Tosti came back again to
St. Omer, and talked big. But Hereward and he had no dealings with each
other. But at last, when Tosti tried to entice some of Hereward’s men to
sail with him, Hereward sent him word that if he met him, he would kill
him in the streets.
Then Tosti, who (though he wanted not for courage) knew that he was
no match for Hereward, went off to Bruges, leaving his wife and family
behind; gathered sixty ships at Ostend, went off to the Isle of Wight,
and forced the landsfolk to give him money and food. And then Harold of
England’s fleet, which was watching the coast against the Normans,
drove him away; and he sailed off north, full of black rage against his
brother Harold and all Englishmen, and burned, plundered, and murdered,
along the coast of Lincolnshire, out of brute spite to the Danes who had
expelled him.
Then came news how he had got into the Humber; how Earl Edwin and his
Northumbrians had driven him out; and how he went off to Scotland to
meet Harold of Norway; and how he had put his hands between Harold’s,
and become his man.
And all the while the Norman camp at St. Pierre-sur-Dive grew and grew;
and all was ready, if the wind would but change.
And so Hereward looked on, helpless, and saw these two great
storm-clouds growing,--one from north, and one from south,--to burst
upon his native land.
Two invasions at the same moment of time; and these no mere Viking raids
for plunder, but deliberate attempts at conquest and colonization, by
the two most famous captains of the age. What if both succeeded? What if
the two storm-clouds swept across England, each on its own path, and met
in the midst, to hurl their lightnings into each other? A fight
between William of Normandy and Harold of Norway, on some moorland in
Mercia,--it would be a battle of giants; a sight at which Odin and
the Gods of Valhalla would rise from their seats, and throw away the
mead-horn, to stare down on the deeds of heroes scarcely less mighty
than themselves. Would that neither might win! Would that they would
destroy and devour, till there was none left of Frenchmen or of
Norwegians!
So sang Hereward, after his heathen fashion; and his housecarles
applauded the song. But Torfrida shuddered.
“And what will become of the poor English in the mean time?”
“They have brought it on themselves,” said Hereward, bitterly. “Instead
of giving the crown to the man who should have had it,--to Sweyn of
Denmark,--they let Godwin put it on the head of a drivelling monk; and
as they sowed, so will they reap.”
But Hereward’s own soul was black within him. To see these mighty events
passing as it were within reach of his hand, and he unable to take his
share in them,--for what share could he take? That of Tosti Godwinsson
against his own nephews? That of Harold Godwinsson, the usurper? That of
the tanner’s grandson against any man? Ah that he had been in England!
Ah that he had been where he might have been,--where he ought to have
been but for his own folly,--high in power in his native land,--perhaps
a great earl; perhaps commander of all the armies of the Danelagh. And
bitterly he cursed his youthful sins as he rode to and fro almost daily
to the port of Calais, asking for news, and getting often only too much.
For now came news that the Norsemen had landed in Humber: that Edwin and
Morcar were beaten at York; that Hardraade and Tosti were masters of the
North.
And with that, news that, by the virtue of the relics of St. Valeri,
which had been brought out of their shrine to frighten the demons of
the storm, and by the intercession of the blessed St. Michael, patron
of Normandy, the winds had changed, and William’s whole armament had
crossed the Channel, landed upon an undefended shore, and fortified
themselves at Pevensey and Hastings.
And then followed a fortnight of silence and torturing suspense.
Hereward could hardly eat, drink, sleep, or speak. He answered
Torfrida’s consolations curtly and angrily, till she betook herself to
silent caresses, as to a sick animal. But she loved him all the better
for his sullenness; for it showed that his English heart was wakening
again, sound and strong.
At last news came. He was down, as usual, at the port. A ship had
just come in from the northward. A man just landed stood on the beach
gesticulating, and calling in an unknown tongue to the bystanders, who
laughed at him, and seemed inclined to misuse him.
Hereward galloped down the beach.
“Out of the way, villains! Why man, you are a Norseman!”
“Norseman am I, Earl, Thord Gunlaugsson is my name, and news I bring for
the Countess Judith (as the French call her) that shall turn her
golden hair to snow,--yea, and all fair lasses’ hair from Lindesness to
Loffoden!”
“Is the Earl dead?”
“And Harold Sigurdsson!”
Hereward sat silent, appalled. For Tosti he cared not. But Harold
Sigurdsson, Harold Hardraade, Harold the Viking, Harold the Varanger,
Harold the Lionslayer, Harold of Constantinople, the bravest among
champions, the wisest among kings, the cunningest among minstrels, the
darling of the Vikings of the North; the one man whom Hereward had taken
for his pattern and his ideal, the one man under whose banner he would
have been proud to fight--the earth seemed empty, if Harold Hardraade
were gone.
“Thord Gunlaugsson,” cried he, at last, “or whatever be thy name, if
thou hast lied to me, I will draw thee with wild horses.”
“Would God that I did lie! I saw him fall with an arrow through his
throat. Then Jarl Tosti took the Land-ravager and held it up till he
died. Then Eystein Orre took it, coming up hot from the ships. And then
he died likewise. Then they all died. We would take no quarter. We
threw off our mail, and fought baresark, till all were dead together.”
[Footnote: For the details of this battle, see Skorro Sturleson, or the
admirable description in Bulwer’s “Harold.”]
“How camest thou, then, hither?”
“Styrkar the marshal escaped in the night, and I with him, and a few
more. And Styrkar bade me bring the news to Flanders, to the Countess,
while he took it to Olaf Haroldsson, who lay off in the ships.”
“And thou shalt take it. Martin! get this man a horse. A horse, ye
villains, and a good one, on your lives!”
“And Tosti is dead?”
“Dead like a hero. Harold offered him quarter,--offered him his earldom,
they say: even in the midst of battle; but he would not take it. He said
he was the Sigurdsson’s man now, and true man he would be!”
“Harold offered him?--what art babbling about? Who fought you?”
“Harold Godwinsson, the king.”
“Where?”
“At Stanford Brigg, by York Town.”
“Harold Godwinsson slew Harold Sigurdsson? After this wolves may eat
lions!”
“The Godwinsson is a gallant fighter, and a wise general, or I had not
been here now.”
“Get on thy horse, man!” said he, scornfully and impatiently, “and
gallop, if thou canst.”
“I have ridden many a mile in Ireland, Earl, and have not forgotten my
seat.”
“Thou hast, hast thou?” said Martin; “thou art Thord Gunlaugsson of
Waterford.”
“That am I. How knowest thou me, man?”
“I am of Waterford. Thou hadst a slave lass once, I think; Mew: they
called her Mew, her skin it was so white.”
“What’s that to thee?” asked Thord, turning on him savagely.
“Why, I meant no harm. I saw her at Waterford when I was a boy, and
thought her a fair lass enough, that is all.”
And Martin dropped into the rear. By this time they were at the gates of
St. Omer.
As they rode side by side, Hereward got more details of the fight.
“I knew it would fall out so. I foretold it!” said Thord. “I had a
dream. I saw us come to English land, and fight; and I saw the banners
floating. And before the English army was a great witchwife, and rode
upon a wolf, and he had a corpse in his bloody jaws. And when he had
eaten one up, she threw him another, till he had swallowed all.”
“Did she throw him thine?” asked Martin, who ran holding by the stirrup.
“That did she, and eaten I saw myself. Yet here I am alive.”
“Then thy dreams were naught.”
“I do not know that. The wolf may have me yet.”
“I fear thou art fey.” [Footnote: Prophesying his own death.]
“What the devil is it to thee if I be?”
“Naught. But be comforted. I am a necromancer; and this I know by my
art, that the weapon that will slay thee was never forged in Flanders
here.”
“There was another man had a dream,” said Thord, turning from Martin
angrily. “He was standing in the king’s ship, and he saw a great
witchwife with a fork and a trough stand on the island. And he saw a
fowl on every ship’s stem, a raven, or else an eagle, and he heard the
witchwife sing an evil song.”
By this time they were in St. Omer.
Hereward rode straight to the Countess Judith’s house. He never had
entered it yet, and was likely to be attacked if he entered it now. But
when the door was opened, he thrust in with so earnest and sad a face
that the servants let him pass, but not without growling and motions as
of getting their weapons.
“I come in peace, my men, I come in peace: this is no time for brawls.
Where is the steward, or one of the Countess’s ladies? Tell her, madam,
that Hereward waits her commands, and entreats her, in the name of St.
Mary and all Saints, to vouchsafe him one word in private.”
The lady hurried into the bower. The next moment Judith hurried out into
the hall, her fair face blanched, her fair eyes wide with terror.
Hereward fell on his knee.
“What is this? It must be bad news if you bring it.”
“Madam, the grave covers all feuds. Earl Tosti was a very valiant hero;
and would to God that we had been friends!”
She did not hear the end of the sentence, but fell back with a shriek
into the women’s arms.
Hereward told them all that they needed to know of that fratricidal
strife; and then to Thord Gunlaugsson,--
“Have you any token that this is true? Mind what I warned you, if you
lied!”
“This have I, Earl and ladies,” and he drew from his bosom a reliquary.
“Ulf the marshal took this off his neck, and bade me give it to none but
his lady. Therefore, with your pardon, Sir Earl, I did not tell you that
I had it, not knowing whether you were an honest man.”
“Thou hast done well, and an honest man thou shall find me. Come home,
and I will feed thee at my own table; for I have been a sea-rover and a
Viking myself.”
They left the reliquary with the ladies, and went.
“See to this good man, Martin.”
“That will I, as the apple of my eye.”
And Hereward went into Torfrida’s room.
“I have news, news!”
“So have I.”
“Harold Hardraade is slain, and Tosti too!”
“Where? how?”
“Harold Godwinsson slew them by York.”
“Brother has slain brother? O God that died on cross!” murmured
Torfrida, “when will men look to thee, and have mercy on their own
souls? But, Hereward, I have news,--news more terrible by far. It came
an hour ago. I have been dreading your coming back.”
“Say on. If Harold Hardraade is dead, no worse can happen.”
“But Harold Godwinsson is dead!”
“Dead! Who next? William of Normandy? The world seems coming to an end,
as the monks say it will soon.” [Footnote: There was a general rumor
abroad that the end of the world was at hand, that the “one thousand
years” of prophecy had expired.]
“A great battle has been fought at a place they call Heathfield.”
“Close by Hastings? Close to the landing-place? Harold must have flown
thither back from York. What a captain the man is, after all.”
“Was. He is dead, and all the Godwinssons, and England lost.”
If Torfrida had feared the effect of her news, her heart was lightened
at once as Hereward answered haughtily,--
“England lost? Sussex is not England, nor Wessex either, any more than
Harold was king thereof. England lost? Let the tanner try to cross
the Watling street, and he will find out that he has another stamp of
Englishmen to deal with.”
“Hereward, Hereward, do not be unjust to the dead. Men say--the Normans
say--that they fought like heroes.”
“I never doubted that; but it makes me mad--as it does all Eastern
and Northern men--to hear these Wessex churls and Godwinssons calling
themselves all England.”
Torfrida shook her head. To her, as to most foreigners, Wessex and the
southeast counties were England; the most civilized; the most Norman;
the seat of royalty; having all the prestige of law, and order, and
wealth. And she was shrewd enough to see, that as it was the part of
England which had most sympathy with Norman civilization, it was the
very part where the Norman could most easily gain and keep his hold.
The event proved that Torfrida was right: but all she said was, “It is
dangerously near to France, at least.”
“It is that. I would sooner see 100,000 French north of the Humber,
than 10,000 in Kent and Sussex, where he can hurry over supplies and
men every week. It is the starting-point for him, if he means to conquer
England piecemeal.”
“And he does.”
“And he shall not!” and Hereward started up, and walked to and fro. “If
all the Godwinssons be dead, there are Leofricssons left, I trust, and
Siward’s kin, and the Gospatricks in Northumbria. Ah? Where were my
nephews in the battle? Not killed too, I trust?”
“They were not in the battle.”
“Not with their new brother-in-law? Much he has gained by throwing
away the Swan-neck, like a base hound as he was, and marrying my pretty
niece. But where were they?”
“No man knows clearly. They followed him down as far as London, and
then lingered about the city, meaning no man can tell what: but we shall
hear--and I fear hear too much--before a week is over.”
“Heavens! this is madness, indeed. This is the way to be eaten up one by
one! Neither to do the thing, nor leave it alone. If I had been there!
If I had been there--”
“You would have saved England, my hero!” and Torfrida believed her own
words.
“I don’t say that. Besides, I say that England is not lost. But there
were but two things to do: either to have sent to William at once, and
offered him the crown, if he would but guarantee the Danish laws and
liberties to all north of the Watling street; and if he would, fall on
the Godwinssons themselves, by fair means or foul, and send their heads
to William.”
“Or what?”
“Or have marched down after him, with every man they could muster, and
thrown themselves on the Frenchman’s flank in the battle; or between
him and the sea, cutting him off from France; or--O that I had but been
there, what things could I have done! And now these two wretched boys
have fooled away their only chance--”
“Some say that they hoped for the crown themselves.
“Which?--not both? Vain babies!” And Hereward laughed bitterly. “I
suppose one will murder the other next, in order to make himself the
stronger by being the sole rival to the tanner. The midden cock, sole
rival to the eagle! Boy Waltheof will set up his claim next, I presume,
as Siward’s son; and then Gospatrick, as Ethelred Evil-Counsel’s
great-grandson; and so forth, and so forth, till they all eat each other
up, and the tanner’s grandson eats the last. What care I? Tell me about
the battle, my lady, if you know aught. That is more to my way than
their statecraft.”
And Torfrida told him all she knew of the great fight on Heathfield
Down--which men call Senlac--and the Battle of Hastings. And as she told
it in her wild, eloquent fashion, Hereward’s face reddened, and his
eyes kindled. And when she told of the last struggle round the Dragon
[Footnote: I have dared to differ from the excellent authorities who
say that the standard was that of “A Fighting Man”; because the Bayeux
Tapestry represents the last struggle as in front of a Dragon standard,
which must be--as is to be expected--the old standard of Wessex, the
standard of English Royalty. That Harold had also a “Fighting Man”
standard, and that it was sent by William to the Pope, there is no
reason to doubt. But if the Bayeux Tapestry be correct, the fury of the
fight for the standard would be explained. It would be a fight for the
very symbol of King Edward’s dynasty.] standard; of Harold’s mighty
figure in the front of all, hewing with his great double-headed axe, and
then rolling in gore and agony, an arrow in his eye; of the last rally
of the men of Kent; of Gurth, the last defender of the standard, falling
by William’s sword, the standard hurled to the ground, and the Popish
Gonfanon planted in its place,--then Hereward’s eyes, for the first and
last time for many a year, were flushed with noble tears; and springing
up he cried: “Honor to the Godwinssons! Honor to the Southern men!
Honor to all true English hearts! Why was I not there to go with them to
Valhalla?”
Torfrida caught him round the neck. “Because you are here, my hero, to
free your country from her tyrants, and win yourself immortal fame.”
“Fool that I am, I verily believe I am crying.”
“Those tears,” said she, as she kissed them away, “are more precious
to Torfrida than the spoils of a hundred fights, for they tell me that
Hereward still loves his country, still honors virtue, even in a foe.”
And thus Torfrida--whether from woman’s sentiment of pity, or from a
woman’s instinctive abhorrence of villany and wrong,--had become there
and then an Englishwoman of the English, as she proved by strange deeds
and sufferings for many a year.
“Where is that Norseman, Martin?” asked Hereward that night ere he went
to bed, “I want to hear more of poor Hardraade.”
“You can’t speak to him now, master. He is sound asleep this two hours;
and warm enough, I will warrant.”
“Where?”
“In the great green bed with blue curtains, just above the kitchen.”
“What nonsense is this?”
“The bed where you and I shall lie some day; and the kitchen which we
shall be sent down to, to turn our own spits, unless we mend our manners
mightily.”
Hereward looked at the man. Madness glared in his eyes, unmistakably.
“You have killed him!”
“And buried him, cheating the priests.”
“Villain!” cried Hereward, seizing him.
“Take your hands off my throat, master. He was only my father.”
Hereward stood shocked and puzzled. After all, the man was
“No-man’s-man,” and would not be missed; and Martin Lightfoot, letting
alone his madness, was as a third hand and foot to him all day long.
So all he said was, “I hope you have buried him well and safely?”
“You may walk your bloodhound over his grave, to-morrow, without finding
him.”
And where he lay, Hereward never knew. But from that night Martin got a
trick of stroking and patting his little axe, and talking to it as if it
had been alive.