HASTINGS-SENLAC
“If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you:
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
Yet make allowance for their doubting too.
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about don’t deal in lies;
Or being hated not give way to hating,
And yet don’t seem too good or talk too wise.”
--_Kipling._
IF.
If--laconic fate-word! hinge of destiny! _If_ the Persians had
won at Marathon; and if the brilliant imagination of a Persian
Herodotus had fixed in fame the glories of conquering Persia:
_if_ the Peloponnesian War had not mutually destroyed the Grecian
empire: _if_ Alexander the Great had lost the battles Granicus,
Issus, Arbela; _if_ world-conquering Alexander the Great had been
successful in the conquest of his own down-dragging human heart,
and _if_ he had not died at Babylon, aged thirty-two, world-victor
and self-victim: _if_ the village by the Tiber had not advanced by
bloody strides o’er fixed-star battlefields from Rome a wilderness,
to Rome Mistress of the World: _if_ the barbarous hordes of the
North had not ever longingly before their eyes the fairyland of
southern Europe, the troll-gardens of Italy: _if_ Rome had not
become enervated; _if_ Gaul and Goth and Hun and Norseman had not
won: _if_ the Crescent had waved victorious o’er a fallen Cross at
Tours, Belgrade, Lepanto: if William of Normandy son of Robert the
Devil, had been pierced by an arrow and buried indistinguishably
among the dead on the slaughter-field of Senlac-Hastings--If!
But we are a perennially hopeful race and happily unimaginative and
dully content with the Real: and so we unquestioningly acquiesce
when grave historians tell us that in each and every historic
struggle the juggernaut determinant of the _If_ acted favorably to
the best interests of civilization and progress: so, too, would we
obligingly believe had the determinant favored the opposing cause.
Perhaps to all-conquering Progress as to world-conquering Rome,
all battles are victories; either as a victory proper with roll
of triumph-drum and flash of conquering colors, or as that grim
Cannæ-defeat potential of a future Zama-victory.
It is well that there should be two possible interpretations of
the answers of the oracle: thus is Truth ever serenely secure
unperturbed by the errors of mortals.
PEGASUS.
It is hard to control the winged steed. His next flight and
whereabouts of alighting are as happily unknown to the rider as to
the beholder--to the writer as to the reader. However Pegasus, the
real, can never fail to be interesting whether he leap over the
historic ages, or play antics on an _If_, or neigh irreverently in
the temple of Delphian Apollo, or speed to the finding of Harold
Godwin amid the indistinguishably dead on the slaughter-field of
Senlac-Hastings.
ROLLO THE DANE.
Vikings of the northern seas, wolf-men of the Sagas, dark devotees
of Thor, heirs of Valkirie--little wonder that the semi-civilized
world shuddered at their distant approach; little wonder that
Charlemagne, hero of a hundred wars, grew sick at heart, foreseeing
the rivers of blood that should deluge fair France, when, one
day, by chance, his eagle gaze caught sight of the Dragon-Head
long-boats of the Northmen as yet far off, red-glittering on shaggy
northern seas.
Time passed; the Charlemagne vision had dread realization; France,
England, Southern Europe were overrun by conquering Saxon, Dane,
Norsemen.
And Rollo of Norway, called Rollo the Dane, settled in northern
France. He named that part of the country Normandy in honor of his
native land. After many years of bloodshed and as advancing age
subdued the battle fever, he entered into a compromise compact with
Charles the Simple of France. Rollo was to do homage to the king,
be baptized, and marry Giselle, the king’s daughter: in return he
should be acknowledged as the lawful Duke of Normandy with right
of succession to his heirs forever. But rough old Rollo protested
against the humiliating conditions of the homage ceremony. It was
obligingly agreed that it should be done by proxy. History relates
that the warrior appointed as proxy in the homage ceremony felt
deeply the humiliation of having to kiss the slippered foot of King
Charles and that in this act he rudely raised the foot so high that
the monarch was unseated and fell from his chair. Amid the wild
hilarity caused by this scene and the seeming revival of barbarism,
King Charles was too fearful of Rollo to make open complaint:
concealing his chagrin he proceeded with the ceremony and no doubt
felt happily relieved when all was over, and Rollo at the head
of his wild followers stood forth as Robert, the first Duke of
Normandy. The baptism and the marriage followed in due succession
and thus was won over and fixed in civilization, Christianity,
and historic fame Rollo the Dane, forefather of six dukes of
Normandy, and of a long line of English kings extending directly or
indirectly from William the Conqueror to Queen Anne, last of the
Stuarts.
WILLIAM OF NORMANDY.
William was the son of Robert, sixth duke of Normandy: William’s
mother was Arlotte, a peasant girl, daughter of a humble tanner of
Falaise. William was reared at the court of his father, and being a
beautiful and precocious boy as well as heir apparent of the realm,
he became a great favorite among the warrior courtiers of Duke
Robert.
The magic of danger, the lure of the unknown, the glamour of
romance and chivalry lay, at that time, in a pilgrimage to the Holy
Land. Thither turned the eyes of the half-civilized descendants of
the savage old Vikings; and, as the war fever of youth abated, many
men, combining incongruously remorse for crimes and penitential
expiation with love of daring adventure, turned away from strong
feudal castles and lordly possessions in Europe to brave the
hardships and uncertainties of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Among
those thus lured into fatal uncertainties was Robert le Diable,
sixth Duke of Normandy. He left the realm to his son William--if
by chance he himself should not return--appointed Alan of Brittany
regent during William’s minority, and having left the boy safe at
the court of Henry of France, Robert set out on that pilgrimage to
the Holy Land from which he never returned.
Ever insatiably hungry is the heart of man. Pleasure is a mirage.
Yet perhaps, happier is it to fall and perish in full pursuit of an
ever receding pleasure than to walk inane in the beaten sand-way
and--live. To do is easier than to endure: to act is easier than to
wait; to roam abroad and strive is easier than to stay at home and
pray; to wander amid strange scenes and stranger men, to draw the
approving sword in a cause approved, to fight and die and leave his
bones to bleach on Asiatic plains were easier far for Rollo’s blood
than to wait and waste away secure in a feudal fortress of Normandy.
At Robert’s death there were various claimants to his possessions;
but, finally, owing, in great measure, to the fidelity of the
regent Allan of Brittany, the dukedom was secured for William. He
left the court of Paris, and soon after, taking full possession
of the realm, he began to exhibit those indomitable character
qualifications which together with his military education and
robust physical powers led him on from conquest to conquest even
unto the tragic culmination at Senlac-Hastings from which he came
forth blood-baptized as William the Conqueror.
THE LADY EMMA, PEARL OF NORMANDY.
When Ethelred, the Saxon King of England, fled from his realm and
left it to the victorious Danes, he sought refuge at the court of
Richard, the fourth duke of Normandy. There he met and married the
Lady Emma, sister of Duke Richard. This lady was famed for her
beauty and known throughout the realm as the Pearl of Normandy.
Edward of England, known in England as Edward the Confessor,
was the son of Ethelred and Lady Emma; and it was upon this
relationship that William, at the time of Edward’s death, laid
claim to the crown. Whatever may be said of this claim, it was at
least more tangible than that of Harold, son of Earl Godwin.
The days have gone by when the rights of blood relationship
were claims for which contending realms might squander fortunes
and armies: but he who estimates the ages past by the standards
of today, would better roll up and read no more the enigmatic
scrolls of history. Rivers of blood have freely flowed in order
that some royal rascal, slightly richer in royal rascality than a
rival claimant, might win a throne. Yet we who cannot understand
the code of the _Samurai_, as worked out logically today; we
to whom the principles of _Bushido_, when carried to the last
full measure of devotion, are fascinatingly unreal; we to whom
_jun-shi_, _hari-kiri_, _seppuku_ are words ominous, indeed, but
unintelligible even when translated into deed in the white light
of today[A]--how shall we be able to understand or estimate aright
the mysteries of the mighty past!
So upon this faint claim of relationship, William, the seventh
duke of Normandy, nephew of Lady Emma, Queen of England, founded
his right to the English throne: and for better or worse, right or
wrong, faint claim or no claim--he won.
MATILDA OF FLANDERS.
William sought to strengthen his position by an influential
matrimonial alliance. Matilda, daughter of the Duke of Flanders,
became the object of his choice. This lady was very beautiful and
an adept in the accomplishments of her time--music and tapestry
weaving. In fact a wonderful piece of tapestry known as the Bayeaux
Tapestry and even now in a state of comparative preservation, is
said to have been the work of Matilda of Flanders, wife of William
the Conqueror. This famous piece of embroidery on linen is four
hundred feet long and nearly two feet wide; it is a series of
designs illustrating the various events and incidents of the Battle
of Hastings and other exploits of the Conqueror.
William and Matilda were married in 1052, the Battle of Hastings
was fought in 1066, so that the Bayeaux Tapestry has resisted the
gnawing tooth of time for more than eight hundred years.
Who shall unerringly perceive in the glare of the passing day, what
is great, what small: what is enduring, what evanescent! Linen
fibres, silken threads, a woman’s needlework--endure: shields,
helmets, swords, battle axes, all the iron horrors of Hastings have
passed away.
And the moral values of the passing hour are, to human perception,
equally elusive, intangible, untraceable. But are we called upon
to understand the full meaning of the passing show? Surely the
Power above us smiles at our endeavors to fit together here in Time
things whose fitness shall not have developed in a thousand years.
The old Norse story runs that when Thor went to Jotun-heim, the
home of the Giants, he failed ignominiously in the accomplishments
of the tasks imposed upon him. He struck with might and main at the
head of the prostrate giant Skrymir, but the huge creature only
moved restlessly and murmured in his sleep that a leaf or twig
had fallen upon his face. Thor failed in the race with Hugi. Thor
failed in the drinking bout proposed by Utgard-Loki. Thor failed in
the wresting match with Elli, the old nurse of Utgard-Loki. Thor
failed to lift the Giant’s sleeping cat, and though he tugged with
all his strength, he succeeded in lifting only one paw from the
ground. Thor failed apparently in every task that was set before
him.
But, behold! when revelation was made, it was found that Thor had,
indeed, been Thor and that his failure-achievements had terrified
even the Norns. For the giant Skrymir later confessed to Thor that
by magic he had shielded his head with a mountain when Thor struck
with his hammer, and that the mountain had been well nigh severed
by the blow. And as to the race with Hugi, why Hugi is Thought;
and no man may hope to surpass the speed of thought. And as to
Thor’s failure in the drinking bout, why the drinking horn had been
secretly in connection with the ocean, and Thor’s deep draughts
had seriously lowered old ocean’s vast domain. And as to Elli, the
nurse, why she was Old Age and her no mortal may overcome. And as
to Thor’s failure to lift the sleeping cat--why the seeming cat
had been in dread reality, the Midgard serpent coiled around the
world, and his nearly successful efforts to rouse the serpent and
tear it from the charmed circle, had terrified even the Norns. And
so Thor was still Thor in his failure-achievements in Jotun-heim:
so likewise may we, in the great Revelation, be found to have been
splendid conquerors in the grim failure-strife of Time. And then,
too, shall a fateful Skrymir make known to us the true nature of
the forces against which we strove; the fatal necessity of failure
in such a strife, were we Thor or even Odin: then too shall we
learn with astonishment and delight the Herculean results of our
labors; and throughout all the upward cycles of our immortality we
shall be stronger and better because of our failure-achievements
down in earth’s Jotun-heim.
MONASTERIES.
As there was some tie of consanguinity between William and Matilda,
their marriage could take place only by special dispensation from
the Pope. After some vexatious delays, however, this dispensation
was obtained, but William and Matilda were advised by the Pope to
erect a Hospital for incurable patients and two monasteries, one
for men, the other for women.
William and Matilda joyfully agreed to fulfill these conditions.
The hospital was built first, and later two imposing monastic
piles, one under the special patronage of Matilda, the other under
William, were erected at Cæn. Strange to relate that after forty
or fifty years had passed away, Matilda was brought to her wedding
monument monastery and quietly interred, and a few years later
William was laid to rest in his wedding monument monastery. And
thus near yet apart they have slept thro’ the long ages.
HAROLD GODWIN.
Harold Godwin and William of Normandy were not strangers to each
other when they drew up their battle forces on the field of
Senlac-Hastings. Harold had spent some months in Normandy at the
court of William some years prior to the death of Edward. And
William had made known to Harold his claim to the English throne
and his intention of maintaining that claim when the time should
come. History relates that Harold, concealing his own ambitious
designs, vowed solemnly to support William’s cause.
At the death of Edward, however, Harold found himself at the head
of a powerful Saxon faction and felt strong enough to oppose
William, should he persist in his intent to claim the throne.
But what about that oath made solemnly in the presence of the
Sacrament! Is a man ever courageously self-respecting and
invincibly valiant in whose soul festers the ulcer--perjury! When
Richard the Third went forth to battle upon Bosworth field, he was
already defeated and slain by his own avenging conscience.
When Harold heard of the landing of William’s Norman troops at
Pevensey, he was then in the north of England engaged in a struggle
with the Danes under the leadership of his own brother Tostig.
Harold was slightly wounded in this battle but, in the end, Tostig
lay dead upon the field and the Danes were put to flight. Thus
from a battlefield red with a brother’s blood, Harold, a wounded
man and a perjured man hastened southward to his fate in the dread
slaughter of Hastings.
“And were things only called by their right name,
Cæsar himself would be ashamed of fame.”--_Byron._
The word _battlefield_ is a euphemism for human shambles. And
“the chief who in triumph advances” is, in grim reality, but the
lustiest and the bloodiest of the dogs of war. And the Alexanders,
Cæsars, Napoleons are the madmen who have made men mad by their
contagion, and have so accumulated horrors Pelion-Ossa piled on
horrors as to make the angels weep o’er this mad planet of the
universe.
A forceful peculiarity of mental unsoundness is the vehemence with
which its victim conceives himself to be right and everybody else
wrong, himself sane and all not in agreement with him insane. This
fatuity is characteristic of ages as well as of individuals. It
is manifest in the complaisant superiority which every age, every
generation assumes toward the immediately preceding. “Back in the
past, during the Dark Ages, in primitive times, etc.” are the words
of balm with which the passing hour begins its own eulogy.
But blood is blood and hate is hate and war is war, whether waged
by Macedonian Alexander B. C. 331, or by the Balkan forces A.
D. 1912. Shades of the fallen upon that age-long battle ground!
wouldn’t you feel strangely at home in the fray if by any chance
you should come to life today?
International courts of justice, arbitration, disarmament,
World-Peace--will they ever prevail? Knowing the past, knowing the
heart of man, we answer _No_: dreaming of the future, dreaming of
the godlike in the heart of man, we answer _Yes_.
So all day long the tide of battle rolled--from early day till
dark. And William and his Norman followers were in possession of
the field, and round them lay a host of dead and wounded, yet by
reason of the sudden darkness and the exhaustion of the troops, no
search could be made even for the Norman wounded: and tho’ groans
and cries of thirst and deep sighings arose incessantly from the
writhing masses just darker than the darkness, yet no search could
be made or any aid given by reason of the utter exhaustion of the
troops.
And on that field of death and awfully dying life Harold Godwin
lay happily dead under a heap of the slain. Two monks, lanterns
in hand, went out to search for him and with them went also the
mother of Harold and Edith the woman that loved him. After hours of
fruitless search amid scenes of gruesome horror, and as the dawn
burst in red wonder over a bleeding world, Edith discovered Harold.
So changed was he, so mutilated, hacked and hewed, blood-clotted,
dismembered, that even his mother knew him not but the woman that
loved him knew. With great difficulty was the body of Harold
extricated from under the heap of the slain, but the monks and the
women persevered at their task and finally bore him away.
WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.
We know only what life has brought within our own cognition; beyond
that all is conjecture. The love turned to hate and delighting in
the avenging pangs of a lover is utterly uncognizable by the man or
woman unto whom love is love forevermore. Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s
weird poem “Sister Helen” is, thank God, quite meaningless to the
greater number of women: and yet such women as Sister Helen exist;
they know each other; they understand the poem.
Strange, indeed, was that practice among primitive people, of
injuring an image of an enemy and claiming that thereby, in like
manner, they injured the enemy. In the poem referred to, the
woman is engaged in the magic rite of holding a waxen image in
the flame and letting it slowly consume under incantation. She is
interrupted from time to time by her wondering little brother, and
in her answers to him Helen makes known her wrongs, her slighted
love, her love turned to hate, her revenge, her vindictive madness,
her black-art vengeance reaching even beyond the grave, her
triumph-despair. At the end of the incantation as for the seventh
time she turns the waxen figure and it breaks up and melts dripping
away--her perjured lover dies.
A formula of this magic rite runs as follows:
“Take parings, nails, hair, saliva, etc., of your victim and make
them up into his likeness with wax from a deserted bees’ comb.
Hold the waxen image in slow flame for seven consecutive nights
repeating intently over the image--
‘It is not wax that I am scorching,
It is the liver, heart, spleen of _So and So_.’
After the seventh time, turn your figure and your victim’s life
will go out with the last drippings of the wax into the flame.”
Gladly would we relegate this grotesque rite back to the twilight
of animistic superstitions: but if we are vitally in touch both
with the past and with the passing hour, we dare not do so. There
is subtle relationship between this concretely hideous formula of
other days and such abstract expressions--not unfamiliar today--as
_mental assassination_, use of _malicious animal magnetism_,
hypnotic control of the aura, aggressive telepathic forces,
etc. The garb of the occult changes, adapts itself with Protean
pliability to the passing hour--but the inscrutable Occult forever
hid behind the Isis-veil, does not change.
It is said of Molière that behind the mask of comedy, he bore a
heart heavy with tragic woe: that his farces are satires on human
nature: that he, more piercingly than any other mortal, had gazed
down into the heart of man. Perhaps for Molière then, or such
as he, the all around understanding of every act or emotion is
sympathetically possible, but to the ordinary mortal there is full
knowledge only of that which has come within his own cognition.
Therefore, to depict the feelings of William the Conqueror, as
he stood among the dead and dying on the field of Hastings is
beyond the power of ordinary mortal. Whether he felt elated or
depressed--for we know that ofttimes in the hour of seeming triumph
there is deadly depression of soul; whether he turned heartsick
from the reproachful glare in dead and dying eyes and shuddered
that such things should be, or gazed delightedly and eagerly upon
the sullen silent faces of the Saxon foe: whether with infinite
pity regretful and remorseful he could have wept for the brave men
who lay dead because of him, or saw them not at all, or, at best,
only as stepping stones to a throne: who shall say? who shall know?
When a man as stoically severe as the late General Nogi, has
by chance been revealed to the world as a tender father and a
man weighed down by fatal woe even whilst he was urging on the
furiously victorious death-charges up the hill of Port Arthur--we
would willingly suspend judgment as to what may have been the
feelings in the hour of triumph deep down in the heart of William
the Conqueror.
ROBERT’S REBELLION.
William had left his wife Matilda as regent of Normandy when he set
out for the invasion of England. Robert, the eldest boy, a bright
lad of fourteen and his mother’s idol was also participant in the
regency. As the years rolled by and the boy grew more able and
willing to rule, Matilda willingly sank to second place in active
government and Robert was in deed if not in title the Duke of
Normandy.
Eight years passed by before William found his English realm
calm enough for him to leave it and make a visit to his old home
Normandy. At his coming he found all going on admirably without
him. Matilda was happy in the affection of her favorite son Robert;
and Robert a valiant young prince, was happy in the love of an
over-indulgent mother and the possession of ducal power. All this
was changed when William came. Perhaps jealousy of the place Robert
held in the affections of Matilda, perhaps insatiable avarice and
lust of power, perhaps unnatural hatred of the son who dared to
oppose the unconquerable will of the Conqueror--perhaps any or
all of these feelings intermingling impelled William to act as he
did, but certainly, in the light of calmer times, William’s conduct
towards his son Robert cannot be justified.
Robert was deposed from the place which he held during the regency
and which he had slowly grown to regard as his own. The proud
spirit of the princely youth could not endure this humiliation. He
fled to Flanders, and there among his mother’s friends and his own
followers and retainers, he gathered together an army and appeared
in open rebellion against his father.
Matilda was, indeed, a devoted wife to William, but she was an even
more devoted mother to her son; and her heart was torn with grief
when hostilities broke out and father and son were arrayed against
each other on the field of battle. It is related that Robert saved
William’s life in the engagement that followed. Both were in armor
and their faces were concealed by the helmet and visor, so that
they did not recognize one another. In the heat of the strife,
Robert saw one of his knights hurl a javelin at a burly figure on
horseback in the opposing ranks. With a cry and a groan the injured
man fell from his horse, and Robert horrified at the voice which
he recognized as his father’s, rushed headlong to the side of the
fallen man and rescued him from the feet of trampling horses. He
was touched with remorse and wept as William uplifted his helmet
and visor revealing a face white and weary and covered with blood.
The generous heart of the youth even then might have been won to
better things had William himself been morally high enough to draw
his son higher; but he was not.
That hasty action and as hasty reaction in the hearts of the
young-world children--hate surging suddenly into remorseful love,
strength into weakness, audacious rebellion into repentant
submission: and then as hastily surging back again! Robert saving
the life of his father against whom he had come in battle array:
Richard Cœur de Lion bitterly weeping at the bier of his father
whose death he had desired and hastened: Henry I. who never smiled
again after the loss of his son and heir when the _White Ship_ went
down: the Black Prince, chivalrously subservient to his prisoner
King John of France conquered at Poitiers--strangely fascinating
is this hasty action and reaction in the hearts of the young-world
children!
Matilda succeeded in bringing about a reconciliation between her
husband and her son after that strange battle; but it was only
for a time. William was compelled to return to England and Robert
took advantage of this occasion to enforce his claim on Normandy.
Matilda was secretly in favor of her son (the women are always
right!) tho’ she tried to conciliate both. Rebellion again raged
in Normandy openly carried on by Robert and secretly abetted by
Matilda. William was, at the same time, threatened with an uprising
in England and was obliged to remain on the island. But certainly
there could have been little peace or happiness in the heart of the
man whose subjects were in insurrection against him and in whose
household there was hate and discord and rebellion.
As William became more and more alienated from Robert, he looked
more favorably upon his second son William Rufus and his third son
Henry. These in turn succeeded him upon the throne of England to
the exclusion of Robert, the rightful heir.
Robert languished in prison the last twenty-seven years of his
life--thus adding another chapter to the book in which is recorded
the story of men and women who have nearly succeeded in their
ambitious designs--but not quite: the _Almosts_ of literature and
of life; who have struggled fearfully and failed; whose fierce
activities have died down in dungeon gloom; who have been, in the
main, more sinned against than sinning; who have lived and happily
died leaving behind a tragic name flame-cut into fame.
EXEUNT OMNES.
Matilda died in 1082, and about five years later William followed
her to the tomb. Matilda died in the palace part of the monastery
at Cæn erected by William at the time of their marriage. Her last
days were deeply shadowed by the renewal of hostilities between
William and Robert, and by the death of a daughter, a young and
beautiful girl full of hope and promise, who had suddenly been
stricken with an incurable illness.
It was well that in those days in the twilight of the grave,
Matilda could not foresee the sad fate of her son Robert. Little
did that tender mother-heart dream of the destiny overhanging the
boy, when at that last clandestine interview she hastily blessed
him and kissed him good bye. Thank God for the heavy curtain rolled
down impenetrably between the present and the future.
William, notwithstanding his grievance against Matilda, came to see
her in her last illness. He was with her when she died. He followed
her in the funeral cortege to that monastery built by her in far
off happier days, and he stood sadly by as that devoted wife and
mother of his many children was laid to rest.
Philip of France abetted the cause of Robert, and William, now an
old man and grown excessively corpulent, was forced again to take
up arms. William was under medical treatment for his corpulency,
and Philip, hearing of this, jestingly remarked that “the old
woman of England was in the straw.” A tale-bearer repeated this to
William and in a rage the King swore that “the old woman of England
would soon make things too hot for him.” William kept his word;
burning villages and war horrors arose on every side as the irate
monarch began his march of revenge.
The town of Mantes, on the road to Paris, was in flames, and
William, riding thro’ and giving out orders in all directions,
failed to notice that his horse was treading upon smoking ashes.
Suddenly the horse reared violently, his feet evidently having been
burnt by smouldering flame, and William was internally injured. He
was borne by litter to a monastery just outside the gates of Rouen.
William soon realized that he was face to face with the King of
Terrors. He shrank with horror from the remembrance of his deeds:
he ordered that a large sum of money should be given to the poor
and that their prayers should be enlisted in his behalf; he gave
orders that all the churches of Mantes, destroyed by him, should be
at once rebuilt, and he richly endowed the monastery.
His sons William and Henry were soon at his side, but Robert came
not. When asked as to whom he bequeathed the kingdom of England he
replied that it had not been bequeathed to him, that, therefore, he
bequeathed it to no one, but that he wished that his son William
Rufus might succeed him.
William, at last, when he could hold it no longer, left Normandy to
his eldest son Robert.
William tried to make his peace with Heaven as the dread summons
came nearer and nearer. He was one morning suddenly aroused from a
comatose state by the ringing of the church bells. Hastily arising
and thinking himself in the clash of battle he demanded to know
what that clangor meant. On being told that it was the church bells
of St. Mary’s ringing for morning services, he lifted up his hands,
turned his eyes heavenward, and exclaimed, “I commend myself to my
Lady Mary, the holy Mother of God.” He then sank back and died.
William Rufus succeeded to the throne of England and after a
troubled reign of thirteen years, he died.
Henry, the youngest son of William the Conqueror, claimed the crown
and after overcoming his brother Robert in a terrible battle, he
quietly took possession of the throne. Robert was held a prisoner
by Henry I. until death released him twenty-seven years later.
So long ago were these scenes enacted, and so very long have
the actors slumbered! Would they recognize themselves in the
descriptions given of them today? and would they be pleased or
displeased with the parts attributed to them in the play?
However all the actors, immediate and mediate, connected with the
battle of Senlac-Hastings have long ago gone off the stage. The
colossal _If_ upon which once hung the history of England has
become fate-fixed actuality. The Houses of Plantagenet, Lancaster,
York, Tudor, Stuart--England’s story from 1066 to the passing hour
are inseparably woven one with the battle of Senlac-Hastings and
the _If_ determinant in favor of William the Conqueror.