sent out Swithelm, bishop of Sherbum, to India, by what is now called
the overland journey, and the good bishop was therefore the original
Indian male--or Saxon Waghom. He brought from India several gems, and
a quantity of pepper--the gems being generously given by Alfred to his
friends, and the pepper freely bestowed on his enemies.
He died on the 26th of October, 901, in the fifty-third year of his age,
and thirtieth of his reign, having fought in person fifty-six times; so
that his life must have been one continued round of sparring with one or
other of his enemies. All the chroniclers and historians have agreed
in pronouncing unqualified praise upon Alfred; and unless puffing had
reached a perfection, and acquired an effrontery which it has scarcely
shown in the present day, he must be considered a paragon of perfection
who never yet had a parallel. It is certain we have had but one Alfred,
from the Saxon period to the present; but we have now a prospect of
another, who, let us hope, may evince, at some future time, something
more than a merely nominal resemblance to him who has been the subject
of this somewhat lengthy chapter.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH. FROM KING EDWARD THE ELDER TO THE NORMAN CONQUEST.
[Illustration: 054]
ON the death of Alfred, his second son, Edward, took possession of the
throne, when he was served with a notice of ejectment by his cousin
Ethelwald. Preparations were made for commencing and defending an action
at Wimbum, when Ethelwald, intimidated by the strength of his opponent,
declined to go on with the proceedings, and judgment, as in case of
a nonsuit, was claimed on Edward's behalf. Subsequently, however,
Ethelwald moved, apparently with a view to a new trial, towards Bury,
where some of the Kentish men had ventured; and an action having come
off, he incurred very heavy damage, which ended in his paying the
costs of the day with his own existence. Edward derived much aid from
Ethelfleda, a sister, who acted as a sister, by assisting him in his
wars against his enemies. This energetic specimen of the British female
inherited all the spirit of her father, as well as his mantle, which we
find in looking into our own Mackintosh. * She is called "The Lady of
Mercia" by the old chroniclers; but as she was always foremost in a
fight, there seems something slyly satirical in giving the name of lady
to a person of the most fearfully unladylike propensities. She beat
the Welsh unmercifully, filling their country with wailings as well as
covering their backs with wails, and she took prisoner the king's wife,
with whom it may be presumed she came furiously to the scratch before
the capture was accomplished. Ethelfleda died in the year 920, and
her brother in 925, the latter being succeeded by his natural son,
Athelstane, who had no sooner got the crown on his head, than he found
several persons preparing to have a snatch at it. He, however, defeated
all his enemies, and devoted his time to polishing his throne, adding
lustre to his crown, and giving brightness to his sceptre. It was in
this reign that England first became an asylum for foreign refugees, to
whom Athelstane always extended his hospitality. Louis d'Outremer, the
French king, and several Celtic princes of Armorica or Brittany, played
at hide-and-seek in London lodgings, while keeping out of the way of
their rebellious subjects.
* Sir James Mackintosh's "History of England," Vol. I. chap,
ii., p. 49,
It is probable that the part of the metropolis called Little Britain,
may have derived its name from the princes having established a little
Brittany of their own in that locality. Athelstane appears also to
have taken a limited number of pupils into his own palace to board and
educate, for Harold, the king of Norway, consigned his son Haco to the
care and tuition of the Saxon monarch.
Athelstane died in the year 940, in his forty-seventh year, and was
succeeded by Edmund the Atheling, a youth of eighteen, whose taste for
elegance and splendour obtained for him the name of the Magnificent. He
gave very large dinner parties to his nobles, and at one of these his
eye fell upon one Leof, a notorious robber, returned from banishment,
one of the Saxon swell mob who had been transported, but had escaped;
and who, from some remissness on the part of the police, had obtained
admission to the palace. Edmund commanded the proper officer to turn him
out, but Leof--tempted no doubt by the sideboard of plate--insisted on
remaining at the banquet. Edmund, who, as the chroniclers tell us, was
heated by wine, jumped up from his seat, and forgetting the king in the
constable, seized Leof by his collar and his hair, intending to turn
him out neck and crop. Leof still refusing to "move on," the impetuous
Edmund commenced wrestling with the intruder, who, irritated at a sudden
and severe kick on his shins, drew a dagger from under his cloak, and
stabbed the sovereign in a vital part. The nobles, who had formed a
circle round the combatants, and had been encouraging their king with
shouts of "Bravo, Edmund!"
"Give it him, your majesty!" were so infuriated at the foul play of the
thief, and his un-English recourse to the knife, that they fell upon him
at once, and cut him literally to pieces.
[Illustration: 056]
Edred, the brother and successor of Edmund, though not twenty-three
years of age, was in a wretched state of health when he came to the
throne. He had lost his teeth, and of course had none to show when
threatened by his enemies; and he was so weak in the feet, that he
literally seemed to be without a leg to stand upon. Nevertheless he
succeeded in vanquishing the Danes, who could not hurt a hair of his
head; but, as the chroniclers tell us that every bit of his hair had
fallen off, his security in this respect is easily accounted for. The
vigour that marked his reign has, however, been attributed to Dunstan,
the abbot, who now began to figure as a political character.
Edred soon died, and left the kingdom to his little brother Edwy, a lad
of fifteen, who soon married Elgiva, a young lady of good family,
and took his wife's mother home to live with them. On the day of his
coronation he had given a party, and the gentlemen, including Odo,
Archbishop of Canterbury, and Dunstan, the monk, were still sitting over
their wine, when Edwy slipped out to join the ladies. Odo and Dunstan,
who were both six-bottle men, became angry at the absence of their royal
host, and the latter, at the suggestion of the former, went staggering
after the king to lug him back to the banquet-room. Edwy was quietly
seated with his wife and her mother in the boudoir--for it being a
gentlemen's party, no ladies seem to have been among the guests--and
the monk, hiccuping out some gross abuse of the queen and her mamma,
collared the young king, who was dragged back to the wine-table.
Though this outrage may have been half festive, interlarded with
exclamations of "Come along, old boy," "Don't leave us, old chap," and
other similar phrases of social familiarity, Edwy never forgave the
monk, whom he called upon to account for money received in his late
capacity of treasurer to the royal household. Dunstan being what is
usually termed a "jolly dog," and a "social companion," was of course
most irregular in money matters; and finding it quite impossible to make
out his books, he ran away to avoid the inconvenience of a regular
settlement.
Dunstan, nevertheless, resolved to pay his royal master off on the
first opportunity; and a rising having been instigated by his friend and
pot-companion, Archbishop Odo, Edgar, the brother of Edwy, was declared
independent sovereign of the whole of the island north of the Thames.
Dunstan returned from his brief exile; but, in the mean time, Edwy
had been deprived of his wife, Elgiva, by forcible abduction, at the
instigation of the odious Odo. The lovely unfortunate had her face
branded with a hot iron, and the most cruel means were taken to deprive
her of the beauty which was supposed to be the cause of her ascendancy
over the heart of her royal husband. Some historians have attributed
this outrage to the designs of Dunstan, and among the many irons that
monk was known to have had in the fire, may have been the very irons
with which this horrible barbarity was perpetrated. Her scars were,
however, obliterated by some Kalydor known at the time, and probably the
invention of some knightly Sir Rowland of that early era. She was on the
point of rejoining Edwy at Gloucester, when she was savagely murdered
by the enemies of her husband, who did not long survive her, for in the
following year, 958, he perished either by assassination or a broken
heart.
Edgar, a mere lad, of whom Dunstan had made a ladder for his own
ambition, now succeeded to his brother's dignities, if a series of
nothing but indignities can deserve to be so called. The wily monk had
now become Archbishop of Canterbury, and encouraged the new king to make
royal progresses among his subjects, in the course of which he is said
to have gone up on the river Dee, in an eight-oared cutter, rowed by
eight crowned sovereigns. In this illustrious water party Kenneth,
king of Scotland, pulled the stroke oar, their majesties of Cumbria,
Anglesey, Galloway, Westmere, and the three Welsh sovereigns, making up
the remainder of the royal crew, over which Edgar himself presided as
coxswain.
Though the young king gave great satisfaction in his public capacity,
his private character was exceedingly reprehensible. His inconstancy
towards the fair got him into sad disgrace, and his friend Dunstan on
one occasion administered to him a severe reprimand. The monk, however,
finished by fining him a crown, prohibiting him from putting on, during
a period of seven years, that very uncomfortable article of the regalia.
As the head is proverbially uneasy which wears a crown, the sentence
passed upon the king must have been a boon rather than a punishment.
Among the events connected with the reign of Edgar, his marriage with
Elfrida must always stand conspicuous. He had heard much of a provincial
beauty, the daughter of Olgar, or Ordgar, Earl of Devonshire, and the
king sent his favourite, the Earl of Athelwold, to see this rustic
_belle_, with a view of ascertaining whether the flower would be worth
transplanting to the palace of the sovereign. Athelwold, on seeing the
young lady, fell in love with her himself, from her extreme beauty; but
wrote up to Edgar, declaring that she might well be called "the mistress
of the village plain," for her plainness was absolutely painful; and
indeed he added in a P.S., "She is so disfigured by a squint, as to give
me the idea of the very squintes-sence of ugliness." Athelwold attributed
her reputation for beauty to her fortune, and declared that her money
turned her red hair into golden locks, causing her to be well "worthy
the attention of Persons about to Marry."
Edgar soon gave his consent to Athelwold's espousing the lady, on the
ground of her being a good match for him; but she proved more than a
match for him a short time afterwards. Edgar, at the expiration of the
honeymoon, proposed to visit his friend, who made excuses as long as
he could, inasmuch that he was seldom at home, and that he could not
exactly say when his majesty would be sure of catching him. The king,
however, good-naturedly promising to be satisfied with pot-luck, fixed a
day for his visit; ana Athelwold, confessing all to his wife, begged her
to disguise her charms, by putting on her shabbiest gown, and to behave
herself in such a manner as to make the king believe he had lost nothing
in not having married her.
"I should like to see myself appearing as a dowdy before my sovereign,"
was the lady's feminine reply, and she paid more than usual attention to
her _toilette_ in order to attract the favourable notice of Edgar. The
monarch finding himself deceived by Athelwold, asked him to come and
hunt in a wood, when, without any preliminary beating about the bush,
and exclaiming, "You made game of me, thus do I make game of you," he
stabbed the unfortunate earl, and returned home to marry his widow.
Edgar did not live many years after this ungentlemanly conduct, but died
at the early age of two-and-thirty. Though he had been favourable to
priestcraft, and patronised the cunning foxes of the Church, he was an
enemy to wolves, and offered so much per head for all that were killed,
until the race was exterminated, and the cry of "Wolf" became synonymous
with a false alarm of danger.
Edgar was succeeded (a.d. 975) by Edward, his son by his first wife, who
was not more than fourteen or fifteen years old; and thus, at that age
before which an individual in the present day is not legally qualified
to drive a cab, this royal hobbledehoy assumed the reins of government.
His mother-in-law, Elfrida, endeavoured to grasp them for her own son
Ethelred, an infant of six, but Dunstan having at that moment the whip
hand, prevented her from reaching the point she was driving at.
Edward, who acquired the name of the Martyr, was accordingly crowned
at Kingston, where coronations formerly came off; but he did not long
survive, for hunting one day near Corfe Castle, he made a morning call
on his mother-in-law, Elfrida, and requested that a drop of something
to drink might be brought to him. As Elfrida was offering him the ale
in front, her porter dropped upon him in the back, and inflicted a stab
which caused him to set spurs to his horse; but falling off from loss
of blood, he was drawn--a lifeless bier--for a considerable distance.
Elfrida has been acquitted by some of having been the instigator of this
cruel act, but as it is said she whipped her little son Ethelred for
crying at the news of the death of his half-brother Edward, we can
scarcely admit that there is any doubt of which we can give her the
benefit. Both mother and son became so exceedingly unpopular that an
attempt was made to set up a rival on the throne, to the exclusion of
Ethelred, and the crown was offered to the late king's natural daughter,
whose name was Edgitha.
Edgitha, however, having observed that the regal diadem was looked upon
as a target, at which any one might take the liberty to aim,
preferred the comfortable hood of the nun--for she was the inmate of
a monastery--to the jewelled cap of royalty. The crown was accordingly
placed by Dunstan, at Easter, a.d. 979, on the weak head of Ethelred;
and it is said that the monk was in such a fit of ill-temper at the
coronation, that he muttered some frightful maledictions against the
boy-king, while in the very act of crowning him, The youthful sovereign
was also indebted to Dunstan for the nickname of the Unready, which was
probably equivalent to the term "slow coach," that is sometimes used to
denote a person of sluggish disposition and not very brilliant mental
faculties.
[Illustration: 059]
Ethelred was wholly incompetent to wear the crown, which was so much
too heavy for his weak head, that he appeared to be completely bonneted
under the burden. It sat upon him more like a porter's knot than a regal
diadem; while the sceptre, instead of being gracefully wielded by a firm
hand, was to him no better than a huge poker in the fragile fingers of a
baby.
During the early part of his reign, his mother Elfrida exercised
considerable influence, but she at length retired from government, and
took to the building business, erecting and endowing monasteries in
order to expiate her sins. She became a sort of infatuated female
Gubitt, and at every fresh qualm of conscience ran up another floor,
which was, familiarly speaking, the "old story" with persons in her
unfortunate predicament. The money expended in the erection of religious
houses was thought to be an eligible investment in those days for
sinners, who having no solid foundation for their hopes, were glad to
take any ground to build upon.
The Danes had for some time been tranquil, but their natural
fearlessness, made them ready for anything, and seeing Ethelred in a
state of utter unreadiness on the throne, they indulged the hope of
driving oft the "slow coach" in an early stage of his sovereignty.
It happened that young Sweyn, a scapegrace son of the king of Denmark,
had been turned out of doors by his father, and having become by the
injudicious step of his parent a gentleman at large, amused himself by
occasional attacks upon the kingdom of Ethelred. This sovereign, who,
instead of being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, appears to have
been born one entire spoon of the real fiddleheaded pattern, * commenced
the dangerous practice of paying the foe to leave him alone, which was
of course holding out the prospect of a premium to all who took the
trouble to bully him. He paid down £10,000 in silver to the sea-kings,
on condition of their retiring from his country, which they did until
they had spent all the money, when they returned, threatening to pay him
off, or be paid off themselves, an arrangement that Ethelred three times
mustered the means of carrying into operation.
* Others think this royal spoon was not fiddle headed, but
that he was the earliest specimen of the king's pattern, of
his enemy. Emma, who was called the "Flower of Normandy,"
consented to transplant herself to England, and became the
acknowledged daisy of the British Court.
Young Sweyn had now become king of Denmark, and had made friends with
Olave, king of Norway, the son of old Olave, a deceased pirate, who had
made his fortune by sweeping the very profitable crossing from his own
country to England. These two scamps ravaged the southern coast in 994,
and Ethelred, the unready king, was obliged to buy them off with ready
money. In the year 1001, they made another demand of £24,000, which left
the sovereign not a single dump, except those into which he naturally
fell at the draining of his treasury.
Ethelred, who, if he was unready for everything else, appears to have
been always ready for a quarrel, had contrived to fall out with Richard
the Second, Duke of Normandy, and he was on the point of taking up arms,
when he laid his hand at the feet of Emma.
We would willingly take an enormous dip of ink, and letting it fall on
our paper, blot out for ever from our annals the Danish massacre,
which occurred at about the period to which our history has arrived.
Unfortunately, however, were we to overturn an entire inkstand, we
should only add to the blackness of the page, which tells us that
the Danes were savagely murdered at a time when they were living as
fellow-subjects among the people.
It was on the feast of St. Brice, soon after his marriage with Emma,
that the order to commit this sanguinary act was given by Ethelred. It
is true that the Danish mercenaries had given great provocation by their
insolence. They had, according to the old chroniclers, * sunk into such
effeminacy that they washed themselves once a week and combed their
heads still more frequently. We cannot perhaps accuse the chroniclers of
being over nice in their objections to the Danish habits of cleanliness,
but we really are at a loss to see the effeminacy of taking a bath every
seven days, and preventing the hair from becoming in appearance little
better than a quantity of hay in a state of unraked roughness. It was
on the 15th of November, 1002, which happened to be one of their weekly
washing days, that the Danes were surprised and treated in the barbarous
manner we have alluded to. The Lady Gunhilda, the sister of Sweyn, and
the wife of an English earl of Danish extraction, was one of the victims
of the massacre, and died fighting to the last with that truly feminine
weapon, the tongue, predicting that her death would be followed by
the downfall of the English nation. This act of ferocity naturally
exasperated Sweyn, who resolved on invading England, and he prepared a
considerable fleet, the vessels belonging to which appear to have been
got up much in the same style as the civic barges on the Thames, for
they were gaily gilded, and had all sorts of emblematical devices
painted over them. Sweyn himself arrived in the _Great Dragon_, a boat
made in the inconvenient form of that disagreeable animal. Had the
patron saint of England been at hand to do his duty at that early
period, the great dragon would have been speedily overcome, but it is
a familiar observation, that people of this-sort are never to be found
when they are really wanted.
* Wallingford, p. 547.
The invaders landed at Exeter, which was governed by a Norman baron,
a favourite of the queen; but, as frequently happens in the course of
events as well as on the race-course, the favourite proved deceptive
when the enemy took the field, and resigned the place to pillage. The
Danish foe marched into Wiltshire, and in every town they passed through
they ordered the best of everything for dinner, when, after eating to
excess of all the delicacies of the season, they had the indelicacy to
settle their hosts when the bill was brought to them for settlement.
To prevent even the possibility of old scores being kept against them,
which they might one day be called upon to pay off, they burned down
the houses, thus making a bonfire of all the property, including account
books, papers, and wooden tallies that the establishment might contain.
The entertainers or land-lords had no sooner presented a bill; than it
was met by a savage endorsement on their own backs; and, though
drawing and accepting may be regarded as a very customary, commercial
transaction, still, when the drawer draws a huge sword the acceptor is
likely to get by far the worst of it.
[Illustration: 62]
An Anglo-Saxon army was, however, organised at last, to oppose the
Danes; but Alfric the Mercian--an old traitor, who had on a former
occasion played the knave against the king--was put at the head of it.
Ethelred had punished the first treachery of the father by putting out
the eyes of the son; but this castigation of the "wrong boy," the young
one instead of the old one, had not proved effectual. His majesty must
have been as blind as he had rendered the innocent youth, to have again
entrusted Alfric with command; and the consequences were soon felt, for
the old impostor pretended to be taken suddenly ill, just as his men
were going into battle. He called them off at the most important moment;
and instead of stopping at home by himself, putting his feet in warm
water, and laying up while the battle was being fought under directions
which he could just as easily have given from his own room, he shouted
for help from the whole army; and by sending some for salts, others
for senna, a cohort here for a pill, and a legion there for a leech, he
managed to keep the whole of the forces occupied in running about for
him.
Sweyn in the meantime got clear off with all his booty, and by the time
that Alfric announced himself to be a little better, and able to go out,
the enemy had vanished altogether from the neighbourhood.
An appetite for conquest was not however the only appetite which the
Danes indulged, for their voracity in eating was such that they created
a panic wherever they showed themselves. They ravaged Norfolk, and
having reduced it to its last dumpling, they fell upon Yarmouth, whose
bloaters they speedily exhausted, when they tried Cambridge,
having probably been attracted thither by the fame of its sausages.
Subsequently they advanced upon Huntingdonshire and Lincolnshire,
where they continued as long as they could find a bone to pick with
the inhabitants. They then crossed the Baltic (a.d. 1004), having been
obliged to quit England on account of there being literally nothing
to eat; so that a joint occupation with the natives had become utterly
impossible. Those only, who from its being the land of their birth, felt
that they must always have a stake in the country, could possibly have
mustered the resolution to remain in it. The vengeance of Sweyn being
unsatisfied, he returned in the year 1006, when he carried fire and
sword into every part, and it has been said with much felicity of
expression, that amidst so much sacking the inhabitants had scarcely a
bed to lie down upon.
[Illustration: 063]
Unable to offer him any effectual check, the Great Council tried what
could be done with ready money, and £36,000 was the price demanded
to pay out this formidable "man in possession" from the harassed and
exhausted country. The sum was collected by an income-tax of about
twenty shillings in the pound, or even more, if it could be got out of
the people by either threats or violence. Such as had paid the Danes
directly to save their homes from destruction were obliged to pay over
again, like a railway traveller who loses his ticket; and the natives
seem to have got into a special train of evils, in which every engine of
persecution was used against them.
[Illustration: 064]
In 1008 new burdens were thrown upon the people, who for every
nine nides of land were bound to find a man armed with a helmet and
breastplate. This would seem no very difficult matter, considering that
two or three such men are found annually at the Lord Mayor's show; but
in former times they had something more difficult to do than walk in
a procession. Though two shillings and his beer will, it is believed,
secure the services of an ancient knight, armed _cap-d-pie_ at an hour's
notice in our own day, such a person was not to be had so cheap in the
time of Ethelred. In addition to this infliction, every three hundred
and ten hides of land were bound to build and equip a ship for the
defence of the country; but it seems, after all, nothing but fair, that
the hides should club together to save themselves from tanning. The
fleet thus raised was, however, soon rendered valueless, in consequence
of the various commanders having refused to row in the same boat, or
rather insisting on pulling different ways, to the utter annihilation of
their master's interest.
Ethelred had selected for his favourite a low fellow of the name of
Edric, who was exceedingly eloquent, and had not only talked one of
the king's daughters into accepting his hand, but had even talked
the monarch himself into sanctioning the unequal marriage. Edric had
obtained for his brother Brightric a high post in the navy, as commander
of eight vessels; but the latter got into a quarrel with his nephew,
Wulfnoth, who was known by the odd appellation of the "Child of the
South Saxons," or the Sussex lad, as we should take the liberty
of calling him. The "child" determined on flight; but with a truly
infantine objection to run alone, he got twenty of the king's ships to
run along with him. Brightric cruised after him with eighty sail, but
the tempest rising, and the rudders at the stem refusing to act, he
was driven on shore by stem necessity. Wulfnoth, who had done a little
ravaging on his own private account along the southern coast, returned
to make firewood of the timbers of Brightric, which fortune had so
cruelly shivered.
Ethelred was completely panic-stricken at the news of this reverse,
and hurried home as fast as he could to summon a council, but every
resolution that was passed no one had the resolution to execute. To add
to the king's embarrassments, "Thurkill's host" came over, com-prising
the flower of the Scandinavian youth, which planted itself in Kent, and
caused a sad blow to the country. Various short peaces were purchased by
the Saxons at so much a piece; but, as Pope Gregory would have had it,
every arrangement was not a sale, but a sell on the part of Thurkill,
who continued sending in a fresh account for every fresh transaction.
Ethelred was now in the very midst of traitors, and it was impossible
that he should ever be brought round in such a circle. He had not a
single officer to whom a commission could be safely entrusted. Edric,
his favourite, having taken offence, joined the enemy in an attack upon
Canterbury, which had lasted for twenty days, when some one left the
gate of the city ajar, either by design or accident.
Alphege, the good archbishop, who had defended the place, was instantly
loaded with chains; and though he felt himself dreadfully fettered,
he declined to purchase his ransom, for the very best of all reasons,
namely, that he had not the money to pay for it. The old man, wisely
making a virtue of necessity, proclaimed his determination not to part
with a shilling, "and indeed," said he, "I couldn't if I would; for to
tell you the truth, I haven't got it."
The venerable prelate turning his pockets inside out, proved that he
was penniless, when they offered to release him if he would persuade
Ethelred to subscribe handsomely to the Danish rent, as we are fully
justified in calling it. The archbishop, however, grew exceedingly
saucy, when they pelted him with the remains of the feast, throwing
bones, bottles, and bread, in rapid succession at the primate, who
meekly bowed his head--or perhaps bobbed it up and down--to the
treatment he experienced. The good old man remained for some time
unshaken, till a shower of marrow-bones threw him on his knees, and one
of the ruffians with a coarse pun exclaiming--"Let us make no more bones
about it, but despatch him at once," brutally realised his own ferocious
suggestion.
[Illustration: 065]
Thurkill now sent in another account of £48,000 as the price of his
promised allegiance, which was certainly not worth a week's purchase,
but Ethelred somehow or other found and paid the money. Sweyn, on
hearing of this proceeding, pretended to be very angry with Thurkill,
and fitted out a formidable fleet, with the avowed intention of killing
with one stone two birds--namely, the Danish crow, and the Saxon pigeon.
The ships of Sweyn were elaborately carved for show, and consequently
not very well cut out for service. Nevertheless they were quite strong
enough to vanquish the dispirited Saxons, who would have been overawed
at the sight of a Danish oar, and might have been knocked down with a
feather.
Sweyn landed at York, and leaving his fleet in the care of his son
Canute, carried fire and sword into the north; but as the inhabitants
were all favourable to his cause, he had no more occasion to take fire
into the north, than to carry coals to Newcastle. The king had sought
refuge in London, which refused to give in until Ethelred sneaked out,
when the citizens having been threatened, according to Sir Francis
Palgrave, * with damage to their "eyes and limbs," threw open their
gates to the conqueror. The unready monarch made for the Isle of Wight,
but finding apartments dear and living expensive, he packed off his wife
and children to his brother-in-law, Richard of Normandy, who lived in a
court at Rouen. The duke made them as çomfortable as he could, and the
lady Emma having fished for an invitation for her husband, at length
succeeded in getting him asked, to the infinite delight of old
"Slowcoach," who for once got ready at a very short notice to avail
himself of the asylum that was offered him. Sweyn was now king of
England, a.d. 1013, but after a reign of six weeks, entitling him
to only half a quarter's salary, he died at Gainsborough, very much
lamented by all who did not know him. The Saxon nobles who had so
recently sent Ethelred away, now wanted him back again. They despatched
a message, however, to the effect that, if he would promise to be a good
king, and never be naughty any more, they would be glad to accept him
once more as their sovereign. Ethelred turning his son Edmund into a
postman, forwarded a letter by hand, promising reform, but stipulating
that there should be no "fraud or treachery," or in other words, no
humbug on either side. This arrangement, though growing out of mutual
distrust, and being little better than a provision which each party
thought necessary in consequence of the dishonesty of both, must be
regarded as highly important in a constitutional point of view, for it
is evidently the germ of those great compacts, which have since been
occasionally concluded between the sovereign and the people.
* Chap. xiii., p. 310,
[Illustration: 067]
Ethelred, on his arrival at home, found that Canute, the son of Sweyn,
having been declared king by the Danes, had coolly set himself up as
landlord of the Crown and Sceptro at Greenwich. Ethelred and Canute
continued for three years like "the Lion and the Unicorn, fighting for
the Crown," with about equal success, when death overtook "Slowcoach,"
after a long and inglorious reign. He died on St. George's Day, 1016,
having been for five-and-thirty years man and boy, on and off the throne
of England.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. EDMUND IRONSIDES--CANUTE--HAROLD
HAREFOOT--HARDICANUTE--EDWARD THE CONFESSOR--HAROLD--THE BATTLE OF
HASTINGS.
On the decease of Ethelred the citizens of London offered the throne
to his son Edmund, who had got the strange nickname of Ironsides. He
obtained this appellation from his extreme toughness; for it has been
said by a contemporary that if you gave him a poke in the ribs they
rattled like the bars of a gridiron, or the railings round an area.
There can be no doubt that Edmund had strength on his side, as far as he
was personally concerned, but Canute, or as some called him, C'nute and
'Cute, often overreached young Ironsides in cunning.
In one of their battles--the fifth of a series--the Danes were on the
point of defeat, when Edric, whom Edmund, however hard in the ribs, was
soft enough in the head to trust after former treachery, raised the cry
that the young leader had fallen. By some ingenious contrivance, Edrio
had cut off somebody's head which resembled Edmund in features, and,
perhaps, improving the likeness with burnt cork or other preparations,
raised it on a spear in the field, exclaiming "Flee, English! flee,
English! dead is Edmund." * The whole army became paralysed at the
sight, and even Ironsides himself was completely put out of countenance,
for he was unable to tell at the moment whether his head was really upon
his own shoulders. How Edric could have had the face to practise such
an imposition may puzzle the reader of the present day; but it was
exceedingly likely that the trick would be aided by Edmund undergoing,
as he no doubt would at the moment, a sudden change of countenance.
* These are the very words, exactly as they have been
preserved,--Vide Sir F. Palgrave, chapter xliii. page 308.
[Illustration: 068]
Ironsides, though for the moment put to flight, having been as it were
frightened at his own shadow, found on reflection, in the first piece of
water he came to, that his head was in its right place, though his heart
had slightly failed him, and he consequently paused in his retreat,
and met Canute face to face, on the road to Gloucestershire. Ironsides,
stepping forward in front of his army, made the cool proposition to
Canute that instead of risking the lives of so many brave men, they
should settle the quarrel by single combat. Considering that Edmund had
not only the advantage of patent-safety sides, which rendered him nearly
battle-axe proof, but was also about twice the height of his antagonist,
it is not surprising that Canute declined coming in immediate contact
with the metallic plates, which would have acted as a powerful battery
upon the diminutive Dane. Had he accepted the crafty challenge, every
blow inflicted on Ironsides would have been a severe rap on the knuckles
to Canute, who might as well have run his head against a brick wall as
engage in a single combat with a person of such undoubted metal. It
was, however, agreed that they should divide the realm, and though as
a general rule it is not advisable to do anything by halves, this
arrangement was decidedly beneficial to all parties. The armies were
both delighted at the proposal, and their joy affords proof that their
discretion formed a great deal more than the better part of their
valour.
Canute took the north, and Edmund the south, with a nominal superiority
over the former, so that the crown is said by the chroniclers to have
belonged to Ironsides. It was certainly better that the ascendency
should have been given to one of the two, for if their territory
had been equal the crown must have been divided, and he that had the
thickest head might have claimed the larger share of the regal diadem.
Edmund lived only two months after the agreement had been signed, and
as Canute took the benefit of survivorship, it has been good-naturedly
suggested that he must have been either the actual or virtual murderer
of Ironsides. There are only one or two facts which spoil this ingenious
and amiable theory; the first of which is, that there is no proof of his
having been killed at all,--an uncertainty that is quite sufficient
to allow the benefit of the doubt to those who have been named as his
murderers. Hume has, without hesitation, appointed Oxford as the
scene of the assassination, and has been kind enough to select two
chamberlains as the perpetrators of the deed, but we have been unable
to collect sufficient evidence to go to a jury against the anonymous
chamberlains, whom we beg leave to dismiss with the comfortable
assurance that they quit these pages without any stain on their
characters.
Canute, as the succeeding partner in the late firm of Edmund and Canute,
found himself, in 1017, all alone in his glory on the British throne.
His first care was to call a public meeting of "bishops," "duces," and
"optimates," at which he voted himself into the chair; and he caused it
to be proposed and seconded that he should be king to the exclusion of
all the descendants of Ethelred. There can be no doubt that the meeting
was packed, for every proposition of Canute was received with loud cries
of "hear," and repeated cheers. Strong resolutions were passed against
Edwy, the grown-up brother of Edmund Ironsides. Proceedings were
instantly commenced; he was declared an outlaw, and was soon taken in
execution in the then usual form.
Edmund and Edwy, the two infant sons of Ironsides, were protected by the
plea of infancy; but Canute sent them out to dry-nurse to the king of
the Swedes, with an intimation that if their mouths could be stopped by
Swedish turnips, or anything else, the arrangement would be satisfactory
to the English monarch. His Swedish majesty, whether moved by pity or
actuated by the feeling of "None of my child," sent the babies on to
Hungary, where they were taken in, but not done for, as Canute had
desired. The little Edmund died early, but his brother Edward settled
respectably in life, married a relation of the Emperor of Germany,
became a family man, and one of his daughters was subsequently a Mrs.
Malcolm, the lady of Malcolm, king of Scotland.
Edmund and Alfred, the other sons of Ethelred by Emma of Normandy, who
were still living with their uncle Robert, had a sort of lawyer's letter
written in their name to Canute, threatening an action of trover for the
sceptre, unless it were immediately restored.
After offering a moiety--being equal to a composition of ten shillings
in the pound--he proposed to settle the matter by marrying their mamma,
who consented to this arrangement; and the claims of the infants were
never heard of again. Neglected by their mother, they forgot their
mother tongue--they grew up Normans instead of Saxons, say the old
chroniclers, which seems to be going a little too far, for a Saxon
cannot become a Norman by living in Normandy, any more than a man
becomes a horse by residence in a stable.
After triumphing over his enemies, Canute somewhat altered for the
better, and became a quiet, gentlemanly, but rather jovial man. He was
fond of music, patronised vocalists, and occasionally wrote ballads, one
of which is still preserved. As it was said of a certain performer,
that he would have been a good actor if he had been possessed of figure,
voice, action, expression, and intelligence; so we may say of Canute,
that if he had known anything of sense or syntax, if he had been happy
at description, or possessed the slightest share of imagination, he
would have been a very fair poet.
A portion of one of Canute's once popular ballads has been preserved,
and if the other verses resembled the one that has come down to us,
there is no reason to regret that the rest is out of print and that
nobody has kept the manuscript.
The following is the queer quatrain which remains as the sole specimen
of his majesty's poetical abilities:--
"Merrily sing the monks within Ely,
When C'nute King rowed there by;
Row, my knights, row near the land,
And hear we these monks sing."
This dismal distich is said to have been suggested by his hearing the
solemn monastic music of the choir as he rowed near the Minster of Ely;
but we suspect the song must have been rather of a secular kind, or the
term merrily would have been exceedingly inappropriate. *
* Some writers have endeavoured to justify the royal author
or vindicate the characters of the monks of Ely, by saying,
that in those days "merry" meant "sad." These gentlemen
might just as well argue that black meant white--a
proposition some people would not hesitate to put forth as a
plea for the errors of royalty.
[Illustration: 071]
About the year 1017, Edric, the royal favourite, evinced some
disposition to strike for an advance of salary, when Canute resisting
the demand, the king and the courtier came to high words. Eric
of Northumbria, who happened to be sitting in the room with his
battle-axe,--which was in those days as common a companion as an
umbrella or a walking-stick in the present age,--got up, on a hint from
the king, and axed the miserable Edric to death.
Canute, who was also king of the Danes, the Swedes,--whose sovereign was
his vassal--and of the Northmen, had many turbulent subjects abroad as
well as at home, but he was in the habit of employing one against the
other, so that it was utterly immaterial to him which of them were
slain, so that he got rid of some of them. He kept a strong hand over
his Danish earls, and even his nephew, "the doughty Haco,"--though why
he should have been called "doughty," is a matter of much doubt--was
exiled for disregard of the royal authority.
The Swedes, who were always boiling over, got at last completely mashed
by Earl Godwin; and the kings of Fife, who, although mere _piccoli_,
were monarchs of some note, having exerted themselves in a melancholy
strain for independence, at length fell, for the sake of harmony, into
the general submission to Canute. Six nations were now reduced into one
general subordi----nation to the English king, who of course became the
object of the grossest flattery, and upon one memorable occasion was
nearly sacrificed to the puffing system of his injudicious friends.
One day, when in the plenitude of his power, he caused the throne to
be removed from the throne-room and erected, during low tide, on the
sea-shore. Having taken his seat, surrounded by his courtiers, he issued
a proclamation to the ocean, forbidding it to rise, and commanding it
not, on any account, to leave its bed until his permission for it to
get up was graciously awarded. The courtiers backed the royal edict,
and encouraged with the grossest adulation this first great practical
attempt to prove that Britannia rules the waves. Such a rule, however,
was soon proved to be nothing better than a rule _nisi_, which it is
impossible to make absolute when opposed by Neptune's irresistible
motion of course. Every wave of Canute's sceptre was answered by a wave
from the sea, and the courtiers, who were already up to their ankles
in salt water, began to fear that they should soon be pickled in the
foaming brine.
At length the monarch himself found his footstool disposed to go on
swimmingly of its own accord, and there was every prospect that the
whole party would undergo the ceremony of an immediate investiture of
the bath. The sovereign, who was very lightly shod, soon found that his
pumps were not capable of getting rid of the water, which was now rising
very rapidly. Having sat with his feet in the sea for a few minutes,
and not relishing the slight specimen of hydropathic treatment he had
endured, he jumped suddenly up, and began to abuse his courtiers for the
mess into which he had been betrayed by their outrageous flattery.
[Illustration: 072]
One of the attendants who had remained at the back of the others during
this ridiculous scene, observed drily, that the whole party would have
been inevitably washed and done for, if Canute had not made a timely
retreat. The sovereign was so humbled by this incident, that he took off
his crown upon the spot, made a parcel of it at once, forwarded it to
Winchester Cathedral, and never wore it again.
Water, as we all know, can subdue the strongest spirit, and though the
spirit of Canute could bear a great deal of mixing, it is evident that
the sea had shown him his own weakness. In the year 1030 he went on a
pilgrimage to Rome, with no other staff than a wooden one in his hand;
and instead of a valet to follow him, he had a simple wallet at his
back. From a letter he wrote to his bishops while abroad, it would seem
that he received presents of "vases of gold and vessels of silver, and
stuffs, and garments of great price;" so that by the time he got home
again, his wallet must have been a tolerable burden for the royal back.
He died at Shaftesbury, in 1035, about three years after his return from
Rome, and was buried at Winchester; so that he finally laid his head
where his crown had been already deposited.
On the death of Canute there was the usual difficulty as to what was to
be done with the British crown; for there were two or three who thought
the cap fitted themselves, and who consequently claimed the right to
wear it. There is no doubt that Hardicanute, the only legitimate son of
the late king, would have tried it on had it not been left by will to
Harold, while his brother Sweyn was the legatee of Norway. A compromise
was, however, effected, by which Harold took everything north of the
Thames, including, of course, the Baker Street and Finsbury districts,
while Hardicanute, to whom Denmark had been bequeathed, took the
territories on the south shore, commencing in the Belvidere Road,
Lambeth, and terminating at the southern extremity of the kingdom. He
however, left his English dominions to the management of his mother and
Earl Godwin, while he himself lingered in Denmark; on account of the
convivial habits of the Scandinavian chiefs; for Hardicanute drank, as
the phrase goes, "like a fish," though the liquid he imbibed was very
different from that which the finny tribe are addicted to.
Edward and Alfred, the two sons of Ethelred, had come over to be in the
way in case of anything turning up on the death of Canute, but Edward
finding himself rather too much in the way, and fearing an unpleasant
removal, took a return ticket for himself and party for Normandy.
Alfred, after vainly attempting to land at Sandwich, happily thought of
Heme Bay, and though it was in the height of the season, he of course
found no one there to resist his progress. Having ventured up to
Guildford on the invitation of Godwin, Alfred and his soldiers found a
sumptuous repast and comfortable lodgings prepared for them. But Godwin
had been more downy even than the beds, and the soldiers having been
seized and imprisoned found wet blankets thrown on their hopes of
hospitable treatment. Edward himself was cruelly murdered, and Harold,
who was called Harefoot, from the speed with which he could ran, was now
able to walk over the course, for there was no opposition to him in the
race for the stakes of Royalty. He was fond of nothing but hunting, and
as he could catch a hare by his own velocity he generally had the game
in his own hands. He died a.d. 1040, after a short reign of four years;
and though, if he had lived to old age, he might have proved a good
sovereign in the long-run, he was certainly not happy in the walk of
life where fortune had placed him.
Hardicanute, a name signifying Canute the Hardy, or the tough, came over
on the death of Harold; but with all his toughness he evinced or assumed
some tenderness at the cruel fate of his brother Alfred. He showed his
sympathy for one by brutality towards another, and subjected Harold's
memory to the most barbarous indignities.
Godwin, fearing that he might share the obloquy of his former master,
propitiated Hardicanute by giving him a magnificent toy, consisting of
a gilt ship, with a crew of eighty men, each having a bracelet of
pure gold weighing sixteen ounces, and dressed in the most valuable
habiliments. The new king no doubt melted the gold very speedily
in drink, to which he was so much addicted, that he actually died
intoxicated at a party given at Clapham, by one Clapa, from whose name,
or home, that suburb was called. His majesty was, according to the
chroniclers, "on his legs," and the waiters had of course left the room,
when Hardicanute unable to get further than "Gentlemen," staggered into
his seat, and was carried out--mortally inebriated. *
* Other historians say in so many words, that "he died
drunk." We prefer using the milder expression of "mortally
inebriated,"
[Illustration: 075]
The throne being now vacant, Edward, the half-brother of the late king,
who happened to be on the spot, was induced to step up and take a seat,
though he was the senior of the late sovereign. In those days, however,
the rules of hereditary descent were not very rigidly followed, for
it was success that chiefly regulated succession. Edward's cause had,
however, derived much support from Earl Godwin, the most extraordinary
teetotum of former times. He had practised the political _chassez
croisser_ to an extent that even in our own days has seldom been
surpassed. He had turned his coat so frequently that he had lost all
consciousness of which was the right side and which the wrong; but he
always treated that side as the right which happened to be uppermost.
Godwin had, it is said, commenced life as a cowboy, but he soon raised
himself above the low herd, and eventually succeeded in making his
daughter Editha the queen of Edward. The king, who had lived much in
Normandy, and had derived some assistance from Duke William, afterwards
the Conqueror, had formed many Norman predilections, which created
jealousy among his Saxon subjects. In 1061, he had received as a visitor
his brother-in-law, one Eustace, Count of Boulogne, who, on returning
home with his followers through Dover, insolently demanded gratuitous
lodgings of one of the inhabitants. The Dover people, who are still
remarkable for their high charges, and who seldom think of providing
a cup of tea under two shillings, or a bed for less than half-a-crown,
resisted the demands of Eustace and his friends, when a fight ensued,
and the Normans were compelled to make the best of their way out of the
neighbourhood.
Eustace, still smarting under the blows he had received, ran howling
to Edward, like a boy who, upon receiving a thrashing, flies to his big
brother for redress. The king desired Godwin, who was governor of Dover,
to chastise the place; but the earl positively refused, and insisted
that the Count of Boulogne could not complain if, when he required to be
served gratuitously, he had got regularly served out. Edward, irritated
at this message, prepared for war, and Godwin, who was joined by his
sons, Sweyn and Harold, had collected a powerful army; but when it came
to the point, the soldiers on both sides gave evident symptoms of
a desire to see the matter amicably arranged. As the king's forces
consisted chiefly of the fryd or militia, there can be little doubt
where the panic commenced; and Godwin's men, recognising among the foe
some of their fellow-countrymen trembling from head to foot, immediately
commenced shaking hands, so that there was an end to all firmness on
both sides. A truce was consequently concluded, and the disputes of
the parties referred to the arbitration of the Witenagemote; who doomed
Sweyn to outlawry, and Godwin and Harold to banishment. Thus the "king's
darlings," as they had been called, were disposed of, and the pets
became the object of petty vengeance. Editha, the daughter of Godwin,
shared in the general disgrace of her family; for the king, her husband,
"reduced her," say the chroniclers, "to her last groat;" and with this
miserable fourpence she was consigned to a monastery, where she was
waited on by one servant of all-work, and controlled by the abbess, who
was the sister of her royal tyrant.
Edward being now released from the presence of Godwin, began to think
of seeing his friends, and invited William of Normandy to spend a
few months at the English court. He came with a numerous retinue, and
finding most of the high offices in the possession of Normans, he was
able to feel himself perfectly at home. On the conclusion of his stay he
departed, with a gift of horses, hounds, and hawks; in fact, a miniature
menagerie, which had been presented to him by his host, without
considering the inconvenience occasioned by adding "a happy family" to
the luggage of the Norman visitor.
Edward was not allowed much leisure, for his guest had no sooner
departed, than he found himself threatened by Earls Godwin and Harold,
who sailed up to London, and landed a large army in the Strand. This
important thoroughfare, which has been in modern times so frequently
blockaded, was stopped up at that early period by men who were paving
their way to power; so that paviours of some kind have for ages been a
nuisance to the neighbourhood.
Edward agreed to a truce, by which Godwin and his sons were restored to
their rank; but the earl, while dining soon afterwards with Edward at
Windsor, was, according to some, choked in the voracious endeavour to
swallow a tremendous mouthful. Thus perished, from an appetite larger
than his windpipe, one of the most illustrious characters of his age.
Harold, his son, succeeded him in his titles and estates; but as the
latter are said to have consisted chiefly of the Goodwin Sands,
the legatee could not hope to keep his head above water on such an
inheritance.
Harold commenced his career by worrying Algar, a rival earl, who got
worried to death (a.d. 1059), and he then turned his attention to the
father-in-law of his victim, one Griffith, a Welsh sovereign, whose
army not liking the bother of war, cut off his head and sent it as a
peace-offering to the opposite leader. This unceremonious manner of
breaking the neck of a difficulty by decapitating their king, says more
for the decision than the loyalty of the Welsh people.
[Illustration: 077]
It was not long after this circumstance, that Harold, going out in a
fishing-boat on the coast of Sussex with one or two bungling mariners,
got carried out to sea, and was ultimately washed ashore like an old
blacking-bottle in the territory of Guy, Count of Ponthieu. Having been
picked up by the count, poor Harold was treated as a waif, and impounded
until a heavy sum was paid for his ransom. William of Normandy, upon
hearing that an earl and retinue were pawned in the distinguished name
of Harold, good-naturedly redeemed them, at a great expense, but made
the English earl solemnly pledge himself to assist his deliverer in
obtaining the English crown at the death of Edward. The king expired
on the 5th of January, 1066, leaving the crown to William, according to
some, and to Harold, according to others; but as no will was ever found,
it is probable enough that he agreed to leave the kingdom first to one
and then to the other, according to which happened to have at the moment
the ear of the sovereign. *
* This Edward was generally called the Confessor, but how he
got the name we are unable to say with certainty. It has
been ingeniously suggested that it was on the _lucus a non
lucendo_ principle, and that he was called the Confessor,
from his never confessing anything.
Harold, forgetting the circumstance of his awkward predicament in the
fishing-boat, and ungrateful of William's services, immediately assumed
the title of king, and got his coronation over the very same evening. It
is even believed by some that the ceremony was so hastily performed as
to have been a mere _tête-à-tête_ affair between Stigand, the Archbishop
of Canterbury, and the new sovereign.
When William received the news of Harold's accession he was having
a game with a bow and arrows in his hunting-ground near Rouen. His
trembling knees suddenly took the form of his bow, and his lip began to
quiver. He threw himself hastily into a skiff, and crossing the Seine,
never stopped till he reached his palace, where he walked up and down
the hall several times, occasionally sitting down for a moment in the
porter's chair, then starting up and resuming his promenade up and
down the passage. On recovering from his reverie he sent ambassadors
to demand of Harold the fulfilment of his promise; but that dishonest
person replied, that he being under duress when he gave his word, it
could not be considered binding.
[Illustration: 078]
William accordingly called a public meeting of Normans, at which it
was resolved unanimously, that England should be invaded as speedily
as possible. A subscription was immediately entered into to defray the
cost, and volunteers were admitted to join the expedition without the
formality of a reference. Tag from Maine ana Anjou, Rag from Poitou and
Bretagne, with Bob-tail from Flanders, came rapidly pouring in; while
the riff of the Rhine, and the raff of the Alps, formed altogether a mob
of the most miscellaneous character. Those families who are in the
habit of boasting that their ancestors came in with the Conqueror,
would scarcely feel so proud of the fact if they were aware that the
companions of William comprised nearly all the roguery and vagabondism
of Europe.
A large fleet having been for some time in readiness at St. Valery, near
Dieppe, crossed in the autumn of 1066, and on the 28th of September the
Normans landed without opposition at Pevensey, near Hastings. William,
who was the last to step on shore, fell flat upon his hands and face,
which was at first considered by the soldiers as an evil omen; but
opening his palm, which was covered with mud, he gaily exclaimed, "Thus
do I lay my hands upon this ground--and be assured that it is a pie you
shall all have a finger in." This speech, or words to the same effect,
restored the confidence of the soldiers, and they marched to Hastings,
where they waited the coming of the enemy.
[Illustration: 081]
Harold, who had come to London, left town by night for the Sussex coast,
and halted at Battle, where the English forces kept it up for two or
three days and nights with Bongs and revelry. At length, on Saturday,
the 14th of October, William gave the word to advance, when a gigantic
Norman, called Taillefer, who was a minstrel and a juggler, went forward
to execute a variety of tricks, such as throwing up his sword with one
hand and catching it with the other; balancing his battle-axe on the
tip of his chin; standing on his head upon the point of his spear, and
performing other feats of pantomimic dexterity. He next proceeded to
sing a popular ballad, and having asked permission to strike the first
blow, he succeeded in making a tremendous hit; but some one happening to
return the compliment, he was very soon quieted. The men of London, who
formed the bodyguard of Harold, made a snug and impenetrable barrier
with their shields, under which they nestled very cosily. *
* Some of them, who were buried under their bucklers, may
have been inhabitants of Bucklersbury, which may have
derived its name from the practice we have described.
From nine in the morning till nine in the afternoon the Normans
continued watching for the English to emerge from under their shields,
as a cat waits for a mouse to quit its hiding-place. As the mouse
refuses to come to the scratch, so the Londoners declined to quit their
snuggery, until William had the happy idea of ordering his bowmen
to shoot into the air; and they were thus down upon the foe, with
considerable effect, by the falling of the arrows. Still the English
stood firm until William, by a pretended retreat, induced the soldiers
of Harold to quit their position of safety. Three times were the Saxon
snails tempted to come out of their shells by this crafty manouvre, but
their courage was still unshaken, until an arrow, shot at random, hit
Harold in the left eye, when his dispirited followers fled like winking.
The English king was carried to the foot of the standard, where a few of
his soldiers formed round him a little party of Protectionists. William
fought with desperate valour, and was advancing towards the banner, when
an English billman drew a bill which he made payable at sight on
the head of the Duke of Normandy. Fortunately the precious metal of
William's helmet was sufficient to meet the bill, which must otherwise
have crushed the Norman leader. Harold, whose spirit never deserted
him, observed with reference to the wound in his eye, that it was a bad
look-out, but he must make the best of it. At length he fell exhausted,
when the English having lost their banner, found their energies
beginning to flag, and William became the Conqueror.