An Island Story by H. E. Marshall (lightweight ebook reader TXT) 📕
The Romans seemed to think that they won all these battles, but the Britons were not at all sure of it. Certainly a great many people on both sides were killed. If the Britons had been less brave than they were, they would have been very badly beaten, for the Romans wore strong armor and carried shields made of steel, while the Britons had little armor, if any at all, and their shields were made of wood covered with skins of animals. The Roman swords too were strong and sharp, while those of the Britons were made of copper. Copper is a very soft metal, and swords made of it are easily bent and so made useless.
The Britons at this time were divided into many tribes, each following their own chief. They often used to quarrel among themselves. Now, however, they joined together against their great enemy and c
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As he went, King Harold sent messages into all the country, calling the soldiers together. From every side they came to him, for they loved their king and country.
Harold had done a very wonderful thing when he marched his men north in so short a time. Now he did an even more wonderful thing when he brought them back again, for it is said that he arrived in London on 6th October, and they had to ride and walk all the way from York, which they only left on 27th September.
Here in London they rested a few days until more soldiers were gathered together. And here Gurth, his brother, tried to make Harold remain behind and let him go forward with the army to meet William. “It will not matter so much if I am killed,” he said, “and besides, I have made no promises to William, so I can fight him better. Then you must burn all the houses, cut down the trees, and lay waste the cornfields between here and the seacoast, so that if I cannot keep William back, he will find no food nor shelter for his army when he arrives.”
But Harold looked proudly at his brother. “I am the King,” he said. “I will never harm an English village nor an English house. I will never harm the goods nor lands of any Englishman. How can I hurt the people who are given me to rule?”
So once more the King set out at the head of his army and on 12th October they arrived in sight of the Normans, who had camped near Hastings, on the south coast.
Harold camped on the hill called Senlac, and there it was that the battle took place. And from the names of the two camps, the battle is sometimes called Hastings, sometimes Senlac.
The English army was not nearly so large as the Norman, but Harold chose a very good place on the top of a hill. He also built a strong fence all around his camp.
When the battle began, the first person who advanced from the Norman side was not a soldier, but a minstrel or singer called Taillefer.
He rode out from the ranks, gaily dressed. He was tall and handsome, and had a laughing, merry face. On he came, riding not as if in battle, but as if in play.
His horse capered and pranced while he whirled his sword, throwing it high into the air, and catching it again and again.
And as he so rode and played, he sang. The song he sang was an old song of France, telling of the wonderful deeds of the great hero, Roland. It stirred the hearts of the Frenchmen, making them eager to fight and conquer. So, led by their minstrel, the whole army took up the song, and as they marched, the air was full of the music of men’s voices.
“‘O Roland, sound your ivory horn,
To the ear of Karl shall the blast be borne.
He will bid his legions backward bend,
And all his barons their aid will lend.’
‘Now God forbid it, for very shame,
That for me my kindred were stained with blame,
Or that gentle France to such vileness fell.
This good sword that hath served me well
My Durindana such strokes shall deal
That with blood encrimsoned shall be the steel.
By their evil star are the felons led;
They shall all be numbered among the dead.’”
Taillefer whirled his sword, struck a mighty blow, and the first Englishman fell dead.
“‘I will not sound on mine ivory horn;
It shall never be spoken of me in scorn,
That for heathen felons one blast I blew.
I may not dishonour my lineage true,
But I will strike ere this fight be o’er
A thousand strokes and seven hundred more.
And my Durindana shall drip with gore.
Our Franks will bear them like vassals brave,
The Saracens flock but to find a grave.’”
Again the sword of Taillefer flashed in the sunlight, and again an Englishmen lay dead. It seemed as if he rode alone to defy the whole English army, but behind him marched a mighty host singing:—
“God and His angels of heaven defend,
That France through me from her glory bend,
Death were better than fame laid low,
Our emperor loveth a downright blow.”
Then the singer’s voice was dumb, for an English sword flashed, and the bright blade was buried in his heart. But over his dead body swept the host still singing:—
“Then from the Franks resounded high—
‘Mountjoie!’ Whoever had heard that cry
Would hold remembrance of chivalry.
Then ride they—how proudly, O God, they ride!
With rowels dashed in their coursers’ side.
Fearless too are their paynim foes,
Franks and Saracens thus they close.”
So the fight began, and all through the long day it raged. Sometimes it seemed as if one side would win, sometimes as if the other.
IT SEEMED AS IF HE RODE ALONE TO DEFY THE WHOLE ENGLISH ARMY.
Once a cry went through the Norman ranks that Duke William was killed. Hearing that they would have fled, but Duke William rode among them bareheaded,
calling to them and cheering them on. And when the Normans saw their great duke’s face, they took heart and turned once more to the fight.
As the day drew to an end it was seen, alas, that the English were beaten. They gathered close around their king and his standard, fighting fiercely and bravely to the last. And when Harold fell, pierced with an arrow, his brave knights fought still over his dead body. But when night came, all the bravest and the best men of England lay with their king, dead upon the field.
The splendid standard of Harold was torn, bloodstained, and trampled in the dust, and the three lions of Normandy, fluttering in the cold autumn wind, kept watch over the dead.
“William came o’er the sea,
With bloody sword came he,
Cold heart and bloody hand
Now rule the English land.”
King Harold was buried on the seashore, not far from where he fell. Even William, fierce and cruel though he was, must have felt some pity for the man who had fought so bravely for his country. “Let him lie by the seashore,” he said. “He guarded it well while he lived. Let him still guard it in death.”
So, wrapped in a purple robe, as befits a king, they buried him by the sounding sea, beneath the great arch of heaven. Over his grave William caused a stone to be placed. Upon it in Latin were engraved the words:—“Here lies Harold the unhappy.”
But after many years the body was removed to Waltham Abbey, which Harold himself had founded. On the spot where Harold fell, William of Normandy, perhaps in sorrow and remorse, built another great abbey, which he called Battle Abbey, and the remains of both may be seen to this day.
So died Harold, the last of the English kings. He had reigned only nine months, and died, fighting for the freedom of his people and his country, on Saturday, October 15, 1066.
WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR—THE STORY OF HEREWARD THE WAKE
WILLIAM OF NORMANDY had won the battle of Hastings, but he had not won England. Harold was dead, but the people would not call William king. For five days after the battle he waited, expecting the English lords to come to do homage to him, as their new master. But not one came. The people were full of grief and anger at the death of Harold, and of sullen hate for the conqueror. They would not own him as king.
After five days, William waited no longer. More soldiers had come from Normandy to replace those who had been killed at the battle of Hastings. With these new soldiers William marched through the land, and so fierce and terrible was he, that he forced the people to own him as king. By December all the south of England was in William’s power, and on Christmas Day he was crowned at Westminster.
Scarcely a year before, the people had crowded to the same place to see Harold, and to cheer and welcome him as their king. Now all was changed. The people were sullen and silent, the way was lined with Norman soldiers, and Norman faces and Norman costumes were everywhere to be seen.
Stigand, the archbishop who had crowned Harold, refused to crown William, and William in wrath retorted that he was no true bishop, and that he did not wish to be crowned by him. Yet William forced Stigand to be present at the coronation.
Once again, as so short a time before, the voice of the bishop rang through the great church, “Do you take William of Normandy to be your king?” Once again the answer came, “We do.” But this time the question was asked and answered in French, and the English voices were silent. So the question was asked again in English, and the answer came from unwilling English lips, but not from English hearts, “We do.” Then an echoing cry was heard without—not the shout of a glad people, but a cry of agony and despair. The Norman soldiers, instead of keeping order, had begun to fight and kill. They had set fire to the houses near the church, and were slaying and robbing. Those within the church rushed out, some in fear, others eager to join the robbers. William was left alone with only the bishops and the priests.
Then for the first time in his life the great William was afraid. Through the windows of the church he could see the flicker of flames, and could hear the savage yells of soldiers and the shrieks of frightened women and children. Yet he did not know whether the English had risen in revolt, or whether it was only his own wild soldiers who were attacking the people.
But whatever it might be William meant to be King of England—a king crowned and anointed. So although his cheek was pale and his voice shook, he forced the archbishop to go on with the ceremony.
With trembling hands the archbishop placed the crown upon William’s head—not Harold’s crown, but a new one glittering with splendid gems—and in a hurried and mumbling voice he finished the service. Then William, kneeling at the altar, promised to fear God, to rule the people well, and to keep the laws of Alfred and Edward, “so that the people be true to me,” he added.
As he stood up no shout greeted him, the church was silent and empty. He passed down the aisle in lonely splendor, followed only by the trembling priests, while without was heard the sound of the crackling flames mingled with fierce yells and curses.
William was crowned, but the English rejected him as king. They wanted an English king. But alas! there was no strong man whom they could choose. Harold’s brave brothers had all died with him at Hastings. There, too, had fallen the noblest and the best of the English lords. There was no one left who seemed to have any right to the throne, except the little boy Edgar the �theling, Edmund Ironside’s grandson. Even he did not seem to be English, for he had lived nearly all his life in Hungary, and could hardly speak his own language. But at least he was not Norman, so the English chose him to be king.
The people of Northumberland rose in fierce rebellion against William, and he in as fierce anger marched against them with his soldiers. From north to south he laid waste to the country,
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