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Title: Cameos from English History, from Rollo to Edward II

Author: Charlotte Mary Yonge

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMEOS FROM ENGLISH HISTORY ***




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CAMEOS

FROM

ENGLISH HISTORY



FROM ROLLO TO EDWARD II.

1873




PREFACE.


The "Cameos" here put together are intended as a book for young people
just beyond the elementary histories of England, and able to enter in
some degree into the real spirit of events, and to be struck with
characters and scenes presented in some relief.

The endeavor has not been to chronicle facts, but to put together a
series of pictures of persons and events, so as to arrest the attention
and give some individuality and distinctness to the recollection, by
gathering together details at the most memorable moments. Begun many
years since, as the historical portion of a magazine, the earlier ones
of these Cameos have been collected and revised to serve for school-room
reading, and it is hoped that, if these are found useful, they may ere
long be followed up by a second volume, comprising the wars in France,
and those of the Roses.

_February 28th, 1868._




CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION

CAMEO I. ROLF GANGER (900-932)

CAMEO II. WILLIAM LONGSWORD AND RICHARD THE FEARLESS (932-996)

CAMEO III. YOUTH OF THE CONQUEROR (1026-1066)

CAMEO IV. EARL GODWIN (1012-1052)

CAMEO V. THE TWO HAROLDS (1060-1066)

CAMEO VI. THE NORMAN INVASION (1066)

CAMEO VII. THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS (1066) CONTENTS.

CAMEO VIII. THE CAMP OF REFUGE (1067-1072)

CAMEO IX. THE LAST SAXON BISHOP (1008-1095)

CAMEO X. THE CONQUEROR (1066-1087)

CAMEO XI. THE CONQUEROR'S CHILDREN (1050-1087)

CAMEO XII. THE CROWN AND THE MITRE (1087-1107)

CAMEO XIII. THE FIRST CRUSADE (1095-1100)

CAMEO XIV. THE ETHELING FAMILY (1010-1159)

CAMEO XV. THE COUNTS OF ANJOU (888-1142)

CAMEO XVI. VISITORS OF HENRY I. (1120-1134)

CAMEO XVII. THE BATTLE OF THE STANDARD (1135-1138)

CAMEO XVIII. THE SNOWS OF OXFORD (1138-1154)

CAMEO XIX. YOUTH OF BECKET (1154-1162)

CAMEO XX. THE CONSTITUTIONS OF CLARENDON (1163-1172)

CAMEO XXI. DEATH OF BECKET (1166-1172)

CAMEO XXII. THE CONQUEST OF IRELAND (1172)

CAMEO XXIII. THE REBELLIOUS EAGLETS (1149-1183)

CAMEO XXIV. THE THIRD CRUSADE (1189-1193)

CAMEO XXV. ARTHUR OF BRITTANY (1187-1206)

CAMEO XXVI. THE INTERDICT (1207-1214)

CAMEO XXVII. MAGNA CHARTA (1214-1217)

CAMEO XXVIII. THE FIEF OP ROME (1217-1254)

CAMEO XXIX. THE LONGESPEES IN THE EGYPTIAN CRUSADES (1219-1254)

CAMEO XXX. SIMON DE MONTFORT (1232-1266)

CAMEO XXXI. THE LAST OF THE CRUSADERS (1267-1291)

CAMEO XXXII. THE CYMRY (B.C. 66-A.D. 1269)

CAMEO XXXIII. THE ENGLISH JUSTINIAN (1272-1292)

CAMEO XXXIV. THE HAMMER OF THE SCOTS (1292-1305)

CAMEO XXXV. THE EVIL TOLL (1294-1305)

CAMEO XXXVI. ROBERT THE BRUCE (1305-1308)

CAMEO XXXVII. THE VICTIM OP BLACKLOW HILL (1307-1313)

CAMEO XXXVIII. BANNOCKBURN (1307-1313)

CAMEO XXXIX. THE KNIGHTS OF THE TEMPLE (1292-1316)

CAMEO XL. THE BARONS' WARS (1310-1327)

CAMEO XLI. GOOD KING ROBERT'S TESTAMENT (1314-1329)




                           CAMEOS

                             OF

                    THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND




INTRODUCTION.


Young people learn the history of England by reading small books which
connect some memorable event that they can understand, and remember,
with the name of each king--such as Tyrrell's arrow-shot with William
Rufus, or the wreck of the White Ship with Henry I. But when they begin
to grow a little beyond these stories, it becomes difficult to find a
history that will give details and enlarge their knowledge, without
being too lengthy. They can hardly be expected to remember or take an
interest in personages or events left, as it were, in the block. It was
the sense of this want that prompted the writing of the series that here
follows, in which the endeavor has been to take either individual
characters, or events bearing on our history, and work them out as fully
as materials permitted, so that each, taken by itself, might form an
individual Cameo, or gem in full relief, and thus become impressed upon
the mind.

The undertaking was first begun sixteen years ago, for a periodical for
young people. At that time, the view was to make the Cameos hang, as it
were, on the thread furnished by ordinary childish histories, so as to
leave out what might be considered as too well-known. However, as the
work made progress, this was found to be a mistake; the omissions
prevented the finished parts from fitting together, and the characters
were incomplete, without being shown in action. Thus, in preparing the
Cameos for separate publication, it has been found better to supply what
had previously been omitted, as well as to try to correct and alter the
other Cameos by the light of increasing information.

None of them lay claim to being put together from original documents;
they are only the attempt at collecting, from large and often not easily
accessible histories, the more interesting or important scenes and
facts, and at arranging them so that they may best impress the
imagination and memory of the young, so as to prepare them for fuller
and deeper reading.

Our commencement is with the Dukes of Normandy. The elder England has
been so fully written of, and in such an engaging manner for
youthful readers, in the late Sir Francis Palgrave's "History of the
Anglo-Saxons," that it would have been superfluous to expand the very
scanty Cameos of that portion of our history. The present volume, then,
includes the history of the Norman race of sovereigns, from Rollo to
Edward of Carnarvon, with whose fate we shall pause, hoping in a second
volume to go through the French wars and the wars of the Roses. Nor have
we excluded the mythical or semi-romantic tales of our early history. It
is as needful to a person of education to be acquainted with them, as
if they were certain facts, and we shall content ourselves with marking
what come to us on doubtful authority.



   CAMEO I.

   ROLF GANGER.
   (900-932.)

  _Kings of England_.
   901. Edward the Elder.
   924. Athelstan.

  _Kings of France_.
   898. Charles
          the Simple.
   923. Rudolf.

  _Emperors of Germany_.
   899. Ludwig IV.
   912. Konrad.


If we try to look back at history nine hundred years, we shall see a
world very unlike that in which we are now moving. Midway from the birth
of our Lord to the present era, the great struggle between the new and
old had not subsided, and the great European world of civilized nations
had not yet settled into their homes and characters.

Christianity had been accepted by the Roman Emperor six hundred years
previously, but the Empire was by that time too weak and corrupt to be
renewed, even by the fresh spirit infused into it; and, from the 4th
century onward, it had been breaking up under the force of the fierce
currents of nations that rushed from the north-east of Europe. The Greek
half of the Empire prolonged its existence in the Levant, but the Latin,
or Western portion, became a wreck before the 5th century was far
advanced. However, each conquering tribe that poured into the southern
dominions had been already so far impressed with the wisdom and dignity
of Rome, and the holiness of her religion, that they paused in their
violence, and gradually allowed themselves to be taught by her doctrine,
tamed by her manners, and governed by her laws. The Patriarch of
Rome--_Papa_, or Father--was acknowledged by them, as by the subjects of
Rome of old; they accepted the clergy, who had already formed dioceses
and parishes, and though much of horrible savagery remained to be
subdued in the general mass, yet there was a gradual work of
amelioration in progress.

This was especially the case with the Franks, who had overspread the
northern half of Gaul. Their first race of kings had become Christians
simultaneously with their conquest; and though these soon dwindled away
between crime and luxury, there had grown up under them a brave and
ambitious family, whose earlier members were among the most
distinguished persons in history.

Charles Martel turned back the Saracens at Tours, and saved Europe from
Mahometanism, and his grandson, Charles the Great, rescued the Pope from
the Lombards, and received from him in return the crown of a new Empire
of the West--the Holy Roman Empire, which was supposed to be the great
temporal power. As the Pope, or Patriarch, was deemed the head of all
bishops, so the Emperor was to be deemed the head of all kings of the
West, from the Danube and Baltic to the Atlantic Ocean--the whole
country that had once been held by Rome, and then had been wrested from
her by the various German or Teutonic races. The island of Great Britain
was a sort of exception to the general rule. Like Gaul, it had once been
wholly Keltic, but it had not been as entirely subdued by the Romans,
and the overflow of Teutons came very early thither, and while they were
yet so thoroughly Pagan that the old Keltic Church failed to convert
them, and the mission of St. Augustine was necessary from Rome.

A little later, when Charles the Great formed his empire of Franks,
Germans, Saxons, and Gauls, Egbert gathered, in like manner, the various
petty kingdoms of the Angles and Saxons under the one dominant realm of
Wessex, and thus became a sort of island Emperor.

It seems, however, to be a rule, that nations and families recently
emerged from barbarism soon fade and decay under the influence of high
civilization; and just as the first race of Frankish kings had withered
away on the throne, so the line of Charles the Great, though not
inactive, became less powerful and judicious, grew feeble in the very
next generation, and were little able to hold together the multitude of
nations that had formed the empire.

Soon the kingdom of France split away from the Empire; and while a fresh
and more able Emperor became the head of the West, the descendants of
the great Charles still struggled on, at their royal cities of Laon and
Soissons, with the terrible difficulties brought upon them by restless
subjects, and by the last and most vigorous swarm of all the Teutonic
invaders.

The wild rugged hills and coasts of Scandinavia, with their keen
climate, long nights, and many gulfs and bays, had contributed to nurse
the Teuton race in a vigor and perfection scarcely found elsewhere--or
not at least since the more southern races had yielded to the enervating
influences of their settled life. Some of these had indeed been tamed,
but more had been degraded. The English were degenerating into
clownishness, the Franks into effeminacy; and though Christianity
continually raised up most brilliant lights--now on the throne, now
in the cathedral, now in the cloister--yet the mass of the people lay
sluggish, dull, inert, selfish, and half savage.

They were in this state when the Norseman and the Dane fitted out their
long ships, and burst upon their coasts. By a peculiar law, common once
to all the Teuton nations, though by that time altered in the southern
ones, the land of a family was not divided among its members, but all
possessed an equal right in it; and thus, as it was seldom adequate to
maintain them all, the more enterprising used their right in it only to
fell trees enough to build a ship, and to demand corn enough to victual
their crew, which was formed of other young men whose family inheritance
could not furnish more than a sword or spear.

Kings and princes--of whom there were many--were exactly in the same
position as their subjects, and they too were wont to seek their
fortunes upon the high seas. Fleets coalesced under the command of
some chieftain of birth or note, and the Vikings, or pirates, sailed
fearlessly forth, to plunder the tempting regions to the south of them.

Fierce worshippers were they of the old gods, Odin, Frey, Thor; of the
third above all others, and their lengthy nights had led to their
working up those myths that had always been common to the whole race
into a beauty, poetry, and force, probably not found elsewhere; and that
nerved them both to fight vehemently for an entrance to Valhalla, the
hall of heroes, and to revenge the defection of the Christians who had
fallen from Odin. They plundered, they burnt, they slew; they specially
devastated churches and monasteries, and no coast was safe from them
from the Adriatic to the furthest north--even Rome saw their long ships,
and, "From the fury of the Northmen, good Lord deliver us," was the
prayer in every Litany of the West.

England had been well-nigh undone by them, when the spirit of her
greatest king awoke, and by Alfred they were overcome: some were
permitted to settle down and were taught Christianity and civilization,
and the fresh invaders were driven from the coast. Alfred's gallant son
and grandson held the same course, guarded their coasts, and made
their faith and themselves respected throughout the North. But in
France, the much-harassed house of Charles the Great, and the
ill-compacted bond of different nations, were little able to oppose
their fierce assaults, and ravage and devastation reigned from one end
of the country to another.

However, the Vikings, on returning to their native homes, sometimes
found their place filled up, and the family inheritance incapable of
supporting so many. Thus they began to think of winning not merely gold
and cattle, but lands and houses, on the coasts that they had pillaged.
In Scotland, the Hebrides, and Ireland, they settled by leave of nothing
but their swords; in England, by treaty with Alfred; and in France, half
by conquest, half by treaty, always, however, accepting Christianity as
a needful obligation when they accepted southern lands. Probably they
thought that Thor was only the god of the North, and that the "White
Christ," as they called Him who was made known to them in these new
countries, was to be adored in what they deemed alone His territories.

Of all the sea-robbers who sailed from their rocky dwelling-places by
the fiords of Norway, none enjoyed higher renown than Rolf, called the
ganger, or walker, as tradition relates, because his stature was so
gigantic that, when clad in full armor, no horse could support his
weight, and he therefore always fought on foot.

Rolf's lot had, however, fallen in what he doubtless considered as evil
days. No such burnings and plunderings as had hitherto wasted England,
and enriched Norway, fell to his share; for Alfred had made the bravest
Northman feel that his fleet and army were more than a match for theirs.
Ireland was exhausted by the former depredations of the pirates,
and, from a fertile and flourishing country, had become a scene of
desolation; Scotland and its isles were too barren to afford prey to
the spoiler; and worse than all, the King of Norway, Harald Harfagre,
desirous of being included among the civilized sovereigns of Europe,
strictly forbade his subjects to exercise their old trade of piracy on
his own coasts, or on those of his allies. Rolf, perhaps, considered
himself above this new law. His father, Earl Rognwald, as the chief
friend of the King, had been chosen to cut and comb the hair which
Harald had kept for ten years untrimmed, in fulfilment of a vow, that
his locks should never be clipped until the whole of Norway was under
his dominion. He had also been invested with the government of the great
Earldom of Moere, where the sons of Harald, jealous of the favor with
which he was regarded by their father, burnt him and sixty of his men,
in his own house. The vengeance taken by his sons had been signal, and
the King had replaced Thorer the Silent, one of their number, in his
father's earldom.

Rolf, presuming on the favor shown to his family, while returning from
an expedition on the Baltic, made a descent on the coast of Viken, a
part of Norway, and carried off the cattle wanted by his crew. The King,
who happened at that time to be in that district, was highly displeased,
and, assembling a council, declared Rolf Ganger an outlaw. His mother,
Hilda, a dame of high lineage, in vain interceded for him, and closed
her entreaty with a warning in the wild extemporary poetry of the North:

  "Bethink thee, monarch, it is ill
  With such a wolf, at wolf to play,
  Who, driven to the wild woods away,
  May make the king's best deer his prey."

Harald listened not, and it was well; for through the marvellous
dealings of Providence, the outlawry of this "wolf" of Norway led to the
establishment of our royal line, and to that infusion of new spirit into
England to which her greatness appears to be chiefly owing.

The banished Rolf found a great number of companions, who, like himself,
were unwilling to submit to the strict rule of Harald Harfagre, and
setting sail with them, he first plundered and devastated the coast of
Flanders, and afterward turned toward France. In the spring of 896, the
citizens of Rouen, scarcely yet recovered from the miseries inflicted
upon them by the fierce Danish rover, Hasting, were dismayed by the
sight of a fleet of long low vessels with spreading sails, heads carved
like that of a serpent, and sterns finished like the tail of the
reptile, such as they well knew to be the keels of the dreaded Northmen,
the harbingers of destruction and desolation. Little hope of succor or
protection was there from King Charles the Simple; and, indeed, had
the sovereign been ever so warlike and energetic, it would little have
availed Rouen, which might have been destroyed twice over before a
messenger could reach Laon.

In this emergency, Franco, the Archbishop, proposed to go forth to meet
the Northmen, and attempt to make terms for his flock. The offer was
gladly accepted by the trembling citizens, and the good Archbishop went,
bearing the keys of the town, to visit the camp which the Northmen had
begun to erect upon the bank of the river. They offered him no violence,
and he performed his errand safely. Rolf, the rude generosity of whose
character was touched by his fearless conduct, readily agreed to spare
the lives and property of the citizens, on condition that Rouen was
surrendered to him without resistance.

Entering the town, he there established his head-quarters, and spent a
whole year there and in the adjacent parts of the country, during which
time the Northmen so faithfully observed their promise, that they were
regarded by the Rouennais rather as friends than as conquerors; and
Rolf, or Rollo, as the French called him, was far more popular among
them than their real sovereign. Wherever he met with resistance, he
showed, indeed, the relentless cruelty of the heathen pirate; but
where he found submission, he was a kind master, and these qualities
contributed to gain for him an easy and rapid conquest of Neustria, as
the district of which Rouen was the capital was then called.

In the course of the following year, he advanced along the banks of the
Seine as far as its junction with the Eure. On the opposite side of the
river, there were visible a number of tents, where slept a numerous army
which Charles had at length collected to oppose this formidable enemy.
The Northmen also set up their camp, in expectation of a battle, and
darkness had just closed in on them when a shout was heard on the
opposite side of the river, and to their surprise a voice was heard
speaking in their own language, "Brave warriors, why come ye hither, and
what do ye seek?"

"We are Northmen, come hither to conquer France," replied Rollo. "But
who art thou who speakest our tongue so well?"

"Heard ye never of Hasting?" was the reply.

Hasting was one of the most celebrated of the Sea-Kings. He had fought
with Alfred in England, had cruelly wasted France, and had even sailed
into the Mediterranean and made himself dreaded in Italy; but with him
it had been as with the old pirate in the poem:

  "Time will rust the sharpest sword,
  Time will consume the strongest cord;
  That which moulders hemp and steel,
  Mortal arm and nerve must feel.
  Of the Danish band, whom 'Earl Hasting' led,
  Many wax'd aged, and many were dead;
  Himself found his armor full weighty to bear,
  Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his hair;
  He leaned on a staff when his step went abroad,
  And patient his palfrey, when steed he bestrode.
  As he grew feebler, his wildness ceased,
  He made himself peace with prelate and priest;
  He made himself peace, and stooping his head,
  Patiently listen'd the counsel they said.

  "'Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and spoil'd,
  Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd;
  Priests didst thou slay and churches burn,
  Time it is now to repentance to turn;
  Fiends hast thou worshipp'd with fiendish rite,
  Leave now the darkness and wend into light;
  Oh, while life and space are given,
  Turn thee yet, and think of heaven.'

  "That stern old heathen, his head he raised,
  And on the good prelate he steadfastly gazed,
  'Give me broad lands on the "Eure and the Seine,"
  My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave unto thine.'
  Broad lands he gave him on 'Seine and on Eure,'
  To be held of the king by bridle and spear,

  "For the 'Frankish' King was a sire in age,
  Weak in battle, in council sage;
  Peace of that heathen leader he sought,
  Gifts he gave and quiet he bought;
  And the Earl took upon him the peaceful renown,
  Of a vassal and liegeman for 'Chartres' good town:
  He abjured the gods of heathen race,
  And he bent his head at the font of grace;
  But such was the grizzly old proselyte's look,
  That the priest who baptized him grew pale and shook."

Such had been the history of Hasting, now Count of Chartres, who without
doubt expected that his name and example would have a great effect upon
his countrymen; but the answer to his question, "Heard ye never of
Hasting?" met with no such answer as he anticipated.

"Yes," returned Rollo; "he began well, but ended badly."

"Will ye not, then," continued the old pirate, "submit to my lord the
King? Will ye not hold of him lands and honors?"

"No!" replied the Northmen, disdainfully, "we will own no lord; we will
take no gift; but we will have what we ourselves can conquer by force."
Here Hasting took his departure, and returning to the French camp,
strongly advised the commander not to hazard a battle; but his counsel
was overruled by a young standard-bearer, who, significantly observing,
"Wolves make not war on wolves," so offended the old sea-king, that he
quitted the army that night, and never again appeared in France. The
wisdom of his advice was the next morning made evident, by the total
defeat of the French, and the advance of the Northmen, who in a short
space after appeared beneath the walls of Paris.

Failing in their attempt to take the city, they returned to Rouen, where
they fortified themselves, making it the capital of the territory they
had conquered.

Fifteen years passed away, the summers of which were spent in ravaging
the dominions of Charles the Simple, and the winters in the city of
Rouen, and in the meantime a change had come over their leader. He had
been insensibly softened and civilized by his intercourse with the good
Archbishop Franco; and finding, perhaps, that it was not quite so easy
as he had expected to conquer the whole kingdom of France, he declared
himself willing to follow the example which he had once despised, and to
become a vassal of the French crown for the duchy of Neustria.

Charles, greatly rejoiced to find himself thus able to put a stop to
the dreadful devastations of the Northmen, readily agreed to the terms
proposed by Rollo, appointing the village of St. Clair-sur-Epte, on
the borders of Neustria, as the place of meeting for the purpose of
receiving his homage and oath of fealty. It was a strange meeting which
there took place between the degenerate and almost imbecile descendant
of the great Charles, with his array of courtly followers and his
splendor and luxury, and the gigantic warrior of the North, the founder
of a line of kings, in all the vigor of the uncivilized native of a cold
climate, and the unbending pride of a conqueror, surrounded by his tall
warriors, over whom his chieftainship had hitherto depended only on
their own consent, gained by his acknowledged superiority in wisdom in
council and prowess in battle.

The greatest difficulty to be overcome in this conference, was the
repugnance felt by the proud Northman to perform the customary act of
homage before any living man, especially one whom he held so cheap as
Charles the Simple. He consented, indeed, to swear allegiance, and
declare himself the "King's man," with his hands clasped between those
of Charles; but the remaining part of the ceremony, the kneeling to
kiss the foot of his liege lord, he absolutely refused, and was with
difficulty persuaded to permit one of his followers to perform it in his
name. The proxy, as proud as his master, instead of kneeling, took the
King's foot in his hand, and lifted it to his mouth, while he stood
upright, thus overturning both monarch and throne, amid the rude
laughter of his companions, while the miserable Charles and his
courtiers felt such a dread of these new vassals that they did not dare
to resent the insult.

On his return to Rouen, Rollo was baptized, and, on leaving the
cathedral, celebrated his conversion by large grants to the different
churches and convents in his new duchy, making a fresh gift on each of
the days during which he wore the white robes of the newly baptized.
All of his warriors who chose to follow his example, and embrace the
Christian faith, received from him grants of land, to be held of him on
the same terms as those by which he held the dukedom from the King;
and the country, thus peopled by the Northmen, gradually assumed the
appellation of Normandy.

Applying themselves with all the ardor of their temper to their new way
of life, the Northmen quickly adopted the manners, language, and habits
which were recommended to them as connected with the holy faith which
they had just embraced, but without losing their own bold and vigorous
spirit. Soon the gallant and accomplished Norman knight could scarcely
have been recognized as the savage sea-robber, once too ferocious and
turbulent even for his own wild country in the far North, while, at the
same time, he bore as little resemblance to the cruel and voluptuous
French noble, at once violent and indolent. The new war-cry of _Dieu
aide_ was as triumphant as that of _Thor Hulfe_ had been of old, and the
Red Cross led to as many victories as the Raven standard.

It is said that the word "Exchequer" is derived from the court of
justice established by Rollo, so called from the word "_Schicken_"
signifying, in his native tongue, to send, because from it judges were
sent to try causes throughout the dukedom. It is also said that the
appeal from them to the Duke himself, made in these terms, "J'appelle a
Rou," is the origin of the cry "_Haro_" by which, for centuries after
his descendants had passed away from Normandy, the injured always called
for justice. This was for many centuries believed in Normandy, but in
fact the word _Haro_ is only the same as our own "hurrah," the beginning
of a shout. There is no doubt, however, that the keen, unsophisticated
vigor of Rollo, directed by his new religion, did great good in
Normandy, and that his justice was sharp, his discipline impartial,
so that of him is told the famous old story bestowed upon other just
princes, that a gold bracelet was left for three years untouched upon a
tree in a forest.

He had been married, as part of the treaty, to Gisele, daughter of King
Charles the Simple, but he was an old grizzly warrior, and neither cared
for the other. A wife whom he had long before taken from Vermandois had
borne him a son, named William, to whom he left his dukedom in 932.

All this history of Rolf, or Rollo, is, however, very doubtful; and
nothing can be considered as absolutely established but that Neustria,
or Normandy, was by him and his Northmen settled under a grant from the
Frank king, Charles the Simple, and the French duke, Robert, Count of
Paris.



   CAMEO II.

   WILLIAM LONGSWORD AND RICHARD THE FEARLESS.
   (932-996.)

  _Kings of England_.
   927. Athelstan.
   940. Edmund I.
   947. Edwy.
   959. Edward.
   959. Ethelred II.

  _Kings of France_.
   936. Louis IV.
   954. Lothaire III.
   986. Louis V.
   987 Hugh Capet.

  _Emperors of Germany_.
   936. Otho I.
   973. Otho II.
   983. Otho III.


The Norman character was strongly marked. Their whole nature was strong
and keen, full of energy, and with none of the sluggish dulness that was
always growing over the faculties of the Frank and Saxon; and even to
this day the same energy prevails among their descendants, a certain
portion of the English nobility, and the population of Normandy and of
Yorkshire.

There was a deep sense of religion, always showing itself in action,
though not always consistently, and therewith a grand sense of honor
and generosity, coupled, however, with a curious shrewd astuteness. The
high-minded Norman was the flower of chivalry and honor, the low-minded
Norman the most successful of villains--and there has often been a
curious compound of both elements in the character of some of the most
distinguished Normans whom history has to show.

Old Rollo caused his only son to be highly educated, and William of the
Long Sword grew up a prince to be proud of. His height was majestic, his
features beautiful, his complexion as pure and delicate as a maiden's,
his strength gigantic, his prowess with all the weapons on foot and on
horseback unrivalled, and his wit and capacity of the brightest and most
powerful. Born since his father's arrival in France, the tales of Thor
and Odin, the old giants, and the future Valhalla, wore things of the
dark old past to him, and he threw himself with his whole heart into
the new faith. So intensely devout was he, so fond of prayer and of the
rites of the Church, that Rollo called him fitter for a cloister than
a dukedom; but the choice was not open to him, an only son, with the
welfare of the Normans dependent on him; and while living in the world,
his saintly aspirations did not preserve him from a self-indulgent
life at home, or from unjust dealing abroad. But he had many fits of
devotion. Once when hunting on the banks of the Seine, he came on the
ruins of the Abbey of Jumieges; which had, many years before, been
destroyed by Hasting. Two old monks, who still survived, came forth to
meet him, told him their history, and invited him to partake of some of
their best fare. It was coarse barley bread, and the young duke, turning
from it in disgust, carelessly bestowed a rich alms upon them, and
eagerly pursued his sport. He had not ridden far before he roused a huge
wild boar, and, in the encounter with it, he broke his sword, was thrown
from his horse, and so severely injured, that his servants, on coming
up, found him stretched insensible upon the ground. Believing this
accident to be the just punishment of Heaven for his contempt for the
old brethren, William, as soon as he recovered his senses, desired to be
carried to Jumieges, and there humbly confessed his sinful feelings, and
entreated their pardon.

His first care, when his health was re-established, was for the
restoration of Jumieges, which he built with great splendor, and often
visited. His chief desire was to enter the abbey as a brother of the
order, but his wish was opposed by the excellent Abbot Martin, who
pointed out to him that he ought not to desert the station to which he
had been called by Heaven, nor quit the government till his son was old
enough to take the charge upon himself, and at the same time encouraged
him by the example of many a saint, whose heavenward road had lain
through the toils and cares of a secular life.

William yielded to the arguments of the good father, but his heart was
still in the peaceful abbey, and he practised in secret the devotions
and austerities of the cloister to the utmost of his power, longing
earnestly for the time when he might lay aside the weary load of cares
of war and of government, and retire to that holy brotherhood.

In Normandy, his strict, keen justice made him greatly honored
and loved, but the French greatly hated and abhorred him, and his
transactions with them were sometimes cunning, sometimes violent. He
had much of the old Northman about him, and had not entered into the
Church's teachings of the sanctity of marriage. Like his father, he had
had a half-acknowledged wife, Espriota, who was the mother of his only
child, Richard, but he put her away in order to ally himself with one of
the great French families, and he had his child brought up at Bayeux,
among Norse-speaking nobles, as if he would rather see him a Norseman
than a, French prince.

The bold and devout but inconsistent William was the dread of all his
neighbors, and especially of Arnulf, Count of Flanders. William was in
alliance with Herluin, Count of Montreuil, against Arnulf; when, in
942, he was invited to a conference on a small island in the Somme, and
there, having contrived to separate him from his followers, at a given
signal one of the Flemings struck him down with an oar, and a number of
daggers were instantly plunged into his breast.

The Flemings made their escape in safety, leaving the bleeding corpse
upon the island, where the Normans, who had seen the murder, without
being able to prevent or revenge it, reverently took it up, and brought
it back to Rouen. Beneath the robes of state they found it dressed in
a hair-cloth shirt, and round the neck was a chain sustaining a golden
key, which was rightly judged to belong to the chest where he kept his
choicest treasure; but few would have guessed what was the treasure so
valued by the knightly duke of the martial name, and doubtless there
were many looks of wonder among the Norman barons, when the chest was
opened, and disclosed, instead of gold and jewels, the gown and hood,
the sandals and rosary, of a brother of the Benedictine order.

He was buried beside his father, in the cathedral of Rouen, amid the
universal lamentations of his vassals; and his greatest friend and
counsellor, Bernard the Dane, Count of Harcourt, fetched from Bayeux his
only child, Richard, only eight years old, to be solemnly invested with
the ducal sword and mantle, and to receive the homage of the Normans.
[Footnote: This is the Norman legend. The French Chronicles point to
Norman treachery.] The bitter hatred of the French to the Normans could
not but break out in the minority.

To the surprise of the Normans, Louis IV., king of France, suddenly
arrived at Rouen, to claim, as he said, the homage of his young vassal.
On the following day, Richard did not, as usual, appear beyond the walls
of the castle, and there were rumors that he was detained there by order
of the king. Assembling in great numbers, the Rouennais came before the
castle, shouting loudly for "Richard! Richard! our little Duke!" nor
could they be pacified till Louis appeared at the window, lifting young
Richard in his arms, and made them a speech upon the gratitude and
admiration which he pretended to feel for Duke William, to whom he said
he owed his restoration to the throne of his fathers, and whose son
he promised to regard as his own child.

On leaving Rouen, Louis claimed the right of taking Richard with him,
as the guardian of all crown vassals in their minority; and Bernard de
Harcourt, finding it impossible to resist, only stipulated that the
young Duke should never be separated from his Norman esquire, Osmond de
Centeville, who on his side promised to keep a careful watch over him.
Richard was accordingly conducted to Montleon, and made the companion of
the two young princes, Lothaire and Carloman, and for some time no more
was heard respecting him in Normandy. At last arrived a message from
Osmond de Centeville, sent in secret with considerable difficulty,
telling the Normans to pray that their young duke might be delivered out
of the hands of his enemies, for that he was convinced that evil was
intended, since he was closely watched; and one day when he had gone
down to the river to bathe, the queen had threatened him with cruel
punishments if he again left the place. Bernard immediately ordered a
three days' fast, during which prayers for the safety of the little
duke were offered in every church in Normandy, and further tidings were
anxiously awaited.

In the meantime the faithful squire was devising a plan of escape. He
caused the young Richard to feign illness, and thus obtained a slight
relaxation of the vigilance with which his movements, were watched,
which enabled him to carry to the duke's apartments a great bundle of
hay. At nightfall he rolled Richard up in the midst of it, and laying it
across his shoulders, he crossed the castle court to the stable, as if
he was going to feed his horse, and as soon as it was dark he mounted,
placing the boy before him, and galloped off to a castle on the borders
of Normandy, where the rescued prince was greeted with the greatest joy.

The escape of his ward was followed by an open declaration of war on the
part of Louis IV., upon which the Count de Harcourt sent to Denmark to
ask succor from King Harald Blue-tooth, who, mindful of Duke William's
kindness, himself led a numerous force to Normandy. Bernard, pretending
to consider this as a piratical invasion, sent to ask Louis to assist
him in expelling the heathens. Louis entered Normandy, and came in
sight of the Danish host on the banks of the river Dives, where Harald
summoned him to leave the dukedom to its rightful owner. Louis desired
a conference, and a tent was pitched between the armies, where the two
kings met.

Bernard advised the King of France not to bring Herluin de Montreuil to
this meeting, since the Normans considered him as the occasion of their
duke's death; but the French replied that no Dane should hinder their
king from taking with him whomsoever he pleased. While the two kings
were in the tent, Herluin, seeing a knight from the Cotentin, with whom
he was acquainted, went up to him and inquired after his health.

The Danes asked who he was, and the knight replied, "Count Herluin, who
caused Duke William's death;" whereupon the wild Danes rushed upon him,
and killed him with their battle-axes.

A general conflict ensued; the French were put to flight, and by the
time the kings came out of the tent, the battle was decided. Louis
mounted his horse in order to rejoin his troops, but the animal ran with
him into the midst of the enemy, where Harald caught his bridle, made
him prisoner, and delivered him to four knights to keep. While, however,
they were engaged in plundering, he made his escape, and had ridden four
leagues when he met a soldier of Rouen, whom he bribed to hide him in an
island in the Seine, until he could find a fit opportunity of quitting
Normandy. Harald and Bernard, however, by making strict inquiries,
discovered that the soldier knew where he was, and seizing the man's
wife and children, threatened to put them to death if he did not put the
king into their hands. Louis was accordingly delivered to them, but they
shortly after released him on receiving his two sons as hostages.

The younger of the two princes died shortly after his arrival in
Normandy; and anxiety for Lothaire, the remaining son, induced his
father to come to terms with the Normans; and, at St. Clair-sur-Epte,
Louis swore to leave Richard in undisturbed possession of his lands, and
to extend the limits of the duchy as far as the banks of the Epte, after
which the young duke paid him homage, and restored his son to him.

Richard then returned to Rouen, which he had not visited since he had
been carried to the French court, and was greeted with great joy by the
citizens, who were much delighted by his appearance, the height of his
figure, and the beauty of his countenance. The King of Denmark was also
received by them with great enthusiasm, who, after spending some time at
Rouen, returned home.

At the age of fourteen, Richard was betrothed to Emma, daughter of Hugh
the White, Count of Paris, a nobleman whose increasing power had long
been a subject of jealousy both to the court of Flanders and to the
King of France. On hearing of the intended connection between these two
mighty vassals, they united their forces to prevent it, and called in
the aid of Otho, Emperor of Germany, and Conrad, King of Burgundy.

While Louis and Conrad attacked the Count, Otho and Arnulf entered
Normandy, and laid siege to Rouen, but on the way thither were attacked
by an ambuscade under the command of the young Richard himself, who now
for the first time bore arms, and greatly signalized himself, putting
the Germans to flight, and killing the Emperor's nephew with his own
hand.

Otho still advanced and invested Rouen. Wishing to know what resources
the city contained, he sent to ask Richard's permission to enter it, in
order to pay his devotions at the shrine of St. Ouen. His request was
granted, and in passing through the streets he perceived that the city
was so well defended that he could not hope to take it. On his return to
the camp, he told his council that he intended to make his peace with
the Duke of Normandy, by delivering up to him the Count of Flanders, the
author of the expedition. His council, however, persuaded him that this
would be a disgraceful action; and Arnulf, receiving some hint of his
proposal, in the middle of the night quitted the camp with all his men,
and returned to Flanders. The noise of his departure awoke the Germans,
who, imagining themselves to be attacked by the besieged, armed
themselves in haste, and there was great confusion till morning, when,
perceiving The departure of the Flemings, they set fire to their camp,
and took the road to Germany. The Normans, sallying out of the town,
harassed the rear, killed a number of them, and took many prisoners, and
a great quantity of baggage.

In 954, Louis was killed by a fall from his horse, and was succeeded
by his son Lothaire, who inherited all his dislike to the Normans, and
especially hated the young duke, the companion of his boyhood, whose
fame had so far exceeded his own, both in feats of arms and skill in
government, and who, though only twenty-three, had been chosen by the
wise and great Count of Paris as the guardian of his children, and the
model on which his sons were to form themselves.

Twice did Lothaire, in conjunction with Count Thibaut de Chartres, a
young nobleman who envied the fame of Richard, attempt to assassinate
him at a conference; and the former, despairing of ridding himself of
him by treachery, assembled an army of fifty thousand men, entered
Normandy, and besieged Rouen. Here Richard, in a sudden night-attack on
his camp, dispersed his forces, and took a great number of prisoners,
all of whom he released without a ransom. Then, pursuing his advantage,
he entered the county of Chartres, but he was obliged to return to his
duchy, to defend it against a powerful league of all the neighboring
princes, formed by the king.

Fearing to be crushed by so mighty a force, he sent to ask succor from
his old friend, the king of Denmark, who, though too aged and infirm to
come himself to Normandy, equipped a numerous fleet, and sent his best
warriors to Richard.

The ravages which they committed compelled the king to send the Bishop
of Chartres to sue for peace, but he would not venture into the camp
without an escort from the duke, lest, as he said, "the Danish wolves
should devour him on the way."

On his arrival, he implored Richard to have compassion on the French,
who suffered dreadful miseries from the Danes; and the duke, always
desirous of peace, willingly engaged to treat with the king, and
withdrew his forces into Normandy, to the great disappointment of the
Danes, who had expected to dethrone Lothaire, and to place the gallant
Richard on his throne. They were much surprised at the moderation of the
demands which he, a conqueror, made to the humiliated Lothaire, only
desiring to be left in quiet possession of his inheritance, and that
a pardon should be granted for all injuries committed on either side
during the war.

Lothaire gladly agreed to these terms, and the remainder of Richard's
life was spent in peace. Such of the latter's subjects as had been
trained to arms in the constant wars during his minority, found
employment in combats with the Greeks and Saracens in Italy, where the
twelve sons of a Norman knight, named Tancred de Hauteville, laid the
foundation of the kingdoms of the Two Sicilies. Their place was supplied
by the Danish allies, who, full of admiration for the Fearless
Duke, were desirous of embracing his religion, and living under his
government. Thibaut de Chartres came to Normandy to implore his pardon,
and was received with such kindness that he was overcome with shame at
his former conduct.

Richard was a stern but honorable man, and the courage and ability which
he displayed throughout these wars made a great impression on his Danish
allies, who were induced, in great numbers, to adopt the religion of the
Fearless Duke, and to live under his government.

How the truly great man takes his revenge, was indeed shown by Richard
the Fearless, the last time he took any part in the affairs of the
nation. It was when Hugh Capet, Count of Paris, once his ward, had been
raised to the throne of France by the authority of the Pope, and having
received the homage of every crown vassal excepting Arnulf of Flanders,
proceeded to ravage his county and seize his towns. Arnulf, completely
reduced, saw no hope for himself except in throwing himself on the mercy
of Duke Richard, the very man whose father he had murdered, and whom
he had pursued with the most unrelenting hatred from his earliest
childhood. Richard had but to allow royal justice to take its course,
and he would have been fully avenged; but he who daily knelt before the
altar of the Church of Fescamp, had learnt far other lessons. He went
to Hugh Capet, and so pleaded with him, that he not only obtained the
pardon of Arnulf, but the restoration of the whole of his county, and
of both his cities. Thus, without doubt, would the saintly William
Longsword have desired to be revenged by his only son.

Richard Sans Peur lived nine years after this, spending his time,
for the most part, in the Abbey of Fescamp, in devotion and works of
charity, and leaving the government to his eldest son, Richard the Good.
He is thus described by a Norman chronicler who knew him well in his old
age: "He was tall and well-proportioned, his countenance was noble, his
beard was long, and his head covered with white hair. He was a pious
benefactor to the monks, supplied the wants of the clergy, despised the
proud, loved the humble, aided the poor, the widow and the orphan, and
delighted in ransoming prisoners."

He caused a stone coffin to be made for himself in his lifetime, and
placed in the Church of Fescamp, where, every Friday, he filled it with
wheat, which was afterwards distributed among the poor. In this Abbey he
died in 996, desiring to be buried outside the church, close beneath the
eaves, "where," said he, "the droppings of water from the roof may fall
on me, and wear away the stains of earthly corruption."

His daughter Emma is often mentioned in English history as the wife of
Ethelred the Unready, and afterward of Knut. She has often been much
blamed for this second marriage with the enemy of her country, but it
should be remembered how nearly the Northmen and Danes were connected,
and that Knut was the grandson of her father's ally, Harald Blue-tooth.

The great event of Richard's time was the above-mentioned recognition
of Hugh Capet as King of France. The Caroline race were Franks, chiefly
German in blood, and had never fully amalgamated with the race called
French, a mixture of Roman and Gallic, with only an upper stratum of the
true Frank. When the Counts of Paris obtained the throne, and the line
of Charlemagne retired into the little German county of Lotharingia, or
Lorraine, then France became really France, and a nation with a national
sovereign. Still it was a very small domain. Provence was part of the
German Empire, so was Burgundy; Anjou, Normandy, and Brittany were
almost independent, though owning a sort of allegiance to the king who
reigned at Paris.



   CAMEO III.

   YOUTH OF THE CONQUEROR.
   (1036-1066.)

  _Kings of England_.
   1016. Knut.
   1036. Harold I.
   1039. Harthaknut.
   1041. Edward the
             Confessor.

  _Kings of France_.
   1031. Henry IV.
   1039. Philip I.

 _Emperors of Germany_.
   1021. Conrad II.
   1039. Henry III.
   1055. Henry IV.


Richard, called the Good, son of Richard Sans Peur, does not seem to
have been in all respects equal to his father, nor did much that is
worthy of note occur in his time.

He died in 1026, leaving two sons, Richard and Robert, both violent and
turbulent young men, the younger of whom was called, from his fiery
temper, Robert the Devil. After a fierce dispute respecting Robert's
appanage, the two brothers were suddenly reconciled, and, immediately
afterward, Richard died, not without suspicion, on the part of the
French, that he had been poisoned by his brother.

The Normans gave little heed to the calumny, and, in fact, the open,
generous temper of Robert was by no means likely to belong to a secret
murderer. The splendor of his court, and munificence of his gifts,
acquired for him the name of Robert the Magnificent, and the following,
among other instances, is recorded of his liberality:

When attending mass at the Abbey of Cerizy, his own foundation, he
one day remarked a stranger knight, when asked for his alms at the
offertory, reply sadly, that he had nothing to give. He beckoned to
a squire, and sent him to present the poor stranger with a purse
containing a hundred pounds, which the knight immediately offered on the
altar. After the mass was over, the sacristan came to ask him if he knew
bow large the sum was, or if he had given it by mistake, to which he
replied, that he had offered it wittingly, since it was for no other
end that the Duke had sent it to him. His answer was reported by the
sacristan to the Duke, who instantly sent the high-minded stranger a
second purse, containing the same sum for his own use.

Robert founded nine monasteries, and made large gifts to all the
churches in his duchy, entreating the prayers of the clergy and of the
poor, for the pardon of the sins of his youth; but his conscience was
ill at ease, and in the sixth year of his dukedom he resolved to go on
pilgrimage to the Holy Land, a journey which was then even more perilous
than in subsequent years, when the Crusades had, in some degree, secured
the safety of the pilgrims, and he seems to have been fully persuaded
that he should never return alive.

His chief care was for the welfare of his son, William, a boy of seven
years old, whose situation was the more precarious, because there was
a stain on his birth, his mother being the daughter of a tanner of
Falaise, so that it was more than probable that his right to the
succession would be disputed by the numerous descendants of Richard Sans
Peur. Robert did his best to secure his safety by calling together
the vassals to do homage to him, and placing him under the especial
protection of Henry I. of France, at whose court at Paris he left him.

Robert then set out on his pilgrimage, with a few companions, all
wearing the coarse garb of pilgrims, with staves in their hands, and
their feet bare. As they were passing the gates of a small town in
Franche Comte, Robert walking last, an insolent warder, tired of holding
the gate open, struck him such a blow on the shoulders with a halbert
that he reeled under it, but so changed was his once violent temper,
that, seeing his friends about to revenge the insult, he called out,
"Let him alone; pilgrims ought to suffer for the love of God. I love his
blow better than my city of Rouen."

The next time Robert was heard of, was in humble guise, with staff
and wallet, when he received the blessing of the Pope at Rome; but
afterward, when he entered Constantinople, he appeared in all his wonted
magnificence. He rode to the palace of the Greek Emperor on a mule, shod
with golden shoes, so slightly fastened on as to be shaken off amongst
the crowds who surrounded him.

He travelled onward through Asia Minor, though attacked by a fever,
which obliged him to be carried in a litter by Moorish slaves--as he
himself expressed it to a Norman pilgrim whom he met returning, "to be
carried by devils to Paradise." Safely arriving at Jerusalem, he there
paid the entrance-money for a multitude of poor pilgrims, whom he found
shut out because they were unable to pay the large toll demanded by the
Saracens; and after performing the accustomed devotions at the different
consecrated spots in the Holy City, he set out on his return to
Normandy. His health was already impaired by the fatigues of the
journey, and he died at the city of Nicaea, in the year 1035. There, in
the now profaned sanctuary, where was held the first general Council of
the Church, rests, in his nameless and forgotten grave, the last of the
high-spirited and devout Dukes of Normandy.

From the time of the departure of Duke Robert, dangers crowded round the
ducal throne of his child; nor were they, as in the stormy minority of
Richard Sans Peur, perils chiefly from enemies without, met by a band of
vassals, strong in attachment to their lord. The foes who threatened the
young William were of his own family, and his own subjects, and there
was none of that generous temper, even amongst his chief supporters,
which, in the case of his great-grandfather, had made the scenes of war
and bloodshed in which he was brought up, a school not of valor alone,
but of the higher virtues of chivalry.

The Norman barons, greatly altered from what they had been in the days
when the justice of Rollo prevailed, lived shut up in their strong
castles, making war on each other, like independent princes plundering
the poor, and committing horrible cruelties, entirely unrestrained by
the guardians of the Duke. These, indeed, seemed to be the especial mark
for the attacks of the traitors, for his tutor and seneschal were both
murdered; the latter, Osborn, Count de Breteuil, while sleeping in the
same room with him. Osborn left a son, William, called from his name
Fils, or Fitz Osborn, who grew up with the young Duke, and became his
chief companion and friend.

It is wonderful that William himself should have escaped death, when so
completely unprotected; but he was preserved through all these dangers
for the task which was prepared for him; and at a very early age, his
numerous troubles had formed his character in the mould fittest for
him, who was to be the scourge of England, and yet the founder of its
greatness.

He was not sixteen when he first showed of what temper he was. His
great-uncle, the Count d'Arques, had set up a claim to the duchy,
and was besieged in his castle at Arques by Walter Gifford, Count de
Longueville, when the King of France succeeded in sending him such
considerable reinforcements and supplies, that Longueville sent
information that he should be obliged to raise the siege. The tidings
reached the Duke, at his hunting-lodge of Valognes. He stood for a few
moments in deep thought, and then called for his horse, only saying to
his knights these few words, "_Qui m'aime, me suive!_" "Let him who
loves me, follow me!" and rode off at full speed. He distanced all his
followers, rode all night, only stopping to take a fresh horse, and
in the evening of the next day arrived quite alone at the camp before
Arques, swearing never to leave it till the castle was in his hands.
The siege was continued with vigor, and, in a short time, it was
surrendered, the Count taking refuge in France.

From this time William took the direction of affairs into his own hands,
and, by his firmness and ability, succeeded in restraining the excesses
of his lawless vassals, though their turbulence, and the severity of
his own silent and haughty disposition, made their submission very
unwilling. When he was about twenty, a dangerous conspiracy was formed
against him by his cousin, Guy of Burgundy, and a number of his chief
vassals, who intended to seize him at his hunting-lodge at Valognes, put
him to death, and raise Guy to the dukedom.

The conspirators met at Bayeux, the day before their intended treachery,
and, whilst dining there, called in to amuse them a half-witted man
named Gillos, and the plot was, inadvertently, mentioned in his
presence. The duke, when passing through the town, had shown the
poor man some kindness, and no sooner did he understand the intended
treachery, than he left the hall, and set off for Valognes, where he
arrived just before midnight, and, finding all gone to rest, began to
batter the door with a stick, shouting for the Duke. At first, William
could not believe the story, but Gillos seemed so much in earnest, that
he deemed it advisable to go and see what had given rise to the report,
and, muffling himself in a cloak, ran down stairs, himself saddled his
horse, and rode toward Bayeux. Before he had gone far, he heard the
trampling of horses and clanking of weapons, and, concealing himself
among the trees, saw that the poor fool's information was perfectly
correct, for the whole band of traitors passed by exactly as they had
been described. Upon this, he changed his course, and turned toward the
coast in the direction of Falaise, his birthplace, and the town most
devoted to his interests. The dawn of morning found him with his horse
so weary that it could hardly stand, at the entrance of a small village,
still at a considerable distance from Falaise, and ignorant of the road.
At that moment a gentleman came out of the principal house, and the
instant he beheld the young horseman, travel-stained and covered with
dust as he was, he exclaimed, "St. Mary, my Lord, what can have brought
you here in such a condition?"

"Who are you, who know me so well?" asked William, in reply.

"By my faith," was the answer, "I am called Hubert de Ryes. I hold this
village of you under the Count de Bessin. Tell me, boldly, what you
need; I will help you as I would help myself."

Accordingly, Hubert de Byes took him into his house, gave him some
refreshment, and provided him with a fresh horse, sending his three
sons with him as guides, whilst he himself remained to misdirect the
pursuers, William safely arrived at Falaise, and, in memory of his
escape, is said to have caused his path to be traced out by a raised
bank of earth, part of which is still in existence.

Rallying his faithful subjects around him at Falaise, and obtaining aid
from the king, William met the rebels at Val des Demes. One of them came
over to his side before the battle, and, having previously sworn that
the Duke should be the first man whom he would strike, he began by
giving his armor a slight blow with the point of his lance, considering
it necessary thus to fulfil his rash oath to the letter. The rebels were
totally defeated, and either submitted to William's mercy, or went to
join their countrymen, who were engaged in the conquest of Sicily.

This was the last attempt made by the Normans to resist their Duke,
whose authority was now fully established; but it was not long before
a war broke out with his powerful neighbor Geoffrey, Count of Anjou,
which, however, would scarcely deserve mention, but for the curious
terms in which a challenge was sent by the Duke to the Count, who had
come to raise the siege of Domfront.

"Tell the Count of Anjou," said he to William Fitz Osborn and Roger
Montgomery, his messengers, "that if he attempts to carry victuals into
Domfront, he will find me before the gates, mounted on a bay horse, and
with a red shield. And that he may know me the better, I shall have at
the point of my lance a streamer of taffety, to wipe his face withal."

In the battle which followed, a few days after, William fulfilled his
threat, by overthrowing the Count, who escaped with difficulty, with the
loss of part of an ear, and was soon after obliged to conclude a peace.

William married Matilda, daughter of the Count of Flanders, and of a
sister of Duke Robert the Magnificent; and having omitted to ask the
dispensation from the Pope, which was required on the marriage of such
near relations, his uncle, the Archbishop of Rouen, laid them both under
sentence of excommunication. William sought for an advocate to send to
Rome to plead for their absolution, and his choice fell upon Lanfranc, a
native of Lombardy, who had been bred as a lawyer, and was possessed of
great learning and talent, but had chosen to embrace the monastic life,
and had selected the Norman abbey of Bee as the place of his profession,
because the monks there were very poor, and very strict in the
observance of their rule. Lanfranc, at the Duke's desire, travelled to
Rome, and there succeeded in obtaining the confirmation of the marriage,
and the absolution of the bride and bridegroom, on condition of their
each founding an abbey, and jointly building a hospital for the blind.

In accordance with this command, Matilda built the beautiful Abbaye aux
Dames at Caen, where her eldest daughter, Cecile, afterward took the
veil, and William founded, at the same place, the Abbey of St. Stephen,
of which Lanfranc was the first abbot. But fair as were the proportions
of that exquisite building, noble as were its clustered columns, and
rich as were the zigzag mouldings of its deep arches, its foundation was
insecure, for it was on iniquity. It stood on ground violently taken
from a number of poor people; and where could the blessing of Heaven
have been?

Twenty-three years afterward a grave was dug in the noble choir of St.
Stephen's Church, and William's corpse was carried through the porch,
followed by a long train of nobles, knights, and clergy, but by not one
of his numerous children. The requiem was chanted, and orations were
made in praise of the Duke of Normandy, the King and Conqueror of
England, the founder of abbeys, the builder of churches, when suddenly
the cry of "Ha Ro!"--the Norman appeal for justice--was heard, and a man
in mean garments stood forth, and spoke thus: "Clerks and Bishops, this
ground is mine. Here was my father's hearth. The man whom you praise
wrested it from me to build this church. I sold it not. I made no grant
of it. It is my right, and I claim it. In the name of Rollo, the founder
of his family, and of our laws, I forbid you to lay the body of the
spoiler therein, or to cover it with my earth."

The Bishops were obliged to promise satisfaction to the man, and to pay
him on the spot sixty pence as the price of the Conqueror's grave. But,
even then, his bones were not permitted to rest in peace. In the course
of the civil wars of France, his tomb was twice broken open by the
Huguenots, the first time rifled of the royal ornaments in which he
had been arrayed, and the second, the spoilers, disappointed of their
expected prize, cast out the mouldering bones, and dispersed them.



   CAMEO IV.

   EARL GODWIN.
   (1012-1052.)

  _Kings of England_.
   1013. Swein.
   1014. Knut.
   1015. Ethelred the Unready (restored).
   1016. Edmund Ironside.
   1018. Knut.
   1036. Harold I.
   1039. Harthaknut.
   1041. Edward the Confessor.


The Danish conquest of England, although the power of the kings of that
nation continued but a short time, made great changes in the condition
of the country. The customs and laws that had hitherto been observed
only in the lands granted by Alfred to the Danes, spread into almost all
the kingdom, and the civilization which the great king had striven so
hard to introduce was well-nigh swept away.

England might be considered to be in three divisions--the West Saxon,
subject to the laws of Alfred; the Mercian, which had a law of its own;
and the East Anglian and Northern portion, where the population was
chiefly Danish, and which was therefore more under the immediate power
of the Danish kings. Under them, London became the royal residence,
instead of Winchester, and several words in our language still attest
their influence upon our customs. Of these is the word Hustings, for a
place of public assembly; and the title of Earl, for which the English
language afforded no feminine, till it borrowed the word Countess from
the French, reminds us that the Northern Jarls were only governors
during the king's pleasure, and that their dignity conferred no rank on
their families.

Under the Danish kings, the other divisions of England fell under the
rule of three great Earls. The Danish Northumbria was ruled by the great
Northman Siward Bjorn; Mercia was governed by the house of Leofric, an
old noble family connected with the ancient line of Mercian kings.

There were many of this family named Leofric, and it is probably of
the one living at this time that the curious old tradition of Coventry
belongs, which related how his wife, the Lady Godiva, rode through the
town with no covering but her abundant hair, to obtain from him the
remission of the townspeople from his oppressive exactions--a story of
which the memory is kept up at Coventry by a holiday, and the procession
of the Lady Godiva.

Wessex had become the portion of Godwin, son of Ulfnoth, and
great-nephew to the traitor, Edric Streona, the murderer of Edmund
Ironside. There is a story, probably a mere fiction, that this family
was of mean origin, that Ulfnoth was a herdsman of the south of
Warwickshire, and that Godwin first rose to distinction in the following
manner: Ulf, a Danish Jarl, who had married a sister of Knut, was
separated from the army after one of the battles with Edmund Ironside,
and after wandering all night, met in the morning with a youth driving a
herd of cattle. He asked his name, and the reply was, "I am Godwin, the
son of Ulfnoth; and you, I think, are a Dane."

Ulf confessed that he was, and begged the young man to show him the way
to the Severn, where he expected to find the fleet.

"The Dane would be a fool who trusted to a Saxon," answered Godwin; and
when Ulf continued his entreaties, he explained that the way was not
long, but that the serfs were all in arms against the Danes, and would
kill both him and any one whom they found guiding him. Ulf offered the
young herdsman a golden ring for his reward. He looked at it a moment,
then said, "I will take nothing from you, but I will be your guide," and
led him home to his father's cottage, where he was hidden through the
whole day. At night, when he prepared to set forth, Ulfnoth told him
that Godwin would not be able to return, since the peasants would kill
him for having protected a Dane, and therefore begged that the Jarl
would keep him among his own people, and present him to the King.

Ulf promised, and this, it is said, was the foundation of Godwin's
greatness; but there is great reason to doubt the tale, and it is far
more probable that the family was anciently noble. Godwin married Gyda,
the sister of Ulf, and thus was brought into near connection with Knut;
but Ulf, his patron and brother-in-law, soon after was killed in one of
those outbursts of violence and cruelty to which Knut seemed to return
whenever he went back to his own savage North.

Knut had been defeated by the Swedes at Helge, and was at Roskild,
when he was playing at chess in the evening with Ulf, and, making an
oversight, lost a knight. He took the piece back again, changed his
move, and desired his opponent to go on playing; but the Jarl, choosing
to play chess on equal terms or not at all, threw down the board, and
went away.

"Run away, Ulf the Fearful!" said Knut.

Ulf turned back, and answered, "Thou wouldst have run further at Helge
river! Thou didst not call me Ulf the Fearful when I came to thy help
while the Swedes were beating thee like a dog."

Knut brooded on the offence all night, and in the morning sent his page
to kill the Jarl. The page found him at his prayers in church, and
therefore refrained; but Knut sent another of his followers, who slew
him as he knelt.

Godwin had, before this, gained too much favor to be likely to fall with
his brother-in-law. He was with the king on an expedition against the
Wends, and on the night before an intended battle, made a sudden attack
without Knut's knowledge, and completely routed them. His talents were
so much appreciated, that he received the great Earldom of Wessex, the
portion of England least under the power of the Danes, and where the
old line of Alfred was most loved and regretted, since it was their
hereditary kingdom.

For this reason Godwin was desirous to maintain the Danes in England
after Knut's death, and to keep the scattered royal line at a distance.
Harthaknut, whom the will of his father had called to the succession,
was absent in Denmark, and Godwin caused his brother, Harold Harefoot,
to be crowned in haste, though the Archbishop would not sanction the
usurpation, placed the crown and sceptre on the altar, and forbade the
bishops to give him their blessing.

Alfred and Edward, the two sons of Ethelred the Unready, had in the
meantime been brought up under the protection of their uncle, Richard
the Good, of Normandy, dwelling for the most part in those beautiful
Abbeys of Fescamp and Jumieges, which had been endowed by the piety of
the Dukes, and where they grew up in godliness and virtue, with gentle
manners and civilized tastes, far unlike to those which prevailed in
their native land. Robert the Magnificent was a great friend to them,
and his death on his pilgrimage made their abode in Normandy far less
peaceful and secure.

Soon after the coronation of Harold Harefoot, they received a letter
purporting to come from their mother, Emma, widow of Knut, inviting them
to assert their claim to their father's throne. Edward, with a band
of Normans, met his mother at Winchester, but he could not keep his
followers from plundering the country; and finding little hope of
success, gave up the attempt, and returned to Normandy. Alfred landed at
Sandwich, in Kent, and was so well received by the Archbishop and
people, that Godwin, becoming alarmed, had recourse to treachery,
pretended to own him as king, and conducted him to Guilford. Thither
King Harold sent his Danes, who seized the prince's followers, after
Godwin's men had dispersed them through the town and stupefied them with
drink. Every tenth man was killed, the rest were sold for slaves, and
Alfred himself was carried to Ely, where his eyes were torn out, and he
died of the injury. His mother, Emma, fled to Bruges, and this makes it
probable that either she never sent the letter at all, or was only the
innocent instrument of Godwin's desire to rid himself of the royal
family; but her son Edward believed her to have been knowingly concerned
in this horrible transaction, and never regarded her as guiltless of his
brother's death. It is possible that Godwin may also have been free from
treachery, and have meant well by the prince.

Her other son, Harthaknut, left Denmark to join her at Bruges, intending
in the spring to drive Harold from the throne; but death was beforehand
with him. Harold died in 1040, and Harthaknut had only to come to
England to take possession of the crown. Both these young men were, at
heart, savage Danes; and the first deed of Harthaknut, on his arrival,
was to satisfy his vengeance for the usurpation of his throne and the
murder of Alfred, by causing Harold's corpse to be taken from its grave,
the head cut off, and the body thrown into a marsh. He threatened to
punish Godwin, but the Earl averted his wrath by the present of one of
the long serpent-like keels prized by the Danes, the prow gilded, and
the crew of eighty men, each fully equipped, and with a gold bracelet on
the left arm.

Harthaknut was pacified by this gift, and contented himself with sending
for his surviving half-brother Edward from Normandy, and treating him as
became the Atheling. The wild, half-heathen court of Harthaknut was a
strange and bewildering change for the gentle Edward, whose habits and
tastes were only suited to the convent where he had spent his early
days, and who found in the rough affection of his Danish brother his
only protection from the fierce spirits around. His grief and dismay
were great when, after he had spent a few months in England, he heard
that Harthaknut, at the wedding-feast of the daughter of the Dane,
Osgood Clapa, from whom Clapham is named, had died suddenly, immediately
after an excessive draught of wine.

Edward found himself left without protection in the hands of the fierce
men who had murdered his brother. He was forty years old, and of an
inactive, timid disposition, which unfitted him for taking any bold
measures in this emergency; his affections were in the convents of
Normandy, and with the young son of his friend, Duke Robert, and he
earnestly entreated Godwin to allow him to return in safety thither.

The Earl, however, saw that neither Saxons nor Danes would submit to the
authority of one who was not of royal blood, and that the best hope
of preserving the power he had acquired in the latter reigns, was by
setting up a weak king, and governing in his name. He therefore replied
by tendering his submission to Edward, and promising to support him on
the throne, on condition that he would marry Edith, his daughter, so
fair, so gentle, and pious a lady, that it was a saying, "Even as the
rose springs from the thorn, so springs Edith from Godwin." She was very
learned, and Ingulf, who afterward was the secretary of the Conqueror,
and Abbot of Croyland, loved to remember how, when he was a boy come
from his convent-school to visit his father at the court, the Lady Edith
would send for him, examine him in his studies, and end by causing her
maiden to count out three or four coins into his hand, and sending him
to the royal larder for refreshment.

Edward was thus placed upon the throne, and every act performed of his
own free will showed his gentleness and desire for his people's good. At
the request of Edith, he abolished the Danegeld, or money raised first
to bribe the Danes, and then as their tribute; indeed, it was said
that he had seen a vision of an evil spirit dancing on the gold thus
collected. He made new laws in hopes of preventing crime, and set so
strict an example of attention to every rule of the Church, and giving
alms so largely, that he gained the love of his people, and fixed his
memory in their hearts so strongly, that he was revered as a Saint, and
the title of Confessor was given to him, though it properly only applies
to one who has suffered everything short of martyrdom, for the sake of
the Christian faith.

The times were too rude and violent for a king of so soft a mould:
crimes were committed which he had no power to restrain, and,
weak-handed and bewildered, he seems to have acted in great matters much
as he did in the following adventure: He was lying on his bed, when a
person came into the apartment, and, thinking him asleep, stole some
money out of a chest. The King let this pass; but when the thief
returned for a second handful, he quietly said, "Sirrah, you had better
take care, for if Hugolin, my chamberlain, catches you, he will give you
a sound beating." Hugolin soon came in, and was much concerned at the
loss. "Never mind," said the King; "the poor man wants it more than we
do."

The sons of Godwin were growing up rude, high-spirited young men, who
presumed on their connection with the King to hold him cheap, and laugh
at him to his face. Sweyn, the eldest, was the worst, and at last caused
himself to be banished from the realm by the crime of carrying off the
Abbess from the Convent of Leominster. He then spent the life of
a pirate, in the course of which he visited the coast, and, while
pretending to attempt to be reconciled to his family, treacherously
murdered his cousin Biorn. After six years he repented, went barefoot on
pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and died while returning. The other brothers
were stained with no such enormities, but they were dreaded and disliked
by the King, who naturally turned to the friends of his youth, the
Normans.

Norman dresses and customs were introduced, the King's own handwriting
was in the foreign character, and he expressed his assent to the laws by
appending to them an impression of his seal, after the fashion of the
kings of France. He likewise invited many of his old friends from
Normandy, gave some of them lands in England, where they built
fortified castles, and bestowed the bishopries and abbeys upon Norman
ecclesiastics. Great discontent arose upon this, and Godwin and his
sons took advantage of them to gain popularity, by strenuously opposing
everything Norman, and maintaining, as they said, the old English
customs.

Eustace als Gernons (the Whiskered), Count de Mantes, who had married
the King's sister, came to visit Edward. At Dover a squabble took place
between his followers and the townspeople, in which several persons
on both sides were killed. Edward ordered Godwin to chastise the
townspeople, but, instead of this, the Earl collected an army, and
marched upon the King himself. They would have made him prisoner but for
Leofric of Mercia, and Siward, Earl of Northumbria, who both came to his
rescue, and drove Godwin and his family into exile.

Edward now felt himself truly King of England, and was able to enjoy a
short visit from the Duke of Normandy, who came to see him, and probably
then first conceived the hope of obtaining the crown of the ill-governed
and divided country that seemed ready to fall a prey to the first
vigorous enemy.

Earl Godwin was not long in assembling his friends, and making a descent
on the coast. All Kent and London rose in his favor, and Edward was
obliged to permit his return, and be reconciled to him.

Very shortly after his return, he was struck with a fit of apoplexy,
while feasting with the King at Easter. He was borne from the table by
his two eldest surviving sons, Harold and Tostig, and died five days
after, in the year 1052. The Norman chroniclers give the following
account of his death: One of the cup-bearers, while serving the King,
happened to make a false step, but saved himself from falling by the
foot, at which Godwin observed, "See how one brother helps another!"

"Yes," said the king, "so would my brother have helped me, had he
lived."

"I know you suspect me of his death," replied Godwin, "but may God, who
is true and just, cause this morsel of bread to choke me, if I am guilty
of his murder."

Scarcely had he spoken the words before he fell back, struck by the hand
of Heaven, and never uttered another word. Much doubt has been cast upon
this story, since it comes to us through Normans, who were great enemies
of his house. There is, however, nothing incredible in it; and other
instances have been known of persons who thus defied and brought upon
themselves the judgment of Heaven, in the full course of their crimes.

There is a propensity in these days to exalt the character of Godwin,
as if he had been an honest supporter of the old English habits against
foreign innovations. It is an entirely mistaken view, since Godwin
climbed into power by the favor of the enemies and destroyers of his
country, murdered the prince of the ancient line, and throughout the
reign of the lawful successor disturbed his peace, and attempts at
civilization, by factious opposition. Norman customs would have done
far less harm to England than the Danish invaders among whom Godwin had
contentedly spent the best years of his life. He seems throughout to
have listened only to his own ambition, and to have scrupled at nothing
that could promote his interest. Eloquence, and attention to the humors
of the nation, won for him wealth and power that rendered him formidable
to the King, and he built up a great name and fortune for himself, but
brief and fleeting was the inheritance that he bequeathed to his sons.
In fourteen years from his death only one of his brave band of sons
survived, and he was a miserable captive, who spent his whole existence
in the dungeons of his chief enemy. It seemed as if nothing that Godwin
had acquired could be enduring, for the very lands he left behind him no
longer exist, his chief estate on the coast of Kent was swallowed by the
sea, and now forms the dangerous shoal called the Goodwin Sands.

"Wise men also die and perish together, as well as the ignorant and
foolish, and leave their riches for other.

"And yet they think their houses shall continue forever; and that their
dwelling-places shall endure from one generation to another, and call
the lands _after their own names_."

Far more enduring have been the memorials left by the meek Edward the
Confessor, though he had no son to carry on his name. He had vowed,
during his exile, to go on pilgrimage to Rome, but the Witenagemot
refused to consent to his leaving England, and he sent the Archbishop
of York to ask the advice of the Pope, Leo IX., who recommended him to
perform some work of piety at home.

This was the foundation of the Church of St. Peter's, in the open
country, at the west end of London, and therefore called Westminster. It
was built with all the skill of Norman architects, and occupied several
years. Edward's last illness prevented him from being present at its
consecration, and he was represented there by his wife, but he soon
found his rest there. It was dedicated on the Holy Innocents' day, 1065,
and he was buried there on the 5th of January following. His memory
seemed to give an additional sacredness to the spot in the eyes of the
loving English, and the pavement round his tomb was worn away by their
knees.



   CAMEO V.

   THE TWO HAROLDS.
   (1060-1066.)

  _Kings of England_.
   1041. Edward the
            Confessor.
   1066. Harold.

  _Kings of France_.
   1059. Philippe I.

  _Emperors of Germany_.
   1055. Heinrich IV.


The death of Godwin did not at first seem likely to diminish the power
of his family. Harold, his eldest surviving son, was highly endowed with
mental powers and personal beauty and prowess, and was much preferred
by Edward the Confessor to the old Earl himself. He obtained all his
father's lands, and, shortly after, distinguished himself in a war with
the Welsh, showing, however, that vainglory was his characteristic; for
he set up mounds of stones along the course of his march, bearing the
inscription, "Here Harold conquered."

The earls who had hitherto balanced the power of the Godwin family,
were, about this time, removed by death. Leofric, of Mercia, and his son
Algar, died within a few years of each other; and Algar's sons, Edwin
and Morkar, were as yet young and timid. Old Earl Siward Biorn fought
his last battle when he assisted Malcolm Canmore in overthrowing the
murderous usurper, Macbeth, in Scotland. In the battle, Siward's
eldest-son, of the same name as himself, was killed. The father only
asked if his death-wound was in front, and when he heard it was, "I
heartily rejoice," said he; "no other death is worthy of my son."

He himself was obliged, much against his will, to die in peace. "I am
ashamed," he said, "after so many battles, to die like a cow; case me
in my armor, gird on my sword, put on my helmet, give me my shield and
battle-axe, lift me to my feet, that I may die like a man!"

The fierce old Earl's younger son, Waltheof, was a mere child, and the
earldom of Northumbria was therefore given to Tostig, the son of Godwin,
but he so misgoverned it that he was, by command of the King, sent into
exile by his brother Harold, whom he thenceforth regarded with the
utmost hatred.

Harold stood so high in favor, both with King and people, that his views
began to take a still loftier flight, especially after the death of
Edward the Stranger, the only grown-up person excepting the King who
inherited the blood of Alfred. The stranger had indeed left an infant
son, but his rights were entirely overlooked. The King wished to leave
his crown to his cousin William, Duke of Normandy; and Harold, trusting
to the general hatred of the Norman race, hoped to secure it for
himself, much in the same way as Hugh Capet had lately dethroned the
line of Charles le Magne in France.

Edward the Confessor, desirous of a affording William some means of
curbing Harold's ambition, sent to him as hostages Ulfnoth and Hako,
a son and grandson of Godwin. Harold, however, contrived to extort
permission to go to Rouen, and request their liberation, and set out
from Bosham, in Sussex. A storm wrecked him in Ponthieu; he was taken
captive by the count of that district, who gave him up to William in
exchange for a considerable manor, and thus, though he entered Rouen
in state, he found himself, instead of the ambassador of the King of
England, in effect the prisoner of the Duke of Normandy.

He was treated with great courtesy, accompanied William on an expedition
against the Duke of Brittany, and gave great help to the Normans by
his personal strength, when some of them were in danger, in crossing a
river, and, apparently, was in high honor; but William was determined
not to miss the advantage chance had thrown in his way; and when Harold,
alter spending some months at Rouen, proposed to return, he, in the
first place, insisted on drawing up a treaty of alliance and friendship
with his good friend the Earl of Wessex, to be sworn to on both sides.
Very distasteful must this promise of friendship have been to Harold,
since the first article required him to assist the Duke with all his
power in obtaining the crown of England upon Edward's death; but he
found it impossible to resist, and declared himself perfectly willing to
engage himself as required.

An oath taken on the relics of the Saints was, at that time, considered
as more binding than one taken on the Holy Scriptures; and William
commanded that the most honored of these remains should be collected
from various churches and placed in a chest, covered with cloth of gold
on which a copy of the Gospels was laid. Harold, laying his hand on the
book, swore to observe the treaty faithfully; and when he had so done,
William removed the cloth and showed him the relics, at the sight of
which he turned pale and trembled--a sure sign, as was thought by the
Normans who stood round, that his conscience would not allow him to
break an oath which was believed to have thus acquired double force and
sanctity. Yet Harold soon proved that no oaths can bind a man who will
not be bound by his simple word.

A few months after his return from Normandy, he was standing by the
bedside of the dying Edward the Confessor, importuning his last moments
with entreaties to him to declare his successor.

"Ye know, full well," said the poor old King, "that I have bequeathed my
kingdom to the Duke of Normandy; nay, some be here who have sworn oaths
to him."

Harold pressed him for some other answer, and he replied, "Take it,
Harold, if such be thy will, but the gift will be thy ruin. Against the
Duke and his barons no might of thine will avail thee."

"Fear not for me," replied Harold, joyfully; "I fear neither Norman, nor
aught else."

"May it fall to the most worthy!" was the faint answer of Edward. His
thoughts began to wander, and he uttered many passages of Scripture
speaking of desolation and destruction, which were afterward regarded by
his subjects as the last prophecies of their saintly king. He died two
days afterward, and, on the feast of Epiphany, 1066, Harold assumed the
crown. The coronation was solemnized by Alfred, Archbishop of York; but
whether the absence of the Primate Stigand was occasioned by his dislike
to the usurpation, or by the sentence of excommunication under which he
had been laid by the Pope, is not known. Be that as it may, there was
little joy to welcome the accession of Harold; the people were full of
melancholy forebodings, excited by the predictions of King Edward,
as well as by the appearance of a comet, then supposed to denote the
approach of misfortune; the great earls, Edwin and Morkar, were his
enemies, the nobles envied him, and stood aloof, significantly relating
a story of his boyhood, when he is said to have met with a severe fall
in a foolish attempt to fly from the top of a tower with wings of his
own contrivance. There is a Spanish proverb which, in truth, suited
Harold well: "The ant found wings for her destruction." The bitterest of
all his enemies was his own brother, Tostig, who, having been banished
partly by his means, on account of his misgovernment of Northumbria, was
living in Flanders, whence, the instant he heard of Harold's coronation,
he hastened with the tidings to Normandy; and not thinking William's
preparations speedy enough to satisfy the impatience of his hatred, he
went to Norway, where he found a willing ally in Harald Hardrada, the
last sea-king.

A curious story is told of the childhood of this Harald Hardrada, who
was the half-brother of the kingly St. Olaf, being the son of the
haughty Aasta and the peaceful Sigurd Syr. When Harald was about three
years old, St. Olaf was on a visit to his mother, and calling to his
little brothers, took the two eldest, Guttorm and Halfdan, one on each
knee, and looked at them, with a fierce countenance, at which both the
little boys were frightened, and ran away to hide themselves. He then
took Harald on his knee, and put on the same fierce look at him, but the
child looked boldly up in his face in return. As a further trial of
his courage, the king pulled his hair, upon which the little fellow
undauntedly pulled the king's whiskers, and Olaf said, "Thou wilt be
revengeful, some day, my friend."

The next day, Olaf found his little brothers at play; the two eldest
building little barns and enclosing cornfields, and Harald lying by the
side of a pool of water, in which he was floating small chips of wood.

"What are these?" asked the king.

"My ships of war," said little Harald.

"Ha! my friend," said the King, "the time may come when thou wilt
command ships."

He then called the other two, and asked Guttorm what he would like best
to have.

"Corn land," said he.

"And how great wouldst thou like thy corn land to be?"

"I would have the whole ness (peninsula) that goes out into the lake
sown with corn every summer."

"And what wouldst thou like best?" he asked of Halfdan.

"Cows," said the boy.

"How many wouldst thou like to have?"

"So many, that when they went to the lake to drink, they should stand as
tight round the lake as they could stand."

"That would be a great house-keeping!" said the king; "and now, Harald,
what wouldst thou have?" "Followers."

"And how many of them?"

"Oh, so many as would eat up all Halfdan's cows at a single meal!"

Olaf laughed, and said, "Here, mother, thou art bringing up a king."

In fact, Guttorm and Halfdan followed the quiet life of their father,
but Harald was of far different temper. When Olaf returned from his
exile in Russia, young Harald, who was scarcely fifteen, joined him with
all the followers he could muster, and insisted on taking part in the
battle of Stiklestad.

Olaf told him he was too young; but Harald boldly answered, "I am not
so weak but I can handle the sword; and as to that, I have a notion
of tying the sword to my hand;" and then the brave boy sung out some
verses, composed on the spur of the moment, according to a talent often
found among the Northmen, and highly valued:

  "Our army's wing, where I shall stand,
  I will hold good with heart and hand;
  My mother's eye shall joy to see,
  A batter'd, blood-stain'd shield from me.
  The brave young skald should gaily go
  Into the fray, change blow for blow;
  Cheer on his men, gain inch by inch,
  And from the spear-point never flinch."

Olaf saw plainly that his high-spirited mother had infused her own
temper into her youngest son as entirely as into himself, and yielded
his consent that Harald should take part in the battle. It was a
mournful beginning for a young warrior. Harald beheld the fall of his
noble brother, and was himself severely wounded. He was led from the
field by a faithful bonder, who hid him in his house; but the spirit of
the young minstrel warrior was undaunted, and, during his recovery, he
sung thus:

  "My wounds were bleeding as I rode,
  And down the hill the bonders strode,
  Killing the wounded with the sword,
  The followers of their rightful lord.
  From wood to wood I crept along,
  Unnoticed by the bonder throng;
  'Who knows,' I thought, 'a day may come,
  My name may yet be great at home.'"

As soon as his wounds were healed, Harald took refuge in Russia, and
thence travelled to Constantinople, where he became one of the renowned
guards of the Greek Emperor, composed of hired Northmen and Saxons, and
called Vaeringer, or Varangians, from the word _Wehr_, a defence. He
went from Constantinople to the Holy Land, bathed in the Jordan, paid
his devotions at Jerusalem, and killed the robbers on the way. Strange
stories were told of his adventures at Constantinople, of the Empress
Zoe having fallen in love with him, and of his refusal to return her
affection; upon which she raised an accusation against him, that he had
misapplied the pay of the Vaeringers, and threw him into prison,
whence, as the story related, he was freed by a lady, who was
commissioned to rescue him by St. Olaf, his brother, who appeared to
her in a dream. She brought him a rope ladder, and he escaped to his
ship, broke through the chains that guarded the harbor, and sailed
northward through the Black Sea, composing on his voyage sixteen songs
in honor of Elisif, the Russian king's daughter, whom he married on his
arrival at Novogorod. He obtained with her great riches, which he added
to the treasures he had brought from Constantinople.

St. Olaf's son, Magnus, was reigning in Norway, and Harald Hardrada
designed to obtain from him a portion of the kingdom, to winch, by the
old Norwegian law, every descendant of Harald Harfagre had an equal
claim. Harald united with his cousin Swend, who had been dispossessed
of an earldom by Magnus, and they advanced together; but Harald was
inclined, if possible, rather to decide the matter by a treaty, than
by force of arms; while Swend, on the other hand, wished for war and
revenge.

One evening, as the two allies were sitting together, Swend asked Harald
what he valued most of all his property.

"My banner, Land-Waster," answered Harald.

"And wherefore?"

"It has always been said that this banner carries victory with it, and
so I have ever found it."

"I will believe in that when thou hast borne it in three battles with
thy nephew Magnus, and won them all."

"I know my kindred with king Magnus," answered Harald, "without thy
recalling it; and though we are now in arms against him, our meeting may
be of another sort."

They came to high words, Swend reproaching his ally with breaking his
agreement. Harald distrusted his intentions, and, at night, did not, as
usual, sleep in a tent on the deck of his ship, but left a billet of
wood in his place. At midnight a man rowed silently up to the side of
the ship, crept up to the tent, and struck so violent a blow with his
axe, that it remained sticking in the wood, while the murderer retired
to his boat, and rowed away in the dark.

Harald, convinced of this treachery, deserted Swend, and went to join
Magnus, who met him in a friendly manner, and invited him, with sixty of
his men, to a banquet.

After the feast, Magnus went round the table, distributing gifts of
robes and weapons to the sixty men; but when he came to Harald, he held
up two sticks, and asked which of them he would choose. Harald took the
nearest, and Magnus declared that therewith he gave up to him half his
power and land in Norway, making him of equal right with himself, and
only reserving the first seat when they should be together at any time.

Harald sent for all the treasure he had brought home, declaring that
they would likewise divide their riches; and the gold was weighed out,
and placed in two equal heaps, each on an ox-hide. But Magnus had no
riches to contribute, for he said that the turmoils in the country had
so impoverished him, that all the gold he possessed was the ring on
his finger, which his father, St. Olaf, had given him at their last
parting. Even this, Harald said, smiling, perhaps belonged rightfully
to him, since it was, at first, the property of his father, Sigurd Syr.
However, the two kings parted amicably, and reigned together without
disagreements of any consequence, for the remembrance of St. Olaf seemed
always to be a link between his son and brother. Magnus, the more gentle
of the two, died just as his uncle had led him to enter on a war of
ambition with Swend, King of Denmark.

Norwegian traditions relate that he dreamt that his father, St. Olaf,
appeared to him, saying, "Wilt thou choose, my son, to follow me, or to
become a long-lived and powerful king, at the cost of a crime that can
never be expiated?"

"Do thou choose for me, father," he answered.

"Then follow me," replied the spirit.

Magnus awoke, told the dream, sickened, and died, leaving the whole of
Norway to Harald Hardrada, and declaring that it would be just not to
molest Swend in his possession of Denmark.

Harald reigned prosperously, until, in an evil hour, he received Tostig,
the son of Godwin, and listened to his invitation to come and invade
England, and revenge him on his brother Harold. He fitted out a great
armament, sailed up the Humber, plundered and burnt Scarborough,
defeated the young earls of Mercia and Northumberland, and summoned York
to surrender.

The citizens, dreading an assault, promised to yield the next day; and,
accordingly, early in the morning, Hardrada, Tostig and a small band of
followers, set out from their camp at Stamford Bridge, on the banks of
the Ouse, to receive the keys. The day was bright and warm, though late
in September, and the Northmen had left behind them their shirts of
mail, and only bore sword, shield, and helmet; even Harald himself had
left behind his hawberk Emma, and only wore a blue robe embroidered with
gold, and a rich helmet.

As they were approaching the city, they suddenly beheld a cloud of dust,
and beneath it the glitter of armor, glancing, as the Norwegians said,
like sparkling ice. As they came nearer, they could distinguish the red
dragon standard of Wessex, proving that there was the king whom they
had supposed to be far away on the south coast, watching to prevent the
landing of William of Normandy.

Though taken by surprise, outnumbered, and half-armed, Hardrada did not
lose courage. He sent messengers to summon the rest of his men, and
planting in the midst his banner, Land-Waster, ranged his troops round
it in a circle, with the ends of their spears resting on the ground, and
the points turned outward.

Twenty horsemen, in full armor, advanced from the Saxon army, and one of
them, riding close up to the circle, called out, "Where is Earl Tostig,
the son of Godwin?"

"He is here!" replied Tostig.

"Thy brother salutes thee, offers thee peace, his friendship, and the
Earldom of Northumbria; nay, rather than not be friends with thee, he
would give thee the third of his kingdom."

"If he had held this language a year ago," replied Tostig, who knew the
speaker but too well, "he would have saved the lives of many men. But
what will he offer my noble ally, King Harold Sigurdson?"

"Seven feet of English earth," answered the horseman, proudly scanning
the gigantic figure of the Sea-King, "or maybe a little more."

"Then," said Tostig, "King Harold, my brother, may prepare for battle.
Never shall it be said that the son of Godwin forsook the son of
Sigurd." It must have been a strange look that passed between those two
brothers, thus on the verge of a deadly strife, each surrounded with
dangers that could scarcely be averted, and but of late actuated with
bitter hate, but, at the decisive moment, that hatred giving way, and
their hearts yearning to each other, with the memories of long-past
days, yet both too proud to show how they were mutually touched, too far
pledged to their separate parties to follow the impulse that would have
drawn them once together in love. It was too late; the battle must be
fought--the brothers' deeds had decided their lot.

The Saxon horseman rode off, and the Norwegian King asked, who was the
man who had been speaking so well.

"It was King Harold Godwinson," said Tostig.

"Why did I not learn this sooner?" said Hardrada. "He should never have
had to boast of the slaughter of our men."

"It may have been imprudent," said Tostig, "but he was willing to grant
me peace and a great dominion. If one of us must die, I had rather he
should slay me, than I slay him."

So spoke Tostig, who had, of late, been rushing from country to country
to stir up foes against his brother. Surely he would have given worlds
to check the ruin he had wrought, though his sense of honor would not
allow him to forsake his ally.

"He is but a little man, but he sits firmly in his stirrups," returned
Harald Hardrada; and then, to cheer his men in their desperate case, he
chanted aloud one of his impromptu war-songs:

  "Advance, advance,
  The helmets glance;
  But blue swords play
  In our array.

  "Advance, advance,
  No hawberks glance--
  But hearts are here
  That know no fear."

"These verses sound but ill," said the Sea-King, interrupting himself;
"we will make some better;" and, careful of his verses as a Skald in his
last battle, as well as in his first, he sung:

  "In battle morn we seek no lee,
  With skulking head and bending knee,
  Behind the hollow shield;
  With eye and hand we guard the head,
  Courage and promptness stand instead,
  Of hawberk, on this field."

It was his death-song. Early in the battle his throat was pierced by an
arrow; and learning his death, Harold Godwinson sent once more to offer
Tostig pardon, and leave to the Northmen to return home; but they
refused quarter, and Tostig would not forsake them. The other Northmen
from the ships joined them, and the fight raged with more fury than
ever in the "death-ring," as the Skalds termed it, round the banner
Land-Waster. Tostig fell there, and only a few fled to their ships,
protected by a brave Norseman, who stood alone to guard Stamford bridge,
then only consisting of a few planks, till an Englishman crept under,
thrust up his spear, and slew him from below.

However, Harold's condition was too critical to allow of his wasting
his strength on a defeated foe; he allowed Hardrada's son to return
unmolested to Norway with his fleet and the remains of his army, and he
gave great offence to his men by not sharing the plunder of the camp
with them.

So died the last of the Sea-Kings, by the last Anglo-Saxon victory.



   CAMEO VI.

   THE NORMAN INVASION.
   (1066.)


The Duke of Normandy seems to have considered himself secure of the fair
realm of England, by the well-known choice of Edward the Confessor, and
was reckoning on the prospects of ruling there, where the language and
habits of his race were already making great progress.

On a winter day, however, early in 1066, as William, cross-bow in hand,
was hunting in the forests near Rouen, a horseman galloped up to him and
gave him, in a low voice, the information that his cousin, King Edward
of England, was dead, and that Earl Harold of Kent had been crowned in
his stead.

With fierce rage were these tidings given, for the bearer of them was
no other than Tostig, who attempted to bring the Normans against his
brother, before seeking the aid of Harald Hardrada in the north.

No less was the ire of the Norman Duke excited, but he was of too stern
and reserved a nature to allow his wrath to break out at once into
words. Sport, however, was at an end for him; he threw down his
cross-bow, and walked out of the forest, his fine but hard features
bearing so dark and gloomy an expression, that no one dared to ask what
had disturbed him.

Without a word, he entered the castle, and there strode up and down the
hall, his hands playing with the fastenings of his cloak, until suddenly
throwing himself on a bench, he drew his mantle over his face, turned it
to the wall, and became lost in deep musings.

His knights stood round, silent and perplexed, till a voice was heard
humming a tune at a little distance, and the person entered who, more
than any other, shared the counsels of Duke William, namely, William
Fitzosborn, Count de Breteuil, son of that Osborn the seneschal who had
been murdered in the Duke's chamber.

The two Williams were of the same age, had been brought up together,
and Fitzosborn now enjoyed the office of seneschal, and was on a more
intimate footing with his lord than any other was admitted to by the
dark and reserved prince. All the knights gathered round him to ask what
ailed the Duke.

"Ah!" said he, "you will soon hear news that will not please you;" and
as William, roused by his voice, sat up on the bench, he continued:
"Sir, why hide what troubles you? It is rumored in the town that the
King of England is dead, and that Harold has broken his faith, and
seized the realm."

"You are right," replied the Duke. "I am grieved at the death of King
Edward, and at the wrong Harold has done me."

Fitzosborn answered with such counsels as his master would best be
pleased to hear. "Sir, no one should grieve over what cannot be undone,
far less over what may be mended. There is no cure for King Edward's
death, but there is a remedy for Harold's evil deeds. You have warlike
vassals; he has an unjust cause. What needs there, save a good heart?
for what is well begun, is half done."

William's wishes lay in the direction his friend pointed out, but he was
wary, and weighed his means before undertaking the expedition against so
powerful and wealthy a state as England. His resources seemed as nothing
in comparison with those of England; his dukedom was but a petty state,
himself a mere vassal; and though he had reason to hope that the English
were disaffected toward Harold, yet, on the other hand, he was not
confident of the support of his own vassals--wild, turbulent men, only
kept in cheek by his iron rule, without much personal attachment to one
so unbending and harsh, and likely to be unwilling to assist in his
personal aggrandizement.

He paused and calculated, waiting so long that Tostig, in his
impatience, went to Norway, and tried to find a prompter for Harold.
Messages in the meantime passed between Normandy and England without
effect. William claimed the performance of the oaths at Rouen, and
Harold denied any obligation to him, offering to be his ally if he would
renounce the throne, but otherwise defying him as an enemy.

Having at length decided, William summoned his vassals to meet at
Lillebonne, and requested their aid in asserting his right to the
English Crown.

When he left them to deliberate, all with one consent agreed that they
would have nothing to do with foreign expeditions. What should they
gain? The Duke had no right to ask their feudal service for aught but
guarding their own frontier. Fitzosborn should he the spokesman, and
explain the result of their parliament.

In came the Duke, and Fitzosborn, standing forth, spoke thus: "Never, my
lord, were men so zealous as those you see here. They will serve you as
truly beyond sea as in Normandy. Push forward, and spare them not. He
who has hitherto furnished one man-at-arms, will equip two; he who has
led twenty knights, will bring forty. I myself offer you sixty ships
well filled with fighting men."

Fitzosborn was stopped by a general outcry of indignation and dissent,
and the assembly tumultuously dispersed; but not one of the vassals was
allowed to quit Lillebonne till after a private conference with William,
and determined as they might be when altogether, yet not a count or
baron of them all could withstand the Duke when alone with him; and it
ended in their separately engaging to do just as Fitzosborn had promised
for them; and going home to build ships from their woods, choose out the
most stalwart villains on their estates to be equipped as men-at-arms
and archers, to cause their armorers to head the cloth-yard shafts,
repair the hawberks of linked chains of steel, and the high-pointed
helmets, as yet without visors, and the face only guarded by a
projection over the nose. Every one had some hope of advantage to be
gained in England; barons expected additional fiefs, peasants intended
to become nobles, and throughout the spring preparations went on
merrily; the Duchess Matilda taking part in them, by causing a vessel to
be built for the Duke himself, on the figure-head of which was carved a
likeness of their youngest son William, blowing an ivory horn.

William, in the meantime, sought for allies in every quarter, beginning
with writing to beg the sanction of the Pope, Alexander II., as Harold's
perjury might be considered an ecclesiastical offence.

The Saxons were then in no favor at Rome; they had refused to accept
a Norman Primate appointed by Edward; and Stigand, their chosen
Archbishop, was at present suspended by the Court of Rome, for having
obtained his office by simony: the whole Anglo-Saxon Church was reported
to be in a very bad and corrupt state, and besides, Rome had never
enjoyed the power and influence there that the Normans had permitted
her. Lanfranc, Abbot, of St. Stephens, at Caen, and one of the persons
most highly esteemed by William, was an Italian of great repute at Rome,
and thus everything conspired to make the Pope willing to favor the
attempt upon England.

He therefore returned him a Bull (a letter so called from the golden
bull, or bulla, appended to it), appointing him, as the champion of
the Church, to chastise the impious perjurer Harold, and sent him a
consecrated banner, and a gold ring containing a relic of St. Peter.

Thus sanctioned, William applied to his liege lord Philippe I. of
France, offering to pay homage for England as well as Normandy; but
Philippe, a dull, heavy, indolent man, with no love for his great
vassal, refused him any aid; and William, though he made the application
for form's sake, was well pleased to have it so.

"If I succeed," he said, "I shall be under the fewer obligations."

When he requested aid from Matilda's brother Baldwin, Count of Flanders,
the answer he received was a query, how much land in England he would
allot as a recompense. He sent, in return, a piece of blank parchment;
but others say, that instead of being an absolute blank, it contained
his signature, and was filled up by Baldwin, with the promise of a
pension of three hundred marks.

Everything was at length in readiness; nine hundred ships, or rather
large open boats, were assembled at the mouth of the Dive; lesser barks
came in continually, and counts, barons, and knights, led in their
trains of horsemen and archers.

All William's friends were round him, and his two half-brothers, the
sons of Arlette, Robert, Count of Eu, and Odo, the warlike Bishop of
Bayeux. Matilda was to govern in his absence, and his eldest son,
Robert, a boy of thirteen, was brought forward, and received the homage
of the vassals, in order that he might be owned as heir of Normandy, in
case any mishap should befall his father on the expedition.

Nothing delayed the enterprise but adverse winds, and these prevailed so
long that the feudal army had nearly exhausted their forty days' stock
of provisions; knight and man-at-arms murmured, and the Duke was
continually going to pray in the Church of St. Valery, looking up at the
weathercock every time he came out.

On the eve of St. Michael, the Duke's anxious face became cheerful, for
a favorable wind had set in, and the word was given to embark. Horses
were led into the ships, the shields hung round the gunwale, and the
warriors crowded in, the Duke, in his own Mora, leading the way, the
Pope's banner at his mast's head, and a lantern at the stern to guide
the rest.

By morning, however, he outstripped all the fleet, and the sailor at the
mast-head could see not one; but gradually first one sail, then another,
came in sight, and by the evening of Michaelmas-day, 1066, the whole
nine hundred were bearing, down upon Pevensey.

Those adverse winds had done Willium more favor than he guessed, for
they had delayed him till Harold had been obliged to quit his post of
observation in Sussex, and go to oppose the Northmen at York, and thus
there was no one to interfere with the landing of the Normans, who
disembarked as peacefully at Pevensey as if it had been Rouen itself.

William was almost the first to leap on shore; but as he did so, his
foot slipped, and he fell. Rising, with his hands full of mud, he called
out, "Here have I taken possession of the land which by God's help I
hope to win!" Catching his humor, one of his knights tore a handful of
thatch from a neighboring cottage, and put it into his hand, saying,
"Sir, I give you seizin of this place, and promise that I shall see you
lord of it before a month is past."

The troops were landed first, then the horses, and lastly the
carpenters, who set up at once three wooden forts, which had been
brought in the ships prepared to be put together. After dinner, William
ordered all the ships to be burnt, to cut off all hope of return. He
continued for several days at Pevensey, exercising the troops: and
viewing the country. In one of these expeditions, he gave, what was
thought, a remarkable proof of strength; for on a hot day, as they were
mounting a steep hill, Fitzosborn grew faint and exhausted by the weight
of his ponderous iron hawberk. The Duke bade him take it off, and
putting it on over his own, climbed the hill and returned to his camp
wearing both at once.

His landing, though he saw no one, had in reality been watched by a
South-Saxon Thane, who, having counted Ins ships and seen his array,
mounted, and, without resting day or night, rode to York, where, as
Harold was dining, two days after the battle of Stamford Bridge, he
rushed into the hall, crying out, "The Normans are come! they have built
a fort at Pevensey!"

No time was to be lost, and at the dawn Harold and all his army were
marching southward, sending a summons to the thanes and franklins of
each county as he passed, to gather to the defence of the country.

His speed was too great, however, for the great mass of the people to be
able to join him, even if they had been so minded, and they were for
the most part disposed to take no part in the struggle, following the
example of the young Earls of Mercia, Edwin and Morkar, who held aloof,
unwilling alike to join Harold or the Normans.

When Harold reached London, his army was so much lessened by fatigue and
desertion, that his mother, Gytha, and his two youngest brothers, Gyrtha
and Leofwyn, advised him not to risk a battle, but to lay the country
waste before the Normans, and starve them out of England. Harold
answered, with the generous spirit that had been defaced and clouded by
his ambition, "Would you have me ruin my kingdom? By my faith, it were
treason. I will rather try the chances of a battle with such men as I
have, and trust to my own valor and the goodness of my cause."

"Yet," said Gyrtha, "if it be so, forbear thyself to fight. Either
willingly or under force, thou art sworn to Duke William. Thine oath
will weigh down thine arm in battle, but we, who are all unpledged,
are free to fight in defence of our realm. Thou wilt aid us if we are
defeated, avenge us if we are slain."

Harold disregarded this advice, and was resolved to lead the host
himself; he gathered his followers from Kent and Wessex, and marched
southward.



   CAMEO VII.

   THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS.
   (1066.)


The first night after leaving London, Harold slept at Waltham Abbey, and
had much conference with the Abbot, who was his friend, and appointed
two Monks, named Osgood and Ailric, to attend him closely in the coming
battle.

On the 12th of October, Harold found himself seven miles from the
enemy, and halted his men on Heathfield-hill, near Hastings, the most
advantageous ground he could find.

On the highest point he planted his standard bearing the figure of a
man in armor, and marshalling his Saxons round it, commanded them to
entrench themselves within a rampart and ditch, and to plant within them
a sort of poles, on the upper part of which, nearly the height of a man
from the ground, they interwove a fence of wattled branches, so that
while the front rank might pass under to man the rampart, the rear might
be sheltered from the arrows of the enemy.

These orders given, Harold and Gyrtha rode together to a hill, whence
they beheld the Norman camp, when for a moment Harold was so alarmed
at the number of their tents that he spoke of returning to London and
acting as his mother had advised; but Gyrtha showed him that it was too
late; he could not turn back from the very face of the enemy, without
being supposed to fly, and thus yielding his kingdom at once.

Three Saxons presently came to the brothers who had been seized as spies
by the Normans, and, by order of William, led throughout his camp, and
then sent away to report what they had seen. Their story was that the
Norman soldiers were all Priests, at which Harold laughed, since they
had been deceived by the short-cut locks and smooth chins of the
Normans, such as in England were only worn by ecclesiastics, warriors
always wearing flowing locks and thick moustaches.

Several messages passed between the two camps, William sending offers
of honors and wealth to Harold and Gyrtha if they would cease their
resistance; but when all were rejected, he sent another herald to defy
Harold as a perjured traitor under the ban of the Church;--a declaration
which so startled the Saxons, that it took strong efforts on the part of
the gallant Gyrtha to inspirit them to stand by his brother.

This over, William addressed his soldiers from a little hillock, and
put on his armor, hanging-round his neck, as a witness of Harold's
falsehood, one of the relics on which the oath had been taken. He
chanced to put on his hawberk with the wrong side before, and seeing
some of his men disconcerted, fancying this a token of ill, he told them
that it boded that his dukedom should be turned to a kingdom.

His horse was a beautiful Spanish barb sent him by the King of Castile;
and so gallantly did he ride, that there was a shout of delight from his
men, and a cry, "Never was such a Knight under Heaven! A fair Count he
is, and a fair king he will be! Shame on him who fails him!"

William held in his hand the Pope's banner, and called for the
standard-bearer of Normandy; but no one liked to take the charge,
fearful of being hindered from gaining distinction by feats of personal
prowess. Each elder knight of fame begged to be excused, and at last
it was committed to Tunstan the White, a young man probably so called
because he had yet to win an achievement for his spotless shield.

The army was in three troops, each drawn up in the form of a wedge, the
archers forming the point; and the reserve of horse was committed to
Bishop Odo, who rode up and down among the men, a hawberk over his
rochet and a club in his hand.

On went the Normans in the light of the rising sun of the 13th of
October, Taillefer, a minstrel-knight, riding first, playing on his harp
and singing the war-song of Roland the Paladin. At seven o'clock they
were before the Saxon camp, and Fitzosborn and the body under his
command dashed up the hill, under a cloud of arrows, shouting, "Notre
Dame! Dieu aide!" while the Saxons within, crying out, "Holy Rood!" cut
down with their battle-axes all who gained the rampart, and at length
drove them back again.

A second onset was equally unsuccessful, and William, observing that the
wattled fence protected the Saxons from the arrows, ordered the archers
to shoot their arrows no longer point blank, but into the sky, so that
they might fall on the heads of the Saxons. Thus directed, these shafts
harassed the defenders grievously; and Harold himself was pierced in the
left eye, and almost disabled from further exertion in the command.

Yet at noon, the Normans had been baffled at every quarter, and William,
growing desperate, led a party to attack the entrance of the camp. Again
he was repulsed, and driven back on some rough ground, where many horses
fell, and among them his own Spanish charger. A cry arose that the Duke
was slain; the Normans fled, the Saxons broke out of their camp in
pursuit, when William, throwing off his helmet and striking with his
lance, recalled his troops, shouting, "Look at me! I live, and by Gods
grace I will conquer." All the Saxons who had left the camp were slain,
their short battle-axes being unfit to cope with the heavy swords and
long lances of their enemies; and taught by this success, William caused
some of his troops to feign a flight, draw them beyond the rampart, turn
on them, and cut them down. The manoeuvre was repeated at different parts
of the camp till the rampart was stripped of defenders, and the
Normans forced their way into it, cut down the wattled fence, and gave
admittance to the host of horse and foot who rushed over the outworks.

Yet still the standard floated in the midst of a brave band who--

  "Though thick the shafts as snow.
  Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
  Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
  Still fought around their King."

All who came near that close-serried ring of steadfast Saxon strength
were cut down, and the piles of dead Normans round them were becoming
ramparts, when twenty knights bound themselves by an oath that the
standard should be taken, spurred their horses against the ranks, and by
main force, with the loss of ten of their number, forced an opening. Ere
the ranks could close, William and his whole force were charging into
the gap made for a moment, trampling down the brave men, slaughtering on
all sides, yet still unable to break through to the standard.

  "Till utter darkness closed her wing
  O'er their thin host and wounded King."

Man by man the noble Saxons were hewn down as the Normans cut their way
through them, no more able to drive them back than if they had been the
trees of the forest. Gyrtha, the true-hearted and noble, fell under the
sword of a Norman knight, Leofwyn lay near him in his blood, yet still
Harold's voice was heard cheering on his men, and still his standard
streamed above their heads.

At sunset, that well-known voice was no longer heard, and the setting
sun beheld Tunstan the White perform the crowning achievement of the
day, uproot the standard banner of Normandy that the morning beams had
seen committed to his charge. Not an earl or thane of Wessex was living;
and heaps of slain lay thick on Heathfield hill, and the valley round a
very lake of blood. Senlac, or Sanglac, was its old name, and sounded
but too appropriate to the French ears of the Conqueror, as, in a moment
of sorrow for the fearful loss of life he beheld, he vowed that here
should stand an Abbey where prayer should be made for pardon for his
sins and for the repose of the souls of the slaughtered. Darkness came
on; but the Saxons, retreating under its cover, were still so undaunted
that the Normans could hardly venture to move about the field except in
considerable parties, and Eustace of Boulogne, while speaking to the
Duke, was felled to the earth by a sudden blow.

In the morning, Gytha, the widow of Godwin, who had lost four children
by the perjury and ambition of one of them, came to entreat permission
to bury. Gyrtha and Leofwyn lay near together at the foot of the banner.
Harold was sought in vain, till Edith of the Swan neck, a lady he had
loved, was brought to help in the melancholy quest.

She declared a defaced and mangled corpse to be that of Harold, and it
was carried, with those of the two brothers, to the Abbey of Waltham,
where it was placed beneath a stone bearing the two sorrowful words,
"Infelix Harold."

Years passed on, and the people had long become accustomed to the Norman
yoke, when there was much talk among them of a hermit, who dwelt in a
cell not far from the town, in the utmost penitence and humility. He was
seldom seen, his face was deeply scarred, and he had lost his left eye,
and nothing was known of his name or history; but he was deeply revered
for his sanctity, and when Henry Beauclerc once visited Chester, he
sought a private interview with the mysterious penitent.

It is said, that when the hermit lay on his death-bed, he owned himself
to be Harold, son of Godwin, once King of England for seven months. He
had been borne from the bloody hill, between life and death, in the
darkness of the evening, by the two faithful monks, Osgood and Ailric,
and tended in secret till he recovered from his wounds.

Since that time he had been living in penitence and contrition, unknown
to and apart from the world, and died at length, trusting that his forty
years' repentance might be accepted.

If this tale be true, what a warning might not he have bestowed on
the young prince Henry, destined to run a like course of perjury and
ambition, and to feel it turn back upon him in the dreariness of
desolate old age, when "he never smiled again." Had not the penitent
Harold more peace at the last than the king Henry?

The same story is told of almost every king missed in a lost battle.

Arthur, borne away to die at Avalon, and believed to be among the
fairies; Rodrigo, the last of the Goths, whose steed Orelio and horned
helmet lay on the banks of the river, and whose name was found centuries
after on a rude gravestone, near a hermitage; James IV., whom the Scots
by turns hoped to see return from pilgrimage, and pitied as they looked
at Lord Home's border tower; the gallant Don Sebastian, the last of the
glorious race of Portuguese Kings, never seen after his shout of "Let
us die!" in the tumult of Alcacer, yet long looked for by his loving
people--of each in turn the belief has arisen among the subjects who
clung to the hope of seeing the beloved prince, and dwelt on the
doubt whether his corpse was identified. In the cases of Harold and
Rodrigo--generous men tempted into fearful and ruinous crimes--one would
hope the tale was true, and that the time for repentance was vouchsafed
to them; nor are their stories entirely without authority.

Harold had three young children, who wandered about under the care of
their grandmother, Gytha, at one time finding a shelter in the Holms,
those two islets in the British Channel, at another taking refuge in
Ireland, whence they at length escaped to Norway, and the daughter
married one of the Kings of Novgorod, the beginning of the Empire of
Russia. Ulfnoth, the only remaining son of the bold Godwinsons, was the
hostage that Edward the Confessor had placed in the hands of the Duke of
Normandy; he was seized upon once more by William Rufus, and remained in
captivity till his death. The Conqueror kept his vow, and erected the
splendid Battle Abbey on the field that gave him a kingdom. The high
altar stood where Harold's banner had been planted, and the enclosures
surrounded every spot where the conflict had raged.

They were measured out by the corpses of Normans and Saxons. The
Battle-roll, a list of every Norman who had borne arms there, was lodged
in the keeping of the Abbot, and contains the names of many a good old
English family which has held the same land generation after generation,
English now, though then called the Norman spoiler, but it is to be
feared, that the roll was much tampered with to gratify family vanity.
Battle Abbey was one of the greatest and richest foundations. The Abbot
was a friar, and, according to the unfortunate habit of exempting
monasteries from the Bishop's jurisdiction, was subject to no government
but the Pope's; and this led to frequent disputes between the Abbot and
the see of Winchester.

It was overthrown in the Reformation, and is now a mere ruin; but its
beautiful arches still remain to show that, better than any other
conqueror, William knew how to honor a battle-field. There is but one
other Battle Abbey in the world--Batalha in Portugal--which covers the
plain of Aljubarota, where Joao I. won his kingdom from Castile; and as
his wife was a daughter of John of Gaunt, a most noble and high-minded
princess, it is most probable that she suggested the work after the
example of her great ancestor; nay, when the visitor enters the nave,
and is reminded by the architecture of Winchester, it seems as if
Philippa of Lancaster might have both proposed the foundation, and
sent to England for the plan, to the Architect and Bishop, William of
Wykeham.

Nor is Battle Abbey the only remaining monument of Hastings. Matilda's
own handiwork prepared her thank offering of tapestry, recording her
husband's victory; and this work, done as it was for a gift to Heaven,
not a vainglorious record, still endures in the very cathedral to which
she gave it, one of the choicest historical witnesses that have come
down to our times. We might be apt to regret that she did not present
her work to Battle Abbey, where it would have been most appropriate;
but as the Puritans would most likely have called it a Popish vestment
savoring of idolatry, we are consoled by thinking it probably owes its
preservation to her having chosen to give it as a hanging on festival
days to the Cathedral at Bayeux, the see of her husband's half-brother,
Odo, who shared in all the toils and dangers of the expedition, and
whom she has taken especial care to represent for the benefit of the
townspeople of Bayeux; for wherever we find his broad face, large
person, shaven crown, and the chequered red and green suit by which she
expressed his wadded garment, his name is always found in large letters;
and he is evidently in his full glory when we find him, club in hand,
at the beginning of the battle, and these words worked round him: _Odo
Eps._ (episcopus) _baculum tenens, confortat pueros_. He was one of
the bad, warlike Bishops of those irregular times, and brought many
disasters on himself by his turbulence and haughtiness.

Matilda's tapestry is a long narrow strip, little more than half a
yard in breadth. It begins with Harold's journey to Normandy, and ends
unfinished in the midst of the battle; and most curious it is. The
drawing is of course rude, and the coloring very droll, the horses being
red and green, or blue, and, invariably, the off-leg of a different
color from the other three, while the ways in which both horses and men
fall at Hastings make the scene very diverting.

Her castles, houses, and more especially Westminster Abbey, are of all
the colors in the rainbow, and much smaller than the persons entering
them, and yet in every figure there is spirit, in every face expression,
and throughout, William, Harold, and Odo, bear countenances which are
not to be mistaken. Harold has moustaches, which none of the Normans
wore. There we find Harold taking his extorted oath; the death of King
Edward, the Saxons gazing with horror at the three-tailed comet; the
ship-building of yellow, green, and red boards, cut out of trees
with most ludicrous foliage; the moon just as it is described; the
disembarkation, where a bare-legged mariner wades out, anchor in hand;
the very comical foraging party; the repast upon landing, where Odo is
saying grace with two fingers raised in benediction, while the meat is
served on shields, and fowls carried round spitted upon arrows. Then
follows the battle, where William is seen raising his helmet by its
nose-guard, and looking exceedingly fierce as he rallies his men; where
horses and men tumble head over heels, and where, finally, Matilda broke
off with a pattern of hawberks traced out, and no heads or legs put
to them. What stayed her hand? Was it her grief at the conduct of her
first-born that took from her all heart to proceed with her memorial,
or was it only the hand of death that closed her toil, her womanly
record of her husband's achievements?

The border must not be forgotten. It is a narrow edge above and below.
At first it is worked with subjects from Phaedrus's fables (on having
translated which was rested the fame of Henry's scholarship), and very
cleverly are they chosen; for, as if in comment on Harold's visit to
Rouen, we find in near neighborhood the stork with her head in the
wolf's mouth, and the crow letting fall her cheese into the fox's jaws.

Matilda did not upbraid the Normans by working the Parliament of
Lillebonne, but she or her designer surely had it in mind when a herd of
frightened beasts was drawn, an ape in front of them making an oration
to what may be a lion, as it is much bigger than the rest; but as
Matilda never saw a lion, the likeness is not remarkable.

Further on are representations of agriculture, sowing, reaping, &c.
Wherever there is a voyage, fishes swim above and below, and in the
battle there is a border plentiful in dead men.

The Bayeux tapestry--the "Toile de St. Jean," as it is there called,
from the feast-day when the cathedral was hung with it--remained unknown
and forgotten, till it was brought to light by one of the last people
that could have been expected--Napoleon. He was then full of his plan
for invading England, and called general attention to the toile de St.
Jean, to bring to mind the Norman Invasion, and show that England had
once been conquered.

So she had, but he had to deal with the sons of both victors, and of
those who were slain. Now vanquished, Norman and Saxon were one, and by
the great mercy of Heaven upon their offspring, the English, not one
battle has been fought, since Hastings, with a Continental foe upon
English ground.

May that mercy be still vouchsafed us!



   CAMEO VIII.

   THE CAMP OF REFUGE.
   (1067-1072.)

  _King of England_.
   1066. William I.


In the fen country of Lincolnshire, there lived, in the reign of Edward
the Confessor, a wealthy Saxon franklin named Leofric, Lord of Bourn.
He was related to the great Earls of Mercia, and his brother Brand was
Abbot of Peterborough, so that he, and his wife Ediva, were persons of
consideration in their own neighborhood. They had a son named Hereward,
and called, for some unknown, reason, Le Wake, a youth of great height
and personal strength, and of so fierce and violent a disposition, that
he disturbed the peace of the neighborhood to such a degree that he was
banished from the realm. His high spirit found fit occupation in the
armies of foreign princes: and pilgrims and minstrels brought home such
reports of his prowess, that the people of Bourn no longer regarded him
as a turbulent young scapegrace, but considered him as their pride and
glory.

After a brilliant career abroad, Hereward married a Flemish lady, and
was settled on her estates when the tidings reached him that his father
was dead, and that his aged mother had been despoiled of her property,
and cruelly treated, by a Norman to whom William the Conqueror
had presented the estate of Bourn. No sooner did he receive this
intelligence, than he set off with his wife, and, arriving in
Lincolnshire, communicated in secret with his old friends at Bourn,
collected a small band, attacked the Norman, drove him away, and
re-instated Ediva in his paternal home.

But this exploit only exposed him to further perils. Normans were in
possession of every castle around; his cousins, the young Earls Edwin
find Morkar, had submitted to the Conqueror; Edwin was betrothed to
Agatha, William's daughter; and their sister Lucy was married to an
Angevin named Ivo Taillebois bringing him a portion of their lands, in
right of which he called himself Viscount of Spalding. Their submission
had availed them little; they, as well as Waltheof, Earl of Huntingdon
(son of Siward, and husband of the Conqueror's niece, Judith), were
feeling that a hand of iron was over them, and regretting every day
that he had not made common cause against the enemy before he had
fully established his power. Selfishness, jealousy, and wavering, had
overthrown and ruined the Saxons. Each had sought to secure his own
lands and life, careless of his neighbors. No one had the spirit of
Frithric, Abbot of St. Alban's, who blocked up the Conqueror's march
with trunks of trees, and when asked by William why he had injured his
woods for the sake of making an unavailing resistance, replied, "I
did my duty. If every one had done as much, you would not be here."
According to their own tradition, the men of Kent, coming forward, each
carrying a branch of a tree, so that they advanced unperceived, "a
moving wood," so encumbered William's passage that he could not proceed
till he had taken an oath to respect their privileges. London, too,
preserved its rights, owing to the management of a burgess, called
Ansgard, who conducted the treaty with the Normans and would not admit
them into the city till its liberties were secured.

William himself was anxious to be regarded not as a conqueror, but as
reigning by inheritence from the Confessor. For this cause, when Matilda
was crowned, he caused a Norman baron, Marmion of Fontenaye, to ride
into the midst of Westminster Hall, and, throwing down his gauntlet,
defy any man to single combat who denied the rights of William and
Matilda. He himself took the old coronation oath drawn up by St.
Dunstan, and pledged himself to execute justice according to the old
laws of Alfred and Edward.

But William, whatever might be his own good intentions, was pressed by
circumstances. He had lured his Normans across the channel with hopes of
rich plunder in England, and knight and squire, man-at-arms and archer,
were eager for their reward. Norman, Breton, Angevin, clamored for
possession: families of peasants crossed the sea, expecting, in right
of their French tongue, to be gentry at once, and lords of the churl
Saxons; while the Saxons, fully conscious of their own nobility, and
possessors of the soil for five hundred years, derided them in such
rhymes as these:

  "William de Coningsby
  Came out of Brittany
  With his wife Tiffany,
  And his maid Manfas,
  And his dog Hardigras."

But the laugh proved to be on the side of the new comers, and the Saxon,
whether Earl, Thane, Franklin, or Ceorl, though he could trace his line
up to Odin, and had held his land since Hengist first won Thanet, must
give place to Hardigras and his master. And though our sympathies are
all with the dispossessed Saxons, and the Normans appear as needy and
rapacious spoilers, there is no cause for us to lament their coming.
Without the Norman aristocracy, and the high spirit of chivalry and
adventure thus infused, England could scarcely have attained her
greatness; for, though many great men had existed among the unmixed
Anglo-Saxon race, they had never been able to rouse the nation from the
heavy, dull, stolid sensuality into which, to this day, an uncultivated
Englishman is liable to fall.

One Norman, the gallant Gilbert Fitz-Richard, deserves to be remembered
as an exception to the grasping temper of his countrymen. He would
accept neither gold nor lands for the services he had rendered at
Hastings. He said he had come in obedience to the summons of his feudal
chief, and not for spoil, and, now his term of service was at an end, he
would go back to his own inheritance, with which he was content, without
the plunder of the widow and orphan.

For it was thus that William first strove to satisfy his followers.
Every rich Saxon widow or heiress who could be found was compelled
to marry a Norman baron or knight; but when there proved to be not a
sufficiency of these unfortunate ladies, he was obliged to find other
pretexts less apparently honorable. Every noble who had fought in the
cause of Harold was declared a traitor, and his lands adjudged to be
forfeited, and this filled the Earldoms of Wessex and Sussex with great
numbers of Normans, who counted their wealth at so many Englishmen
apiece, and made no scruple of putting their own immediate followers
into the manors whence they thrust the ancient owners. As to the great
nobles, they were treated so harshly that they were all longing, if
possible, to throw off the yoke, and make the stand which they should
have made a year ago, when William had won nothing but the single,
hard-fought battle of Hastings.

Some of the Norman adventurers took great state on them, all the more,
probably, because they had been nobodies in their own country. One of
the most haughty of all was the Spalding Viscount, Ivo, whose surname of
Taillebois seems to betray somewhat of his origin in Anjou. He was
noted for his pompous language and insolent bearing; he insisted on his
vassals kneeling on one knee when they addressed him, and he and his
men-at-arms took every opportunity of tormenting the Saxons. He set
his dogs at their flocks, lamed or drowned their cattle, killed their
poultry, and, above all, harassed a few brethren of the Abbey of
Croyland, who inhabited a grange not far from Spalding, to such a
degree, that he obliged them at last to retreat to the Abbey, and then
filled the house with monks from Anjou; and though the Abbot Ingulf was
William's secretary, he could obtain no redress.

Such a neighbor as this was not likely to allow the re-instated Ediva to
remain at Bourn in peace, and Hereward found that he must continue in
arms, for her protection and his own. He placed his wife, Torfrida, in
a convent, and, collecting his friends around him, kept up a constant
warfare with the Normans, until at length he succeeded in fortifying the
Isle of Ely, and establishing there what he called the Camp of Refuge,
as it gave shelter to any Saxon who had suffered from the violence of
the Normans, or would not adopt the new habits they tried to enforce.

The weak, helpless, and aged, were sheltered by the monastery and its
buildings; the strong, enrolled in Hereward's gallant band. Some of them
were of higher rank than himself, and in order that he might be on a par
with them, as well as with his Norman enemies, he sought the order of
knighthood from his uncle, Abbot Brand.

The Normans in general were knighted by lay nobles, and though their
prince, William Rufus, received the order from Lanfranc, they would not
acknowledge Hereward as a knight, though they could not help respecting
his truth, honor, and courage; and it was a common saying among them,
that if there had been only four men like him in England, they should
never have gained a footing there. No wonder, when he never hesitated to
fight singly with seven Normans at once, and each of his five
principal followers was a match for three. They were Ibe Winter, his
brother-in-arms; Eghelric, his cousin; Ital; Alfric; and Sexwald.

Many fugitives of high rank did Hereward receive in his Camp of Refuge.
He had nearly been honored by the presence of his hereditary sovereign,
Edgar the Etheling, but the plan failed. He did, however, shelter his
two cousins, Morkar and Edwin. They had suffered much from the insolence
of the Normans, and experienced the futility of the promises in which
they had trusted, until at length they had been driven to join a rising
in the North. It had been quickly suppressed, and the worst of all the
cruelties of the Normans had avenged it, while the two earls, now become
outlaws, fled to the Camp of Refuge. Thence Edwin was sent on a mission
to Scotland, but on the way he was attacked by a party of his enemies
and slain, after a gallant resistance. He was the handsomest man of his
time, and his betrothed, Agatha, was devotedly attached to him; it is
even said that the stern William himself wept when the bloody head of
his daughter's lover was presented to him. A curious gold ornament
has been of late years found in the field where Edwin was killed, and
antiquaries allow us to imagine that it might have been a love-token
from the Norman princess to the Saxon earl.

Another fugitive in Hereward's camp was the high-spirited Abbot
Frithric, whose steady opposition to the illegal encroachments of the
Normans had given great offence to William. Once Frithric had combined
with other influential ecclesiastics to require of the Conqueror another
oath to abide by the old English laws, and thus brought on himself an
accusation of rebellion and sentence of banishment. He assembled his
monks, and told them the time was come when, according to the words of
Holy Scripture, they must flee from city to city, bade them, farewell,
and, taking nothing with him but a few books, safely reached the Camp of
Refuge, where he soon after died.

Thorold, the new Norman Abbot of Malmesbury, kept a body of archers in
his pay, and whenever his monks resisted any of his improper measures,
he used to call out, "Here, my men-at-arms!" At length the Conqueror
heard of his proceedings. "I'll find him his match!" cried William. "I
will send him to Peterborough, 'where Hereward will give him as much
fighting as he likes."

To Peterborough, then, Thorold was appointed on the death of Hereward's
uncle, Abbot Brand, while the poor monks of Malmesbury received for
their new superior a certain Guerin de Lire, who disinterred and threw
away the bones of his Saxon predecessors, and took all the treasure in
the coffers of the convent, in order that he might display his riches in
the eyes of those who had seen him poor.

Yet all the Norman clergy were not such as these, and never should be
forgotten the beautiful answer of Guimond, a monk of St. Leufroi, such
a priest as Fitz-Richard was a knight. William had summoned him to
England, and he came without delay; but when he was told it was for the
purpose of raising him to high dignity, he spoke thus: "Many causes
forbid me to seek dignity and power; I will not mention all. I will only
say that I see not how I could ever properly be the head of men whose
manners and language I do not understand, and whose fathers, brothers,
and friends, have been slain by your sword, disinherited, exiled,
imprisoned, or harshly enslaved by you. Search the Holy Scriptures
whether any law permits that the shepherd should be forced on the flock
by their enemy. Can you divide what you have won by war and bloodshed,
with one who has laid aside his own goods for the sake of Christ? All
priests are forbidden to meddle with rapine, or to take any share of the
prey, even as an offering at the altar; for, as the Scriptures say,
'He that bringeth an offering of the goods of the poor, is as one
that slayeth the son before the father's eyes.' When I remember these
commands of God, I am filled with terror; I look on England as one great
prey, and dread to touch it or its treasures, as I should a red-hot
iron."

Guimond then returned to Normandy, uninjured by the Conqueror, who,
with all his faults, never took offence at such rebukes; but the
worldly-minded clergy were excessively affronted at his censure of their
rapacity, and raised such a persecution against him that he was obliged
to take refuge in Italy.

As soon as the news arrived at the Camp of Refuge that the warlike
Thorold had been appointed to Peterborough, Hereward and his hand
hastened to the Abbey, and, probably with the consent of the Saxon
monks, carried off all the treasures into the midst of the fens.
Thorold, with one hundred and sixty men-at-arms, soon made his
appearance, was installed as Abbot, and quickly made friends with his
Norman neighbor, Ivo Taillebois.

They agreed to make an expedition against the robber Saxons, and united
their forces, but Thorold appears to have been not quite as willing to
face Hereward as to threaten his monks, and let Ivo advance into the
midst of an extensive wood of alders, while he remained in the rear with
some other Normans of distinction. Ivo sought through the whole wood
without meeting a Saxon, and returning to the spot where he had left
the Abbot, found no one there, for Hereward had quitted the wood on the
opposite side, made a circuit, and falling suddenly on Thorold and his
party, carried them off to the fens, and kept them there till they had
paid a heavy ransom.

In 1072, the fifth year of the Camp of Refuge, it had assumed so
formidable an aspect, that William thought it necessary to take vigorous
measures against it, more especially as there had been lately a
commencement of correspondence with the Danes. The difficulty was to
reach it, for the treacherous ground of the fens afforded no firm
footing for an army; there was not water enough for boats, no station
for archers, no space for a charge of the ponderous knights, amongst the
reedy pools. William decided on constructing a causeway, and employed
workmen to cut trenches to drain off the water, and raise the bank of
stones and turf, under the superintendence of Ivo Taillebois. However,
Hereward was on the alert, harassing them perpetually, breaking on
them sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other, in such strange,
unexpected ways, that at last the viscount came to the conclusion that
he must have magic arts to aid him, and persuaded the king to let him
send for a witch to work against him by counter spells. Accordingly, she
was installed in a wooden tower raised at the end of the part of the
causeway which was completed, and the workmen were beginning to advance
boldly under her protection, when suddenly smoke and flame came driving
upon them. Hereward had set fire to the dry reeds, and, spreading
quickly, the flame cut off their retreat, and the unhappy woman
perished, with many of the Normans.

Again and again were the Norman attacks disconcerted, and all that
they could attempt was a blockade, which lasted many months, and might
probably have been sustained many more by the hardy warriors, if some of
the monks of Ely, growing weary of the privations they endured, had not
gone in secret to the king, and offered to show him a way across the
Marches, on condition that the wealth of the Abbey was secured.

Accordingly, a band of Normans crossed the fens, took the Saxons by
surprise, killed a thousand men, and forced the camp. Hereward and his
five comrades still fought on, crossed bogs where the enemy did not dare
to follow them, and at length escaped into the low lands of Lincoln,
where they met with some Saxon fishermen, who were in the habit of
supplying a Norman station of soldiers. These Saxons willingly received
the warriors into their boats, and hid them under heaps of straw, while
they carried their fish as usual to the Normans. While the Normans were
in full security, Hereward and his men suddenly attacked them, killed
some, put the rest to flight, and seized their horses.

Collecting others of his scattered followers, Hereward kept up his
warfare from his own house at Bourn, continually harassing the Normans,
until at length he took prisoner his old enemy, Ivo Taillebois, and,
as the price of his liberty, required him to make his peace with the
Conqueror. This was good news to William, who highly esteemed his valor
and constancy, and could accuse him of no breach of faith, since he had
made no engagements to him. Hereward was therefore received as a subject
of King William, retained his own estate, and died there at a good old
age, respected by both Saxons and Normans.

There is, indeed, an old Norman-French poem, that declares it was for
the love of a noble Saxon lady, named Alftrude, that Hereward ceased to
struggle with the victors. According to this story, Alftrude, an heiress
of great wealth, was so charmed by the report of Hereward's fame, that
she offered him her hand, and persuaded him to make peace with William.
It is further said, that one afternoon, as he lay asleep under a tree,
a band of armed men, among whom were several Bretons, surrounded and
murdered him, though not till he had slain fifteen of them.

But this story is not likely to be true, since we know that Hereward
was already married, and the testimony of more than one ancient English
chronicler declares that he spent his latter years in peace and honor.
He was the only one of the Saxon chieftains who thus closed his days in
his native home--the only one who had not sought to preserve his own
possessions at the expense of his country, and who had broken no oaths
nor engagements. His exploits are told in old ballads and half-romantic
histories, and it is not safe to believe them implicitly, but his
existence and his gallant resistance are certain.

Many years after, the remains of a wooden fort, the citadel, so to
speak of the Camp of Refuge, still existed in the Isle of Ely, and was
called by the peasantry Hereward's Castle. The treacherous monks of Ely
were well punished by having forty men-at-arms quartered on their Abbey.

Of the captives taken in the camp, many were most cruelly treated, their
eyes put out, and their hands cut off; others were imprisoned, and many
slain. Morkar, who was here taken, spent the rest of his life in
the same captivity as Ulfnoth, Stigand, and many other Saxons of
distinction, with the one gleam of hope when liberated at William's
death, and then the bitter disappointment of renewed seizure and
captivity. If it could be any consolation to them, these Saxons were not
William's only captives. Bishop Odo, of Bayeux, whom William had made
Earl of Kent, after giving a great deal of trouble to his brother the
king, and to Archbishop Lanfranc, by his avarice and violence, heard a
prediction that the next Pope should be named Odo, and set off to try
to bring about its fulfilment in his own person, carrying with him an
immense quantity of ill-gotten treasure, and a large number of troops,
commanded by Hugh the Wolf, Earl of Chester.

However, Odo had reckoned without King William, and he had but just set
sail, when William, setting off from Normandy, met him in the Channel,
took his ships, and making him land in the Isle of Wight, and convoking
an assembly of knights, declared his offences, and asked them what such
a brother deserved.

Between fear of the king and fear of the Bishop, no one ventured to
answer, upon which William sentenced him to imprisonment; and when he
declared that no one but the Pope had a right to judge him, answered, "I
do not try you, the Bishop of Bayeux, but the Earl of Kent," and sent
him closely guarded to Normandy.

Another Norman state-prisoner was Roger Fitzosborn, the son of William's
early friend, who had died soon after the Conquest. Roger's offence was
the bestowing his sister Emma in marriage without the consent of the
king, and in addition, much seditious language was used at the wedding
banquet, where, unhappily, was present Waltheof, Earl of Huntingdon, the
last Saxon noble.

Roger, finding himself in danger, broke out into open rebellion, but was
soon made prisoner. Still the king would have pardoned him for the
sake of his father, whom William seems to have regarded with much more
affection that he be stowed on any one else, and, as a mark of kindness,
sent him a costly robe. The proud and passionate Roger, disdaining the
gift, kindled a fire, and burnt the garment on the dungeon floor; and
William, deeply affronted, swore in return that he should never pass the
threshold of his prison.

Waltheof, who was innocent of all save being present at the unfortunate
feast, might have been spared but for the wickedness of his wife,
Judith, William's niece, who had been married to him when it was her
uncle's policy to conciliate the Saxons. She hated and despised the
Saxon churl given her for a lord, kind, generous, and pious though he
was; and having set her affections on a young Norman, herself became the
accuser of her husband. Waltheof succeeded in disproving the calumnies,
and the best and wisest Normans spoke in his favor; but the spite of Ivo
Taillebois, and the hatred of his wife, prevailed, and he was sentenced
to die.

He was executed at Winchester, where, lest the inhabitants should
attempt a rescue, he was led out, early in the morning, to St. Giles's
hill, outside the walls. He wore the robes of an earl, and gave them to
the priests who attended him, and to the poor people who followed him.
When he came to the spot he knelt down to pray, begging the soldiers to
wait till he had said the Lord's Prayer; but he had only come to "Lead
us not into temptation," when one of them severed his head from his body
with one blow of a sword.

His body was hastily thrown into a hole; but the Saxons, who loved him
greatly, disinterred it in secret, and contrived to carry it all the way
to Croyland, where it was buried with due honors, and we may think of
Hereward le Wake attending the funeral of the son of the stalwart old
Siward Biorn.

As to the perfidious Judith, she reaped the reward of her crimes; she
was not permitted to marry her Norman lover, and he was stripped of all
the wealth she expected as the widow of Waltbeof. This was secured to
her infant daughter, and was so considerable, that at one time William
thought the little Matilda of Huntingdon a fit match for his son Robert;
but Robert despised the Saxon blood, and made this project an excuse for
one of his rebellions. Matilda was, however, a royal bride, since her
hand was given to David I. of Scotland, the representative of the old
race of Cerdic, and a most excellent prince, with whom she was much
happier than she could well have: been with the unstable Robert
Courtheuse.



   CAMEO IX.

   THE LAST SAXON BISHOP.
   (1008-1095.)

  _Kings of England_.
   1066. William I.
   1087. William II.


The last saint of the Anglo-Saxon Church, the Bishop who lived from the
days of Edward the Confessor, to the evil times of the Red King, was
Wulstan of Worcester, a homely old man, of plain English character, and
of great piety. The quiet, even tenor of his life is truly like a "soft
green isle" in the midst of the turbulent storms and tempests of the
Norman Conquest.

Wulstan was born at Long Itchington, a village in Warwickshire, in the
time of Ethelred the Unready. He was the son of the Thane Athelstan, and
was educated in the monasteries of Evesham and Peterborough. When he had
been trained in such learning as these could afford, he came home for
a few years, and entered into the sports and occupations of the noble
youths of the time, without parting with the piety and purity of his
conventual life, and steadily resisting temptation.

His parents were grown old, and having become impoverished, perhaps by
the exactions perpetrated either by the Danes, or to bribe them away,
retired from the world, and entered convents at Worcester. Wulstan,
wishing to devote himself to the Church, sought the service of the
Bishop, who ordained him to the priesthood.

He lived, though a secular priest, with monastic strictness, and in time
obtained permission from the Bishop to become a monk in the convent,
where he continued for twenty-five years, and at length became Prior of
the Convent. The Prior was the person next in office to the Abbot, and
governed the monastery in his absence; and in some religious orders,
where there was no Abbot, the Prior was the superior.

Wulstan's habits in the convent show us what the devotional life of
that time was. Each day he bent the knee at each verse of the seven
Penitential Psalms, and the same at the 119th Psalm at night. He would
lock himself into the church, and pray aloud with tears and cries, and
at night he would often retire into some solitary spot, the graveyard,
or lonely village church, to pray and meditate. His bed was the church
floor, or a narrow board, and stern were his habits of fasting and
mortification; but all the time he was full of activity in the cause of
the poor, and, finishing his devotions early in the morning, gave up the
whole day to attend to the common people, sitting at the church door to
listen to, and redress, as far as in him lay, the grievances that they
brought him--at any rate, to console and advise. The rude, secular
country clergy, at that time, it may be feared, a corrupt, untaught
race, had in great measure ceased to instruct or exhort their flocks,
and even refund baptism without payment. He did his best to remedy these
abuses, and from all parts of the country children were brought to
the good Prior for baptism. Every Sunday, too, he preached, and the
Worcestershire people flocked from all sides to hear his plain, forcible
language, though he never failed to rebuke them sharply for their most
prevalent sins.

The fame of the holy Prior of Worcester began to spread, and on one
occasion Earl Harold himself came thirty miles out of his way to confess
his sins to him and desire his prayers.

About the year 1062, two Roman Cardinals came to Worcester with Aldred,
who had just been translated from that see to the Archbishopric of
York. They spent the whole of Lent in Wulstan's monastery; and when,
at Easter, they returned to the court of Edward the Confessor, they
recommended him for the Bishop to succeed Aldred; and Aldred himself,
Archbishop Stigand, and Harold, all concurred in the same advice. The
people and clergy of Worcester with one voice chose the good Prior
Wulstan; his election was confirmed by the king, and he received the
appointment. He long struggled against it, protesting that he would
rather lose his head than be made a Bishop; but he was persuaded at last
by an old hermit, who rebuked him for his resistance as for a sin. He
received the pastoral staff from King Edward, and was consecrated by his
former Bishop, Aldred.

As a Bishop he was more active than ever, constantly riding from place
to place to visit the different towns and villages; and, as he went,
repeating the Psalms and Litany, his attendant priests making the
responses; while his chamberlain carried a purse, from which every one
who asked alms was sure to be supplied. He never passed a church without
praying in it, and never reached his resting-place for the night without
paying his first visit to the church. Wherever he went, crowds of every
rank poured out to meet him, and he never sent them away without the
full Church service, and a sermon; nay, more--each poor serf might come
to him, pour out his troubles, whether temporal, or whether his heart
had been touched by the good words he had heard. Above all, Wulstan
delighted in giving his blessing in Confirmation, and would go on from
morning till night without food, till all his clergy were worn out,
though he seemed to know no weariness.

His clergy seem to have had much of the sluggishness of the Saxon, and
were often impatient of a temper, both of devotion and energy, so much
beyond them. If one was absent from the night service, the Bishop would
take no notice till it was over; but when all the others were gone back
to bed, he would wake the defaulter, and make him go through the service
with no companion but himself, making the responses. They did not like
him to put them out, as he often did on their journeys, while going
through the Psalms, by dwelling on the "prayer-verses;" and most
especially did they dislike his leading them to church, whatever season
or weather it might be, to chant matins before it was light. Once, at
Marlow, when it was a long way to church, very muddy, and with a cold
rain falling, one of his clergy, in hopes of making him turn back, led
him into the worst part of the swamp, where he sunk up to his knees in
mud, and lost his shoe; but he took no notice until, after the service
was over, he had returned to his lodgings, half dead with cold, and
then, instead of expressing any anger, he only ordered search to be made
for the shoe.

Wulstan took no part in what we should call politics; he thought it his
duty to render his submission to the King whom the people had chosen,
and to strive only to amend the life of the men of the country. He was
in high favor with Harold during his short reign, and was for some time
at court, where the fine Saxon gentlemen learnt to dread the neighborhood
of the old Bishop; for Wulstan considered their luxury as worthy of blame,
and especially attacked their long flowing hair. If any of them placed
their heads within, his reach, he would crop off "the first-fruits of
their curls" with his own little knife, enjoining them to have the rest
cut off; and yet, if Wulstan saw the children of the choir with their
dress disordered, he would smooth it with his own hands, and when told
the condescension did not become a Bishop, made answer, "He that is
greatest among you shall be your servant."

Aldred, Wulstan's former Bishop, now Archbishop of York, was the
anointer of both Harold and William the Conqueror. He kept fair with the
Normans as long as he could, but at last, driven to extremity by the
miseries they inflicted on his unhappy diocese, he went to William
arrayed in his full episcopal robes, solemnly revoked his coronation
blessing, denounced a curse on him and his race, and then, returning to
York, there died of grief.

Eghelwin, Bishop of Durham, gave good advice to Comyn, the Norman Earl,
but it was unheeded, and the townsmen rose in the night and burnt Comyn
to death, with all his followers, as they lay overcome with wine and
sleep in the plundered houses. The rising of the northern counties
followed, and Eghelwin was so far involved in it, that he was obliged to
fly. He took shelter in the Camp of Refuge, was made prisoner when
it was betrayed, and spent the rest of his life in one of William's
prisons.

Our good Wulstan had a happier lot, and spent his time in his own round
of quiet duties in his diocese, binding up the wounds inflicted by the
cruel oppressors, but exhorting the Saxons to bear them patiently, and
see in them the chastisement of their own crimes. "It is the scourge of
God that ye are suffering," he said; and when they replied that they
had never been half so bad as the Normans, he said, "God is using their
wickedness to punish your evil deserts, as the devil, of his own evil
will, yet by God's righteous will, punishes those with whom he suffers.
Do ye, when ye are angry, care what becomes of the staff wherewith ye
strike?"

He had his own share of troubles and anxieties, but he met them in his
trustful spirit, and straight-forward way. At Easter, 1070, a council
was held at Winchester, at which he was summoned to attend. He was one
of the five last Saxon Bishops; Stigand, who held both at once the
primacy and the see of Winchester; his brother, Eghelmar, Bishop of
Elmham; Eghelsie, of Selsey; and the Bishop of Durham, Eghelwin, who was
in the Camp of Refuge.

Two cardinals were present to represent the Pope, and on account of his
simony, Stigand was deposed and imprisoned, while Eghelric and Eghelmar
were also degraded. Yet Wulstan, clear of conscience, and certain of the
validity of his own election, was not affrighted; so far from it, he
boldly called on the King to restore some lands that Aldred of York had
kept back from the see of Worcester.

Thomas, Aldred's successor, claimed them by a pretended jurisdiction
over Worcester, and the decision was put off for a court of the
great men of the realm, which did not take place till several fresh
appointments had been made. Lanfranc, the Italian, Abbot of Bec, had
become Archbishop of Canterbury, and was, of course, interested in
guarding the jurisdiction of the Archiepiscopal see.

Wulstan, in this critical time, was exactly like himself. He fell asleep
while Thomas was arguing, and when time was given him to think of his
answer, he spent it in singing the service of the hour, though his
priests were in terror lest they should be ridiculed for it. "Know you
not," he answered, "that the Lord hath said, 'When ye stand before king
and rulers, take no thought what ye shall speak, for it shall be given
you in that hour what ye shall speak.' Our Lord can give me speech
to-day to defend my right, and overthrow their might." Accordingly, his
honest statement prevailed, and he gained his cause.

There is a beautiful legend that Lanfranc, thinking the simple old
Saxon too rude and ignorant for his office, summoned him to a synod at
Westminster, and there called on him to deliver up his pastoral staff
and ring. Wulstan rose, and said he had known from the first that he was
not worthy of his dignity, and had taken it only at the bidding of his
master, King Edward. To him, therefore, who gave the staff, he would
resign it. Advancing to the Confessor's tomb, he said, "Master, thou
knowest how unwillingly I took this office, forced to it by thee. Behold
a new king--a new law--a new primate; they decree new rights, and
promulgate new statutes. Thee they accuse of error in having so
commanded--me of presumption, in having obeyed. Then, indeed, thou wast
liable to err, being mortal--now, being with God, thou canst not err.
Not to these who require what they did not give, but to thee, who hast
given, I render up my staff. Take this, my master, and deliver it to
whom thou wilt."

He laid it on the tomb, took off his episcopal robes, and sat down
among the monks. The legend goes on to say, that the staff remained
embedded in the stone, and no hand could wrench it away, till Wulstan
himself again took it up, when it yielded without effort. The King and
Archbishop fell down at his feet, and entreated his pardon and blessing.

Such is the story told a century after; and surely we may believe that,
without the miracle, the old man's touching appeal to his dead King, and
his humility, convinced Lanfranc that it had been foul shame to think
of deposing such a man because his learning was not extensive, nor his
manners like those of the courtly Norman. Be that as it may, thenceforth
Lanfranc and Wulstan worked hand in hand, and we find the Archbishop
begging him to undertake the visitation of the diocese of Chester, which
was unsafe for the Norman prelates. One great work accomplished by the
help of Wulstan was, the putting an end to a horrible slave-trade with
Ireland, whither Saxon serfs were sold, not by Normans, but by their own
country people, who had long carried it on before the Conquest. Lanfranc
persuaded William to abolish it, but the rude Saxon slave-merchants
cared nothing for his edicts, until the Bishop of Worcester came to
Bristol, and preached against the traffic, staying a month or two at
a time, every year, till the minds of the people of Bristol were so
altered, that they not only gave up the trade, but acquired such
a horror of it that they tore out the eyes of the last person who
persisted in it.

The favor and esteem with which Wulstan was regarded did not cease, but
he was obliged to spend a life of constraint. The Archbishop made him
keep a band of armed retainers to preserve the peace of the country, and
they were new and strange companions for the old monk; but as he thought
his presence kept them from evil, he did not remain aloof, dining with
them each day in the public hall, and even while they sat long over the
wine, remaining with them, pledging them good-humoredly in a little cup,
which he pretended to taste, and ruminating on the Psalms in the midst
of their noisy mirth.

These were the days of church-building--the days of the circular arch,
round column, and zigzag moulding; of doorways whose round arch, adorned
with border after border of rich or quaint device, almost bewilder us
with the multiplicity of detail; of low square towers, and solid walls;
of that kind of architecture called Norman, but more properly a branch
of the Romanesque of Italy.

Each new Roman Bishop or Abbot thought it his business to renew his
clumsy old Saxon minster, and we have few cathedrals whose present
structure does not date from the days of the Conqueror or his sons.
Walkelyn, Bishop of Winchester, obtained a grant from William of as
much timber from Hempage Wood as could be cut in four days and nights;
whereupon Walkelyn assembled a huge company of workmen, and made such
good use of the time, that when the king passed that way, he cried out,
"Am I bewitched, or have I taken leave of my senses? Had I not a most
delectable wood in this spot?" where now only stumps were to be seen.

Wulstan had always been a church-builder, and he renewed his cathedral
after the Norman fashion; but when it was finished, and the workmen
began to pull down the old one, which had been built by St. Oswald,
he stood watching them in silence, till at last he shed tears. "Poor
creatures that we are," said he, "we destroy the work of the saints, and
think in our pride that we improve upon it. Those blessed men knew not
how to build fine churches, but they knew how to sacrifice themselves to
God, whatever roof might be over them, and to draw their flocks after
them. Now, all we think of is to rear up piles of stones, while we care
not for souls."

Wulstan lived to a great age, survived William and Lanfrane, and
assisted to consecrate Anselm. In the last year of his life he kept each
festival with still greater solemnity than ever, and his feast for the
poor overflowed more than ever before; his stores were exhausted, though
he had collected an unusual quantity, and his clergy begged him to shut
the gates against the crowds still gathering; but he refused, saying
none should go empty away, and some gifts from his rich friends arrived
opportunely to supply the need. The Bishop sat in the midst as feasting
with them, now grown too feeble to wait on them, as he had always done
hitherto.

At Whitsuntide, 1094, he was taken ill, and lingered under a slow fever
till the new year, when he died in peace and joy on the 19th of January.
His greatest friend, Robert, the Bishop of Hereford, a learned man,
understanding all the science of the time, a judge, and a courtly
Lorrainer, yet who loved to spend whole days with the unlettered Saxon,
came to lay him in his grave. He received, as a gift from the convent,
the lambskin cloak that Wulstan used to wear, in spite of the laughter
of the gay prelates arrayed in costly furs, keeping his ground by
saying, that "the furs of cunning animals did not befit a plain man."
He went home to Hereford, and soon after died, having, it is said, been
warned in a vision by St. Wulstan that he must soon prepare to follow
him.



   CAMEO X.

   THE CONQUEROR.
   (1066-1087.)


In speaking of William, the Norman Conqueror, we are speaking of a
really great man; and great men are always hard to understand or deal
with in history, for, as their minds are above common understandings,
their contemporary historians generally enter into their views less than
any one else, and it is only the result that proves their wisdom and
far-sight. Moreover, their temptations and their sins are on a larger
scale than those of other men, and some of the actions that they perform
make a disproportionate impression by the cry that they occasion--the
evil is remembered, not the good that their main policy effected.

William was a high-minded man, of mighty and wide purposes, one of the
very few who understood what it was to be a king. He had the Norman
qualities in their fullest perfection. He was devoutly religious, and in
his private character was irreproachable, being the first Norman Duke
unstained by licence, the first whose sons were all born of his princess
wife. He was devout in his habits, full of alms-deeds; and strong and
resolute as was his will, he kept it so upright and so truly desirous
of the Divine glory and the Church's welfare, that he had no serious
misunderstanding with the clergy, and lived on the most friendly terms
with his great Archbishop, Lanfranc.

He was one of those mighty men who, in personal intercourse, have a
force of nature that not merely renders opposition impossible, but
absolutely masters the will and intention, so that there is not even the
secret contradiction of mind. We have seen this in his dealings with
both his own Normans and the Saxons who came in contact with him. His
presence was so irresistible that men yielded to it unconsciously, but
when absent from him they became themselves again, and in the reaction
they committed treason against the pledges they seemed to have
voluntarily given to him.

He was stern, fiercely stern. His standard and ideal were very high,
such as, perhaps, only the saintly could attain to. The men who
never quarrelled with him were Lanfranc, Edgar Atheling, and William
Fitzosborn. The first was saintly and strong; the second, honest,
upright, and simple; the third was endeared by boyish memories, and
to these, perhaps, may be added Edward the Confessor and good Bishop
Wulstan.

Many others William tried to love and trust--his uncle Odo, his own son,
Earls Edwin and Morkar, Waltheof, the sons of Fitzosborn; but they
all failed, grieved, and disappointed him. None was strong, noble, or
disinterested enough not at one time or other to be a traitor; and,
perhaps, his really honest, open enemy, Hereward le Wake, was the person
whom he most valued and honored after the above mentioned.

And though his affection was hearty, his wrath when he was disappointed
was tremendous. And his disappointments were many, partly because his
standard was in every respect far above that of the men around him, and
partly because his presence so far lifted them to his level, that, when
they fell to their own, he was totally unprepared for the treachery and
deceit such a fall involved.

Then down he came on them with implacable vengeance, he was so very
"stark," as the old chronicle has it. Battle, devastation, plunder,
lifelong imprisonment, confiscation, requited him who had drawn on
himself the terrible wrath of William of Normandy. There were few soft
places in that mighty heart; it could love, but it could not pity, and
it could not forgive. He was of the true nature to be a Scourge of God.

Hardened and embittered by the selfish treasons that had beset his early
boyhood, and which had forced him into manhood before his time, he came
to England as one called thither by the late king's designation, and,
therefore, the lawful heir. The Norman law, a confusion of the old Frank
and Roman codes, and of the Norwegian pirate customs, he seems to have
been glad to leave behind. His native Normans must be ruled by it,
but he was an English king by inheritance, and English laws he would
observe; Englishmen should have their national share in the royal favor,
and in their native land.

But the design proved impracticable. The English had been split into
fierce parties long before he came, and the West Saxon, the Mercian
Angle, and Northumbrian Dane hated one another still, and all hated the
Norman alike; and his Norman, French, and Breton importations lost no
love among themselves, and viewed the English natives as conquered
beings, whose spoil was unjustly withheld from them by the Duke King.

Rebellion began: by ones, twos, and threes, the nobles revolted,
and were stamped out by William's iron heel, suffering his fierce,
unrelenting justice--that highest justice that according to the Latin
proverb becomes, in man's mind at least, the highest injustice. So
England lay, trampled, bleeding, indignant, and raising a loud cry of
misery; but, in real truth, the sufferers were in the first place the
actual rebels, Saxon and Norman alike; next, those districts which had
risen against his authority, and were barbarously devastated with fire
and sword; and lastly, the places which, by the death or forfeiture of
native lords, or by the enforced marriage of heiresses, fell into the
hands of rapacious Norman adventurers, who treated their serfs with the
brutal violence common in France.

Otherwise, things were left much as they were. The towns had little or
no cause of complaint, and the lesser Saxon gentry, with the Franklins
and the Earls, were unmolested, unless they happened to have vicious
neighbors. The Curfew bell, about which so great a clamor was raised,
was a universal regulation in Europe; it was a call to prayers, an
intimation that it was bedtime, and a means of guarding against fire,
when streets were often nothing but wooden booths thatched. The intense
hatred that its introduction caused was only the true English dislike to
anything like domiciliary interference.

The King has left us an undoubted testimony to the condition of the
country, and the number of Saxons still holding tenures. Nineteen years
after his Conquest, he held a council at Gloucester, the result of which
was a great "numbering of the people"--a general census. To every city
or town, commissioners were sent forth, who collected together the Shire
reeve or Sheriff--the Viscount, as the Normans called him--the thegus,
the parish priests, the reeves, and franklins, who were examined upon
oath of the numbers, names, and holdings of the men of their place, both
as they were in King Edward's days, and at that time. The lands had to
be de scribed, whether plough lands or pasture, wood or waste; the mills
and fisheries wore recorded, and each farmer's stock of oxen, cows,
sheep, or swine. The English grumbled at the inquiry, called it tyranny,
and expected worse to come of it, but there was no real cause for
complaint. The primary object of the survey was the land-tax, the
Danegeld, as it was called, because it was first raised to provide
defences against the Danes, and every portion of arable land was
assessed at a fair rate, according to ancient custom, but not that which
lay waste. The entire record, including all England save London and the
four northern counties, was preserved at Winchester, and called the
Winchester Roll, or Domesday Book. It is one of the most interesting
records in existence, showing, as it does, the exceeding antiquity of
our existing divisions of townships, parishes and estates, and even of
the families inhabiting them, of whom a fair proportion, chiefly of the
lesser gentry, can point to evidence that they live on soil that was
tilled by their fathers before the days of the Norman. It is far more
satisfactory than the Battle Roll, which was much tampered with by the
monks to gratify the ancestral vanity of gentlemen who were so persuaded
that their ancestors ought to be found there, that they caused them to
be inserted if they were missing. Of Domesday Book, however, there is no
doubt, as the original copy is still extant in its fair old handwriting,
showing the wonderful work that the French-speaking scribes made with
English names of people and places. Queen Edith, the Confessor's widow,
who was a large landholder, appears as Eddeve, Adeve, Adiva--by anything
but her true old English name of Eadgyth. But it was much that the
subdued English folk appeared there at all.

The most real grievance that the English had to complain of was the
Forest Laws. The Dukes of Normandy had had many a quarrel in their
Neustrian home with their subjects, on the vexed question of the chase,
their greatest passion; and when William came into England as a victor,
he was determined to rule all his own way in the waste and woodland. All
the forests he took into his own hands, and the saying was that "the
king loved the high deer as if he was their father;" any trespass was
severely punched, and if he slaughter of any kind of game was a more
serious thing than murder itself.

Chief of all, however, in people's minds, was his appropriation of the
tract of Jettenwald, or the Giant's Wood, Ytene, in South Hants. A
tempting hunting-ground extended nearly all the way from his royal city
of Winchester, broad, bare chalk down, passing into heathy common, and
forest waste, covered with holly and yew, and with noble oak and beech
in its dells, fit covert for the mighty boar, the high deer, and an
infinity of game beside.

With William's paternal feelings toward the deer, he thought the cotters
and squatters, the churls and the serfs, on the borders of the wood, or
in little clearings in the midst, mischievous interlopers, and at one
swoop he expelled them all, and kept the Giant's Wood solely for himself
and his deer, by the still remaining name of the New Forest.

Chroniclers talk of twenty-two mother churches and fifty-two
parishes laid waste, but there is no doubt that this was a monstrous
exaggeration, and that the population could not have been so dense. At
any rate, whatever their numbers, the inhabitants were expelled, the
animals were left unmolested for seven years, and then the Norman king
enjoyed his sports there among his fierce nobility, little recking that
all the English, and many of the Normans, longed that a curse should
there light upon his head, or on that of his proud sons.



   CAMEO XI.

   THE CONQUEROR'S CHILDREN.
   (1050-1087.)


The wife of William of Normandy was, as has been said, Matilda, daughter
of Baldwin, Count of Flanders. The wife of such a man as William has not
much opportunity of showing her natural character, and we do not know
much of hers. It appears, however, that she was strong-willed and
vindictive, and, very little disposed to accept him. She had set
her affections upon one Brihtric Meau, called Snow, from his fair
complexion, a young English lord who had visited her father's court on
a mission from Edward the Confessor, but who does not appear to have
equally admired the lady. For seven years Matilda is said to have held
out against William, until one twilight evening, when she was going
home from church, in the streets of Bruges he rode up to her, beat her
severely, and threw her into the gutter!

Wonderful to relate, the high-spirited demoiselle was subdued by this
rough courtship, and gave her hand to her determined cousin without
further resistance; nor do we hear that he ever beat her again. Indeed,
if he did, he was not likely to let their good vassals be aware of it;
and, in very truth, they seem to have been considered as models of peace
and happiness. But it is much to be suspected that her nature remained
proud and vindictive; for no sooner had her husband become master of
England, than she caused the unfortunate Brihtric, who had disdained her
love, to be stripped of all his manors in Gloucestershire, including
Fairford, Tewkesbury, and the rich meadows around, and threw him into
Winchester Castle, where he died; while Domesday Book witnesses to her
revenge, by showing that the lands once his belonged to Queen Matilda.

The indication of character in a woman who had so little opportunity of
independent action, is worth noting, as it serves to mark the spirit
in which her children would be reared, and to explain why the sons
so entirely fell short of all that was greatest and noblest in their
father. The devotion, honor, and generosity, that made the iron of his
composition bright as well as hard, was utterly wanting in them, or
merely appeared in passing inconsistencies, and it is but too likely
that they derived no gentler training from their mother. There were ten
children, four sons and six daughters, but the names of these latter,
are very difficult to distinguish, as Adela, Atheliza, Adelheid, or
Alix, was a sort of feminine of Atheling, a Princess-Royal title,
and was applied to most of the eldest daughters of the French and
German-princes, or, when the senior was dead, or married, to the
surviving eldest.

Cecily, Matilda's eldest daughter, was, even before her birth, decreed
to be no Adela for whom contending potentates might struggle. She was
to be the atonement for the parents' hasty, unlicensed marriage, in
addition to their two beautiful abbeys at Caen. When the Abbaye aux
Dames was consecrated, the little girl was led by her father to the foot
of the altar, and there presented as his offering. She was educated with
great care by a very learned though somewhat dissipated priest, took
the veil, and, becoming abbess, ruled her nuns for many years, well
contented and much respected.

The next sister was the Atheliza of the family, but her name was either
Elfgiva or Agatha. She enjoys the distinction of being the only female
portrait in her mother's tapestry--except a poor woman escaping from a
sacked town. She stands under a gateway, while Harold is riding forth
with her father, in witness, perhaps, of her having been betrothed to
Harold; or perhaps Matilda felt a mother's yearning to commemorate the
first of her flock who had been laid in the grave, for Elfgiva died a
short time after the contract, which Harold would hardly have fulfilled,
since he had at least one wife already at home.

Her sister, Matilda, promoted to be Adeliza, was betrothed to another
Saxon, the graceful and beautiful Edwin, whom she loved with great
ardor, through all his weak conduct toward her father. After his
untimely end, she was promised to Alfonso I. of Castile, but she
could not endure to give her heart to another; she wept and prayed
continually, but in vain as far as her father was concerned. She was
sent off on her journey, but died on the way; and then it was that the
poor girl's knees were found to be hardened by her constant kneeling to
implore the pity that assuredly was granted to her.

Constance married Alain Fergeant, a brother of the Duke of Brittany, and
an adventurer in the Norman invasion. He was presented with the Earldom
of Richmond, in Yorkshire; and as his son became afterward Duke of
Brittany, this appanage frequently gave title to younger brothers in the
old Armorican Duchy. That son was not born of Constance; she fell into
a languishing state of health, and died, four years after her marriage.
Report said that her husband's vassals found her so harsh and rigorous,
that they poisoned her; and considering what her brothers were, it is
not unlikely.

Of the Adela who married that accomplished prince, Stephen, Count de
Blois, there will be more to say; and as to Gundred, the wife of Earl
Warenne, it is a doubtful question whether she was a daughter of William
and Matilda. Her tomb was lately found in Isfield Church, Sussex; but
though it has an inscription praising her virtues, it says nothing of
her royal birth.

The sons of William left far more distinct and undesirable traces of
themselves than their sisters. Robert was probably the eldest of the
whole family, and he was his mother's favorite, like most eldest sons.
He did not inherit the stately height of the Norman princes, and, from
his short, sturdy form, early acquired the nickname of Courtheuse, by
which he was distinguished among the swarms of other Roberts. Much pains
was bestowed on his instruction, and that of his brothers, Richard and
William, by the excellent Lanfranc, and they all had great abilities;
but there were influences at work among the fierce Norman lads that
rendered the holy training of the good abbot wholly ineffectual. Their
father, conscious of his own defective right to the ducal rank, lost no
opportunity of binding his vassals to swear fealty not only to himself,
but his eldest son; and from Robert's infancy he had learnt to hold out
his hand, and hear the barons declare themselves his men. When the Duke
set out on his conquest of England, he caused the oath to be renewed to
Robert, and he at the same time showed his love for William, then the
youngest, by having him, with his long red hair floating, carved,
blowing a horn, at the figure-head of the Mora.

Soon after the Conquest, when Matilda had lately been crowned Queen of
England, the fourth son, Henry, was born. He had much more personal
beauty and height than the other brothers, and there was always an idea
floating that the son born when his father was king had a right over
his elder brethren, and thus Henry was always an object of jealousy to
his brothers. Passionately fond of the few books he could obtain, he
was called Beauclerc, or the fine scholar; and whilst as little
restrained by real principle as his brothers, he was able to preserve a
decorum and self-command that kept him in better reputation.

The second brother, Richard, however, had no opportunity of showing his
character. He died in the New Forest, either from a blow on the head
from a branch of a tree, or from a fever caught in the marshes, and is
buried in Winchester Cathedral. Perhaps the doom came on him in innocent
youth, "because there was some good thing in him."

In 1075, when Robert must have been a man some years over twenty, Henry
a boy of nine, and William probably twelve or fourteen, they all three
accompanied their father into Normandy, and were there in the fortress
of Aquila, or Aigle, so called because there had been an eagle's nest
in the oak-tree close to the site of the castle. Robert was in a
discontented mood. The numerous occasions on which he had received the
homage of the Normans made him fancy he ought to have the rule in the
duchy; his mother's favoritism had fostered his ill-feeling, and he was
becoming very jealous of red-haired William, who from his quickness,
daring, and readiness had become his father's favorite; and though
under restraint in the Conqueror's presence, was no doubt outrageously
boisterous, insolent, and presuming in his absence; and Henry, the fine
scholar, his companion and following his lead, secretly despised both
his elders.

Robert's lodging was suddenly invaded by the two wild lads and their
attendants. Finding themselves no better welcomed or amused than rude
boys are wont to be by young men, they betook themselves to an upper
room, the floor of which was formed by ill-laid, gaping planks, which
were the ceiling of that below. Here they began to play at dice; they
soon grew even more intolerably uproarious, and in the coarse of their
quarrelsome, boisterous tricks, overthrew a vessel of dirty water, which
began to drip through the interstices of the planks on their brother and
his friends below--an accident sure to be welcomed by a hoarse laugh
by the rough boys, but appearing to the victims beneath a deliberate
insult. "Are you a man not to avenge this shameful insolence?" cried
Robert's friends, Alberic and Ivo de Grantmesnil. In a fury of passion,
Robert rushed after the lads with his sword drawn, and King William
was roused from his sleep to hear that Lord Robert was murdering his
brothers.

The passion and violence of the elder son had the natural effect of
making the father take the part of the younger ones, and Robert was
so much incensed, that he rode off with his friends, and, collecting
partisans as he went, attacked Rouen.

He was of course repulsed, and many of his followers were made
prisoners. He held out in the border counties for a little while, but
all his supporters were gained from him by his father, and he at length
came back to court, and appeared reconciled. There, however, he had
nothing to do, and all the licentious and disaffected congregated
round him; he idled away half his time, and revelled the rest, and his
pretensions magnified themselves all the time in his fancy, till at last
he was stimulated to demand of his father the cession of Normandy, as a
right confirmed to him by the French king.

William replied by a lecture on disobedience, citing as examples of
warning all the Absaloms of history; but Robert fiercely answered, that
he had not come to listen to a sermon; he was sick of hearing all this
from his teachers, and he would have his answer touching his claim to
Normandy.

The answer he got was, "It is not my custom to lay aside my clothes till
I go to bed."

It sent him off in a rage, with all his crew of dissolute followers. He
went first to his uncle in Flanders, then to Germany and Italy, always
penniless from his lavish habits, though his mother often sent him
supplies of money by a trusty messenger, called Samson le Breton.
However, the King found him out, and reproached Matilda angrily; but she
made answer, "If Robert, my son, were buried seven feet under ground,
and I could bring him to life again by my heart's blood, how gladly
would I give it!" The implacable William commanded Samson to be blinded,
but he escaped to the monastery of St. Everard, and there became a monk.

Returning, Robert presented himself to King Philippe of France, who was
glad to annoy his overgrown vassal by patronizing the rebellious son,
and accordingly placed Robert in the Castle of Gerberoi, where he might
best be a thorn in his father's side. There William besieged him,
bringing the two younger sons with him, though Henry was but twelve
years old. For three weeks there was sharp fighting; and, finally, a
battle, in which the younger William was wounded, and the elder, cased
in his full armor of chain mail, encountered unknowingly with Robert,
in the like disguising hawberk. The Conqueror's horse was killed; his
esquire, an Englishman, in bringing him another, was slain; and he
himself received a blow which caused such agony that he could not
repress a shriek of pain. Robert knew his voice, and, struck with
remorse, immediately lifted him up, offered him his own horse, and
assured him of his ignorance of his person; but William, smarting and
indignant, vouchsafed no answer, and while the son returned to his
castle, the father went back to his camp, which he broke up the next
day, and returned to Rouen.

Robert seems to have been a favorite with the lawless Normans, who
writhed under the mighty hand of his father, and on their interference,
backed by that of the French king and the Pope, brought about a
reconciliation in name. The succession of Normandy was again secured to
Robert, but therewith he was laid under a curse by his angry father,
whose face he never saw again.

Other troubles thickened on William. Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, the bold,
rough, jovial half-brother, whom he had trusted and loved, was reported
to be full of mischievous plots. He seems to have been told by diviners
that the next Pope was to be named Odo, and, to secure the fulfilment
of the augury, he was sending bribes to Rome, and at the same time
collecting a great body of troops with whom to fight his way thither.
He was in the Isle of Wight, preparing to carry his forces to Normandy,
when William pounced, on him, and ordered him back again. It is not
clear whether he wished to prevent the scandal to the Church, or whether
he suspected this army of Odo's of being intended to support Robert
against himself; but, at any rate, he made bitter complaint before the
council of the way he had been treated by son, brother, and peer, and
sentenced Odo to imprisonment. No one would touch the Bishop, and
William was obliged to seize him himself, answering, to Odo's appeal
to his inviolable orders, "I judge not the Bishop, but my Earl and
Treasurer."

Another grief befell him in 1083, in the death of Matilda, who, it was
currently believed, pined away with grief at his fury against her
beloved first-born--anger that his affection for her could not mitigate,
though he loved her so tenderly that his great heart almost broke at
her death, and he never was the same man during the four years that he
survived her.

His health began to break; he had grown large and unwieldy, but his
spirit was as fiery as ever, and wherever there was war, there was he.
At last, in 1087, there was an insurrection at Mantes, supported by King
Philippe. William complained, but received no redress. Rude, scornful
jests were reported to him, and the savage part of his nature was
aroused.

Always, hitherto, he had shown great forbearance in abstaining from
direct warfare on his suzerain, much as Philippe had often provoked
him, but his patience was exhausted, and he armed himself for a deadly
vengeance.

His own revolted town of Mantes was the first object of his fury. It was
harvest-time, and the crops and vineyards were mercilessly trodden down.
The inhabitants sallied out, hoping to save their corn; but the ruthless
king made his way into the city, and there caused house, convent, and
church alike to suffer plunder and fire, riding about himself directing
the work of destruction. The air was flame above, the ground was burning
hot beneath. His horse stumbled with pain and fright; and the large,
heavy body of the king fell forward on the high steel front of the
saddle, so as to be painfully and internally injured. He was carried
back to Rouen, but the noise, bustle, and heat of the city were
intolerable to him, and, with the restlessness of a dying man, he caused
himself to be carried to the convent of St. Gervais, on a hill above the
town; but he there found no relief. He felt his time was come, and sent
for his sons, William and Henry.

The mighty man's agony was a terrible one. "No tongue can tell," said
he, "the deeds of wickedness I have wrought during my weary pilgrimage
of toil and care." He tried to weigh against these his good actions, his
churches and convents, his well-chosen bishops, his endeavors to act
uprightly and justly; but finding little comfort in these, he bewailed
his own destiny, and how his very birth had forced him into bloodshed,
and driven him to violence, even in his youth.

The presence of his sons brought back his mind from the thought of his
condition, to that of the disposal of the lands which had become to him
merely a load of thick clay smeared with blood. Normandy, he said, must
be Robert's; but he groaned at the thought of the misery preparing
for his native land. "Wretched," he said, "must be the country under
Robert's rule; but he has received the homage of the barons, and the
grant once made can never be revoked. To England I dare appoint no heir.
Let Him in whose hands are all things, provide according to His will."

This was his first feeling, but when he saw William's disappointment,
he added, that he hoped the choice of the English might fall on his
obedient son.

"And what do you give me, father?" broke in Henry.

"A treasure of 5,000 pounds of silver," was the answer.

"What good will the treasure do me," cried Henry, "if I have neither
land, nor house, nor home?"

"Take comfort, my son," said his father; "it may be that one day thou
shalt be greater than all."

These words he spoke in the spirit of foreboding, no doubt perceiving
in Henry a sagacity and self-command which in the struggle of life was
certain to give him the advantage of his elder brothers; but then,
alarmed lest what he had said might be construed as acknowledging
Henry's superior claim as having been born a king's son, he felt it
needful to back up Rufus's claim, and bade a writ be prepared commanding
Lanfranc to crown William King of England. Affixing his signet, he
kissed and blessed his favorite, and sent him off at once to secure the
English throne. Henry, too, hurried away to secure his 5,000 pounds, and
the dying man was left alone, struggling between terror and hope.

He left sums of money for alms, masses, and prayers; and as an act
of forgiveness, released his captives--Earl Morcar, Ulfnoth, the
unfortunate hostage, Siward, and Roger de Breteuil, and all the rest;
but he long excepted his brother Odo, and only granted his liberation on
the earnest persuasion of the other brother, the Count of Mortagne.

He slept uneasily at night, awoke when the bells were ringing for lauds,
lifted up his hands in prayer, and breathed his last on the 8th of
September, 1087.

His sons were gone, his attendants took care of themselves, his servants
plundered the chamber and bed, and cast on the floor uncovered the
mortal remnant of their once dreaded master. And though the clergy
soon recollected themselves, and attended to the obsequies of their
benefactor, carrying the corpse to his own Abbey at Caen, yet even
there, as has already been said, the cry of the despoiled refused to the
Conqueror even the poor boon of a grave.



   CAMEO XII.

   THE CROWN AND THE MITRE.

  _Kings of England_.
   1087. William II.
   1100. Henry I.

  _King of France_.
   1059. Philippe I.

  _Emperors of Germany_.
   1080. Heinrich IV.
   1105. Heinrich V.

  _Popes of Rome_.
   1066. Victor III.
   1073. Gregory VII.
   1088. Urban II.
  1099. Paschal II.


Great struggles took place in the eleventh century, between the
spiritual and temporal powers. England was the field of one branch
of the combat, between Bishop and King; but this cannot be properly
understood without reference to the main conflict in Italy, between Pope
and Emperor.

The Pope, which word signifies Father, or Patriarch, of Rome, had from
the Apostolic times been always elected, like all other bishops, by the
general consent of the flock, both clergy and people; and, after the
conversion of Constantine, the Emperor, as first lay member of the
Church, of course had a powerful voice in the election, could reject any
person of whom he disapproved, or nominate one whom he desired to see
chosen, though still subject to the approval of clergy and people.

This power was, however, seldom exercised by the emperors at Rome, after
the seat of empire had been transferred to Constantinople, and their
power over Italy was diminishing through their own weakness and the
German conquests. The election continued in the hands of the Romans,
and in general, at this time, their choice was well-bestowed; the popes
were, many of them, saintly men, and, by their wisdom and authority,
often guarded Rome from the devastations with which it was threatened by
the many barbarous nations who invaded Italy. So it continued until Pope
Zaccaria quarrelled with Astolfo, King of Lombardy, and summoned the
Carlovingian princes from France to protect him. These Italian wars
resulted in Charles-le-Magne taking for himself the crown of Lombardy,
and in his being chosen Roman Emperor of the West, by the citizens of
Rome, under the influence of the Pope; while he, on his side, conferred
on the pope temporal powers such as none of his predecessors had enjoyed.

From thenceforth the theory was, that the Pope was head of the Western
Church, with archbishops, bishops, clergy, and laity, in regular
gradations under him; while the Emperor was in like manner head of the
State, kings, counts, barons, and peasants, in different orders below
him; the Church ruling the souls, the State the bodies of men, and the
two chieftains working hand in hand, each bearing a mission from above;
the Emperor, as a layman, owning himself inferior to the Pope, yet the
Pope acknowledging the temporal power of the crowned monarch.

This was a grand theory, but it fell grievously short in the practice.
The city of Rome, with its worn-out civilization, was a most corrupt
place; and now that the Papacy conferred the highest dignity and
influence, it began to be sought by very different men, and by very
different means, from those that had heretofore prevailed. Bribery and
every atrocious influence swayed the elections, and the wickedness of
some of the popes is almost incredible. At last the emperors interfered
to check the dreadful crimes and profanity at Rome, and thus the
nomination of the Pope fell absolutely into their hands, and was taken
from the Romans, to whom it belonged.

In the earlier part of the eleventh century, a deacon of Rome, named
Hildebrand, formed the design of freeing the See of St. Peter from the
subjection of the emperors, and at the same time of saving it from the
disgraceful power of the populace. The time was favorable, for the
Emperor, Henry IV., was a child, and the Pope, Stephen II., was ready to
forward all Hildebrand's views.

In the year 1059 was held the famous Lateran Council [Footnote: So
called from being convoked in the Church at the Lateran gate, on the
spot where St. John was miraculously preserved from the boiling oil.] of
the Roman clergy, in which it was enacted, that no benefice should be
received from the hands of any layman, but that all bishops should be
chosen by the clergy of the diocese; and though they in many cases held
part of the royal lands, they were by no means to receive investiture
from the sovereign, nor to pay homage. The tokens of investiture were
the pastoral staff, fashioned like a shepherd's crook, and the ring by
which the Bishop was wedded to his See, and these were to be no longer
taken from the monarch's hands. The choice of the popes was given to the
seventy cardinal or principal clergy of the diocese, who were chiefly
the ministers of the different parish churches, and in their hands it
has remained ever since.

Hildebrand himself was elected Pope in 1073, and took the name of
Gregory VII. He bore the brunt of the battle by which it was necessary
to secure the privileges he had asserted for the clergy. Henry IV.
of Germany was a violent man, and a furious struggle took place. The
Emperor took it on himself to depose the Pope, the Pope at the same time
sentenced the Emperor to abstain from the exercise of his power, and his
subject; elected another prince in his stead.

At one time Gregory compelled Henry to come barefooted to implore
absolution; at another, Henry besieged Rome, and Gregory was only
rescued from him by the Normans of Apulia, and was obliged to leave
Rome, and retire under their protection to Apulia, where he died in
1085, after having devoted his whole life to the fulfilment of his great
project of making the powers of this world visibly submit themselves to
the dominion of the Church.

The strife did not end with Gregory's death. Henry IV. was indeed
dethroned by his wicked son, but no sooner did this very son, Henry V.,
come to the crown, than he struggled with the Pope as fiercely as his
father had done.

It was not till after this great war in Germany that the question began
in any great degree to affect England. Archbishop Lanfranc, as an
Italian, thought and felt with Gregory VII.; and the Normans, both here
and in Italy, were in general the Pope's best friends; so that, though
William the Conqueror refused to make oath to become the warrior of the
Pope, Church affairs in general made no great stir in his lifetime, and
the question was not brought to issue.

The face of affairs was, however, greatly changed by the death of the
Conqueror in 1087. William Rufus was a fierce, hot-tempered man, without
respect for religion, delighting in revelry, and in being surrounded
with boisterous, hardy soldiers, whom he paid lavishly, though at the
same time he was excessively avaricious.

He had made large promises of privileges to the Saxons, in order to
obtain their support in case his elder brother Robert had striven to
assert his claims; but all these were violated, and when Lanfranc
remonstrated, he scoffingly asked whether the Archbishop fancied a king
could keep all his promises.

Lanfranc had been his tutor, had conferred on him the order of
knighthood and had hitherto exercised some degree of salutary influence
over him; but seeing all his efforts in vain, he retired to Canterbury,
and there died on the 24th of May, 1089.

Then, indeed, began evil days for the Church of England. William seized
all the revenues of the See of Canterbury, and kept them in his own
hands, instead of appointing a successor to Lanfranc, and he did the
same with almost every other benefice that fell vacant, so that at one
period he thus was despoiling all at once--the archbishopric, four
bishops' sees, and thirteen abbeys. At the same time, the miseries he
inflicted on the country were dreadful; his father's cruel forest laws
were enforced with double rigor, and the oppression of the Saxons was
terrible, for they were absolutely without the least protection from
any barbarities his lawless soldiery chose to inflict upon them. Every
oppressive baron wreaked his spite against his neighbors with impunity,
and Ivo Taillebois [Footnote: See "The Camp of Refuge."] was not long
in showing his malice, as usual, against Croyland Abbey.

A fire had accidentally broken out which consumed all the charters,
except some which were fortunately in another place, where they had been
set aside by Abbot Ingulf, that the younger monks might learn to read
the old Saxon character, and among these was happily the original grant
of the lands of Turketyl, signed by King Edred, and further confirmed by
the great seal of William I.

Ivo Taillebois, hearing of the fire, and trusting that all the
parchments had been lost together, sent a summons to the brethren to
produce the deeds by which they held their lands. They despatched a lay
brother called Trig to Spalding, with Turketyl's grant under his charge.
The Normans glanced over it, and derided it. "Such barbarous writings,"
they said, "could do nothing;" but when Trig produced the huge seal,
with William the Conqueror's effigy, still more "stark" and rigid than
Sir Ivo had known him in his lifetime, there was no disputing its
validity, and the court of Spalding was baffled. However, Taillebois
sent some of his men to waylay the poor monk, and rob him of his
precious parchment, intending then again to require the brotherhood
to prove their rights by its production; but brother Trig seems to have
been a wary man, and, returning by a by-path, avoided pursuit, and
brought the charter safely home. A short time after, Ivo offended the
king, and was banished, much to the joy of the Fen country.

Rapine and oppression were in every corner of England and Normandy, the
two brothers Robert and William setting the example by stripping their
youngest brother, Henry, of the castle he had purchased with his
father's legacy. One knight, two squires, and a faithful chaplain, alone
would abide by the fortunes of the landless prince. The chaplain, Roger
le Poer, had been chosen by Henry, for a reason from which no one could
have expected the fidelity he showed his prince in his misfortunes,
nor his excellent conduct afterward when sharing the prosperity of his
master. He was at first a poor parish priest of Normandy, and Henry,
chancing to enter his church, found him saying mass so quickly, that,
quite delighted, the prince exclaimed, "Here's a priest for me!" and
immediately took him into his service. Nevertheless, Roger le Poer was
an excellent adviser, an upright judge, and a good bishop. It was he who
commenced the Cathedral of Salisbury, where it now stands, removing it
from the now deserted site of Old Sarum.

Robert had not added much to the tranquillity of the country by
releasing his uncle, the turbulent old Bishop Odo, who was continually
raising quarrels between him and William. Odo's old friend, Earl Hugh
the Wolf, of Chester, [Footnote: See the "Camp of Refuge."] was at this
time better employed than most of the Norman nobles. He was guarding the
frontier against the Welsh, and at the same time building the heavy red
stone pile which is now the Cathedral of Chester, and which he intended
as the Church of a monastery of Benedictines. Fierce old Hugh was a
religious man, and had great reverence and affection for one of the
persons in all the world most unlike himself--Anselm, the Abbot of Bec.

Anselm was born at Aosta, in Piedmont, of noble parents, and was well
brought up by his pious mother, Ermengarde, under whose influence he
applied himself to holy learning, and was anxious to embrace a religious
life. She died when he was fifteen years of age, and his father was
careless and harsh. Anselm lost his love for study, and fell into
youthful excesses, but in a short time her good lessons returned upon
him, and he repented earnestly. His father, however, continued so
unkind, and even cruel, that he was obliged to leave the country, and
took refuge, first in Burgundy and then in Normandy, where he sought the
instruction of his countryman, Lanfranc, then Abbot of Bec.

He learnt, at Bec, that his father was dead, and decided on taking the
vows in that convent. There he remained for many years, highly revered
for his piety and wisdom, and, in fact, regarded as almost a saint.
In 1092, Hugh the Wolf was taken ill, and, believing he should never
recover, sent to entreat the holy Abbot to come and give him comfort
on his death-bed. Anselm came, but on his arrival found the old Earl
restored, and only intent on the affairs of his new monastery, the
regulation of which he gladly submitted to Anselm. The first Abbot was
one of the monks of Bec, and Earl Hugh himself afterward gave up his
country to his son Richard, and assumed the monastic habit there.

Whilst Anselm was on his visit to the Earl of Chester, there was some
conversation about him at Court, and some one said that the good Abbot
was so humble that he had no desire for any promotion or dignity. "Not
for the Archbishopric?" shouted the King, with a laugh of derision;
"but"--and he swore an oath--"other Archbishop than me there shall be
none."

Some of the clergy about this time requested William to permit prayers
to be offered in the churches, that he might be directed to make a fit
choice of a Primate. He laughed, and said the Church might ask what she
pleased; she would not hinder him from doing what he pleased.

He knew not what Power he was defying. That power, in the following
spring, stretched him on a bed of sickness, despairing of life, and in
an agony of remorse at his many fearful sins, especially filled with
terror at his sacrilege, and longing to free himself from that patrimony
of the Church which seemed to be weighing down his soul.

Anselm was still with Hugh the Wolf, probably at Gloucester, where the
King's illness took place. A message came to summon him without delay to
the royal chamber, there to receive the pastoral staff of Canterbury. He
would not hear of it; he declared he was unfit, he was an old man, and
knew nothing of business, he was weak, unable to govern the Church in
such times. "The plough should be drawn by animals of equal strength,"
said he to the bishops and other friends who stood round, combatting his
scruples, and exulting that the king's heart was at length touched.
"Would you yoke a feeble old sheep with a wild young bull?"

Without heeding his objections, the Norman clergy by main force dragged
him into the room where lay the Red King, in truth like to a wild bull
in a net, suffering from violent fever, and half mad with impatience
and anguish of mind. He would not hear Anselm's repeated refusals, and
besought him to save him. "You will ruin me," he said. "My salvation is
in your hands. I know God will never have mercy on me if Canterbury is
not filled."

Still Anselm wept, imploring him to make another choice; but the bishops
carried him up to the bedside, and actually forced open his clenched
hand to receive the pastoral staff which William held out to him. Then,
half fainting, he was carried away to the Cathedral, where they chanted
the _Te Deum_, and might well have also sung, "The king's heart is in
the hand of the Lord, as the rivers of water."

But though William had thus been shown how little his will availed when
he openly defied the force of prayer, his stubborn disposition was
unchanged, and he recovered only to become more profane than ever.
Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester, when congratulating him on his
restoration, expressed a hope that he would henceforth show more regard
to the Most High. "Bishop," he returned, as usual with an oath, "I will
pay no honor to Him who has brought so much evil on me."

A war at this time broke out between William and his brother Robert, and
the King ordered all his bishops to pay him large sums to maintain his
forces. Canterbury had been so wasted with his extortions that Anselm
could hardly raise 500 marks, which he brought the King, warning him
that this was the last exaction with which he meant to comply. "Keep
your money and your foul tongue to yourself," answered William; and
Anselm gave the money to the poor.

Shortly after, Anselm expostulated with William on the wretched state of
the country, where the Christian religion had almost perished; but the
King only said he would do what he would with his own, and that his
father had never met with such language from Lanfranc. Anselm was
advised to offer him treasure to make his peace, but this he would not
do; and William, on hearing of his refusal, broke out thus: "Tell him
that as I hated him yesterday, I hate him more to day, and will hate him
daily more and more. Let him keep his blessings to himself; I will have
none of them."

The next collision was respecting the Pallium, the scarf of black wool
with white crosses; woven from the wool of the lambs blessed by the Pope
on St. Agnes' day, which, since the time of St. Augustine, had always
been given by the Pope to the English Primate. Anselm, who had now been
Archbishop for two years, asked permission to go and receive it; but as
it was in the midst of the dispute between Emperor and Pope, there was
an Antipope, as pretenders to that dignity were called--one Guibert,
appointed by Henry IV. of Germany, besides Urban II., who had been
chosen by the Cardinals, and whose original Christian name was really
Odo. William went into a great fury on hearing that Anselm regarded
Urban as the true Pope, without having referred to himself, convoked
the clergy and laity at Rockingham, and called on them to depose the
Archbishop. The bishops, all but Gundulf of Rochester, were in favor of
the King, and renounced their obedience to the Primate; but the nobles
showed themselves resolved to protect him, whereupon William adjourned
the council, and sent privately to ask what might be gained by
acknowledging Urban as Pope.

Urban sent a legate to England with the Pallium. The King first tried
to make him depose Anselm, and then to give him the Pallium instead of
investing the Archbishop with it; but the legate, by way of compromise,
laid it on the altar at Canterbury, whence Anselm took it up.

Two years more passed, and Anselm came to beg permission to go to Rome
to consult with the Pope on the miserable state of the Church. William
said he might go, but if he did, he himself should take all the manors
of Canterbury again, and the bishops warned him they should be on the
king's side.

"You have answered well," said Anselm; "go to your lord; I will hold to
my God."

William banished him for life; but just before he departed, he came to
the King, saying, "I know not when I shall see you again, and if you
will take it, I would fain give you my blessing--the blessing of a
father to his son."

For one moment the Red King was touched; he bowed his head, and the old
man made the sign of the cross on his brow; but no sooner was Anselm
gone forth from his presence, than his heart was again hardened, and he
so interfered with his departure, that he was forced to leave England in
the dress of a pilgrim, with only his staff and wallet.

In Italy, Anselm was able to live in quiet study, write and pray in
peace. He longed to resign his archbishopric, but the Pope would
not consent; and when Urban was about to excommunicate the King, he
prevailed to prevent the sentence from being pronounced.

William was left to his own courses, and to his chosen friend Ralph, a
low-born Norman priest, beloved by the King partly for his qualities as
a boon companion, partly for his ingenuity as an extortioner. He was
universally known by the nickname of Flambard, or the Torch, and was
bitterly hated by men of every class. He was once very nearly murdered
by some sailors, who kidnapped him, and carried him on board a large
ship. Some of them quarrelled about the division of his robes, a storm
arose, and he so worked on their fears that they at length set him on
shore, where William was so delighted to see him that he gave him the
bishopric of Durham, the richest of all, because the bishop was also an
earl, and was charged to defend the frontier against the Scots.

He had promised to relax the forest laws, but this was only one of his
promises made to be broken; and he became so much more strict in his
enforcement of them than even the Conqueror, that he acquired the
nickname of Ranger of the Woods and Keeper of the Deer. Dogs in the
neighborhood of his forests were deprived of their claws, and there was
a scale of punishments for poachers of any rank, extending from the loss
of a hand, or eye, to that of life itself. In 1099, another Richard,
an illegitimate son of Duke Robert of Normandy, was killed in the New
Forest by striking his head against the branch of a tree; and a belief
in a family fate began to prevail, so much so that Bishop Gundulf warned
the King against hunting there; but William, as usual, laughed him to
scorn, and in the summer of 1100 took up his residence in his lodge of
Malwood, attended by his brother Henry, and many other nobles.

On the last night of July a strange sound was heard--the King calling
aloud on St. Mary; and when his attendants came into his chamber, they
found him crossing himself, in terror from a frightful dream. He bade
them bring lights, and make merry, that he might not fall asleep again;
but there were other dreamers. With morning a monk arrived to tell that
he had had a vision presaging the King's death; but William brayed his
own misgivings, and laughed, saying the man dreamt like a monk. "Give
him a hundred pence, and bid him dream better luck next time."

Yet his spirits were subdued all the morning, and it was not till wine
had excited him that he returned to his vein of coarse, reckless mirth.
He called his hunters round him, ordered the horses, and asked for his
new arrows--long, firm, ashen shafts. Three he stuck in his belt, the
other three he held out to a favorite comrade, Walter Tyrrel, Lord de
Poix, saying, "Take them, Wat, for a good marskman should have good
arrows."

Some one ventured to remind him of his dream, but his laugh was ready.
"Do they take me for a Saxon, to be frighted because an old woman dreams
or sneezes?"

The hunters rode off, Walter Tyrrel alone with the King. By-and-by a
cry rang through the forest that the King was slain. There was an eager
gathering into the beech-shaded dell round the knoll of Stoney Cross,
where, beneath an oak tree, lay the bleeding corpse of the Red
William, an arrow in his heart. Terror fell on some, the hope of
self-aggrandizement actuated others. Walter Tyrrel never drew rein till
he came to the coast, and there took ship for France, whence he went
to the holy wars. Prince Henry rode as fast in the opposite direction.
William de Breteuil (eldest son of Fitz-Osborn) galloped off to secure
his charge, the treasury at Winchester, and; when he arrived, found the
prince before him, trying to force the keepers to give him the keys,
which they refused to do except at their master's bidding.

Breteuil, who, as well as Henry, had sworn that Robert should reign if
William died childless, tried to defend his rights, but was overpowered
by some friends of Henry, who now came up to the forest; and the next
morning the prince set off to London, taking with him the crown, and
caused the Bishop of London to anoint and crown him four days after his
brother's death.

No one cared for the corpse beneath the oak, and there it lay till
evening, when one Purkiss, a charcoal-burner of the forest hamlet of
Minestead, came by, lifted it up, and carried it on his rude cart, which
dripped with the blood flowing from the wound, to Winchester.

There the cathedral clergy buried it in a black stone coffin, ridged
like the roof of a house, beneath the tower of the cathedral, many
people looking on, but few grieving, and some deeming it shame that so
wicked a man should be allowed to lie within a church. These thought it
a judgment, when, next year, the tower fell down over the grave, and it
was rebuilt a little further westward with some of the treasure Bishop
Walkelyn had left. Never did any man's history more awfully show a
hardened, impenitent heart, going back again to sin after a great
warning, then cut off by an instantaneous death, in the full tide of
prosperity, in the very height of health and strength--for he was but in
his fortieth year.

A spur of William Rufus is still preserved at the forest town of
Lyndhurst; Purkiss's descendant still dwells at Minestead; part of the
way by which he travelled is called the King's Lane, and the oak long
remained at Stoney Cross to mark the spot where the King fell; and when,
in 1745, the remains of the wood mouldered away, a stone was set up in
its place; but the last of the posterity of William the Conqueror's
"high deer" were condemned in the course of the year 1831.

  A Minestead churl, whose wonted trade
  Was burning charcoal in the glade,
  Outstretched amid the gorse
  The monarch found: and in his wain
  He raised, and to St. Swithin's fane
  Conveyed the bleeding corse.

  And still--so runs our forest creed--
  Flourish the pious woodman's seed,
  Even in the self-same spot:
  One horse and cart, their little store,
  Like their forefather's, neither more
  Nor less, their children's lot.

  And still in merry Tyndhurst hall
  Red William's stirrup decks the wall;
  Who lists, the sight may see.
  And a fair stone in green Mai wood,
  Informs the traveller where stood
  The memorable tree.

  Thus in those fields the Red King died,
  His father wasted in his pride,
  For it is God's command
  Who doth another's birthright rive,
  The curse unto his blood shall cleave,
  And God's own word shall stand.

Who killed William Rufus? is a question to which the answer becomes more
doubtful in proportion to our knowledge of history. Suspicion attached
of course to Tyrrel, but he never owned that the shaft, either by design
or accident, came from his bow, and no one was there to bear witness.
Some think Henry Beauclerc might be guilty of the murder, and he was
both unscrupulous enough and prompt enough in taking advantage of the
circumstance, to give rise to the belief. Anselm was in Auvergne when he
heard of the King's death, and he is said to have wept at the tidings.
He soon received a message from Henry inviting him to return to England,
where he was received with due respect, and found that, outwardly at
least, order and regularity were restored in Church matters, and the
clergy possessed their proper influence. Great promises were made
to them and to the Saxons; and the hated favorite of William, Ralph
Flambard, was in prison in the Tower. However, he contrived to make his
escape by the help of two barrels, one containing wine, with which he
intoxicated his keepers, the other a rope, by which he let himself down
from the window. He went to Robert of Normandy, remained with him some
time, but at last made his peace with Henry, and in his old age was a
tolerably respectable Bishop of Durham.

Anselm was in favor at court, owing to the influence of the "good Queen
Maude," and he tried to bring about a reformation of the luxuries then
prevalent especially long curls, which had come into fashion with the
Normans of late. Like St. Wulstan, he carried a knife to clip them,
but without making much impression on the gay youths, till one of them
happened to dream that the devil was strangling him with his own long
hair, waked in a fright, cut it all off, and made all his friends do so
too.

As long as Henry was afraid of having his crown disputed by Robert,
he took care to remain on excellent terms with the Church, and Anselm
supported him with all his influence when Robert actually asserted his
rights; but when the danger was over, the strife between Church and
State began again. In 1103, Henry appointed four bishops, and required
Anselm to consecrate them, but as they all had received the staff and
ring from the King, and paid homage for their lands, he considered that
he could not do so, conformably with the decree of the Lateran Council
against lay investiture. Henry was much displeased, and ordered the
Archbishop of York to consecrate them; but two of them, convinced by
Anselm, returned the staff and ring, and would not be consecrated by any
one but their true primate.

Henry said that one archbishop must consecrate all or none, and the
whole Church was in confusion. Anselm, though now very old, offered to
go and consult the Pope, Paschal II., and the King consented; but when
Paschal decided that lay investiture was unlawful, Henry was so much
displeased that he forbade the archbishop to return to England.

The old man returned to his former Abbey of Bec, and thus remained in
exile till 1107, when a general adjustment of the whole question took
place. The bishops were to take from the altar the ring and staff,
emblems of spiritual power, and to pay homage to the king for their
temporal possessions. The election was to belong to the cathedral
clergy, subject to the King's approval. The usual course became that the
King should send to the chapter a _conge d'elire_, that is, permission
to elect, but accompanied by a recommendation of some particular person;
and this nominee of the crown was so constantly chosen, that the custom
of sending a _conge d'elire_ has become only a form, which, however, is
an assertion of the rights of the Church.

A similar arrangement with regard to the presentation of bishops was
accepted in 1122 by Henry V. of Germany, who married Matilda, the
daughter of Henry I.

After the arrangement in 1107, Anselm returned to England, and good
Queen Maude came to meet him and show him every honor. His last year was
spent at Canterbury, in a state of weakness and infirmity, terminated by
his death on the 21st of April, 1109.

A gentle, studious man was the pious Anselm, our second Italian
archbishop, thrust into the rude combat of the world against his will,
and maintaining his cause and the cause of the Church with untiring
meekness and quiet resolution.



   CAMEO XIII.

   THE FIRST CRUSADE.
   (1095-1100.)

  _King of England_.
   William II.

  _King of France_.
   Philippe II.

  _Emperor of Germany_.
   Heinrich IV.

  _Pope_.
   Urban II.


In the November of 1095 was seen such a sight as the world never
afforded before nor since. The great plain of La Limagne, in Auvergne,
shut in by lofty volcanic mountains of every fantastic and rugged form,
with the mighty Puy de Dome rising royally above them, was scattered
from one boundary to the other with white tents, and each little village
was crowded with visitants. The town of Clermont, standing on an
elevation commanding the whole extent of the plain, was filled
to overflowing, and contained a guest before whom all bowed in
reverence--the Pope himself--Urban II., whom the nations of the West
were taught to call the Father of Christendom. Four hundred Bishops
and Abbots had met him there, other clergy to the amount of 4,000, and
princes, nobles, knights, and peasants, in numbers estimated at 30,000.
Every one's eye was, however, chiefly turned on a spare and sunburnt
man, of small stature, and rude, mean appearance, wearing a plain, dark
serge garment, girt by a cord round his waist, his head and feet bare,
and a crucifix in his hand. All looked on his austere face with the
veneration they would have shown to a saint, and with the curiosity with
which those are regarded who have dared many strange perils. He was
Peter the Hermit, of Picardy, who had travelled on pilgrimage to
Jerusalem; had there witnessed the dreadful profanities of the infidels,
and the sufferings they inflicted on the faithful; had conversed with
the venerable Patriarch Simeon; nay, it was said, while worshipping
at the Holy Sepulchre, had heard a voice calling on him to summon the
nations to the rescue of these holy spots. It was the tenth day of
the council at Clermont, and in spite of the severe cold, the clergy
assembled in the open air on the wide space in front of the dark stone
cathedral, then, as now, unfinished. There was need that all should
hear, and no building could contain the multitudes gathered at their
summons. A lofty seat had been raised for the Pope, and Peter the Hermit
stood by his side.

All was silence as the Hermit stood forth, and, crucifix in hand, poured
forth his description of the blasphemy of the infidels, the desolation
of the sacred places, and the misery of the Christians. He had seen the
very ministers of God insulted, beaten, even put to, death: he had seen
sacrilege, profanation, cruelty; and as he described them, his voice
became stifle, and his eyes streamed with tears.

When he ceased, Urban arose, and strengthened each word he had spoken,
till the whole assembly were weeping bitterly. "Yes, brethren," said
the Pope, "let us weep for our sins, which have provoked the anger of
heaven; let us weep for the captivity of Zion. But woe to us if our
barren pity leaves the inheritance of the Lord any longer in the hands
of his foes."

Then he called on them to take up arms for the deliverance of the Holy
Land. "If you live," said he, "you will possess the kingdoms of the
East; if you die, you will be owned in heaven as the soldiers of
the Lord; Let no love of home detain you; behold only the shame and
sufferings of the Christians, hear only the groans of Jerusalem, and
remember that the Lord has said, 'He that loveth his father or mother
more than Me is not worthy of Me. Whoso shall leave house, or father, or
mother, or wife, or children, and all that he has, for My sake, shall
receive an hundredfold, and in the world to come eternal life.'"

"_Deus vult; Deus vult;_"--It is God's will--broke as with one voice
from the assembly, echoing from the hills around, and pealing with a
voice like thunder.

"Yes, it is God's will," again spoke Urban, "Let these words be your
war-cry, and keep you ever in mind that the Lord of Hosts is with you."
Then holding on high the Cross--"Our Lord himself presents you His own
Cross, the sign raised aloft to gather the dispersed of Israel. Bear it
on your shoulders and your breast; let it shine on your weapons and your
standards. It will be the pledge of victory or the palm of martyrdom,
and remind you, that, as your Saviour died for you, so you ought to die
for Him." Outcries of different kinds broke out, but all were for the
holy war. Adhemar de Monteil, Bishop of Puy, a neighboring See, first
asked for the Cross, and thousands pressed after him, till the numbers
of Crosses failed that had been provided, and the cardinals and other
principal persons tore up their robes to furnish more.

The crusading spirit spread like circles from a stone thrown into the
water, as the clergy of the council carried their own excitement to
their homes, and the hosts who took the Cross were beyond all reckoning.
On the right or wrong of the Crusades, it is useless as well as
impossible to attempt to decide. It was doubtless a spirit of religion,
and not of self-interest, that prompted them; they were positively the
best way of checking the progress of Mahometanism and the incursions of
its professors, and they were undertaken with far purer intentions than
those with which they were carried on. That they afterward turned to
great wickedness, is not to be denied; some of the degenerate Crusaders
of the latter days were among the wickedest of mankind, and the misuse
of the influence they gave the Popes became a source of some of the
worst practices of the Papacy. Already Pope Urban was taking on him to
declare that a man who perished in the Crusade was sure of salvation,
and his doctrine was still further perverted and falsified till it
occasioned endless evils.

Yet, in these early days, joined with many a germ of evil, was a
grandeur of thought, a self-devotion, and truly religious spirit, which
will hardly allow us to call the first Crusade other than a glorious and
a Holy War.

It was time, politically speaking, to carry the war into the enemy's
quarters, and repress the second wave of Mahometan conquest. Islam
[Footnote: Islam, meaning "the faith;" it is a barbarism to speak of
the faith of Islam.] has often been called the religion of the sword,
and Mahomet and his Arabic successors, under the first impulse,
conquered Syria, Persia, Northern Africa, and Spain, and met their first
check at Tours from Charles Martel. These, the Saracen Arabs, were a
generous race, no persecutors, and almost friendly to the Christians,
contenting themselves with placing them under restrictions, and exacting
from them a small tribute. After the first great overflow, the tide had
somewhat ebbed, and though a brave and cultivated people, they were
everywhere somewhat giving way on their orders before the steady
resistance of the Christians. Probably, if they had continued in
Palestine, there would have been no Crusades.

But some little time before the eleventh century, a second flood began
to rush from the East. A tribe of Tartars, called Turcomans, or Turks,
embraced Mahometanism, and its precepts of aggression, joining with the
warrior-spirit of the Tartar, impelled them forward.

They subdued and slaughtered the Saracens of Syria, made wide conquests
in Asia Minor, winning towns of the Greek Empire beyond where the
Saracens had ever penetrated, and began to threaten the borders of
Christendom. They were very different masters from the Arabs. Active
in body, but sluggish in mind, ignorant and cruel, they destroyed
and overthrew what the Saracens had spared, disregarded law, and
capriciously ill-treated and slaughtered their Christian subjects and
the pilgrims who fell into their hands. It was against these savage
Turks that the first Crusade was directed.

Peter the Hermit soon gathered together a confused multitude of
peasants, women, and children, with whom he set out, together with
a German knight named Walter, and called by his countrymen by the
expressive name _Habe Nichts_, translated into French, _Sans avoir_, and
less happily rendered in English, _The Penniless_. They were a poor,
ignorant, half-armed set, who so little knew what they were undertaking,
that at every town they came to they would ask if that was Jerusalem.
Peter must either have been beyond measure thoughtless, or have expected
a miracle to help him, for he set out to lead these poor creatures
the whole length of Europe without provisions. They marauded on the
inhabitants of the countries through which they passed; the inhabitants
revenged themselves and killed them, and the whole wretched host were
cut off, chiefly in Hungary and Bulgaria, and Peter himself seems to
have been the only man who escaped.

A better-appointed army, consisting of the very flower of chivalry of
Europe, had in the meantime assembled to follow the same path, though in
a different manner.

First in name and honor was Godfrey de Bouillon, Duke of Lorraine, one
of the most noble characters whom history records. He was pure in life,
devotedly pious, merciful, gentle, and a perfect observer of his word,
at the same time that his talents and wisdom were very considerable;
he was a finished warrior, expert in every exercise of chivalry, of
gigantic strength, and highly renowned as a leader. He had been loyal
to the Emperor Henry IV. through the war which had taken place in
consequence of his excommunication by Gregory VII. He had killed in
battle the rebellious competitor for the imperial crown, who, when dying
from a wound by which he had lost his right hand, exclaimed, "With this
hand I swore fealty to Henry; cursed be they who led me to break my
oath." Godfrey had likewise been the first to scale the walls of Rome,
when Henry IV. besieged Gregory there; but he, in common with many
others of the besieging force, soon after suffered severely from malaria
fever--the surest way in which modern Rome chastises her invaders; and
thinking his illness a judgment for having taken part against the Pope,
he vowed to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Soon after, the Crusade was
preached, and Godfrey was glad to fulfil his vow with his good sword in
his hand, while Pope and princes wisely agreed that such a chieftain was
the best they could choose for their expedition.

Many another great name was there: Raymond, the wise Count of Toulouse;
the crafty Boemond, one of the Normans of Sicily; his gallant cousin,
Tancred, a mirror of chivalry, the Achilles of the Crusade; but our
limits will only allow us to dwell on those through whom the Crusade is
connected with English history.

The Anglo-Normans had not been so forward in the Crusade as their
enterprising nature would have rendered probable, but the fact was,
that, with such a master as William Rufus, no one felt that he could
leave his home in anything like security. Helie de la Fleche, Count de
Maine, [Footnote: Robert of Normandy had been betrothed in his childhood
to the heiress of Maine, but she died before she was old enough for the
marriage to take place. In right of this intended marriage, the Norman
Kings claimed Maine, though Helie was the next heir.] took the Cross,
and asked William for some guarantee that his lands should not be
molested. "You may go where you like," said William; "I mean to have
your city. What my father had, I will have."

"It is mine by right," said Helie; "I will plead it with you."

"I will plead, too." said William; "but my lawyers will be spears and
arrows."

"I have taken the Cross; my land is under Christ's own protection."

"I only warn you," said William, "that if you go, I shall pay the good
town of Mans a visit, with a thousand lances at my heel."

So Helie stayed at home, and in two years' time was made a prisoner when
in a wood with only seven knights. Mans was seized, and he was brought
before the King. "I have you now, my master," said William.

"By chance," said Helie; "but if I were free, I know what I would do."

"What would you do, you knave?" said William. "Hence, go, fly, I give
you leave to do all you can; and if you catch me, I ask nothing in
return."

Helie was set at liberty, and the next year, while William was absent
in England, managed to retake Mans. The Red King was hunting in the
New Forest when he heard the tidings; he turned his horse's head and
galloped away, as his father had once done, with the words, "He who
loves me, will follow." He threw himself into a ship, and ordered the
sails to be set, though the wind was so boisterous that the sailors
begged him to wait. "Fools," he said, "did you ever hear of a drowned
king?" He cruelly ravaged Maine, but could not take the city, and,
having been slightly wounded, returned to meet his fate in the New
Forest.

After this story, no one could wonder that it required a great deal of
enthusiasm to persuade a man to leave his inheritance exposed to the
grasp of the Red King, who, unlike other princes, set at nought the
anathemas by which the Pope guarded the lands of absent Crusaders.
Stephen, Count de Blois, the husband of William's sister Adela, took the
Cross. He was wise in counsel, and learned, and a letter which he wrote
to his wife is one of the chief authorities for the early part of the
expedition; but his health was delicate, and it was also said that his
personal courage was not unimpeachable; at any rate, he soon returned
home.

One of the foremost of the Crusaders was, however, our own Norman
Prince, Robert Courtheuse. Every one knows the deep stain of
disobedience on Robert's early life; and yet so superior was he to his
brothers in every point of character, that it is impossible not to
regard him with a sort of affection, though the motto of his whole
career might be, "Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel."

Never was man more completely the tool of every villain who gained
his ready ear. It was the whisper of evil counsellors that fired his
jealousy of his young brothers, and drove him into rebellion against his
father; the evil counsel of William led him to persecute Henry, loving
him all the time: and when in possession of his dukedom, his careless,
profuse habits kept him in constant poverty, while his idle good-nature
left unpunished the enormities of the barons who made his country
miserable.

But in generosity he never failed; he heartily loved his brothers, while
duped and injured by them again and again; he always meant to be true
and faithful, and never failed, except from hastiness and weakness; and
while William was infidel, and Henry hypocritical, he was devout and
sincere in faith, though miserably defective in practice.

The Crusade was the happiest and most respectable period of his life,
and no doubt he never was more light-hearted than when he delivered over
to William the mortgage of his dukedom, with all its load of care, and
received in return the sum of money squeezed by his brother from all
the unfortunate convents in England, but which Robert used to equip his
brave knights and men-at-arms, assisted by some of the treasures of
his uncle, Bishop Odo, who had taken the Cross, but was too feeble and
infirm to commence the expedition.

The Crusaders were not sufficiently advanced in the knowledge of
navigation to attempt to enter Palestine by sea, and they therefore
traversed Germany, Hungary, and the Greek Empire, trusting to the
Emperor Alexis Comnenus to give them the means of crossing the
Hellespont. Alexis was in great dread of his warlike guests; the schism
between the Greek and Roman Churches caused continual heart-burnings;
and at the same time he considered, very naturally, that all the lands
in the East at present occupied by the Mahometans were his right. He
would not, therefore, ferry over the Crusaders to Asia till they had
sworn allegiance to him for all that they might conquer, and it was a
long time before Godfrey would comply. At last, however, on condition
that the Greeks would furnish them with guides and reinforcements, they
took the oaths; but as Alexis did not fulfil his part of the engagement,
they did not consider themselves bound to him.

At Nicea, the Crusading army, of nineteen different nations, of whom
100,000 were horse and 500,000 infantry, came in sight of the Turks,
and, after a long siege and several hotly-contested battles, won
the town. They continued their march, but with much suffering and
difficulty; Raymond of Toulouse had an illness which almost brought him
to the grave, and Godfrey himself was seriously injured by a bear, which
he had attacked to save the life of a poor soldier who was in danger
from its hug. He killed the bear, but his thigh was much torn, and he
was a long time recovering from the effects of his encounter.

At the siege of Antioch were their chief disasters; they suffered from
hunger, disease, inundations of the Orontes, attacks of the enemy, until
the living were hardly enough to bury the dead. The courage of many gave
way; Robert of Normandy retired to Laodicea, and did not return till he
had been three times summoned in the name of the Christian Faith; and
Peter the Hermit himself, a man of more enthusiasm than steadiness,
began to despair, and secretly fled from the camp in the night. As his
defection would have done infinite harm to the cause, Tancred pursued
him and brought him back to the camp, and Godfrey obliged him to swear
that he would not again leave them. In the spring of 1098 a great battle
took place, in which Godfrey, Robert, and Tancred each performed feats
of the highest prowess. In the midst of the battle, Tancred made his
esquire swear never to reveal his exploits, probably as a mortification
of his own vanity in hearing them extolled. After a siege of more than
seven months, Boemond effected an entrance by means of an understanding
with some of the Eastern Christians within the town. It was taken, with
great slaughter, and became a principality ruled by the Sicilian Norman.

Another great victory opened the way to Palestine, and the Crusaders
advanced, though still very slowly. During the march, one of the
knights, named Geoffroi de la Tour, is said to have had a curious
adventure. He was hunting in a forest, when he came upon a lion
struggling in the folds of a huge serpent; he killed the serpent, and
released the lion, which immediately fawned upon him and caressed him.
It followed him affectionately throughout the Crusade, but when he
embarked to return to Europe, the sailors refused to admit the lion into
their vessel. The faithful creature plunged into the sea to follow its
master, swam till its strength was exhausted, and then sank and was
drowned. [Footnote: Michaud's _Histoire des Croisades_ gives this story
from two authorities.]

It was on a glowing morning of June, 1098, that the Crusading host,
Tancred first of all, came in sight of the object of all their
toils--the City set upon a Hill.

There it stood, four-square, on the steep, solid, fortification-like
rocks, rising from the rugged ravines, Kedron, Siloam, Jehoshaphat,
Gehenna, that form, as it were, a deep moat round the walls, and natural
defences, bulwarks planted by the Lord's own hand around His own City,
while He was still her Tower of Salvation, and had not left her to the
spoiler. There stood the double walls, the low-built, flat-roofed,
windowless houses, like so many great square blocks, here and there
interspersed with a few cypresses and aloes, the mighty Tower of David,
the Cross of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and far above it, alas!
the dome of the Mosque of Omar, with its marble gates and porphyry
pillars, on the flat space on Mount Moriah, where the Temple had once
flashed back the sunlight from its golden roof.

Jerusalem, enslaved and profaned, but Jerusalem still; the Holy City,
the mountain whither all nations should turn to worship, the sacred name
that had been spoken with reverence in every holiest lesson, the term
of all the toils they had undergone. "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" cried the
foremost ranks. Down fell on their knees--nay, even prostrate on their
faces--each cross-bearing warrior, prince and knight, page and soldier.
Some shouted for joy, some kissed the very ground as a sacred thing,
some wept aloud at the thought of the sins they had brought with them,
and the sight of the tokens of Zion's captivity--the Dome and the
Crescent. Then once more their war-cry rose as with one voice, and Mount
Zion and Mount Olivet echoed it back to them, "_Deus vult! Deus vult!_"
as to answer that the time was come.

But Jerusalem was only in sight--not yet won; and the Crusaders had much
to suffer, encamped on the soil of iron, beneath the sky of brass, which
is part of the doom of Judea. The vineyards, cornfields, and olive-trees
of ancient times had given place to aridity and desolation; and the
Christian host endured much from heat, thirst, and hunger, while their
assaults on the walls were again and again repelled. They pressed
forward their attacks as much as possible, since they could not long
exist where they were.

Three great wooden towers were erected, consisting of different stages
or stories, where the warriors stood, while they were wheeled up to the
walls. Godfrey, Raymond, and Tancred each had the direction of one of
these towers, and on the fourteenth of July the general assault began.
The Turks, on their side, showered on them arrows, heavy stones, and
Greek fire--an invention consisting of naphtha and other inflammable
materials, which, when once ignited, could not be quenched by water,
but only by vinegar. It was cast from hollow tubes, and penetrating the
armor of the Christians, caused frightful agonies.

Raymond's tower was broken down or burnt; Godfrey and Tancred fought
on, almost overpowered, their warriors falling round them, the enemy
shouting with joy and deriding them. At the moment when the Crusaders
were all but giving way, a horseman was seen on the Mount of Olives, his
radiant armor glittering in the sun, and raising on high a white shield
marked with the red Cross. "St. George! St. George!" cried Godfrey's
soldiers; "the Saints fight for us! _Deus vult! Deus vult!_" and on they
rushed again in an ecstasy of enthusiasm that nothing could resist. Some
broke through a half-opened breach, some dashed from the wooden towers,
some scaled the fortifications by their ladders, the crowd came over
the walls like a flood, and swept all before them with the fury of that
impulse.

There was a frightful slaughter; the Crusaders, brought up in a pitiless
age, looked on the Saracens as devoted to the sword, like the Canaanite
nations, and spared not woman or child. The streets streamed with blood,
and the more merciful chieftains had not power to restrain the carnage.
Raymond did indeed save those who had taken refuge in the Tower of
David, and Tancred sent three hundred in the Mosque of Omar his own
good pennon to protect them, but in vain; some of the other Crusaders
massacred them, to his extreme indignation, as he declared his knightly
word was compromised.

Godfrey had fought on as long as resistance lasted, then he threw
himself from his horse, laid aside his helmet and gauntlets, bared his
feet, and ascended the hill of Calvary. It was Friday, and the ninth
hour of the day, when the Christian chief entered the circular-vaulted
church, and descended, weeping at once for joy and for sorrow, into
the subterranean crypt, lighted with silver lamps--the Holy Sepulchre
itself, where his Lord had lain, and which he had delivered. Far
from the sound of tumult and carnage, there he knelt in humility and
thankfulness, and in time the rest of the chieftains gathered thither
also--Tancred guided by the chant of the Greek Christians who had taken
refuge in the church. Peter the Hermit sang mass at the altar, and thus
night sunk down on Jerusalem and the victorious Christians.

The following days confirmed the conquest, and councils began to be held
on the means of securing it. A King was to be elected, and it is said
that the crown was offered to Robert of Normandy, and declined by him.
Afterward, by universal consent, Godfrey de Bouillon was chosen to be
King of Jerusalem.

He accepted the office, with all its toils and perils, but he would
neither bear the title nor crown. He chose to leave the title of King of
Jerusalem to Him to whom alone it belonged; he would not wear a crown of
gold where that King had Worn a crown of thorns, and he kept only his
knightly helmet, with the title of Defender and Baron of the Holy
Sepulchre.

Well did he fulfil his trust, ever active, and meeting the infidels with
increasing energy wherever they attacked him; but it was only for one
year. The climate undermined his health; he fell sick of a fever, and
died in July, 1100, just one year from the taking of Jerusalem. He lies
buried in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, beneath a stone bearing
these words: "Here lieth the victorious Duke Godfrey de Bouillon, who
won all this land to the Christian faith. May whose soul reign with
Christ." His good sword is also still kept in the same church, and was
long used to dub the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre.



   CAMEO XIV.

   THE ETHELING FAMILY.
   (1010-1159.)

  _Kings of England_.
   Knute and his sons.
   Edward.
   Harold.
   William I.
   William II.
   Henry I.

  _Kings of France_.
   Henry I.
   Philippe I.
   Louis VI.


When, in 1016, the stout-hearted Edmund Ironside was murdered by Edric
Streona, he left two infant sons, Edmund and Edward, who fell into the
power of Knute.

These children were placed, soon after, under the care of Olaf
Scotkonung, King of Sweden, who had been an ally of their grandfather's,
and had sent to England to request that teachers of the Gospel might
come to him. By these English clergy he had been baptized, and his
country converted, so that they probably induced him to intercede with
Knute for the orphan princes. Shortly after, a war broke out between
Denmark and Sweden, and Olaf, believing, perhaps, that the boys were
unsafe in the North, where Knute's power was so great, transferred them
to Buda, to the care of Stephen, King of Hungary.

It was a happy home for them. Stephen, the first king of Hungary, was
a most noble character, a conqueror and founder of a kingdom, humble,
devout, pious, and so charitable that he would go about in disguise,
seeking for distressed persons. He was a great lawgiver, and drew up an
admirable code, in which he was assisted by his equally excellent son
Emeric, and was the first person who in any degree civilized the Magyar
race. His son Emeric died before him, leaving no children; and, after
three years of illness, Stephen himself expired in 1038. His name has
ever since been held in high honor, and his arched crown, half-Roman,
half-Byzantine, was to the Hungarians what St. Edward's crown is to
us. After Hungary was joined to the German Empire, there was still a
separate coronation for it, and it was preserved in the castle of Buda,
under a guard of sixty-four soldiers, until the rebellion of 1848, when
it was stolen by the insurgents, and has never since been recovered.

After Stephen's death, there was a civil war between the heathen Magyars
and the Christians, ending in the victory of the latter, and the
establishment of Andrew in the kingdom. This was in 1051, and it was
probably the sister-in-law of this Andrew whom the Saxon prince Edward
married. All we are told about her is, that her name was Agatha, and
that she was learned and virtuous.

In 1058, Edward, the only survivor of the brothers, was invited by his
cousin, the childless Confessor, to return to England, and there be
owned as Etheling, or heir to the crown. He came, but after his forty
years' absence from his native country, his language, habits, and
manners were so unlike those of the English, that he was always known by
the name of Edward the Stranger.

After two years, both the Stranger and his wife Agatha died, leaving
three young children, Christina, Margaret, and Edgar, of whom the boy
was the youngest. His only inheritance, poor child, was his title of
Etheling, declaring a claim which was likely to be his greatest peril.
Edward the Confessor passed him entirely over in disposing of his
kingdom; and as he was but six, or, as some say, ten years old, Harold
seems to have feared no danger from him, but left him at liberty within
the city of London.

There he remained while the battles of Stamford Bridge and Hastings were
fought, and there, when the tidings came that the Normans had conquered,
the little child was led forth, while a proclamation was made before him
that Edgar was King of England. But it was only a few faithful
citizens that thus upheld the young descendant of Alfred. Some were
faint-hearted, others were ambitious; Edwin and Morkar said they would
support him if the bishops would; the bishops declared that the Pope
favored the Normans. The Conqueror was advancing, and from the walls of
London the glare of flame might be seen, as he burnt the villages of
Hertfordshire and Surrey, and soon the camp was set up without the
walls, and the Conqueror lodging in King Edward's own palace of
Westminster. The lame Alderman Ansgard was carried in his litter to hold
secret conference with him, and returned with promises of security for
lives and liberties, if the citizens would admit and acknowledge King
William. They dreaded the dangers of a seige, and gladly accepted his
proposal, threw open their gates, and came forth in procession to
Westminster to present him with the keys, basely carrying with them the
helpless boy whom they had a few weeks before owned as their king.

Edgar was a fair child, of the old Saxon stamp of beauty, with flaxen
hair and blue eyes; and the Duke of Normandy, harsh as he usually was,
received him affectionately. Perhaps he thought of his own orphanhood at
the same age, and the many perils through which he had been preserved,
and pitied the boy deprived of his kingdom, without one faithful hand
raised to protect him, and betrayed to his enemies. He took him in his
arms, kissed him, promised him favors and kindness, and never broke the
promise.

For the next two years Edgar remained at the court of William, until the
general spirit of hatred of the Normans began to incite the Saxons to
rise against them. Cospatric, Earl of Durham, thought it best to secure
the safety of the royal children, and, secretly withdrawing Edgar and
his two sisters from the court, he embarked with them for the Continent,
intending to take them to their mother's home in Hungary.

Contrary winds drove the ship to Scotland, and there the orphans were
brought to King Malcolm III. Never had an apparent misfortune been
in truth a greater blessing. Malcolm had but seven years before been
himself a wandering exile, sheltered in the court of Edward the
Confessor, after his father, the gracious Duncan, was murdered, and the
usurper Macbeth on the throne. He had venerated the saintly Confessor,
and remembered the untimely death of the Stranger, which had left these
children friendless in what was to them a foreign land; and he owed his
restoration to his throne to the Saxon army under old Siward Bjorn. Glad
to repay his obligations, he conducted the poor wanderers to his castle
of Dumfermline, treated them according to their rank, and promised to
assert Edgar's claim to the crown.

He accordingly advanced into England, where, in many places, partial
risings were being made on behalf of "England's darling," as the Saxon
ballads called young Edgar, after his ancestor Alfred. It was, however,
all in vain: Malcolm did not arrive till the English had been defeated
on the banks of the Tyne, and the Normans avenging their insurrection
by such cruel devastation, that nine years after the commissioners of
Domesday Book found no inhabitants nor cultivation to record between
York and Durham.

There is some confusion in both the English and Scottish histories
respecting Malcom's exertions in Edgar's cause; indeed, the Border
warfare was always going on, and now and then the King took part in
it. At length William and Malcolm, each at the head of an army, met
in Galloway, and after standing at bay for some days, entered into a
treaty. Malcolm paid homage to the English King for the two Lothians and
Cumberland, and at the same time secured the safety of Edgar Etheling.
The boy solemnly renounced all claim to the English crown, engaging
never to molest the Conqueror or his children in their possession of it;
while, on the other hand, he was endowed with estates in England, and a
pension of a mark of silver a day was settled upon him. He could not at
this time have been more than fourteen--there is more reason to think he
was but ten years old--but the oath that he then took he kept with the
most unshaken fidelity, in the midst of temptations, and of examples of
successful perjury.

He returned with his friend to Scotland, where, the next year, his
beautiful sister Margaret consented to become the wife of their
host, the King Malcolm; but Christina, the other sister, preferred a
conventual life, though she seems for the present to have continued with
Margaret at Dumfermline.

Gentle Margaret, bred in some quiet English convent; taught by her
mother to remember the Greek cultivation and holy learning of good King
Stephen's court; perhaps blessed by the tender hand of pious Edward the
Confessor, and trained by the sweet rose, Edith, sprung from the thorn,
Godwin; she must have felt desolate and astray among the rude, savage
Scots, wild chiefs of clans, owning no law, full of brawling crime and
violence, too strong to be kept in order by force, and their wives
almost as untamed and rude as themselves. Her husband was a rough,
untutored warrior, ruling by the main force of a strong hand, and asking
counsel of his own honest heart and ready wit, but perfectly ignorant,
and probably uncouth in his appearance, as his appellation of Cean Mohr
means Great-head.

But Margaret was a true daughter of Alfred, and the traditions of the
Alfred of Hungary were fresh upon her, and, instead of sitting down to
cower alarmed amid the turmoils round her, she set herself to conquer
the evils in her own feminine way, by her performance of her queenly
duties. She was happy in her husband: Malcolm revered her saintly purity
even more than he loved her sweet, sunny, cheerful manner, or admired
her surpassing loveliness of person. He looked on her as something too
precious and tender for his wild, rugged court, and attended to her
slightest bidding with reverence, kissing her holy books which he could
not read, and interpreting her Saxon-spoken advice to his rude Celts.
She even made him help her to wash the feet of the poor, and aid her in
disgusting offices to the diseased, and his royal treasury was open to
her to take all that she desired for alms. Sometimes she would pretend
to take it by stealth, and Malcolm would catch her by the wrists and
carry her to her confessor, to ask if she was not a little thief who
deserved to be well punished. In his turn he would steal away her books,
and bring them back after a time, gilt and adorned with beautiful
illuminations.

The love and reverence with which so bold a warrior treated her,
together with her own grace and dignity, had its effect on the unruly
Scottish chieftains, and not one of them ventured to use a profane word,
or make an unseemly jest before her. They had a rude, ungodly practice
of starting away from table without waiting for grace, and this the
gentle queen reformed by sending, as an especial gift from herself, a
cup of wine to all who remained. In after times the last cup was called,
after her, St. Margaret's cup, or the grace-cup.

To improve the manners of the ladies, she gathered round her a number of
young girls, whom she brought up under her own eye, and she used to sit
in the midst of them, embroidering rich vestments for the service of
the Church, and permitting cheerful talk with the nobles whom she
admitted--all men of whose character she had a good opinion. She
endeavored to reform the Scottish Church which had become very sluggish,
and did little to contend with Highland savagery. There were only three
Bishops and those not with fixed sees. Margaret and her husband convened
a synod, when Margaret herself explained her views, and Malcolm
interpreted. It was not a usual order of things, but to themselves quite
satisfactory, and thenceforth the Scottish Church became assimilated
to the rest of the Western communion. It was a Saxon immigration: the
Lowlands became more English than England then was, and Scotch is still
more like Saxon than the tongue we speak. But the Celts bitterly hated
the change; and thenceforth the land was divided.

She was gay and playful; but her fasts and mortifications in secret were
very great. She cut off unnecessary food and sleep, and spent half the
night in prayer. She daily washed the feet of six poor people, and
washed, clothed, and fed nine orphan babes, besides relieving all who
came to ask her bounty, attending to the sick, and sending to ransom
captives, especially her own countrymen the English, lodging her rescued
prisoners in a hospital which she had founded, till they could be sent
to their own homes.

Leading this happy and holy life, Edgar left his sister about two years
after her marriage, upon an invitation from Philippe I. of France; but
he was shipwrecked on the coast of Normandy, and coming to Rouen, was
kindly received by William, and remained with him. A close friendship
sprung up between the disinherited Etheling and Robert the heir
of Normandy, who was only a year or two older. Both were brave,
open-hearted, and generous, and their love for each other endured, on
Edgar's side, through many a trial and trouble. Happy would it have been
for Robert had all his friends been like Edgar Adeling, as the Normans
called him. A few years more made Edgar a fine young man, expert in the
exercises of chivalry, and full of the spirit of enterprise: but he did
not join his friend in rebellion against his father; and after Robert
had quitted Rouen, never to return thither in his father's lifetime, he
obtained permission from William to go on pilgrimage, gave his pension
for a fine horse, and set off for Italy with two hundred knights, fought
there, or in Sicily, against the Saracens, for some time, and then
continued his pilgrimage.

He returned through Constantinople, where many of the English fugitives
were serving in the Varangian guard. The Emperor Alexius Comnenus was
much pleased with him, and offered him high preferment if he would
remain with him; but Edgar loved his own country too well, and proceeded
homeward.

He found a changed state of affairs on his arrival in Normandy. William
the Conqueror was dead, and Robert, with the aid of Henry Beauclerc,
just preparing to assert his right to the English crown against Red
William. Edgar Etheling offered his sword to assist his friend; but he
was shamefully treated. William came to Normandy, sought a conference
with Robert, cajoled or outwitted him into a treaty in which one of the
conditions was that he should withdraw his protection from both Edgar
and Henry, and deprive the former of all the lands in Normandy which
their father had given him.

Edgar retired to Scotland to his sister Margaret, whom he found the
mother of nine children, continuing the same peaceful, active life in
which he had left her, and her holy influence telling more and more upon
her court. Many Saxons had come to live in the lowlands of Scotland,
and the habits and manners of the court of Dumfermline were being fast
modelled on those of Westminster in the time of Edward and Edith.

Malcolm and William Rufus were at war, and Edgar accompanied his
brother-in-law to the banks of the Tyne, where they were met by William
and Robert. No battle took place; but Edgar and Robert, meeting on
behalf of the two kings, arranged a treaty of peace. In return for this
service, William permitted Edgar to return to England, being perhaps
persuaded by Robert and Malcolm that the English prince was a man of his
word, though to his own hindrance.

The peace, thus effected did not last long, most unhappily for Scotland.
Malcolm, with his two eldest sons, Edward and Edmund, invaded England,
and laid siege to Alnwick Castle, leaving the Queen at Edinburgh,
seriously ill. At Alnwick the Scottish army was routed, and Malcolm and
Edward were slain. The tradition is, that one of the garrison pretended
to surrender the castle, by giving the keys, through a window, on the
point of a lance; [Footnote: Curiously in accordance with this story we
find, in the Bayeux tapestry, the surrender of Dinan represented by the
delivery of the keys in this manner to William the Conqueror.] but that
he treacherously thrust the weapon into the eye of Malcolm, and thus
killed him. The story adds that thus the soldier acquired the name of
Pierce-eye, or Percy; which is evidently incorrect, since the Percys of
Alnwick trace their origin to William de Albini, who married Henry
Beauclerc's second queen, Alice of Louvain.

An instant disturbance prevailed on the King's death. His army fled in
dismay; his corpse was left on the ground, till a peasant carried it to
Tynemouth; his men were dispersed, slain, or drowned in their flight;
his young son Edmund, a stripling of eighteen or nineteen, just
contrived to escape to Edinburgh Castle. The first tidings that met him
there were, that his mother was dying; that she lay on her bed in great
anxiety for her husband and sons, and finding no solace except in holding
a fragment of the true Cross pressed to her lips, and repeating the
fifty-first Psalm.

The poor youth, escaped from a lost battle, and bearing such dreadful
tidings, was led to her presence at once.

"How fares it with your father and brother?" said she.

He feared to tell her all, and tried to answer, "Well;" but she
perceived how it was too plainly, and holding out the Holy Cross,
commanded him to speak the truth. "They are slain, mother--both slain!"

Margaret's thoughts must have rushed back to the twenty-three years of
uninterrupted affection she had enjoyed with her lord, to her gallant
son, slain in his first battle, and onward to the unprotected state of
the seven orphans she left in the wild kingdom. Agony indeed it was; but
she blessed Him who sent it. "All praise be to Thee, everlasting God,
who hast made me to suffer such anguish in my death."

She lingered on a few hours longer, while storms raged around. The wild
Celts hated Malcolm's improvements and Saxon arts of peace, and his
brother Donald was placing himself at their head to deprive his lawful
brothers of their heritage. A troop of Highlanders were on their way to
besiege Edinburgh Castle, even when the holy Queen drew her last breath;
and her friends had barely time to admire the sweet peacefulness that
had spread over her wasted features, before they were forced to carry
her remains away in haste and secrecy, attended by her weeping,
trembling children, to Dumfermline Abbey, where she was buried.

Her children, seven in number (for Ethelred, the eldest, had died in
infancy), were left unprotected. Edmund was only eighteen, and timid
and gentle. Donald seized the crown; and the orphans remained in great
danger, till their brave uncle, Edgar Etheling, learnt the fatal
tidings, and, coming from England, fetched them all home with him,
giving the two girls, Edith and Mary, into the care of their aunt
Christina, who was now Abbess of Wilton. It was at some danger to
himself that he took the desolate children under his protection. A man
named Orgar accused him to William Rufus of intending to raise his
nephews to the English crown. A knight, named Goodwin, no doubt of Saxon
blood, no sooner heard the aspersion, than he answered by avowing the
honor and faithfulness of his Etheling, threw down his glove, and defied
Orgar to single combat--"God show the right." It was shown; Orgar fell,
and Saxons and Normans both rejoiced, for the Etheling had made himself
much beloved.

The Crusade was preached, and Robert invited Edgar to join in it; but he
could not forsake the charge of his sister's children, and was forced to
remain at home. Revolutions, however, continued in Scotland. Donald was
overthrown by Duncan, a son of Malcolm, born long before his marriage;
and the Lowland Scots were impatient of the return to barbarism. Duncan
was killed, and Donald restored. Edgar hoped that his nephews might
be restored. Edmund had chosen to renounce the throne and embrace a
religious life; but the next in age, Edgar and Alexander, were spirited
princes, and eager to assert their right.

The Etheling had never shed blood to regain his own lost kingdom; but he
was a true knight-errant and redresser of wrongs. He asked leave from
William to raise a Saxon army to restore his nephew to the Scottish
throne; and such was the reliance that even the scoffer William had
learnt to place on his word, that it was granted. The English flocked
with joy round their "darling," wishing, without doubt, that it was for
the restoration of the Saxon, instead of the Scottish Edgar, that they
took up arms.

At Durham the monks of St. Cuthbert intrusted to the Etheling their
sacred standard--a curious two-winged ensign, with a cross, that was
carried on a car. It was believed always to bring victory, and at the
first sight of it Donald's men abandoned him, and went over to Edgar.
Donald was made prisoner, and soon after died. Young Edgar assumed the
crown, sent for the rest of his family, and had a happy and prosperous
reign.

Had Edgar Etheling been selfish and ambitious, he might now, at the
head of his victorious Saxons, have had a fair chance of dethroning the
tyrant William; but instead of this, his thoughts were fixed on the Holy
Land; and embarking with his willing army, he came up with the Crusaders
just in time for the siege of Jerusalem, where the English, under "Edgar
Adeling," fought gallantly in the assault in the portion of the army
assigned to Robert of Normandy.

Edgar and Robert returned together, and visited the Normans of Apulia,
where Edgar had been some years before. Robert here fell in love with
Sybilla, the beautiful daughter of the Count of Conversana, and soon
after married her. It was in the midst of the wedding festivities that
Ralph Flambard, lately the wicked minister of William Rufus, arrived
from England, having escaped from prison, bringing the news that his
master, the Red King, was slain, and Henry Beauclerc wore the crown. The
hasty wrath of Duke Robert was quickly fanned by Ralph Flambard, and he
set off at once to attack his brother, and gain the kingdom which Henry
had sworn should be his.

However, on his arrival, he at first only amused himself with conducting
his bride through his dukedom, and being feasted at every castle. When
two knights of Maine came to tell him that Helie de la Fleche was
besieging their castles, he carelessly thanked them for their fidelity,
but told them he had rather gain a kingdom, than a county, and so that
they should make the best terms they could.

Sybilla's dowry enabled Robert to raise a considerable army, and he had
likewise the support of most of the barons whose estates lay both in
Normandy and England, and who therefore preferred that the two states
should be united; whereas those who had only domains in England held
with Henry, wishing to be free from the elder and more powerful nobility
of Normandy. The Anglo-Saxons were for Henry, who had relieved them from
some of their sufferings, and had won their favor by his marriage, which
connected him with the Etheling. Edith, the eldest daughter of the good
Queen Margaret, had remained with her aunt Christina in the Abbey of
Wilton, after her brother had been made King of Scotland. She was like
her mother in many respects; and her aunt wished to devote her to the
cloister, and secure her from the cruel sorrows her mother had endured,
under the black veil that she already wore, like the professed nuns, to
shield her from the insults of the Norman knights, or their attempts to
secure a princess as a bride. But Edith remembered that her father
had once said that he destined her to be a queen, and not a nun. She
recollected how her mother had moulded her court, and been loved and
honored there, and her temper rebelled against the secluded life in the
convent, so much that, in a girlish fit of impatience, she would, when
her aunt was out of sight, tear off her veil and trample upon it.

At length the tidings came that Henry, the new King of England, wooed
the Princess of Scotland for his bride.

A marriage of policy it evidently was; for, unlike the generous love
that had caused Malcolm to espouse the friendless exile Margaret, Henry
was a perjured usurper, and dark stories were told of his conduct in
Normandy. Christina strongly and vehemently opposed the marriage, as the
greatest calamity that could befall her niece: she predicted that, if
Edith persisted in it, only misery could arise from it; and when she
found her determined, tried to prove her to be already bound by the
promises of a nun.

Here Christina went too far: a court was held by Archbishop Anselm,
and it was fully proved that the Lady Edith was under no vows. She was
declared free to marry, and in a short time became the wife of Henry,
changing her own Saxon name to the Norman Matilda, or Maude. In the
first year of her marriage, when Henry was anxious to win the favor
of the English, he conformed so much to their ways that the scornful
Normans used to call him and his young wife by the Saxon names of Godric
and Godiva. The Saxons thus were willing to stand by King Henry, all
excepting the sailors, who were won by Robert's spirit of enterprise,
and deserting, with their whole fleet, went to Normandy, and brought
Robert and his army safe to Portsmouth.

This happened just as Edith Maude had given birth to her first child,
at Winchester. Robert was urged to assault the city; but he refrained,
declaring such would be an unknightly action toward his sister-in-law
and her babe. Henry soon came up with his forces, the brothers held a
conference, and, as usual, Robert was persuaded to give up his rights,
and to make peace.

For the next four years Robert continued in Normandy, leading a gay and
careless life at first with his beautiful Sybilla; but she soon died,
leaving an infant son, and thenceforward his affairs grew worse and
worse, as he followed only the impulse of the moment. From riot and
drunkenness he fell into fits of devotion, fasting, weeping, and
praying; his poverty so great that he was at one time obliged to lie in
bed for want of garments to wear; and his dukedom entirely uncared for,
fields left uncultivated, and castles which were dens of robbers.

The Normans begged that some measures might be taken for their relief,
and King Henry came, and, with Robert's consent, set things on a better
footing; but meanwhile he was secretly making arrangements with the
barons for the overthrow of his brother. In two years' time he had
tempted over almost every baron to desert the cause of their master, and
in 1106 prepared to wrest the dukedom from him. The unfortunate Robert
came to him at Northampton, almost alone, forced himself into his
presence, and told him he would submit everything to him, if he would
only leave him the state and honor due to his birth. Henry turned his
back on him, muttering some answer which Robert could not hear, and
which he would not repeat. In a passion, Robert reproached him with his
ill faith and cruel, grasping temper, left him hastily, and returned to
Rouen, to make a last sad struggle for his inheritance.

He placed his child in the Castle of Falaise, obtaining a promise from
the garrison that they would give up their trust to no summons but his
own, or that of a trusty knight called William de Ferrieres. Hardly a
vassal would rally round him in his dire distress; his only supporters
were two outlawed barons, whom Henry had driven out of England for their
violence, and besides these there were two faithful friends of his
youth, whose swords had always been ready in his cause, except in the
unhappy war against his father. One was Helie de St. Saen, the other
was Edgar Etheling, who quitted his peaceful home, and all the favor he
enjoyed in England as uncle to the Queen, to bear arms for his despoiled
and injured friend.

Henry invaded Normandy, and all the nobles came over to his side. Robert
met him before the Castle of Tenchebray, and the two armies prepared for
battle the next day. In the evening a, hermit came to the English camp;
his head strewn with ashes, and a cord about his waist. He conjured
Henry to cease from his unnatural war with a brother who had been a
soldier of the Cross, "his brow still shining with traces of the crown
of Jerusalem," and prevailed so far as to gain permission to go and
propose terms of peace to the Duke of Normandy. On coming into his
presence, the hermit begged to kiss the feet which had trodden the
pavement of the Holy Sepulchre, and then exhorted Robert to be contented
with the kingdom reserved for him in heaven. He declared Henry's terms
very hard ones; but the Duke would have accepted them, but that he was
required to own himself vanquished; and against this his haughty spirit
revolted. He cast aside all offers of accommodation, and prepared for
battle.

The fight of Tenchebray took place on St. Michael's Eve, 1106, the day
forty years since the Battle of Hastings; and when the Saxons in Henry's
army turned Robert's Normans to flight, they rejoiced as if they were
wiping out the memory of the defeat of Harold. Yet in the vanquished
army was their own Etheling, the darling of England, who was made
prisoner together with the unfortunate Robert, and led before Henry. It
was the last battle in which the two friends fought side by side; the
disinherited prince had fought for the son of the despoiler for the last
time, and soon they were to part, to spend the many remaining years of
their lives in a far different manner.

Robert was made to summon the surrender of Rouen, and Ferrieres was sent
to receive Falaise, and the little William, heir of Normandy; but the
faithful garrison would not yield till Henry had conducted thither the
Duke himself, who called on them to surrender, lest the castle should be
taken by the wicked outlaw De Belesme. Little William was brought to the
King, and his tears and caresses for a moment touched Henry's heart
so far that he gave the child into the charge of Helie de St. Saen,
Robert's faithful friend, and husband of his illegitimate daughter.

It was the last time Robert of Normandy saw the face of his only child.
The boy went to Arques with the faithful Helie, while Robert was sent
to England, and imprisoned in Cardiff Castle. At first he was honorably
treated, and allowed to indulge in hunting and other amusements; but he
made an attempt to escape, and was only recaptured in consequence of his
horse having plunged into a bog, whence he could not extricate himself.
After this he was more closely guarded, and it is said that his eyes
were put out; but there is reason to hope that this may not be true. He
was under the charge of Robert, an illegitimate son of Henry, who had
married Amabel Fitzaymon, heiress of Gloucester, and who was a noble,
high-minded, chivalrous person, likely to do all in his power to cheer
his uncle's captivity.

Here Robert from time to time heard of his son: first, how Henry had
sent messengers to seize him when St. Saen was absent from Arques; but
happily they came on a Sunday morning, when the child was at church,
and the servants, warned in time, carried him off to meet their brave
master. Then Helie chose to forfeit lands and castle rather than give up
his trust, and conducted his little brother-in-law from court to court,
wherever he could hope for security, till young William was grown up,
and raised an army, with the aid of Louis of France and Foulques of
Anjou, to recover his inheritance and rescue his father. But Foulques
was detached from the alliance by the betrothal of his daughter to
Henry's son William, and the battle of Brenville ruined the hopes of
William of Normandy. Next, Robert learnt that the male line of the
Counts of Flanders had failed, and his son, as the representative of
Matilda, the Conqueror's wife, had been owned as the heir of that rich
country. Shortly after, the captive Duke was one morning found weeping.
He had had a dream, he said, in which he had seen his son dying of a
wound in the hand. The tidings came in due time that William had been
accidentally pierced by the point of a lance in the hand, the wound had
mortified, and he expired at the end of a week. The prisoner still lived
on, till, in the twenty-eighth year of his captivity, death at length
released him. There is a story of his having starved himself to death in
a fit of anger, because Henry had sent him a robe after wearing it once;
but this is very improbable. Robert had reached a great age, and his
was a character which was likely to be much improved when absent from
temptation and with time for thought. He lies buried in Gloucester
Cathedral, under an effigy carved in bog oak, with the legs crossed, in
memory of his crusade, but unfortunately painted in such a manner as to
entirely to spoil its effect.

Edgar Etheling was soon allowed to ransom himself, and retiring to his
own estates, lived there in peace. His niece, the good Queen Maude,
lived on in the English Court, trying to imitate her mother in her
charities, and being, like her, much beloved by the poor, to whose wants
she ministered with her own hands; while her youngest brother David,
then a gay-tempered youth, used to laugh at her for such mean toils, as
he called them. No help, such as her father had given St. Margaret, did
Maude receive from her husband; she had only the pain of watching his
harshness, cruelty, and hypocrisy, during the eighteen years of her
marriage. She died in 1118, leaving three children--Maude, already
married to the Emperor of Germany, and William and Richard. William
Etheling is reported to have been as proud as his sister Maude, and to
have talked of using the churl Saxons as beasts of burden. But there
are stories more in his favor. He seemed generously disposed toward his
cousin, the son of Robert; and he met his death in an attempt to save
life, so that it may be hoped that he was not entirely unworthy of the
good old name of Etheling, which he bore as heir to the throne.

Our Etheling Edgar lived on in peace through all the troublous times of
Stephen, without again appearing in history, till his death is noted in
1159, ninety-three years after the Norman Conquest.

It has been the fashion to call him a fool and a coward; and no doubt
the ambitious men who broke oath after oath, and scrupled at no
violence, so esteemed one whose right was the inheritance over which
they quarrelled. Whether he was a fool, may be answered by showing
that, after he was fourteen, his name was never once brought forward by
factious men for their own purposes; that he conducted a treaty with
Scotland, and restored his nephew to the throne: and whether he was a
coward, no one can ask who has heard of him hastening to attack the
Saracens of Apulia, invading warlike Scotland, leading the English to
scale the walls of Jerusalem, and, lastly, fighting in a cause that
could only be desperate, in a battle that _must_ be lost, where he had
no personal interest, and only came to aid a distressed and injured
friend. No one can inquire into the history of the last of the race of
Alfred without acknowledging in him one of the most perfect examples of
true chivalry, in inviolate adherence to his word, and in redressing of
grievances, for which his good sword was ever ready, though for his own
rights it was never drawn, nor was one drop of English blood shed that
Edgar Etheling might reign.



   CAMEO XV.

   THE COUNTS OF ANJOU.
   (888-1142.)


Having traced the ancestry of our Norman kings from the rocks of Norway
and the plains of Neustria, let us, before entering on the new race
which succeeded them, turn back to the woodland birthplace of the house
of Plantagenet, on the banks of the Loire.

The first ancestor to whom this branch of our royal line can be traced
is Torquatus, a native of Rennes in Brittany, and keeper of the forest
of Nid de Merle in Anjou, for the Emperor Charles the Bald. Of Roman
Gallic blood, and of honest, faithful temper, he was more trusted by
his sovereign than the fierce Frank warriors, who scarcely owned their
prince to be their superior; and in after times the counts and kings his
descendants were proud of deriving their lineage from the stout Woodman
of the Blackbird's Nest.

His son Tertullus distinguished himself in battle, and died early,
leaving an only son, named Ingelger, who was godson to the Countess de
Gastinois, and was brought up in her castle, the school of chivalry and
"courtoisie" to the young vassals of the county.

The lady was heiress of Gastinois in her own right, and as the monarch
had the power of disposing of his wards in marriage, she had been
obliged to give her hand to the seneschal of Charles the Bald, a person
whom she much disliked. One morning her husband was found dead in his
bed; and his nearest relation, whose name was Gontran, accusing her of
having murdered him, laid claim to her whole inheritance.

The cause was brought before Charles the Bald, at Chateau Landon; and
Gontran offered to prove his words by the ordeal of battle, taking
off his gauntlet and throwing it down before the Emperor. Unless the
countess could find a champion to maintain her innocence, or unless
Gontran was overthrown in single combat, she would be completely
ruined, adjudged a murderess, and forced to hide her disgrace in a
convent. None of the knights present would undertake her cause; and
after gazing round at them in despair, she fainted away.

Her godson Ingelger, who attended her as a page, could not bear the
sight of her distress, and, as a last hope, threw himself on his knees
before the Emperor, entreating that, though he was only sixteen, and in
the last grade of chivalry, he might be allowed to take up the gauntlet,
and assert the innocence of his godmother.

Permission was granted; and Ingelger, trusting to the goodness of
his cause, spent the night in prayer, went in early morning with the
countess to hear mass, and afterward joined her in giving alms to the
poor; then she hung a reliquary round his neck, and sent him to arm for
the decisive combat.

The whole court were spectators; the Emperor Charles on his throne, and
the accused widow in a litter curtained with black. Prayers were offered
that God would show the right; the trumpets sounded, and the champions
rode in full career against each other. At the first onset Gontran's
lance pierced his adversary's shield, so that he could not disengage it,
and Ingelger was thus enabled to close with him, hurl him to the ground,
and dispatch turn with a dagger. Then, while the lists rung with
applause, the brave boy rushed up to his godmother, and threw himself
into her arms in a transport of joy.

The countess, thus cleared, only desired to retire from the world, and
besought the Emperor's consent to her bestowing all her lands on her
young defender. It was readily granted; and shortly after Charles
gave him, in addition, the government of the city of Angers, and the
adjoining county of Anjou, whence he derives his title. [Footnote: Many
similar tales of championship will occur to every one, in romance and
ballad. The Ginevra of Ariosto, our own beautiful English ballad of Sir
Aldingar, where it is an angel in the form of a "tinye boy," who appears
to vindicate the good fame of the slandered and desolate queen, the "Sir
Hugh le Blond of Arbuthnot, in Scotland." Perhaps this story may be the
root of all the rest. It is recorded in the "Gesta Andegavorum," in the
compilation of which a descendant of Ingelger had a considerable share.]

Little more is known of the first Count of Anjou, except that he bravely
resisted the Northern pirates; and for his defence of the clergy of
St. Martin of Tours was rewarded by a canonry, and the charge of the
treasure of the chapter. He died in 888, and was succeeded by his son
Count Foulques le Roux, or the Red. From this time the house of Anjou
began to acquire that character of violence, ambition, and turbulence,
which distinguished the whole family, till, six hundred years after, the
last of the race shed her blood on the scaffold of the Tower of London.
It therefore seems appropriate here to give the strange, wild story to
which they were wont to attribute their family temper, though it is
generally told of one who came later in the line. It was said that the
count observed that his wife seldom went to church, and never at the
celebration of mass; and believing that she had some unholy dealings to
cause this reluctance, he put her to the proof, by causing her to be
forcibly held throughout the service by four knights. At the moment of
consecration, however, the knights found the mantle alone in their hands;
the lady had flown through the window, leaving nothing behind her but the
robe, and a fearful smell of brimstone!

From the witch-countess, as she was called, her sons were thought to
derive the wild energy and fierce mutual hatred which raged for so many
centuries, and at last caused the extinction of the line. Foulques le
Roux was certainly not exempt, for he was believed to be the murderer of
his own brother. His eldest son, Geoffrey, called the Beloved of Ladies,
died before him; and Foulques, who succeeded him, though termed "_le
bon_," had little claim to such a title, unless it was derived from his
love of learning and his friendship with the monks of Tours.

He composed several Latin hymns for the use of the Cathedral, and always
took part in the service on high festivals in his canonical dress, as
hereditary treasurer.

Once, when King Louis IV. was present, he and his courtiers irreverently
amused themselves during the service by making jests on the clerical
count. A few days after, Louis received the following letter:

  "The Count of Anjou to the King of France. Hail. Learn, my liege
  Lord, that an unlettered King is no better than a donkey with
                                                      a crown on."

In spite of his devotion, to St. Martin, Foulques sacrilegiously robbed
the treasury of two golden vessels, and did not restore them till a
severe illness brought him to the point of death. The Bretons accuse him
of a horrible crime. He married the widow of Duke Alan _barbe torte_,
who brought with her to Angers her infant son, the little Duke Drogo.
The child died, and the Bretons believed that, for the sake of retaining
the treasure brought by his subjects, his stepfather had murdered him,
by pouring boiling water on his head while his body was in a cold bath,
so that, the two streams mingling, it might appear that he had been only
placed in tepid water.

However this might be, a war broke out between the Angevins and Bretons,
and there was bitter hatred between the two races, which is scarcely
yet at an end. Indeed, an Angevin Count could hardly in these days be a
peaceable man, bordering on such neighbors as Brittany, Normandy, and
Poitou. The Angevins were much more French than any of these neighbors;
and their domain being smaller, they generally held by the King. They
were his hereditary grand seneschals, carving before him on great
occasions; and Geoffrey Grise gonnelle, who succeeded Foulques le Bon
in 958, was on the side of the crown in all the war with Richard the
Fearless of Normandy. His ogre-like surname of Grise gonnelle simply
means gray gown, and is ascribed by the chronicle of Anjou to the
following chivalrous adventure:

In the course of the war with Normandy, when Harald Bluetooth's
Norwegians were ravaging France, and were encamped before the walls
of Paris, a gigantic Berserk daily advanced to the gate of the city,
challenging the French knights to single combat. Several who accepted
it fell by his hand; and King Lothaire forbade any further attempts to
attack him. Count Geoffrey was at this time collecting his vassals to
come to the King's assistance; and no sooner did he hear of the defiance
of the Northman, than, carried away by the spirit of knight-errantry, he
bade his forces wait for him at Chateau Landon; and, without divulging
his purpose, rode off, with only three attendants, to seek the
encounter. He came to the bank of the Seine in early morning, caused a
miller to ferry him and his horse across the river, leaving his squires
on the other side, and reached the open space before the walls in time
to hear and answer the Northman's daily challenge. The duel ended in the
death of the giant, and was witnessed by the French on the walls; but
they did not recognize their champion, and before they could come down
to open the gates, and thank him, he was gone. He had cut off the
enemy's head, and, bidding the miller carry it to the King, crossed the
Seine again, met his squires at the mill, and rejoined his vassals at
Landon, without letting any one know what had happened.

Lothaire was very anxious to know who the champion was; but all the
miller could tell him was, that it had been a man of short stature, and
slight, active figure, a capital horseman, whom he was sure he should
know again anywhere. In due time the nobles collected with their troops,
and Geoffrey among them. When they were in full assembly, Lothaire
introduced the miller, bidding him say whether the knight-errant was
present. The man fixed his eyes on the Count of Anjou, who wore a
cassock of coarse gray wool over his armor. "Yes," he said, "'tis he--_a
la grise gonnelle_."

It is also said that Geoffrey took his name from his frequent
pilgrimages to Rome, in which he wore the gray "palmer's amice." He was
a favorable specimen of the Angevin character, the knight-errant element
predominating over its other points, and rendering him honorable and
devout, and not more turbulent than could be helped by a feudal chief of
the tenth century. He died near Saumur, while besieging the castle of a
refractory vassal, in the year 987.

His son Foulques was surnamed Nerra, an old form of Le Noir, or The
Black. The name was derived from his complexion; but he merited it by
his disposition, for he was the most wicked of all the counts of Anjou.
He was very able, and, though little in stature, and lame, usually made
his wars turn out much to his advantage. In personal prowess he by no
means equalled his father; indeed, there was a Danish warrior, who
guarded the town of Saumur for the Count de Blois, that he dreaded
so much as always to gallop at full speed through the neighborhood,
whenever he was obliged to pass that way. However, he was not backward
to risk his person on occasion, and in a battle with the Count de Blois
at Amboise was severely wounded, his standard taken, and his troops
forced to retreat, when his vassal, the alert Herbert _Eveille chiens_,
of Mans, came up with fresh troops, fell on the men of Blois as they
were bathing and resting after the battle, cried the Angevin war-cry,"
Rallie! rallie!" [Footnote: "Go at then again!" evidently the origin of
"to rally."] and taking them by surprise, turned the fortune of the day.
This victory extended Foulques' domain to the bank of the Loire, and
enabled him to lay siege to Saumur. The citizens were too few to defend
both gates, and, by the advice of the monks of St. Florent, resolved to
commit the defence of one to the relics of St. Doucelin, which had the
reputation of working miracles. The reliquary was placed full before the
eastern gate, in the hope that either the Augevins would be afraid to
break through, or that some evil consequence might ensue on their
attempting it, and the Saumurois went to protect their western gate.
However, Foulques Nerra seldom let scruples interfere, and marched in
without regard to the saint. He was very cruel to his prisoners, and
with his own hand thrust out the eye of one who reproached him with his
unworthy treatment. He built new walls round Saumur, for which he was
obliged to destroy some buildings belonging to the monastery of St.
Florent, and as he set fire to them with his own hand, he called out to
the saint to beg his pardon, swearing to build him a much finer house.

It was the practice of Foulques Nerra to commit frightful crimes, and
then to expect to atone for them by vehemence in penance and devotion.
He was recklessly barbarous in his wars, and a cruel tyrant to his
people, filling his castle with miserable prisoners. He married a lady
named Hildegarde, a pious and gentle dame, whose influence had some
effect in calming his fierce passions and lessening his cruelty; but
their son Geoffrey Martel was as wild and violent as himself, though
with more generosity. A quarrel broke out, Geoffrey rebelled, was
conquered, and his father obliged him to come and ask pardon, crawling
on all fours, with a saddle on his back.

"So, sir, you're tamed!" said the count, putting his foot on his neck.

"True! but by no one but my father," the proud youth made answer. And
Foulques was so pleased, that he took him into favor again.

Foulques Nerra was a great founder of churches and convents, and made no
less than four pilgrimages to the Holy Land, in the third of which he
travelled part of the way with another ancestor of our kings, Robert the
Magnificent of Normandy. In the last, his penance exceeded all that had
yet been seen at Jerusalem. He stripped himself to his waist, and went
barefoot to the Holy Sepulchre, followed by two servants, whom he
obliged to beat him with rods, while at each step he exclaimed, "O Lord,
have pity on the wretched, perjured traitor Foulques!"

Such violent penances are repugnant to all our ideas, and if these rude
warriors believed that by them their crimes could be atoned, they were
grievously mistaken: but at the same time it must be remembered that
they were intended as tokens of repentance; and that, as we have seen in
the humiliation of the rebellious son of the count himself, it was the
fashion to punish the body, because the mind was too little cultivated
to be alone addressed.

Foulques III. died at Metz, in the course of his return from this
pilgrimage, in the year 1039. His son Geoffrey, called Martel, or the
Hammer, was a great warrior. William the Conqueror was his chief enemy,
and the curious challenge that once passed between them has been
related. Indeed, Henry I. of France, who was in dread of both, promoted
their quarrels by making a grant to William of all that he might be able
to win from Anjou; and the Angevins had given bitter offence to the Duke
of Normandy when he was besieging the town of Hambrieres, by hanging up
hides over the walls, and shouting, "_A la pel! a la pel!_" (The hide!
the hide!) in allusion to his mother being the daughter of a tanner.

Their chief dispute was about the county of Maine--a name of evil omen
to their descendants. The only daughter of Count Herbert _Eveille
chiens_ (Wake-dog) was betrothed to Robert Courtheuse; and though she
died before the marriage took place, William claimed the county for his
son on Herbert's death. Geoffrey, who was the feudal lord of Maine, took
the part of the next heir, and invaded Normandy. On the river Dive,
Geoffrey, with his chief followers, was imprudent enough to cross by a
narrow bridge, leaving the main body of the troops on the other side,
where they were attacked by William. The bridge gave way, and the
Angevin army was destroyed in the sight of its lord.

This disaster broke the spirit of Geoffrey Martel. He was still a
young man, but he was worn out with disappointment. He had been twice
married--the second time to a very learned lady, named Grecia, who is
famous for having bought a book of homilies for two hundred sheep,
twelve measures of cheese, as much barley and millet, besides eight
marks of silver and some marten skins. Neither wife brought him any
children: and at Whitsuntide, 1060, he sent for his two nephews, the
sons of his sister Ermengarde, and divided his lands between them;
giving Touraine and Landon to the eldest, Geoffrey the Bearded, and
Anjou to Foulques, called _Le Rechin_, or The Quarrelsome, then only
seventeen, whom he knighted. He died the next Martinmas, in the robes of
a monk; and thenceforth Foulques proved his right to his surname by his
perpetual wars and disputes with his brother. Geoffrey _le Barbu_ is
famed for nothing but his misfortunes, and for a curious suit which he
had with the monks of St. Florent respecting some woods on the banks of
the Loire, which they declared to have been granted them by Foulques
Nerra. They brought witnesses to support their claim, as they had no
title-deeds; and Geoffrey agreed to have recourse to the judgment of
Heaven, as a proof whether the testimony was true or false. The ordeal
was to be by hot water. A great fire was lighted in the Church of St.
Maurice, at St. Angers, and a cauldron of water placed on it, into which
was plunged an old forester who had borne witness for the convent.
Without appearing to suffer inconvenience from the heat, he repeated
what he had formerly said and Geoffrey was obliged to abide by the
result of the ordeal. The monks proceeded to cut down the woods, and
supplied their place by the vineyards which have ever since been the
pride of the Loire.

The strife respecting lay investiture was the ruin of the bearded
Geoffrey; he claimed the investiture of the Abbot of Marmoutiers as
a temporal baron, and thus caused himself to be excommunicated. His
vassals fell from him and he became an easy prey to his brother
Foulques, who threw him into the castle of Chinon, and kept him prisoner
for thirty years.

Foulques IV., le Rechin, was a scholar, and wrote a Latin history of
Anjou, of which, however, only a fragment is preserved. He was as wicked
as most of the race, fierce, violent, and voluptuous. He was no longer a
young man, and had been twice married and once divorced (one tradition
says that he was the husband of the demon-countess), when, in 1089, he
cast his eyes on the beautiful young Bertrade, daughter of the Count de
Montfort, and promised Duke Robert of Normandy to make over to him the
county of Maine, if he would use his influence with her parents to
obtain her for him.

The Count de Montfort would not give up his daughter to the wicked old
Angevin, till Robert, in his usual weak, good-natured fashion, had
yielded up a number of his own frontier castles as her purchase.
Foulques did indeed put Maine into his hands; but he did not keep it
long, for Helie de la Fleche set up his claim, and maintained it as we
have seen. Nor did Foulques gain much by his bargain; for Bertrade had
no perfection but her beauty, and, in the fourth year of her marriage,
abandoned him and her infant son, and went to the court of Philippe I.
of France, who had lately grown weary of his queen Bertha, the mother of
his four children, and had shut her up in the castle of Montreuil.

Philippe found some pretext for declaring that his first marriage and
Bertrade's were both null and void; but not one French bishop could be
found to solemnize the disgraceful union he desired. He was obliged to
look beyond his own dominion, and it is said that it was the brother
of the Conqueror, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, who consented to pronounce a
blessing over their marriage.

They were not, however, allowed to sin unmolested. Bertrade's husband
made war on them on one side, Bertha's brother on the other. Philippe's
son Louis fled to the protection of the English; and the Pope laid them
under excommunication. For nine years, however, they persisted in their
crime; but at last they made a show of penitence; the King pretended to
renounce Bertrade, and they were absolved.

Bertrade had forsaken her child; but she was very anxious that he
should succeed his father, instead of his elder brother Geoffrey, a
high-spirited youth, whom the peasantry of Anjou regarded as their
friend and protector. She contrived to sow dissension between him and
his father, and at last caused him to be assassinated.

Then she chose to come to Angers to see her son heir of Anjou, and
actually brought the King with her; made Philippe and her husband behave
in the most friendly manner, eat at the same table, sleep on the same
couch; and Foulques was even base enough to sit on a footstool at
the feet of this woman, who could scarcely have been better than the
witch-lady herself.

After the death of Philippe she returned to Anjou, and went into the
Abbey of Fontevraud, where she practised such rigorous penances that her
health sank under them.

Her son, Foulques V., succeeded to the county in 1109, and was a much
better man than could have been expected from the son of such parents.
His wife was Sybil, daughter of Helie de la Fleche, an excellent,
gentle, and pious lady, whom he loved devotedly.

His eldest daughter, the Alix, or noble maid of Anjou, whose name seems
to have been Matilda, was betrothed to William the Etheling, son
of Henry I., in order to detach her father from the cause of the
unfortunate William Clito of Normandy.

Their marriage took place in the autumn of 1120, when the bridegroom was
seventeen and the bride twelve. It was celebrated with great splendor,
and all the Norman barons did homage to young William as their future
Duke. Afterward the English court repaired to Barfleur, there to embark
for their own island; but there was considerable delay in collecting
shipping enough for so numerous a party, and it was not possible to set
sail till the 25th of November. Just as the King was about to embark, a
mariner, named Thomas Fitzstephen, addressed him, with the offering of a
golden mark, saying that his father had had the honor of carrying King
William to the conquest of England, and entreating that his beautiful
new vessel, the Blanche Nef, or White Ship, with fifty good oarsmen,
might transport the present King.

Henry, always courteous, answered that his own arrangements were made,
but that no doubt his son, the Etheling, and his companions, would
gladly make the passage with him. The King then sailed, taking with him
the little bride, but leaving behind no less than eighteen ladies of the
highest rank--among them his niece, Lucy de Blois, Countess of Chester,
and his illegitimate daughter, Marie, Countess de Perche--also another
illegitimate son, named Richard, and all the gayest young nobles, who
were in attendance on the prince. Including the crew, the Blanche Nef
was expected to carry full three hundred persons across the Channel. All
were in high spirits, in that reckless state of mirth which the grave
Scots deem as the absolute presage of a fearful catastrophe, as well as
often its cause; and the young Etheling, with open-hearted, imprudent
good-nature, presented the crew with three casks of wine to drink to his
health and the success of the voyage. Such feasting took place, that all
the rest of the fleet had sailed; but Fitzstephen boasted that he would
overtake and outstrip every ship before they reached England. Some
prudent persons--among them young Stephen de Blois--left the ship; but
no one else had any fears; and though the night came on, there was a
bright moon, and the water was calm. Every sail was set; the rowers
plied their utmost strength, and thus it was with great violence that
the ship ran foul of the rocks called the Ras de Catte. A lamentable cry
reached the ships of the King's fleet; but no one guessed the cause. A
boat was lowered; Fitzstephen handed in the prince and a few rowers, and
bade them make for the shore; but just as they had pushed off, William
heard the agonized calls of his sister, the Countess de Perche, and
commanded the rowers to put back and save her. The masterless, terrified
multitude no sooner saw the boat approach, than they all flung
themselves headlong into it; down it went under them, and the whole
freight perished. The ship itself soon likewise foundered, and there
only remained, clinging to the mast, a young baron, named Godfrey de
l'Aigle, and a butcher of Rouen. Fitzstephen, however, swam up, and
called out to ask if the King's son had got off safe. When he heard
their answer, he cried aloud, "Woe is me!" and sank like a stone. It was
a cold night, and, after some hours, young Godfrey became benumbed, lost
his hold, and likewise sank; but the butcher, in his sheepskin coat,
held on till daylight, when he was picked up by some fishermen, and told
his piteous tale.

Next day the news came to England, and every one knew it but the King.
For some days no one could summon up resolution to inform him of this
surpassing calamity; but at last a little boy was sent to fall at his
feet, and, weeping bitterly, to tell him all. The stern heart was wrung:
Henry fell senseless on the ground; and he, whose gayety had once almost
hidden his hard, selfish nature, never smiled again.

The Count of Anjou sent for his daughter and her dowry. The daughter
came, and afterward became a nun at Fontevraud; but no dowry was sent
with her: and Foulques returned to the cause he had deserted, gave her
sister Sybil to William Clito, and held with him till his early death.

On the death of his countess, Foulques vowed to go on a crusade. His
eldest son Geoffrey was but seven years old, and before setting out, he
solemnly placed the boy on the altar of St. Julian at Angers, saying,
"Great Saint, I offer thee my son and my lands; be the protector of
both!"

Foulques maintained a hundred men-at-arms in Palestine for a year, at
his own expense, and signalized himself greatly. Baldwin I., King of
Jerusalem, the brother of Godfrey, had survived his brother eighteen
years, when, in 1118, the crown passed to Baldwin du Bourg, Count of
Essex, who, according to the usual fate of the Defenders of the Holy
Sepulchre, felt his health fast giving way under the influence of toil,
anxiety, and climate. He had been twice a prisoner, and had spent seven
years in captivity among the Infidels; but his kingdom had been bravely
defended by the knights of the Temple and Hospital, aided by Crusaders
from the West. Of these armed pilgrims the Count of Anjou was so much
the most distinguished, that, after his return, a knight was sent to
him by King Baldwin, to propose to give him the hand of Melisende, the
eldest princess of Jerusalem, and with it that crown of care and toil.

The crusading spirit was, however, strong in the house of Anjou, and
so continued for full three hundred years: and though Foulques was
considerably past forty, he accepted the offer, gave up his country to
his son Geoffrey, and set forth in 1127, married Melisende, and, four
years after, became King of Jerusalem. It was an unloving marriage; but
he was much respected and beloved, and his biographer observes that,
though he had red hair, he had not the faults common in men of that
complexion. He was continually in the field at the head of his knights,
and won several victories, one of which gained the town of Caesarea
Philippi. He was killed by a fall from his horse, near Acre, in 1142;
and left two sons by Melisende--Baldwin and Amaury, who afterward both
reigned at Jerusalem.



  CAMEO XVI.

  VISITORS OF HENRY I.
  (1120-1134.)


Henry Beauclerc was really a great King. His abilities were high even
for one of the acute Normans, and he studied at every leisure moment. He
translated Aesop's fables, not from Latin into French--which would not
have been wonderful--but from Greek to English. He seems to have had
a real attachment to the English, feeling that, in their sturdy
independence, he had the best preservative from the "outre cuidance" of
the Normans. Indeed, the English mind viewed Brenville as making up for
Hastings. He wrote a book of maxims, even on etiquette; and though his
heart was almost as hard as those of his brothers, his demeanor was far
more gracious: moreover, he felt remorse, as his brothers never did, nor
his father till his death. After he lost his son he had many a night of
anguish; when all the men of his kingdom seemed to come and reproach
him with their sufferings. But his reign, on the whole, was a
breathing-time, when he carried out his father's policy, restrained the
barons, and raised the condition of the English. He was also greatly
respected in other countries, and had many royal visitors, among the
chief of whom may be reckoned his brother-in-law, David of Scotland, and
Louis _l'eveille_, the prince of France. In the Conqueror's lifetime
Henry and Louis had met at the court of France, where they had
quarrelled at chess, and Henry, in a passion, had struck Louis a violent
blow. His elder brother, Robert, then in exile in Paris, came in at the
moment, and was so alarmed for the consequences, that he dragged Henry
down stairs, called for their horses, and galloped away, never resting
till he had seen the youth safely on the bounds of Normandy, where
Robert himself might not enter. King Philippe's anger is said to have
been one of the causes of the war in which William I. met with his
death.

Now, however, Louis was a fugitive from the persecution of the wicked
Bertrade, and found shelter and protection in England till his father
became reconciled to him.

Another royal visitor was Sigurd the Crusader, king of part of Norway.
Eystein, Sigurd, and Olaf had been left orphans by the death of their
father, King Magnus, when Eystein, the eldest, was only fifteen.
According to the law of Norway, they all possessed an equal right to the
kingdom; but this led to no disputes, and they lived together on the
most friendly terms. Eystein was peaceably disposed and thoughtful,
though lively; Sigurd, though enterprising and spirited, had a strain of
melancholy which affected him when he was not actively employed: and one
morning, Eystein, observing that his looks were gloomy, drew from him
that he had had a dream. "I thought," he said, "that we brothers were
all sitting on a bench in front of Christ Church in Drontheim, and our
kinsman, Olaf the Saint, came out in royal robes, glancing and splendid,
and his face bright and joyous. He took our brother Olaf by the hand,
saying, 'Come with me, friend,' and led him into the Church. Soon after,
King Olaf the Saint came forth again, but not so bright as before. He
came to thee, brother, and led thee with him into the church. Then I
looked for him to come to me and meet me; but it was not so: and I was
seized with great sorrow, and was altogether without strength; so that I
awoke."

Eystein interpreted the dream to mean that Olaf would die young and
innocent; that the Saint was less radiant in coming for himself, because
of his sins; and that Sigurd would be the longest-lived of the three. It
fell out much as the dream had presaged, for Olaf died in early youth.

Sigurd had the restless spirit of the Sea-kings, and became a Crusader.
He spent the first winter in England, the second in aiding the
Christians of Spain against the Moors: he visited the Normans in Sicily,
and, as the King of the whole Northern race, conferred on Count Roger de
Hauteville the title of King of Sicily, and then proceeded to Jerusalem.

Baldwin I. received him splendidly, and availed himself of his aid to
capture the town of Zidon. He left the Holy Land, taking as his reward
a piece of the wood of the True Cross, and returned through
Constantinople. There Alexius Comnenus gave him a magnificent reception,
which he tried to requite by equal Ostentation, repeating Robert of
Normandy's invention of the golden horse-shoes. He was entertained with
grand games in the Hippodrome, where the ancient Greek statues were much
admired by his followers and their Vaeringer brethren, who took them for
their own ancient Asagods. On his departure, he gave Alexius all his
ships, the figure-heads of which were made ornaments for one of the
churches at Constantinople; and some of the presents which he brought
away are still extant in Norway. In one little remote church there has
lately been found a curious Byzantine picture, representing the rescue
of the True Cross from the Persians by the Emperor Heraclius.

In the meantime, Eystein was leading a wise, beneficent, peaceable, and
pious life in Norway. But their different dispositions are best shown
in a discussion that the old Norwegian chronicle has recorded as taking
place soon after Sigurd's return. The two brothers were, in the ancient
fashion, sojourning in the house of one of their bonders, and keeping
open table, when, one evening the ale was not good, Sigurd fell into one
of his moods of gloomy depression, and the guests sat round silent.

The good-natured Eystein said, "Let us fall on some jest to amuse
people; for surely, brother Sigurd, all people are well pleased when we
converse cheerfully."

"Do you talk as much as you please, but let me be silent," returned
Sigurd.

"Nay," said Eystein. "let us follow the old custom over the ale-table
of making comparisons. I will soon make it appear that, different as we
are, we are both equal, and one has no advantage over the other."

He succeeded in drawing his brother into the game; and Sigurd, who was
the taller and stronger, answered, "Do you remember that I was always
able to break your back, if I had pleased, though you are a year older?"

"Yes," said Eystein; "but you were not so good at games that need
agility."

"Do you remember that I could drag you under water, when we swam
together, as often as I pleased?"

"Yes," returned Eystein; "but I could swim as far as you, and dive as
well; and I could run on snow skates so well that no one could beat me,
and you could no more do it than an ox."

"I think," said Sigurd, "you could hardly draw my bow, even if you took
your foot to help."

"I am not so strong at the bow, but there is less difference in our
shooting near."

"Beside," continued the tall Sigurd, "a chief ought to be taller than
other men, easily seen and distinguished."

"Nay," said Eystein, who was the handsomest man in Norway, "good looks
may be an equal distinction. Besides, I am more knowing in the law, and
my words flow more easily."

"Well, you may know more law quirks. I have had something else to do,"
said the rough warrior. "No one can deny you a smooth tongue; and some
say you do not keep to what you promise--which is not kingly."

"Yes, I promise satisfaction to one party before I have heard the other,
and then am forced to take something back. It would be easy to do like
you--promise evil to all. I never hear any complaint of your not keeping
this promise to them."

"Ay, and while I made a princely voyage, you sat at home like my
father's daughter."

"There you take up the cudgel," said Eystein, merrily; "but I know how
to answer. If I did sit at home, like my father's daughter, you cannot
deny that, like a sister, I furnished you forth."

Sigurd continued: "I was in many a battle in the Saracens' land, and
always came off conqueror; I won many precious goods, the like of which
were never seen here before; and I was always the most highly esteemed
where brave men met: while yours is but a home-bred renown. I went to
Palestine, I came to Apulia; but I did not see you there, brother. I
gave Roger the Great the title of King. I won seven battles; but you
were in none of them. I was at our Lord's grave; but I did not see you
there, brother. I went to Jordan, where our Lord was baptized. I swam
across the river; but I did not see you there. A willow grew on the
bank, and I twisted the boughs into a knot, which is waiting there for
you; for I said that you should untie it, and fulfil the vow that is
bound up in it."

"I have little to set against this," said Eystein; "but if you fought
abroad, I strove to be of use at home. In the north of Vaage I built
fish-houses, so as to enable the poor people there to earn a livelihood.
I built a priest's house, and endowed a Church, where before all the
people were heathen; and therefore I think they will recollect that
Eystein was once King of Norway. The road from Drontheim goes over the
Dofrefield, and often travellers had to sleep in the open air; but
I built inns, and supported them with money, and thus wayfarers may
remember that Eystein has been King of Norway. Agdaness was a bare
waste, and no harbor, and many a ship was lost. Now, there is a good
harbor, and a Church. I raised beacons on the high ground; I built a
royal hall in Bergen, and the Church of the Apostles; I built Michael's
Church, and a Convent beside. I settled the laws, so that all may obtain
justice. The Jemteland people are again joined to our realm, and more by
kind words than by war. Now, though all these are but small doings, yet
I am not sure if the people of our land have not been better served by
them than by your killing blue men in the land of the Saracens. Your
deeds were great; yet I hope what I have done for the servants of God
may serve me no less for my soul's salvation. So, if you did tie a knot
for me, I will not go to untie it; and if I had been tying a knot for
you, you would not have been King of Norway, when with a single ship you
came into my fleet."

Eystein conferred many more benefits on his country, and on individuals
many acts of kindness--such as his undertaking by his conversation to
cheer and console one of his friends who had been disappointed in love.
This excellent King died at thirty-five, and it was said that there was
never so much mourning in Norway. Sigurd's fate was sad; the shadow
predicted in his dream fell on him. His moodiness increased to
distraction, and nothing could be more wretched in those early times
than the condition of an insane king or of his country. He grew
extremely violent, and often did fearful mischief; but he still
preserved his generous spirit, and could always, even at the worst, be
tamed by any one who would boldly resist his fury. Happily, this only
lasted six years, for he died in 1330, at the age of forty.

This has been a long digression; but as Sigurd was the last of our
Northern visitors, we hope it may be pardoned for the sake of its
interest.

Henry I. gave his only daughter Maude in marriage to Henry V., Emperor
of Germany, a rebellious son, who had taken advantage of the sentence
of excommunication on his father, to strip him of his domains, and
absolutely reduce him to beggary. Maude was married to Henry V. at
eleven years old, when she was so small that she could not stand under
the weight of her robes, and the Archbishop of Cologne was obliged
to hold her in his arms during the celebration of the wedding. The
principal favorites of the King of England were at this time the sons
of his sister Adela, three in number: Theobald, Count de Blois and
Champagne; Stephen, Count de Mortagne, whom the King married to Matilda,
heiress, of Boulogne, the niece of good Queen Maude, and Henry, whom he
made Bishop of Winchester.

Henry was persuaded to marry again, and his queen was the beautiful and
gracious Alice of Louvaine, a fair young girl of eighteen. His daughter
Maude returned from Germany in 1125; but there were strange stories that
her husband, the Emperor, was not dead, but had fled in secret from his
court, to dwell as a hermit in penance for his crimes. His funeral had,
however, been performed with full solemnity. King Henry regarded her as
in truth a widow, and was very anxious to bestow her a second time in
marriage. He caused his vassals to take an oath of fealty to her as
his heiress, and foremost in making this promise were David, King of
Scotland--as Earl of Huntingdon, in right of his wife, Waltheof's
daughter--and Stephen de Blois, Count de Mortagne and Boulogne; while
Henry engaged at the same time that she should not be married without
the consent of the Barons.

Very soon, however, he broke his word, with the desire of conciliating
those troublesome neighbors of Normandy, the counts of Anjou. Foulques
V. showed himself so much inclined to befriend the son of Robert, that
Henry resolved to attach him to his own party, and proposed to him to
give Maude to his son Geoffrey, whom he desired should be sent at
once to Rouen, that he might see him, and confer on him the order of
knighthood.

Young Geoffrey was only fifteen, but, unlike his ancestors, was very
tall, and had also inherited the beauty and grace of his grandmother
Bertrade. King Henry was delighted with him, and after examining him
closely on all the rules of chivalry, as well as on other points, to
which Geoffrey replied with much acuteness, showing himself a good
scholar even in Latin, resolved to make him his son-in-law. His
knighthood was conferred with the greatest splendor and all the
formalities of the time. The first day he entered the bath, the emblem
of purity, and then was arrayed in fine linen, a robe woven with gold,
and a purple mantle. A Spanish horse was presented to him, and he was
armed in polished steel, and with a helmet covered with precious stones;
his gilded spurs were buckled on, and his sword and lance given to him.
He sprung on horseback without putting his foot in the stirrup, and six
days were spent in jousting with twenty-nine young nobles, who were
knighted at the same time. At the close of the tourney, Henry conferred
on him the accolade, or sword-blow, which was the chief part of the
ceremony.

Henry had great difficulty in making his daughter consent to the
marriage. Whether she believed her husband to be alive, or whether it
was from pride, or dislike to take so mere a boy as her bridegroom, her
resistance was long; and it was not till 1127 that she was brought by
her father to Mans, where the wedding took place, just before Geoffrey's
father departed for Palestine.

Maude was proud and disdainful, and treated her young husband in the
most contemptuous way; and Geoffrey avoided her in return, spending most
of his time in hunting in the woods, where he used to wear the spray of
broom that became the cognizance of his house, and caused their surname
of Plantagenet. Perhaps it was in contrast to his wife's haughtiness
that he chose to adopt this plant, considered as the emblem of humility,
and reminding her that she had married the descendant of the woodman
Torquatus.

Geoffrey seems to have been of a gay, lively temper, associating freely
with all who came in his way, and often doing kind actions. Once, as on
Christmas-day he was entering the Church of St. Julian at Mans, he met a
poor priest, meanly clad.

"What tidings?" said the Count.

"Glad tidings," returned the priest.

"What are they?"

"'To us a Child is born, to us a Son is given,'" the clerk made answer;
and Geoffrey was so struck with his appropriate manner, that he gave him
a valuable canonry.

Geoffrey was hunting in a forest, when he lost his way, and was
benighted; and, meeting a charcoal-burner, asked the road to Loches. The
man offered to become his guide, and accordingly the Count took him up
on his horse, talking gayly, and asking what people said of the Count.
The peasant answered that the Count himself was said to be friendly and
free-spoken, but his provost committed terrible exactions, of which he
gave a full account. Geoffrey listened, and in the morning rode into
the town of Loches with the charcoal-burner still _en croupe_ (if his
haughty empress was there, he must have enjoyed provoking her), and
there he summoned all his provosts, himself examined their accounts, put
an end to their exactions, and ended by making the charcoal-burner a
free man instead of a serf.

There is a report that Maude's first husband came to Angers in his
penance-garb, and on his death-bed told his confessor who he was; that
the confessor fetched the empress; and that she attended him in secret
till his death; but the truth of this tale is very uncertain. Maude had
been six years married to Geoffrey when her first child was born, Henry,
called by the Normans Fitz-Empress.

This event in some degree cheered the latter years of his grandfather,
King Henry, whose sin had found him out, in bitter remorse and fearful
dreams. Nobles, peasants, and clergy seemed in turn to be standing round
his bed, calling him to account for his misdeeds toward them. Many other
victims of his ambition might have been conjured up by his remorse--such
as the citizen of Rouen, spared by Robert, whom Henry threw from the top
of a high tower, whither he had treacherously invited him; the Norman
barons, with whom he had broken his faith; his gallant, generous
brother, so cruelly betrayed and imprisoned; his persecuted nephew,
William Clito; the unhappy troubadour, Lucas de Barre, whom he had
blinded, for writing a satire on him, and who dashed out his brains
in despair on the prison wall; and--almost the worst of all--the poor
children of his illegitimate daughter Juliana, left to the ferocious
revenge of Raoul de Harenc, by whom their eyes were put out and their
noses cut off. With such recollections as these to haunt his later
years, no wonder Henry's nights were times of agony and wakefulness.

He tried to lose the thought of these horrors in activity, and was
constantly passing between England and Normandy. It was in the latter
country that he made his fatal supper of lampreys, after he had been
fatigued with hunting all day. A violent fever came on at night, and he
died on the 1st of December, 1135.

The court of Scotland presented a far different scene. David, the
youngest of the children of St. Margaret, inherited the crown in 1124,
on the death of his brother Alexander, and was treading in the same
course as his mother, his sister Maude, and his brethren. He belonged,
indeed, to a family of saints, and brought piety, firmness, cultivation,
and a merciful temper to improve his rugged country. He was a brave
warrior: but he loved the arts of peace, and one of his favorite
amusements was gardening, budding and grafting trees.

He administered strict justice, but shed tears as he ordered an
execution; and was so tender-hearted and ready to hear the poor, that he
would take his foot out of the stirrup when just ready for the chase, to
listen to the humblest complaint. Though lively and social in temper, he
spent some hours every evening alone, in prayer and meditation.

His wife was Matilda, daughter of that Earl Waltheof who was executed by
William I. She had previously been married to a Norman knight, Simon de
St. Liz, who died on pilgrimage, leaving her with two sons, Simon and
Waltheof. Two sons were likewise born to David; but the eldest was
killed in his infancy by an accident: and shortly after David took home
as a companion to the little Henry, Aelred, the son of a Saxon priest at
Hexham.

These four boys were brought up "in the nurture of good learning," and
in godliness; but their different tempers soon showed themselves. Simon,
the little Earl of Northampton, while a child, was always playing at
building castles, and bestriding the "truncheon of a spear," as a
war-horse. Waltheof was a builder, too, but his were churches, and his
delight was in making the sign of the Cross and singing chants. It was
still the same as they grew older; Waltheof ever drew more apart, and
spent more time in reading and prayer. His stepfather, the King, would
take him to the chase, and tell him to bear his bow; but he often
found his bow in the hands of another, and, after a search, discovered
Waltheof reading or praying in a secret glade, or under a tree. "Your
boy," he said to the Queen, "will either die young, or leave us for the
cloister."

Aelred was Waltheof's chief friend; but, though very pious, he was more
of a scholar, and read both romances of King Arthur and such works
of Cicero as had found their way to Scotland. He was lively in
conversation; David was fond of him, and used to tell him stories of his
own younger days; and Aelred became the loving chronicler of this happy
court.

Prince Henry had the same holy temper, coupled with a bold spirit, that
was needed by the heir of Scotland, and showed himself full of the noble
qualities of his father and uncles. He was the true knight of the party,
as bold as a lion, yet as strict and devout as a monk, even in the camp.
Simon was no more than a rough, bold, tyrannical earl, and soon took up
his abode in England.

Ere long Aelred became a monk, and Waltheof was not slow in following
his example. Both entered the Cistercian order, and led holy lives,
avoiding all preferment--a difficult matter for Waltheof, stepson to one
king and cousin to another. His brother Simon took such offence at his
lowliness, that he actually threatened to burn down the convent of
Waldon, where Waltheof was living, because he thought it shame to see a
descendant of Siward a common monk in a poor monastery.

However, in time, promotion was thrust on them. Aelred became Abbot of
Rivaux, and Waltheof Abbot of Melrose.

Of the King and his son, more will be said in the next chapter.



   CAMEO XVII.

   THE BATTLE OF THE STANDARD.
   (1135-1138.)

  _King of England.
   1135. Stephen.
   1137. Louis VII.

  _King of Scotland_.
   1124. David I.

  _Kings of France_.
   1107. Louis VI.

  _Emperors of Germany_.
   1125. Lothar II.
   1138.  Konrad II.


Earl Egbert of Gloucester was the son of Henry Beauclerc and of a
beautiful Welsh princess named Nesta, who had fallen into his hands in
the course of the war which he maintained for his brother William Rufus,
on the borders of Wales. Henry was much attached to the boy, and gave
him a princely education, by which he profited so as to become not only
learned, but of a far purer and more chivalrous character than was often
to be found among the great men of his time.

Henry I. provided for him, by giving to him the hand of the Lady Amabel
Fitzaymon, heiress of Glamorgan, and a ward at the disposal of the
crown, in whose right he became Earl of Gloucester.

Robert and his cousin, Stephen de Blois, both attended the death-bed of
Henry I., and heard his dying words: "I leave to my children whatever I
have gained. Let them do justice to those I have injured."

No sooner had the King expired, than Stephen set off for England, where
he was already very popular, partly on account of his courteous manners
and goodly person, partly for the sake of his wife, Matilda of Boulogne,
who was treading in the steps of her aunt, the good Queen Maude. He
landed at Dover in the midst of a frightful thunder-storm, and though he
found that city and Canterbury closed against him, he met with a joyful
reception in London and Winchester. He bribed Hugh Bigod, the late
King's seneschal, to swear that Henry had on his deathbed disinherited
Maude, and left the kingdom to him; and the Archbishop, William de
Corboil, was credulous enough to believe the tale, and crown the
usurper; but discovery of the falsehood hastened the old man's death.

While this was passing, Robert of Gloucester was conducting the funeral
of his father; causing his body to be _salted_, instead of embalmed, and
bringing it to England to be buried at Reading, an abbey that Henry had
built and endowed for his burial-place. It is now completely ruined, and
few vestiges remain to show what the buildings were, far less any trace
of the tomb of the scholarly and cruel son of the Conqueror.

The Empress Maude was at the same time attending her husband, Geoffrey
Plantagenet, in a dangerous illness; and thus Stephen was enabled
to obtain possession of both England and Normandy, and received
the submission of all the nobles. The Earl of Gloucester, thinking
resistance vain, took the oath of fealty; reserving, however, the right
of recalling it if any injury was offered to him or to his property.

The next year Geoffrey de Bel raised an army, and entered Normandy; but
was met there by Stephen, wounded, and forced to retreat, leaving only
a few castles still holding out for the Empress. Stephen was besieging
that of Bertran, with an army composed partly of Normans and partly of
natives of his wife's county of Boulogne, when, while he was taking
his mid-day sleep, a quarrel arose between the two brothers. Waking in
haste, and alarmed for his Boulognais, he took part against the Normans,
calling out, "Down with the traitors!" The Normans were greatly
offended, and, having retired to their tents, they held a council
together, and ended by making him the following plain-spoken address:

"Sir, a folly is better ended than continued. By ill advice, we took you
for our lord for a little while. If you blame us for it, you will not be
wrong. You have beaten our men, and called us traitors. Certes, we were
traitors when we left our rightful lady for a stranger. We have held
with you against our lady the Empress, and we repent, for we have sinned
against God and man: but we will no longer continue in the sin; and
therefore we bid you mount, and leave this host, for we will not suffer
you to remain in this country, unless it be the will of our lady the
Empress."

Stephen begged them to let him remain till the next day but they swore
that, if he did, it should be the worse for him, and immediately
escorted him beyond the bounds of Normandy. They then brought back
Maude, with her husband and children; and the dukedom continued in the
hands of Geoffrey as long as he lived.

At the same time David, King of Scotland, recollecting the oath to
Maude, which he and Stephen had together sworn, took up arms in her
cause, and invaded England, forcing the inhabitants to take the oath
of allegiance. His troops were a fearfully wild, untamed race,
undisciplined and cruel, and it was a dreadful thing to let loose such
a host of savage marauders without any possibility of restraining them.
The Galwegians, Picts by race, were the worst; but the Highlanders and
Borderers were also dreadfully cruel: and the English armed to protect
themselves against the inroad of their ancient foes.

The clergy of the North even deemed it a sacred war, and, by the
authority of Thurstan, Archbishop of York, gathered their flocks, and
came, each priest at the head of his parishioners, to the place of
assembly at York, where three days were spent in prayer and fasting; and
then the old Archbishop administered to them an oath never to desert
each other, and dismissed them with his blessing. Raoul, Bishop of
Durham, was deputed by him to take the lead, and to have the charge of
the consecrated standards of St. Cuthbert of Durham, St. Peter of York,
St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfred of Ripon. These were all suspended
from one pole, like the mast of a vessel, surmounted by a cross, in the
centre of which was fixed a silver casket, containing the consecrated
wafer of the Holy Sacrament. The pole was fixed into a four-wheeled car,
on which the Bishop stood. Such cars were much used in Italy, where
each city had its own consecrated Gonfalone, on its caroccio, hung with
scarlet cloth and drawn by oxen. The English collected under this sacred
standard were the stout peasants of the North, the bowmen of Yorkshire
and Nottinghamshire; each with a bow of his own height, and a sheaf of
arrows two cubits long; and there were also many barons of Norman birth,
of whom Walter L'Espee was the leader. Some of these barons held their
lands under David of Scotland, as Earl of Cumberland, and two of them,
Bernard Baliol and Robert Bruce, the last an old friend of the King,
went to the Scottish camp, to remonstrate with him. Bruce begged him to
retreat, described the horrors committed by his wild Scots, told him of
the strength of the English force, and ended by declaring with tears
that it would now become his duty to renounce his allegiance, and array
himself against his beloved prince. Good King David shed tears, but
William Macdonochie, the fierce lord of Galloway, burst out with the
exclamation, "Bruce, thou art a false traitor!" and the insulted baron
renounced all he held in Scotland, gave up his allegiance, and rode back
to the English army, at Northampton, bringing tidings that the Scots
were coming.

The host arrayed itself around their car, where the sacred standard
waved above their head, and the Bishop of Durham addressed them from
beneath it, reminding them of former victories. Walter L'Espee was
the first to respond. Grasping the hand of the Earl of Albemarle, he
exclaimed, "I pledge thee my troth that to-day I will overcome the
Scots, or die!" "So swear we all," cried the other barons; and the
whole host knelt down, the Bishop pronounced over them the words of
absolution, they replied with one mighty sound of united voices, "Amen!"
and arose. The knights and squires sat with gathered reins and knees in
rest, the yeomen stood each with his good yew bow ready strung, awaiting
the onslaught.

Less union was there in the hostile army, where it might be said that
there was no authority, for David was unable to restrain his wild
subjects from the North and West. The men of Galloway insisted on
beginning the attack; but as they wore no defensive armor, and had no
weapons but long, thin pikes, besides being more fierce than steady,
the king hesitated. "Why trust to a plate of steel or rings of iron?"
exclaimed Malise of Strathern. "I, who wear no armor, will go as far as
any one with breastplate of mail." "You brag of what you dare not do!"
said the Norman Alan de Percy. But the King found himself obliged to
yield the precedence to the Galwegians, trusting far more to the lowland
knights and men-at-arms, whom he arrayed under his gallant son, Prince
Henry, while he himself commanded the reserve of Northern Scots.

The fierce Kelts of Galloway, guided by a tall spear, wreathed with
heather blossom, and shouting, "Albin! Albin!" with harsh, dissonant
cries like the roar of a tempest, fell headlong on the English ranks,
and at first their fury carried them on so that they burst through them
as if they had been a spider's web. But the Norman chivalry round the
standard stood firm, and hewed down the undefended Galwegians, nor could
the long claymores of the Highland clans, who next attacked them, break
through their steel armor. The charge of Prince Henry's horsemen had
more effect, and at one time the youth had almost won his way to the
standard, when some traitor in the rear raised a bloody head on the
point of a lance, shouting that the King was slain. In consternation the
Scots gave back; the English saw their advantage, and pressed upon them:
and though David rode forward and displayed the dragon standard which
marked his presence (inherited from the Saxon kings), he could not rally
them, and but just succeeded in protecting their flight to Carlisle,
which then belonged to him as Earl of Cumberland.

This first of the long series of Scottish defeats was called the Battle
of the Standard, from the banner of St. Cuthbert, which was always
thought to bring success. It came forth at the battle of Nevil's Cross,
and was again victorious, and it was preserved with great reverence till
the Reformation, when, in 1549, Catherine Whittingham, the wife of the
Dean of Durham, burnt it, out of zeal against Popery. It is some comfort
that she was a Frenchwoman.

Stephen had left his Northern subjects to take care of themselves,
because he was full of perplexities in the South. He had tried to please
all parties, and by no means succeeded. He was a humane, kind-hearted
man, and really wished to befriend the unfortunate Saxons; but, on the
other hand, he was afraid to affront their Norman oppressors, whom he
had allowed to build castles, and strengthen themselves in the very way
which it had been Henry Beauclerc's policy to prevent. Almost every
spot where green mounds and blocks of massive masonry remain within an
ancient moat, is said by tradition to have been "a castle in Stephen's
time," and we wonder, considering that he reigned but nine years, how
such immense works could have been effected. Dens of thieves they seem
to have been, and misery and destruction reigned round them; while the
least attempt on the King's part to restrain the ferocity of their
owners was requited by a threat of bringing in our lady the Empress.

Her party became continually stronger, and Stephen, living in constant
mistrust, added to it by offending several Bishops, even his own
brother, Henry de Blois, by trying, to deprive them of their fortified
castles. Next he made an attack on the Earl of Gloucester, who, being
thus freed from his engagement to keep the peace, after repulsing
Stephen, went to Normandy to fetch the Empress, and inform her that this
was the time for establishing her right.

Maude, gladly accepted his invitation, but her husband Geoffrey seems to
have been glad to be rid of her ungracious company, and chose to remain
in Anjou. She landed in safety, for Stephen was at this time extremely
ill, and her brother placed her in Arundel Castle, which belonged to her
father's widow, Queen Alice, lately married to William de Albini, the
ancestor of the noble line of Howard. Here Maude remained, while her
brother went to his own estates to raise troops; but in the meantime
Stephen recovered, and advanced on Arundel Castle. Queen Alice sent to
tell him that her stepdaughter had come to seek her protection, and beg
him not to make her do anything disloyal; and Stephen, who had many of
the qualities of a courteous knight, forbore to make any personal attack
on the ladies, but allowed the Empress to depart unmolested to meet Earl
Robert.

He brought her to his castle at Bristol, where she remained two years,
while the warfare was carried on in a desultory manner, chiefly by the
siege of castles. At last Stephen laid siege to Lincoln, where Robert's
daughter was, with her husband Ralf, Earl of Chester. Her father came to
her relief with an army of 10,000 men. Stephen was advised to retreat;
but he thought his honor concerned, and gave battle. His forces were
soon overwhelmed; but he fought on desperately at the foot of his
standard, so fiercely that no one dared to approach him, though his
sword and battle-axe were both broken. At last a stone brought him to
the ground, and a knight, named William Kames, grappled with him and
held him fast; but even then he refused to yield the fragment of his
sword to any but the Earl of Gloucester, who came up at the moment and
prevented any further violence.

Stephen was given into the keeping of Countess Amabel, and Maude was
conducted in state to Winchester, where Stephen's own brother, the
Bishop, proclaimed her Queen, standing on the steps of the altar. Her
uncle, King David, came to visit her, and she held her court with great
splendor. It was here that she disgusted every one by her disdainful
manners, and treated her cousin, Stephen's queen, with such harshness as
to drive her to take up arms again. London had always been favorable to
Stephen, and two months of negotiation were necessary before David
and Robert could prevail on the citizens to receive her. At midsummer,
however, they consented to admit her, and she came to Westminster; but
as soon as a deputation of citizens were in her presence, she showed
her pride and hostile spirit. They asked for charters; she replied by
ordering them to bring money, and telling them they were very bold to
talk of their privileges, when they had just been aiding her enemies.
Robert made speeches to try to soften matters, and David reasoned with
her in vain, till she was convinced of her folly in a way for which he
was little prepared. It is said that she actually flew at him and
struck him; and if she could thus treat a royal uncle, how must not men
inferior in rank have sped?

It was noon, and the deputies went home, as Maude thought, to dinner;
but presently all the bells began to ring, and burghers, armed with bows
and bills, began to swarm in the streets. The followers of the Empress
were too few to resist; so, after a brief council, David galloped off
to the North, and Robert rode with his sister to Oxford, while the
Londoners opened their gates to Matilda, Stephen's wife, and her son
Eustace.

Robert went to raise more forces, and Maude, hearing that Bishop Henry
de Blois was conferring with his sister-in-law, sharply summoned him to
her presence. He quietly made answer, "_Parabo me_"--I prepare myself;
and Maude, in a passion, set out, intending to surprise him at
Wolvesley, his palace at Winchester. She found it well fortified, and
laid siege to it from the castle at Winchester, where she was joined by
her uncle and brother; and the town was in a miserable state, burnt by
both parties in turn. Twenty churches and two convents were destroyed,
and the Bishop took Knut's crown out of the Cathedral--to save it from
the enemy, as was said, but it was never seen again. At last Eustace de
Blois and his mother brought such a force that the Empress was besieged
in her turn, and completely starved out. Her garrison resolved to break
through the enemy at all risks, and on Sunday they set forth, Maude
riding first with her uncle David, and Robert following with a band of
knights, under a vow to die rather than let her be taken.

At Stourbridge the pursuers came up with them, many of the knights fell,
and Robert was captured. So closely were the royal fugitives pursued,
that David at one time was in the enemy's hands, and only escaped by the
stratagem of his godson, David Olifant. Maude and one faithful knight,
by the speed of their horses, reached Devizes, whence she was carried in
a coffin to Gloucester.

Maude could not make up her mind to release her foe, Stephen, even for
the sake of recovering her brother; but the Countess of Gloucester,
considering the King as her own property, acted for herself, and
exchanged him for her husband. Queen Matilda tried to make Robert
promise to bring about peace, to secure England to Stephen, and Normandy
to Maude; but he would make no engagements which he knew she would not
observe, and matters continued in the same state.



   CAMEO XVIII.

   THE SNOWS OF OXFORD.
   (1138-1154.)

  _King of England_.
   1135. Stephen.

  _Kings of Scotland_.
   1124. David I.
   1153. Malcolm V.

  _King of France_.
   1137. Louis VII.

  _Emperor Of Germany_.
   1139. Konrad II.

  _Popes_.
   1130. Innocent II.
   1143. Celestine II.
   1144. Lucius II.
   1145. Anastasius II.
   1154. Adrian IV.


On the 1st of November, 1138, Stephen was set at liberty, and Robert of
Gloucester, being exchanged for him, rejoined his sister the Empress at
Gloucester; and during this time of quiet her fierce nature seems to
have somewhat softened.

Stephen, meanwhile, had one of his terrible attacks of illness, in which
he lay for hours, if not days, in a death-like lethargy, and, of course,
his followers did nothing but build castles whenever the frost would let
them work, prey on their neighbors, and make the state of the country
far worse than it had been under any of the Normans of hated memory.
Maude's domain was in better order, as Robert's rule was modelled on
that of his father's, in its best points. It is wonderful that Robert,
whose mother was a princess by birth, and had been treated as a wife
till the Etheling marriage had become a matter of policy, should have
put forward no pretensions to the crown, but have uniformly given his
staunch support to his proud and ungrateful sister. In a council held at
Devizes in the course of the winter, it was decided that he should go
to Normandy to entreat the Count of Anjou to bring succors to his wife.
Geoffrey, however, had no desire to return to her haughty companionship,
and represented that there were still many castles in Normandy
unsubdued. Robert gave efficient aid in taking these; but Geoffrey still
could not persuade himself to meet his wife, though, at Robert's
persuasion, he consented to give into his charge Henry, his eldest son,
a boy of ten years old, with a large body of troops.

Maude had, in the meanwhile, been placed in the strong fortress at
Oxford; but no sooner had Stephen recovered from his illness, than he
collected his army, and marched southward. In the end of September he
besieged her at Oxford, where at first she thought herself safe; but he
crossed the river, set fire to the city in several places, and blockaded
her in the castle.

Her nobles collected at Wallingford, and sent defiances to Stephen to
fight a pitched battle with them; but he knew his own advantage too
well, and took no notice. Earl Robert, landing near Wareham, tried to
create a diversion by besieging that seaport; but he could not draw the
enemy off from Oxford. Famine prevailed in the castle, and, after much
suffering, it became impossible for the garrison to hold out any longer.
The depth of winter had come, the ground was covered with snow, and the
Isis was frozen over. Maude, whose courage never failed, caused herself
and three of her knights to be dressed in white, and let down from the
battlements upon the snow, where they were met by one of Stephen's men,
whom they had gained over, and by him were led, unseen and unheard,
through the camp of the enemy, hearing the call of the sentinels, and
trembling with anxiety. For six miles they crept over the snow, and at
last arrived at Abingdon, nearly frozen, for their garments had been far
too scanty for the piercing weather; but they could not remain a moment
for rest or warmth, but took horse, and never paused till they reached
Wallingford Castle. Thither, so soon as the news reached Earl Robert, he
brought her young son, and her troubles were forgotten in her joy.

Thence she repaired with her son to Bristol Castle, where the boy
remained under the care of a learned tutor named Matthew, who instructed
him under the superintendence of Earl Robert.

This great Earl deserved the name of Beauclerc almost as well as his
father; he was well read, and two histories were dedicated to him,
William of Malmesbury's, and Geoffrey of Monmouth's wonderful chronicle
of the old British kings, whose blood flowed in Robert's veins; that
chronicle--wrought out of queer Welsh stories--that served as a
foundation for Edward's claims on Scotland, and whence came our Lear and
Cymbeline.

All that knightly training could do for young Henry was done by Earl
Robert, and the boy so far answered to his care as to have that mixture
of scholarliness and high spirit that was inherent in the Norman and
Angevin princes. But the shrewd unscrupulousness and hard selfishness of
the Norman were there, too--the qualities from which noble Gloucester
himself was free. It may be, however, that the good Earl did not see
these less promising characteristics of his ward; for, after five years
of the boy's residence at Bristol, and the old desultory warfare between
the partisans of King and Empress, Count Geoffrey sent for his son, to
take leave of him before going on a crusade; and while Henry was absent,
Earl Robert died, in 1147. It speaks much for Henry Beauclerc's court
that such men should have grown up in it as Robert of Gloucester and
David of Scotland.

Geoffrey, in the meantime, paid a visit to his younger brother, Baldwin
III. of Jerusalem, a very gallant prince. On his return, Maude came back
to him, and after their eight years' absence, they met with affection
they never had shown to one another before. She did not attempt to take
the government of Normandy, but left it wholly in Geoffrey's hands.

Stephen, meanwhile, was unmolested in England till 1149, when Henry
sailed for Scotland, there to be knighted by his uncle, King David;
while, curiously enough, his younger brother Geoffrey was at the very
same time knighted by Stephen's elder brother, Theobald, Count de Blois.

It was a year of grief to that excellent King, who suffered a great
affliction in the death of the chivalrous Henry, his only son, and the
father of a numerous infant family. His barons feared he would sink
under his sorrow, and came to comfort him; but they found him cheerful.
"I ought not to lament my son's being taken away from me," he said,
"since he is gone to enjoy the fellowship of my parents and my brethren,
of whose souls the world was no longer worthy. Should I mourn, it would
be to arraign the goodness and justice of God for removing him to the
mansions of bliss before me. I should rather be thankful, and rejoice
that the Almighty endowed my son with so much grace to behave himself in
a manner to be so beloved and lamented. Soon do I hope to follow, and,
being delivered from temporal miseries, to enjoy a blessed eternity with
the saints in light."

It was shortly after this that Aelred, the good Abbot of Rivaux, came to
Dunfermline, on the affairs of his order; and in the presence of this
holy man, the adopted brother of his beloved Henry, one of the four
promising boys who had gladdened the early days of his reign, the King's
grief broke freely forth, though still it was not the sorrow of one who
had no hope. He told Aelred he saw in this calamity a punishment for the
devastation he had caused in his invasion of England, and would fain
have laid down his royalty, and spent the rest of his days in penitence
in a convent; but he was persuaded to relinquish the design, and guard
the crown for his grandsons. He shed tears as he tenderly embraced
Aelred, and both felt it was their last meeting.

David did not long survive his son. He appointed his eldest grandchild,
Malcolm, to succeed him, and set his affairs in order, redoubling all
his pious and charitable acts. One of the last things he was heard to
say, was, "Lord, I restore Thee the kingdom wherewith Thou didst entrust
me. Put me in possession of that whereof the inhabitants are all kings."
He was soon after found dead, in the attitude of devotion. His body
was buried at Dunfermline, and his name added to the list of Scottish
saints.

His grandsons, Malcolm, William, and David, were all good and valiant
men.

Waltheof, his stepson, lived peaceably at Melrose, strict in rule,
gentle in manners, and peculiarly humble in demeanor, and poor in dress.
He once had occasion to meet King Stephen, and rode in among the barons
in their armor, only clad in his coarse serge frock, and mounted, on
an old gray horse. His brother Simon, who stood by the King, was
displeased, and said, "See, my lord, how my brother and thy kinsman does
honor to his lineage." He met with a reply he little expected. "If thou
and I had only the grace to see it," said Stephen, "he is an honor
indeed to us. He adorns our race, as the gem does the gold in which it
is set!" And when he had parted with the meek abbot, Stephen exclaimed,
with tears, "This man has put all worldly things under his feet; but we
are presuming after this fleeting world, and losing both body and soul
in the chase."

This must indeed have, been brought home soon after to Stephen, by the
fate of his wretched son Eustace. This fiery youth had desired to be
crowned in his father's lifetime; but Archbishop Theobald, and all his
suffragans, perceiving that this would prevent the only hope of peace on
Stephen's death, steadily refused, though the King shut them all up in
his hall, and threatened them violently. The next year, when the treaty
was made by which Henry of Anjou was to reign after Stephen, Eustace
was so enraged at finding himself excluded from the succession, that he
rushed off, accompanied by a party of lawless young men, and ravaged all
Cambridgeshire, committing dreadful excesses. It is to be hoped that he
was already under the influence of the brain-fever which came on in a
few days' time, immediately after he had pillaged Bury St. Edmund's, and
of which he died; leaving a belief among the country people, that,
like King Sweyn, he had been struck by the avenging hand of the Saint
himself. His father, King Stephen, only lived a few months after, worn
out by the toils and troubles which he had brought on himself by his own
ambition. His son William, who would have opposed Henry's accession,
was prevented, by breaking his leg by a fall from his horse, and Henry
peaceably gained the throne. His mother, Empress Maude, had in the
meantime retired to Anjou, where she led a quiet life, giving up her
rights to her son, and apparently profiting by the lesson she had been
taught when her prosperity was turned at its full tide by her own pride
and presumption.

Of the boys bred up in the good household of Dunfermline, Aelred was the
last survivor. Waltheof had the happiness, before his death, of seeing
his brother, the proud Earl Simon of Northampton, repent heartily, leave
his evil courses, found churches, and endow the convent of Waldon, which
he had once persecuted for sheltering his brother. Waltheof was elected
to be Bishop of St. Andrews, and Aelred, as head of the Cistercians in
Britain, came to Melrose, to order him, on his canonical obedience, to
accept the see. But Waltheof was weak in health, and knew that another
call had gone forth. He pointed to a stone slab on the floor of the
chapter-house. "There," said he, "is the place of my rest. Here will be
my habitation, among my children."

And in a short time he died, in the year 1159. Aelred lived seven or
eight years longer, and was highly honored and trusted by the young
Malcolm of Scotland. On his behalf the old Abbot undertook a journey,
to treat with the wild men of Galloway, whom Malcolm had three times
defeated in battle, and now wished to bring to terms. He succeeded
in persuading their chief to submit, and even to become a canon at
Holyrood.

He afterward attended a chapter of his order at Pavia, and died at
Rivaux, after a long illness, about 1166.



   CAMEO XIX.

   YOUTH OF BECKET.
   (1154-1162)

  _King of England_.
   1154. Henry II.

  _King Of Scotland_.
   1153. Malcolm V.

  _King of France_.
   1137. Louis VII.

  _Emperors of Germany_.
   1138. Konrad II.
   1152. Friedrich II.

  _Popes_.
   1154. Adrian IV.
   1159. Alexander III.


Henry of Anjou showed, in his journey to England, both courage and
moderation. He remained there for some little time, and then returned
home to join his father in a war against the Count de Montreuil, who
was befriended by both Pope and King of France. The Pope excommunicated
Geoffrey, but he fought on, and made his enemy prisoner; then, at the
command of the King of France, released him. When the Pope would have
absolved Geoffrey, he refused, saying he had only done justice, and had
not deserved the sentence. A few months after, in 1151, a cold bath,
when he was heated with riding, brought on a fever that caused his
death.

He left his son Henry his county of Anjou, to be resigned to Geoffrey if
he should become King of England, and commanded that his body should not
be interred till Henry had taken an oath to that effect. From this oath
Henry was absolved by Adrian IV, properly Nicholas Brakespeare, the only
English Pope, and stripped his brother of all his possessions. It was
no good omen for his own relations with his sons. His mother lived many
years in retirement, and used her influence chiefly for good. She died
in 1167.

Henry, meantime, had come to the throne in 1154, and was the mightiest
King who had yet reigned in England. More than half France was
his--partly by inheritance, and partly by marriage with Eleanor, heiress
of Aquitaine; and he was quite able to rule his vast dominions. His
alertness and activity were the wonder of every one. He made journeys
with great rapidity, was always busy, and hardly ever sat down. He had
a face like a lion, well-knit limbs, and a hardy temperament. He was
heedless what he ate or wore, and was an embodiment of vehemence and
activity. He threw himself eagerly into the work of reducing to order
the dreadful state of things allowed by Stephen.

Down came the castles--once more the nobles found they had a strong hand
over them--no more dens of robbers were permitted--the King was here,
there, and everywhere. He had English to tame Anglo-Normans, Angevins
to set on French Normans, Poitevins to turn loose on both. He knew what
order was, and kept it; and the counsellor who aided him most must now
be described.

Here is the romantic ballad-tale of that counsellor's origin, though it
is much to be feared that the fact cannot be established.

In the reign of Henry I. the citizens of London were amazed by the
sight of a maiden in an Eastern dress, wandering along the streets,
plaintively uttering the word "Gilbert!" Certain seafaring men declared
that she had prevailed on them to take her on board their vessel and
bring her to England, by constantly repeating the name "London!"--the
only other word in the language that she knew.

Poor lady! The mob of London were less compassionate than the sailors
had been. They hooted and hunted her, till she came to Southwark, in
front of a house belonging to Gilbert a Becket, a rich and prosperous
merchant, who, with his faithful serving-man, Richard, had lately
returned from pilgrimage. Richard, who had come out on hearing the
noise, hurried back into the house as soon as he perceived its cause;
then, hastening out again, went up to the poor, persecuted maiden, who
fainted away at the sight of him. He carried her to the house of an
honorable widow lady, desiring her, in his master's name to take care of
the desolate stranger, with whom, on her revival, he held converse in
her own tongue, and seemed to cheer her greatly.

Meanwhile, Gilbert a Becket was on his way to St. Paul's, to consult the
Bishop of London. He related how, in the East, he and his man Richard
had been taken captive by the Saracens, and become slaves to a wealthy
Emir. In the course of their services to their master, Gilbert had
attracted the notice of his daughter, who had more than once asked
him questions about his faith and country, and had at last offered to
contrive his escape, if he would take her for his wife, and bring her to
his own land. Gilbert, who did not trust her, effected his escape with
Richard without her assistance, and returned to England, little thinking
they should ever see her again. But she followed him, leaving her
home, her riches, and her father, and seeking him through his long and
dangerous journey, ignorant of all save his name, and the name of his
city.

Five other prelates were present when he told the story, and one, the
Bishop of Chichester, exclaimed, that Heaven itself most have conducted
the damsel, and advised that Gilbert should at once marry her. The next
day she was brought to St. Paul's, and was there baptized by the name of
Matilda, Richard acting as interpreter; and shortly after the wedding
took place.

This romantic story was the origin of several old English ballads, one
of which celebrates the Saracen lady by the extraordinary title of Susy
Pye, perhaps a vulgarism of her original Eastern name.

In the first year of his marriage, Gilbert went on pilgrimage again,
leaving his wife under the care of his man Richard. Soon after his
departure she gave birth to a son, to whom she gave the name of Thomas,
and who was three years old by the time his father returned from the
Holy Land. They afterward had two daughters, named Mary and Agnes, and
lived in great piety and happiness, until the time of Matilda's death,
at the end of twenty-two years.

Thomas received a clerkly education from the Canons of Merton, and
showed such rare ability that his whole family deemed him destined for
great things. He was very tall and handsome, and his aquiline nose,
quick eyes, and long, slender, beautiful hands, accorded with the
story of his Eastern ancestry; and he was very vigorous and athletic,
delighting in the manly sports of the young men of his time. In his
boyhood, while he was out hawking with a knight who used to lodge in
his father's house when he came to London, he was exposed to a serious
danger. They came to a narrow bridge, fit only for foot-passengers, with
a mill-wheel just below. The knight nevertheless rode across the bridge,
and Thomas was following, when his horse, making a false step, fell into
the river. The boy could swim, but would not make for the bank, without
rescuing the hawk, that had shared his fall, and thus was drawn by the
current under the wheel, and in another moment would have been torn to
pieces, had not the miller stopped the machinery, and pulled him out of
the water, more dead than alive.

It seems that it was the practice for wealthy merchants to lodge their
customers when brought to London by business, and thus young Thomas
became known to several persons of high estimation in their several
stations. A rich merchant called Osborn gave him big accounts to keep;
knights noticed his riding, and clerks his learning and religious life.

Some of the clergy of Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury, who were among
those guests, were desirous of presenting him to their master. He at
first held back, but they at length prevailed with him: he became a
member of the Archbishop's household, and, after he had improved himself
in learning, was ordained deacon, and presented with the Archdeaconry of
Canterbury, an office which was then by no means similar to what we
at present call by that name. It really then meant being chief of the
deacons, and involved the being counsellor, and, in a manner, treasurer
to the Bishop of the diocese; and thus, to be Archdeacon of Canterbury,
was the highest ecclesiastical dignity in the kingdom, next to that of
the prelates and great mitred abbots.

Thomas a Becket was a secular clerk, bound by none of the vows of
monastic orders; and therefore, though he led a strictly pure and
self-denying life, he did hot consider himself obliged to abstain from
worldly business or amusements, and in the year 1150 he was appointed
Chancellor by Henry II. He was then in his thirty-eighth year, of great
ability and cultivation, graceful in demeanor, ready of speech, clear in
mind, and his tall frame (reported to have been no less than six feet
two in height) fitting him for martial exercise and bodily exertion. The
King, a youth of little past twenty, delighting in ability wherever he
found it, became much attached to his gallant Chancellor, and not only
sought his advice in the regulation of England after its long troubles,
but, when business was done, they used to play together like two
schoolboys.

It must have been a curious scene in the hall of Chancellor Becket,
when, at the daily meal, earls and barons sat round his table, and
knights and nobles crowded, so thickly at the others, that the benches
were not sufficient, and the floor was daily strewn with hay or straw in
winter, or in summer with green boughs, that those who sat on it might
not soil their robes. Gold and silver dishes, and goblets, and the
richest wines, were provided, and the choicest, most costly viands were
purchased at any price by his servants for these entertainments: they
once gave a hundred shillings for a dish of eels. But the Chancellor
seldom touched these delicacies, living on the plainest fare, as he sat
in his place as the host, answering the pledges of his guests, amusing
them with his converse, and providing minstrelsy and sports of all kinds
for their recreation. Often the King would ride into the hall, in the
midst of the gay crowd seated on the floor, throw himself off his horse,
leap over the table, and join in the mirth.

These rich feasts afforded afterward plentiful alms for the poor, who
were never forgotten in the height of Becket's magnificence, and
the widow and the oppressed never failed to find a protector in the
Chancellor.

His house was full of young squires and pages, the sons of the nobility,
who placed them there as the best school of knighthood; and among them
was the King's own son Henry, who had been made his pupil.

The King seems to have been apt to laugh at Becket for his strict life
and overflowing charity. One very cold day, as they were riding, they
met an old man in a thin, ragged coat.

"Poor old man!" said Henry, "would it not be a charity to give him a
good, warm cloak?"

"It would, indeed." said Becket: "you had better keep the matter in
mind."

"No, no; it is you that shall have the credit of this great act of
charity," said Henry, laughing. "Ha! old man, should you not like this
nice, warm cloak?" and, with those words, he began to pull at the
scarlet and gray mantle which the Chancellor wore. Becket struggled
for it, and in this rough sport they were both nearly pulled off their
horses, till the clasp gave way, and the King triumphantly tossed his
prize to the astonished old man.

The Chancellor was in the habit of daily giving more costly gifts than
these, both to rich and poor; gold and silver, robes and jewels, fine
armor and horses, hawks and hounds--even fine new ships, were bestowed
by him, from the wealth of the old merchant Gilbert, as well as from the
revenues of his archdeaconry, and of several other benefices, which the
lax opinions of his time caused him to think no shame to keep in his own
hands.

We cannot call Thomas a Becket by any means a perfect character; but
thoroughly conscientious he must ever have been, and very self-denying,
keeping himself pure from every stain in the midst of the court, and
guarding himself by strict discipline. He was found to be in the habit
of sleeping on the bare boards beside his rich bed, and in secret he
wore sackcloth, and submitted to the lash of penance. His uprightness
and incorruptibility as a judge, his wisdom in administering the affairs
of state, and his skill in restoring peace to England, made the reign of
Henry Plantagenet a relief indeed to his subjects.

In almost every respect he lived like a layman. He hunted and hawked,
and was found fault with by the Prior of Leicester for wearing a cape
with sleeves, which it seems was an unclerical garment. The prior
said it was more unsuitable in one who held so many ecclesiastical
preferments, and was likely to become Archbishop of Canterbury.

To this Thomas answered: "I know three poor priests, each of whom I
would rather see Archbishop than myself. If I had that rank, I know full
well I must either lose the King's favor, or set aside my duty to God."

When Henry went to war with France respecting the inheritance of Eleanor
of Aquitaine, his wife, his Chancellor brought to his aid seven hundred
knights of his own household, besides twelve hundred in his pay, and
four thousand foot soldiers. He fed the knights themselves at his own
table, and paid them each three shillings a day for the support of their
squires and horses; and he himself commanded them, wearing armor, and
riding at their head. He kept them together by the sound of a long,
slender trumpet, such as was then used only by his own band; and in
combat he showed himself strong and dexterous in the use of lance and
sword, winning great admiration and respect even from the enemy.

Henry resolved to come to a treaty, and to seal it by asking the King
of France, Louis le Jeune, to give his daughter Margaret in marriage to
Henry, the heir of England. Becket was sent on this embassy, and the
splendor of his equipment was such as might become its importance.

Two hundred men on horseback, in armor or gay robes, were his immediate
followers, and with them came eight waggons, each drawn by five horses,
a groom walking beside each horse, and a driver and guard to every
waggon, besides a large, fierce dog chained beneath each. The waggons
carried provisions and garments, and furniture for the night: two were
filled with ale for the French, who much admired that English liquor;
another was fitted up as a kitchen, and another for a chapel. There were
twelve sumpter horses carrying small articles, and on the back of each
of these sat a long-tailed ape!

Dogs and hawks, with their attendants, accompanied the procession, the
whole marshalled in regular order, and the men singing as they went;
and the impression on the minds of all beholders was, "If such was the
Chancellor, what must be the King?"

At Paris all these riches were given away, and so resolved was Becket
to keep up his character for munificence, that he did not choose to be
maintained at the expense of the French King; and when Louis, wishing to
force him into being his guest, sent orders to the markets round to sell
nothing to the English Chancellor, his attendants disguised themselves,
and bought up all the provisions in the neighborhood. King Louis
acquired a great esteem and admiration for the Chancellor, and willingly
granted his request, betrothing Margaret, who was only seven years old,
to Prince Henry. She, as well as her little husband, became Becket's
pupils, by desire of King Henry, and she, at least, never seems to have
lost her attachment to him.

The time Becket dreaded came. The good, old, peaceable Archbishop
Theobald died in 1162, and Henry, who was then at Falaise, ordered his
Chancellor to England, ostensibly to settle a disturbance in the western
counties, but in reality, as he declared in a private interview, that he
might be elected to the primacy.

Becket smiled, and, pointing to his gay robes, said, "You are choosing a
pretty dress to figure at the head of your monks of Canterbury. If you
do as you say, my lord, you will soon hate me as much as you love me
now, for you assume an authority in Church affairs to which I shall not
consent, and there will be plenty of persons to stir up strife between
us."

Henry did not heed the warning, and King, Bishops, and the Chapter
of Canterbury unanimously chose Becket as Archbishop, with only one
reluctant voice, that of Gilbert Folliot, Bishop of London, who expected
the same promotion himself. On Whit-Sunday Thomas received priest's
orders, and shortly after was consecrated Bishop by Henry de Blois,
Bishop of Winchester, and brother of King Stephen. John of Salisbury, a
priest of Becket's household, and his intimate friend, was sent to Rome
to ask for the pallium; and, bringing it home, laid it on the altar of
Canterbury Cathedral, whence the Archbishop took it up.

The magnificent Archdeacon was expected by King Henry to lead the same
life when Archbishop, and thus to secularize the Church. But Henry had
mistaken his man. Clever and clear-sighted as the King was, seven years
of transacting business together, and of familiar intercourse with the
frank-hearted, free-spoken Thomas a Becket, had failed to make him
conscious of the inner life and deep devotion, the mortification and
uncompromising sense of duty, that was the true spring of his actions.
It was no secret; Becket avowed it from the first; the King only did not
see it, because he _could_ not understand it.

Becket had too high an idea of the office of a bishop to unite the care
of state affairs with it, and he at once resigned the chancellorship.
Outwardly there was not much difference--he still kept a magnificent
table, and entertained nobles and knights at his banquets; but his
self-discipline was secretly carried to a far greater extent than
before. He touched the wine-cup with his lips, to do honor to his
guests, but his drink was water in which hay had been boiled; and though
costly meats were placed before him, he hardly tasted them, and his
chief food was bread. He doubled all the gifts that Archbishop Theobald
had been wont to make to the poor convents and hospitals, and gave very
large alms. Every day he washed the feet of thirteen beggars, then fed
them, and gave them each four shillings. This was, in fact, considered
as a religious duty, almost an obligation on certain occasions. It is
a ceremony still performed by the Pope at Passion-tide; and Queen
Elizabeth herself used to do so on Maundy Thursday. The gifts now
distributed by the Queen on that day are a relic of the custom.

Archbishop Becket, when at Canterbury, often visited the cloisters,
where he sat reading among the monks; and he often went to see and
console the sick or infirm brethren, who were unable to leave their
cells. He was much loved and respected by those who knew him best; but
the nobles, who had usurped lands belonging to his see, dreaded his
maintenance of his rights, and hoped for disagreements between him and
the King--especially one Randolf de Broc, who wrongfully held the Castle
of Saltwood, near Canterbury.

However, at the first meeting all was smooth. On the return of the court
the Archbishop brought his pupil, Prince Henry, to meet his father at
Southampton, and was received with great affection. The King embraced
him eagerly, and spent much time apart with him, discussing all that had
taken place in his absence.



   CAMEO XX.

   THE CONSTITUTIONS OF CLARENDON.
   (1163-1172.)

  _King of England_.
   1151. Henry II.

  _King of Scotland_.
   1165. William.

  _King of France_.
   1137. Louis VII.

  _Emperor of Germany_.
   1152. Friedrich II.

  _Pope_.
   1159. Alexander III.


The strife between the Crown and the Mitre was not long in breaking out
again. The former strife had been on the matter of investiture; the
strife of the twelfth century was respecting jurisdiction.

We sometimes hear the expression, "Without benefit of clergy," and the
readers of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" cannot have forgotten William
of Deloraine's declaration,

  "Letter or line know I never a one,
  Were't my neck-verse at Harribee."

These are witnesses of the combat between Henry II. and Thomas a Becket.
The Church, as bearing the message of peace, claimed to be exempt from
the sword of the State. Her sacred buildings protected the criminal,
the inhabitants of her lands were spared in war, and offences committed
either by an ecclesiastic or against one, were not liable to be punished
by the temporal power. This protection was extended not only over
actually ordained clergymen, but all who held any office in connection
with ecclesiastical affairs--all students, nay, all who were clerks
enough to read and write. Thus the wild borderers, when made prisoners,
escaped the halter by pretending to read a verse of the _Miserere_,
which they had learnt by heart in case of such an emergency, and called
their neck-verse; and "without benefit of clergy" was added to new laws,
to prevent education from exempting persons from their power.

But this arose long after the battle had been fought and won; and it
is not to be supposed, that the Church left offenders unpunished.
Imprisonment, loss of rank, and penance, fell heavily on them, and
it was only very hardened and desperate men who would die under
excommunication rather than endure all that was required before they
could be reconciled to the Church.

Henry II. had found the course of justice seriously impeded by these
privileges of the clergy, and convoking a council at Westminster, in
1163, called on the bishops to consent that, as soon as a clerk should
be proved guilty of a crime, he should be deprived of his orders, and
handed over to receive punishment as a layman, at the hands of the
King's officer.

According to our views in the present day, this demand was just, but to
the Church of the twelfth century it seemed an attempt to deprive her
of powers committed to her trust; and considering the uncertainty of
justice, and the lawless tyranny and cruelty often exercised by the
sovereigns and nobles, the resistance made to Henry II. cannot be
wondered at.

The bishops, however, first took the King's view, and argued that a
crime was worse in a clerk than in another, so that he deserved no
immunity. To this Becket answered, that the loss of his orders was one
penalty, and it was not right that he should be punished twice for the
same offence. They said that the King would be displeased, and it would
be better to give up their liberties than to perish themselves. This
cowardly plea Becket treated no better than it deserved, and brought
them over to his side, so that they all answered the King, that their
duty forbade them to comply with his demand; Henry put the question in
another form, asking them whether they would in all things observe the
royal Constitutions of his ancestors. Becket replied, "We will in all
things, saving the privileges of our order;" and so, one by one, said
they all, except Hilary of Chichester, who was afraid, and left out
the important restriction. But by this cowardice all he gained was the
King's contempt. Henry chose him as the one on whom to vent his passion,
abused him violently, and quitted the council, in one of his furious
fits of rage.

Thenceforth Henry was at war with Becket. One of his first acts of
spite, was exiling the Archbishop's friend, John of Salisbury, a
faithful priest, and an excellent scholar, as his correspondence with
his master remains to testify. It is curious to read his account of
Paris. "The people here seem to enjoy abundance of everything; the
Church ceremonies are performed with great splendor, and I thought, with
Jacob, 'Surely the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not;' also, in
the words of the poet,

"'Blessed is the banish'd man who liveth here.'

"The French are much afraid of our King Henry, and hate him most
intensely; but this between ourselves."

The Archbishop wrote to the Pope for counsel, but the King had strong
influence at Rome, and the Pope only advised Becket to preserve peace;
owning that what the King demanded was wrong, but recommending Becket to
give way, and make friends, so that England might be once more at his
beck and call.

For this policy Becket was far too straight-forward, and his perplexity
was great, especially when the Archbishop of York, who had always been
his enemy, the jealous and disappointed Gilbert Folliot of London, and
the time-serving Hilary of Chichester, all declared themselves of the
King's party.

The Pope and his legate prevailed with Becket to consent to the
Constitutions of the realm, without making any exception; the King said
this must be done in public, and in January, 1164, convoked a council
for the purpose at Clarendon, in Wiltshire.

The Constitutions were read, and proved to contain much that was
contrary to the canons of the Church; they were discussed and commented
on for three days, and then, to Becket's surprise and dismay, he was
required not only to agree to them by word of mouth, as he had already
done, but to set his archiepiscopal seal to them. He rose, and
exclaimed, much agitated, "I declare by God Almighty, that no seal of
mine shall ever be set to such Constitutions as these."

The King left the room in a fury, and great confusion ensued, of which
we have no clear account. The nobles broke in on the bishops, and
threatened them in the King's name; the Grand Master of the Templars
persuaded Becket, and it seems that his firmness in some degree
gave way, though whether what he repented of was the sealing the
Constitutions, or merely the promise he had given, we cannot tell. The
assembly broke up, the King and each of the Archbishops taking a copy of
the Constitutions.

Becket, as he rode away, lamented over what had passed, as his faithful
friend and biographer, Herbert of Bosham, has recorded. "My sins are the
cause why the Church of England is reduced to bondage," he said. "I was
taken from the court to fill this station, a proud and vain man; not
from the cloister, nor from a school of the Saviour, but from the palace
of Caesar. I was a feeder of birds, and I was suddenly made a feeder of
men; I was a patron of players, and a follower of hounds, and I became
a shepherd over many souls. I neglected my own vineyard, and yet was
intrusted with the care of others."

He fasted, and abstained from ministering at the altar, till he had
received from the Pope a letter of absolution for his act of weakness;
and as the Pope gave no ratification of the Constitutions of Clarendon,
he did not consider them binding.

Henry shifted his ground, and, calling another Council at Northampton in
1164, brought various petty charges against the Archbishop. The first
was, that a man named John Marshall had failed to obtain justice in his
court. The truth was, that the man had been caught making oaths on a
jest-book, instead of on the Gospels; and Becket, instead of coming
himself to state this, sent four knights with letters explaining it.

For this neglect, as it was said, of the King's summons, Becket was
condemned to forfeit the whole of his personal property; and to this he
submitted, but without appeasing the King, who went on to accuse him of
taking the public money while Chancellor, when, as every one knew, he
had spent far more largely than ever he had received in the King's
service. Not a person was there who did not know that his character
stood far above such base charges; besides, an appointment to an
ecclesiastical dignity was always supposed to clear from all former
charges.

Henry de Blois, Bishop of Winchester, brother of King Stephen, went to
the King, and offered to pay the whole sum required of Becket; but he
was not listened to, and the Bishops of Chichester and London plainly
told the Archbishop, that what was aimed at was to force him to resign.
The plain, blunt Bishop of Lincoln said, "The man's life is in danger;
he will lose it, or his bishopric; and what good his bishopric will do
him without his life, I do not see."

On the decisive day on which he was expected to submit to judgment,
Archbishop Thomas rose early and celebrated mass; after which, arrayed
in his pontifical dress, except his mitre and pall, he set out for the
place of meeting, attended by his faithful clerks. He wished to have
gone thither barefoot, and, bearing his cross, to have thrown himself at
the feet of the King, and intercede with him for the liberties of the
Church; but his clergy and the Templars persuaded him to relinquish this
design, contrary to his own judgment. He returned to it again so far,
that, on dismounting in the Castle court, he took his cross from
Alexander Llewellyn, its bearer, and carried it himself into the hall.
The Bishop of Hereford ran up to him, saying, "Suffer me, my lord, to
carry the cross; it is better than that you should carry it yourself."

"Nay, my son," he answered, "suffer me to retain it, as the banner under
which I fight."

A French archdeacon, who was present, said to the Bishop of London, "My
lord, do you allow the Archbishop to carry his own cross?"

"My good friend," was Folliot's rude reply, "he always was a fool, and
will continue so to the end."

But when all gave way before the majestic figure of the Archbishop, with
the cross in his hand, Gilbert went up to him, and tried to snatch it
away, telling him he was disturbing the peace; for the King would take
the sword, and then the King and Archbishop would be matched against
each other.

"So be it," said Becket; "my cross is the sign of peace; the King's
sword is an instrument of war."

He sat down to wait, while the other prelates were called to a
consultation with the King in another apartment. His clerks sat round,
and Herbert de Bosham said, "If they lay violent hands on you, you can
excommunicate them all."

"Far be that from our lord," rejoined Fitzstephen, his secretary; "let
him rather follow the pattern of the ancient confessors and martyrs, and
pray for his enemies and persecutors."

One of the King's marshals touched Fitzstephen on the shoulder, telling
him it was forbidden to speak to the Archbishop; upon which he glanced
at his master, and pointed to the cross, to express what he was
forbidden to say.

The King sat in his own chamber, and the bishops and barons were sent in
turn with messages from him to the Archbishop. Becket appealed to the
Pope, and the bishops, on their side, appealed against the Archbishop;
and then the Earls of Leicester and Cornwall were sent to pronounce
sentence on him; but instead of allowing them to proceed, he declared
that the King had no right to call him to account for what had happened
before he was Archbishop; for it had been expressly declared, when he
was appointed, that he was freed from all former claims.

This was a point of view in which the Earls had not seen the case, and
they said they must go back to the King. "One word more," said Becket:
"as the soul is more worthy than the body, so you are bound to obey God
rather than the King. Can the son judge his father? I can receive no
judgment from you or the King; the Pope alone, under God, is my judge. I
place myself and my Church under his protection. I call the bishops, who
have obeyed their King rather than God, to answer before his tribunal;
and so, protected by the Holy Catholic Church and the power of the
Apostolic See, I leave this court."

He rose, followed by his clerks. Cries of abuse followed him; Ranulf de
Broc shot straws at him, and a relation of the King reproached him with
sneaking away like a traitor. "If I were a knight," said the Archbishop,
"my sword should answer that foul speech."

It was only the King's immediate followers that thus reviled him; the
poor crowded after him in multitudes, so that he could hardly hold
in his horse, carry the cross, which he still retained, and give his
blessing to those who sought it. "See," he said to his clerks, "what a
glorious train escorts me home! These are the poor of whom Christ spake,
partakers of my distress: open the door, and let us feast together!"

On coming to the monastery, they first went to the chapel, where he
prayed, and laid down the cross; then went to the refectory to take
food. In talking over the events of the day, he bade his clerks beware
of retorting on their enemies the abuse that was poured on them. "To
rail," he said "is the mark of an inferior; to bear it, of a superior.
If we would teach them to control their tongues, let us show that we
control our ears."

In the reading that evening, at supper, the text occurred, "If they
persecute you in one city, flee to another." This Becket took as
direction for his course, and sent to ask the King for a safe-conduct to
return to Canterbury. The King said he should have an answer to-morrow,
which Becket and his clerks considered as a sign that his life was not
safe. That night, therefore, he, with three of his clergy, mounted at
the postern of the monastery, and rode off, in such torrents of rain,
that four times he was obliged to cut off a portion of his long cloak to
relieve himself of the weight. He made for Kent, travelling by night and
hiding by day, for twenty days, till he reached the coast, and at Estrey
was hidden for several days in a little secret chamber opening into
the parish church, whence, at mass, he gave the blessing to the
congregation, though they knew it not. At last a small open boat was
procured, and, embarking on the 2d of November, 1164, he safely landed
near Gravelines.

The county of Boulogne belonged to Mary de Blois, Stephen's daughter.
She had taken the veil at Romsey, when a girl; but on the death of her
brothers, Eustace and William, became the heiress of her mother's county
of Boulogne, and had been stolen away and married, for the sake of her
inheritance, by Matthew of Flanders. The Archbishop had opposed this
marriage, and the count was therefore his enemy, so that he was obliged
to pass through his territory in the disguise of a Cistercian monk,
calling himself Brother Christian.

Twice he was in danger of discovery. The first time was when they met a
party of young men hawking. Becket, who had never lost his admiration
for the noble birds (for one of whom he had so nearly lost his life),
showed so much interest in the falcons, that their owner, surprised at
seeing so much sportsmanship in a monk, exclaimed, "You must be the
Archbishop of Canterbury!" "What!" said another of the hawking party,
"do you think the Archbishop travels in this sort?" And thus Becket was
saved from being obliged to make answer. The next time was at supper,
when they had reached the inn at Gravelines, where his great height and
beautiful hands attracted attention; and the host, further remarking
that he bestowed all the choicest morsels on the children, was convinced
that this must be the English Archbishop, whose escape was already known
on the Continent, and falling down at his feet, blessed the saints for
bringing such a guest under his roof. Becket was much afraid the good
man might unintentionally betray him, and left Gravelines early the next
morning, on his way to the monastery of St. Bertin's, at St. Omer. It is
amusing to find Becket's faithful clerks, on the Friday when they were
to arrive at that hospitable convent, trying to coax their master to
grant them leave, after their journey, to eat a little meat: "for,
suppose there should be a scarcity of fish." Here they were joined by
Herbert de Bosham, who had been sent to Canterbury to collect such money
and valuables as he could bring away.

Henry had in the meantime sent an embassy to desire the King of France
not to shelter "the late Archbishop;" but it met with no favorable
reception from Louis. "He is a noble-minded man," said he; "if I knew
where to find him, I would go with my whole court to meet him."

"But he did much harm to France," said the Earl of Arundel, "at the head
of the English army."

"That was his duty," said Louis; "I admire him the more. If he had been
my servant, he would have done the same for me."

Nor did the embassy meet with much better success on going to Sens,
where Pope Alexander III. then was. The Bishop of London began to abuse
the Archbishop virulently, saying that he had fled, "as the Scripture
saith. 'The wicked fleeth when no man pursueth.'"

"Nay," interrupted the Pope, "spare. I entreat you, spare--"

"I will spare him, holy father," said Gilbert

"Not _him_, but _yourself_, brother," said Alexander; and Gilbert was
silenced.

Finding how favorably both Pope and King were disposed toward him,
Becket left his retreat at St. Omer, and was received with much respect
by Louis at Soissons, after which he proceeded to Sens. There he was
treated with high honor by Alexander, and almost his first measure
was to confess, with deep grief, that he considered his election
uncanonical, "the handiwork of men, and not of God," and that therefore
these troubles had fallen on his Church. He therefore gave up his see;
but the Pope would not accept his resignation, and assigned to him the
Cistercian Abbey of Pontigny as his dwelling-place. Here he remained two
years, while the King persecuted his adherents and banished his kindred.
Four hundred poor creatures were stripped of their goods, and turned
adrift in Flanders, where they must have perished, had not the Count and
the Empress Maude taken pity on them.



   CAMEO XXI.

   DEATH OF BECKET.

   (1166-1172.)

  _King of England._
   1154. Henry II.

  _King of Scotland_.
   1165. William.

  _King of France._
   1137. Louis VII.

  _Emperor of Germany_.
   1152. Friedrich II.

  _Pope_.
   1159. Alexander III.


In 1166, Pope Alexander III. returned to Rome, after many vain attempts
to reconcile the King and Archbishop, and it was determined that Becket
should pronounce sentence of excommunication on the King and his chief
followers in his uncanonical proceedings. Henry was at this time
seriously ill, and Becket therefore did not include him under the
sentence; the others were excommunicated, and this so exasperated Henry,
that he intimated to the monks at Pontigny that he should seize all the
possessions of the Cistercians in England, if they continued to harbor
his enemy.

The poor monks were much distressed, and laid the letter before their
guest, who could, of course, do no other than depart. "He who feeds the
birds of the air, and clothes the lilies of the field, will provide
for me and my fellow-exiles," said he; and he soon after received an
invitation from the King of France to choose any castle or convent in
his dominions for his abode. He selected the Abbey of St. Columba, a
little beyond the walls of Sens, and took leave of the brethren at
Pontigny, with such a burst of tears that the abbot remarked them with
surprise, and begged to know their cause. "I feel that my days are
numbered," said Becket; "I dreamt, last night, that I was put to death."

"Do you think you are going to be a martyr?" said the abbot. "You eat
and drink too much for that."

"I know that I am too self-indulgent," said the Arch bishop; "but God is
merciful, albeit I am unworthy of His favor."

Legates were sent by the Pope to negotiate, and many letters were
written on either side, but without effect. The difference was said to
lie in a nutshell; but where the liberties of the Church were concerned,
Becket was inflexible. At the Epiphany, 1169, he was put to a severe
trial; Henry himself, who had long been at war with Louis le Jeune,
came to Montmirail, to hold a conference and sign a treaty, and he was
summoned to attend it. By the advice of the legates and other clergy,
Becket had agreed to give up the phrase which had formerly given the
King so much offence at Clarendon, "Saving the privileges of my order,"
but not without inserting in its stead an equivalent, "Saving the honor
of God," which, as being concerned in that of the Church, meant the same
thing.

Yet on this the clergy of France, who were always extremely submissive
to the crown, were by no means of Becket's opinion, and tried so hard to
persuade him, for the sake of peace, to suppress this clause altogether,
and make no reservation, that the bold and faithful Herbert de Bosham
began to fear he might give way, and, pressing through the crowd as the
Archbishop was advancing to the presence of the two kings, he whispered
in his ear, "Take heed, my lord--walk warily. I tell you truly, if you
leave out the words, 'Saving God's honor,' as you suppressed the other
phrase, saving your own order, your sorrow will be renewed, and the more
bitterly."

The throng was so dense, that Becket could only answer him by a look,
and he remained in great anxiety as he watched his master advance and
throw himself at the feet of King Henry; then, when raised up by the
King, begin to speak, accusing himself of being by his unworthiness, the
cause of the troubles of the English Church. "Therefore," said he, "I
throw myself on your mercy and pleasure, my lord, on the whole matter
that lies between us, only _saving the honor of my God._"

Henry burst out in rage and fury, heaping on Becket a load of abuse;
declaring, to the King of France that this was all a pretence and that
he himself was willing, to leave the Archbishop to the full as much
power as any of his predecessors, but that he knew that, whatever the
Archbishop disapproved, he would say was contrary to God's honor. "Now,"
said Henry, "there have been many kings of England before me, some
of greater power than I am, some of less; and there have been many
archbishops of Canterbury before him. Now let him behave to me as the
holiest of his predecessors behaved to the least of mine, and I am
satisfied."

There was apparent reason in this, that brought over Louis to Henry's
side, and he said, rather insultingly, "My lord Archbishop, do you wish
to be more than a saint?"

But Becket stood firm. He said there had indeed been holier and greater
archbishops before him, each one of whom had corrected some abuse of the
Church; and had they corrected all, he should not have been exposed to
this fiery trial. Besides, the point was, that Henry was not leaving the
Church as it had been under them, but seeking to bind a yoke on her that
they had never borne. Almost all the French clergy and nobles were now
against him; they called him obstinate and proud; the two kings mounted
their horses and rode away together, without bidding him farewell; and
some of the last words his clerks heard from the French nobles were, "He
has been cast out by England; let him find no support in France."

Dreading what might come next, and grievously disappointed in their
hopes of returning to their homes, even his clerks were out of humor,
and blamed his determination. As they rode back in the gloom toward St.
Columba, the horse of one happened to stumble, and in his vexation he
exclaimed, "Come up, saving the honor of the Church and my order."

The Archbishop looked grieved, but was silent, and Herbert took this
moment for riding up to him, and saying, "Heaven be praised, my lord,
that through all to-day's tribulation you have been sustained by the
Lord, and have not suffered that slippery member to betray you into
anything against the honor of God."

The great ground of anxiety was the displeasure of Louis, who had
hitherto not only allowed the exiles to take shelter in his dominions,
but absolutely maintained them; and if he was won over by their
persecutors, what was to become of them?

Their alarm increased as they heard nothing from him of his usual
messages of kindness and friendship, and they were consulting together
on their plans if they should be turned out of St. Columba.

"Never fear," said the Archbishop; "I am the only person King Henry
wishes to injure: if I go away, no one will molest you."

"It is for you we are anxious," they said; "we do not see where you can
find refuge."

"Care not for me," he said: "my God can protect me. Though England and
France are closed against me, I shall not be undone. I will not apply to
those Roman robbers, who do nothing but plunder the needy. I have heard
that the people who dwell on the banks of the Arar, in Burgundy, are
open-handed. I will go among them, on foot, with one comrade, and they
will surely have compassion on me."

Just then a messenger came to desire the Archbishop to come to the
lodgings of the French King.

"There! it is to drive us out of his kingdom," said one of the clerks.

"Do not forebode evil," returned Becket. "You are not a prophet, nor the
son of a prophet."

Becket could hardly have been prepared for the manner of his reception.
Louis threw himself on his knees, crying out, "My father, forgive me;
you were the only wise man among us. We were all blinded and besotted,
and advised you to make God's honor give way to a man's will! I repent
of it, my father, and entreat you to bestow on me absolution!"

Louis had been brought to this change of mind by a breach of promise on
Henry's part, but he never again wavered in his confidence and support
of Becket.

In the November of the same year there was another interview between the
two kings and Becket, at Montmartre, near Paris.

By this time, the Bishops of London and Salisbury had been
excommunicated for disobedience to their primate; and Henry, expecting
the same stroke to fall on himself, was resolved to put an end to the
quarrel, and, bringing back Becket to his kingdom, to deal with him
there as best he might.

Becket did not, by any means, trust the King's intentions, and had
written to ask the Pope what pledge for his security he had better
require. Alexander answered, that it was not accordant with the
character of an ecclesiastic to stipulate for such pledges, but that
he had better content himself with obtaining from the King a kiss of
peace.

Now this kiss Henry would not give. He said he had sworn an oath never
to kiss the Archbishop, and this refusal immediately convinced every one
that evil was intended. Louis and all the Archbishop's friends concurred
in advising him never to come to any terms without this seal of friend
ship, and entirely on this ground the treaty was broken off. One of
Becket's clergy remarked, that the meeting had taken place on the spot
where St. Denys was put to death, adding, "It is my belief that nothing
but your martyrdom will insure peace to the Church."

"Be it so," said Becket; "God grant that she may be redeemed, even at
the sacrifice of my life."

He began to make up his mind that, since the King had given up the point
at issue, he ought to allow no regard for his personal safety to keep
him away from his flock; but just at this point the quarrel became
further complicated. Henry, in dread of excommunication, resolved
to have his son Henry crowned, to reign jointly with him, and the
difficulty arose that no one could lawfully perform the coronation but
the primate. Letters prohibiting the bishops from taking part in the
coronation were sent by Becket, but, in the meantime, Gilbert Folliot
had been appealing to Rome against his own excommunication. The Pope,
who had been shuffling throughout, would not absolve him himself, but
gave him letters to the Archbishops of Rouen and Nevers, and they
granted him absolution; on which he returned triumphant to England, and
joined with Roger of York and Hilary of Chichester in setting the
crown on the head of young Henry. It was a measure which every person
concerned in it had bitterly to rue--king, prince, bishops, every one,
except Margaret, young Henry's wife, who steadily avoided receiving the
crown from any one but her old tutor and friend, the primate.

Pope and Archbishop both agreed that this contempt of prohibition must
be visited by excommunication; and as Alexander had about this time
effectually humbled the pride of the Emperor Frederick, Henry thought it
time to submit, at least in appearance, lest his realm should be laid
under an interdict. At Freitval, therefore, he met the Archbishop in
the autumn of 1170, and all was arranged. He consented to the
excommunication of those concerned in the coronation; he held Becket's
stirrup; he did everything but give the kiss of peace, but that he
constantly avoided. Even when they went to church together at Tours,
when, in the course of the communion service, Henry must have received
the kiss from the Archbishop, he contrived to change the service to the
mass for the dead, in which the kiss did not occur. The last time the
King and Archbishop met was at Chaumont, near Blois, and here they had a
return of old feelings, talked cheerfully and in a friendly manner, and
Henry was so much touched by his remembrance of his happiest and best
days, when his noble Chancellor was his friend and counsellor, that
he exclaimed, "Why will you not do as I wish you? I would put all my
affairs into your hands."

But Becket told his clerks that he recollected, "All these things will I
give Thee, if Thou wilt fall down and worship me."

They parted for the last time, and Becket prepared for his return,
after his seven years' exile, sending before him letters from the Pope,
suspending the Archbishop of York, and excommunicating the other bishops
who had assisted at the coronation. At every step warnings met him that
the English coast was beset with his foes, lying in wait to murder him;
but he was resolved to proceed, and bold Herbert helped to strengthen
his resolution by his arguments. On the 3d of December he set sail from
the Boulogne coast. "There is England, my lord!" cried the rejoicing
clerks.

"You are glad to go," he said; "but, before forty days, you will wish
yourself anywhere else."

With extreme joy did the people of Sandwich see, for the first time for
seven years, the archepiscopal cross, as it stood high above the prow of
the ship. They thronged to receive their pastor and ask his blessing,
and in every village through which he passed the parish priest came
forth, with cross or banner, his flock in procession behind him, and the
bells pealing merrily, while the road was strewed with garlands.

At Canterbury the joy was extreme; anthems were sung in all the
churches, and the streets resounded with trumpets and the shouts of the
people in their holiday robes. The Archbishop rode through the midst,
saluted each of the monks of Christ Church on the cheek, and then went
straight to his own cathedral, where his greeting to his flock was a
sermon on the text, "Here we have no abiding city."

After taking possession of his palace, Becket set out to London to visit
his pupil, the young King, taking him a present of a fine horse; but he
was not allowed to see him, and the courtiers threatened him severely,
because of the rejoicings of the citizens of London. At home he was much
annoyed by his old enemy, Ranulf de Broc, who from Saltwood Castle made
forays on all that were going to the archiepiscopal palace, stole his
baggage, and cut off the tail of one of the poor horses that carried it.

The bishops who had been placed under the censures of the Church were,
meanwhile, in violent anger. Roger of York said he had 8,000 crowns in
his coffers, and would spend every one of them in beating down Thomas's
insolence: and together they all set out to make their complaints to the
King, who was at Falaise.

It would seem that Henry either forgot, or did not choose to tell them,
of the permission he had given Becket at Freital, and he went into a
passion, saying, if all who were concerned in the coronation were to be
excommunicated, he ought to be one. The Archbishop of York talked of
patience and good contrivance. "What would you have me do?" said Henry.

"Your barons must advise you," said one of the bishops (which, is not
known); "but as long as Thomas lives, you will never be at peace."

Henry's eyes flashed. "A curse," cried he, "on all the false varlets I
have maintained, who have left me so long subject to the insolence of a
priest, without attempting to rid me of him!"

A council of the barons was called, and Henry found them willing enough
to advise him as he wished. "The only way to deal with such a fellow,"
said one, "is to plait a few withe in a rope, and have him up to a
gallows." In the midst of the council, however, it was observed that
four of the King's knights were missing--Reginald Fitzurse, William
Tracy, Hugh Morville, and William Brito. It was remembered that they had
heard the King's words about the insolent priest, and, becoming alarmed
for the consequences, Henry sent off the Earl of Mandeville, and some
others, with orders to overtake them, and arrest the Archbishop.

The four knights had held a hasty council, after which they set out
separately, agreeing to meet in Saltwood Castle, where they were sure
of assistance in their designs from Randolf de Broc. They reached it on
Innocents' day, and the next day set out for Canterbury, accompanied by
several of the Broc family and their armed retainers. In the meantime,
Becket had been keeping Christmas, and preaching his last sermon on
the text, "Peace on earth, good-will to men." He had sent away his
cross-bearer, Alexander Llewellyn, and his high-minded friend, Herbert
de Bosham, with letters to the Pope--perhaps because he was afraid that
Herbert's boldness might bring him into peril; and he was sitting in his
own chamber writing, when the four knights arrived, and desired to speak
with him.

He received them with his clergy about him, and they began to threaten
him in the name of the King, and order him to leave the kingdom. He must
fully have understood the meaning of all this; but he stood firm, and
quietly answered all their railing. They then told him his doings should
recoil on his own head; and on his replying that he was ready to suffer
martyrdom, they noisily left the room, Fiturse shouting out, "Ho! clerks
and monks, in the King's name seize that man, and keep him till justice
is done."

"You will find me here," answered Becket, standing by the door.

The knights had gone back to arm themselves and join their retainers.
In the meantime the terrified clergy fastened all the doors of the
monastery, and besought the Archbishop to take shelter in the church;
but he seemed the only person present who had no fear, and replied
that he would not flee--he would remain where he was. At last he was
persuaded to come into church, as it was the hour for vespers, and set
off, with the cross borne before him.

"My lord! my lord! they are arming!" cried one frightened monk; and
another brought word that they were upon them--Robert de Broc having
shown them the way through the orchard. Still Becket was calm; and as
the monks tried to drag him into the church, he stood at the door,
saying, "Go on with the holy service. As long as you are afraid of
death, I will not enter."

They proceeded, and he advanced up the aisle. As he was going up the
steps to the altar, there was a rush of monks into the church; for
Reginald Fitzurse, with a drawn sword, had just come through the
cloister door, the other murderers following. Becket turned, on seeing
the monks trying to bolt and bar the church doors. "It is not right,"
said he; "to make a fortress of the house of prayer. It can protect
its own, even if its doors are open. We shall conquer our enemies by
suffering, not by fighting."

The vespers ceased; the clergy threw themselves on the altars for
protection; the Archbishop stood alone with one canon, with Fitzstephen
and Edward Grim, a priest who had come to visit him. In rushed the band
of armed men, crying out, "Where is the traitor, Thomas Becket?" To this
he made no answer; but when the cry was, "Where is the Archbishop?" he
came down the steps, saying, "Here I am; no traitor, but a priest of the
Lord. What would you of me?"

"Absolve those you have excommunicated."

"They have not repented, and I will not."

"Then you shall die."

"I am ready, for the Lord's sake; but, in the name of Almighty God, I
forbid you to harm these, whether priests or laymen."

"Flee, or you are a dead man!" cried one, striking him with the back of
his sword, and unwilling, apparently, to slay him in the church. They
tried to push him away from the pillar against which he was standing,
but in vain. Becket was a tall, powerful man, expert in the use of
weapons. Had he snatched a sword from one of these, he might have saved
his life; but temporal arms he had long since laid aside, and he only
stood still, clasped his hands in prayer, and commended his soul to his
God. Reginald Fitzurse began to fear the people might break in to his
rescue, and struck a blow which wounded his head, as well as the arm
of Edward Grim, who fled to the altar; but Becket did not move hand or
foot--only, as the blood flowed from his face, he said, "In the name of
Christ, and for the defence of the Church, I am ready to die." Tracy
struck him again twice on the head: he staggered, and, as he was
falling, the fourth stroke, given by Brito, cleft off the top of his
skull with such violence, that the sword broke against the pavement.

The murderers, after making sure of his death, left the church; the
monks took up his corpse, unwounded, save the crown of his head, which
was shattered to pieces above his tonsure, and laid it out on the high
altar, deeming that he had indeed been a sacrifice, and weeping as they
beheld the beauty of his peaceful expression, as if he had calmly fallen
asleep. They folded outward the haircloth shirt he had always worn
secretly; and as the blood still trickled from the wound, it was caught
in a dish.

The threats of Randolf de Broc obliged them to bury him in haste the
next morning; and they were strictly forbidden to place his coffin among
those of the former archbishops--a command which they obeyed, from the
dread that otherwise his remains might be insulted. They had not long to
fear. Europe rang with horror at the crime, and admiration, rather
than compassion, for the victim. No one was more shocked than the King
himself, who was at Bure, in Normandy, when the news reached him. For
three days he remained shut; up in his room, taking no food, and seeing
no one, in an agony of grief and dismay at the consequence of his hasty
words, and dwelling on those days of early friendship which he had
passed with the murdered Becket. Not till these first paroxysms of grief
were over was he even able to think of the danger he was in; and he then
sent off an embassy to explain to the Pope how far he was from intending
the bloody deed, and to entreat forgiveness.

He was at a loss how to treat the murderers. He could not punish what
his own words had been supposed to authorize, and he dared not let them
escape, lest he should be supposed to be their defender. He therefore
let them reap the benefit of the liberties for which Becket had died:
their crime was done on the person of a clerk; therefore it was left to
the censures of the Church.

They had, in the meantime, fled to Morville's Castle, in Cumberland,
where they found themselves regarded with universal execration; their
servants shrank from their presence, and, in the exaggerations of
tradition, it was said that the very dogs would not approach them.

Overwhelmed with remorse, they set out for Italy, and dreaded and
avoided, as if they bore a mark like the first "murderer and vagabond,"
they threw themselves at the feet of the Pope, and entreated to know
what they should do to obtain mercy. He ordered them to go on pilgrimage
to Jerusalem; and they all went except Tracy, who, lingering behind, was
seized with a dreadful illness, and died at Cosenza. The others all died
within three years, with deep marks of penitence, and were buried before
the door of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Henry obtained pardon from the Pope on giving up all attempts at
subjecting the Church to the law of the State, and on giving a large sum
of money to maintain 200 knights for three years in the Holy Land. He
also largely endowed Mary and Agnes Becket, the Archbishop's sisters,
with possessions in his newly-conquered domain in Ireland; and one of
them became the ancestress of the noble family of Butler, Earls of
Ormonde.

The cathedral at Canterbury had, in the meantime, been sprinkled with
holy water, to purify it from the crime of sacrilege and murder there
committed, and for which it had been a whole year left neglected, and
without the celebration of Divine service. On its reopening, gifts
poured in from all quarters, in honor of the Archbishop, and it was
repaired and beautified to a great degree. The beautiful circular chapel
at the east end was named Becket's Crown, and the spot by the north
transept, where he fell, was termed The Martyrdom. Reports of miracles
having been performed at his intercession were carried to Rome, and Pope
Alexander canonized him as St. Thomas of Canterbury. The next year,
1174, Henry II., who was broken down with grief at the rebellion of his
sons, rode from Southampton to Canterbury without resting, taking no
food but bread and water, entered the city, and walked through the
streets barefoot to the cathedral, and into the crypt, where he threw
himself prostrate on the ground, while Gilbert Folliot preached to the
people.

In the chapter-house Henry caused each of the clergy present, to the
number of eighty, to strike him over the shoulders with a knotted cord,
and afterward spent the whole night beside the tomb. He heard mass the
next morning, and returned to London.

A few years after, Louis VII. came to pray at the tomb of his friend for
the recovery of his son Philippe Auguste, who was ill of a fever. He
made splendid gifts to the cathedral, and in especial a very large
diamond, and a golden cup. In Italy Thomas was equally honored. William
the Good, of Sicily, who married Joan, daughter to Henry II., placed a
colossal statue of St. Thomas of Canterbury in his new foundation,
the Church of Monreale; and at Agnani there is still preserved a
richly-embroidered cope, presented by Pope Innocent III., bearing
thirty-six different scenes in delicate needlework, and among them the
death of the English Archbishop. There are also many German and French
representations of the subject; the murderers, in the more ancient
ones, carefully distinguished by their shields: Morville, _fretty
fleur-de-lis_; Tracy, _two bars gules_; Brito, _three bears, heads
muzzled_; Fitzurse, _three bears passant_.

In Henry III.'s reign a new shrine was built at Canterbury, and the
Archbishop's relics were thither translated. No saint in England was
more popular than St. Thomas of Canterbury, and frequent pilgrimages
were made to his shrine. The Canterbury Pilgrims of Chaucer are thither
journeying, and Simon of Sudbury, the archbishop killed by Wat Tyler's
mob, is said to have made himself unpopular by rebuking the superstition
that made the ignorant believe in the efficacy of these pilgrimages.

Then came the reaction. Henry VIII., little able to endure such a saint
as Becket, sent the spoilers to Canterbury. Lord Cromwell burnt his
relics, and carried off the treasures of gold and jewels, which filled
two chests, so heavy that six or eight men were wanted to carry each of
them. Henry wore Louis VII.'s diamond in a ring. The costly shrine was
destroyed, and the pavement, worn by the knees of the pilgrims, alone
remained to show where Becket's tomb had been. In London, the house of
Gilbert a Becket, in Southwark, where the Saracen lady had ended her
toilsome journey, and where Thomas had been born, had, in Henry III.'s
reign, been made a hospital; Edward VI. granted it for the same use; and
thus it still remains, by its old name of St. Thomas's Hospital, which
perhaps would not so generally be given it, if it were known after what
saint it was so called. His likeness was destroyed in every church and
public building, so that but one head of St. Thomas a Becket is known
to exist in England--namely, one in stained glass, at the village of
Horton, in Ribblesdale--and even in missals and breviaries it was
defaced.

No one has met with more abuse than Becket, ever since the Reformation.
Proud, ostentatious, hypocritical, and rebellious--these are the terms
usually bestowed on him. How far he deserves them, may be judged from a
life detailed with unusual minuteness by three intimate companions, none
of them treating him as faultless. Of the rights of the struggle we will
not speak. No one can doubt that Becket gave his life for the cause
which, in all sincerity, he deemed that of the Church against the World.

The fate of the murderers has been questioned in later times. It is said
that they died at home, in peace and fair prosperity; but the evidence
on either side is nearly balanced.



   CAMEO XXII.

   THE CONQUEST OF IRELAND.
   (1172)


Few histories are more strange and confused than the Irish. The
inhabitants of Ierne, or Erin, as far as anything credible can be
discovered about them, were of three different nations, who had in turn
subdued the island before the beginning of history. These were the Tuath
de Dunans, the Firbolg, and the Scots, or Milesians. Who the two first
were, we will not attempt to say, though Irish traditions declare that
some of them were there before the Flood, and that one Fintan was saved
by being transformed into a salmon, and so swimming about till the water
subsided, after which he resumed the human form, and lived so long that
the saying was, "I could tell you much, if I was as old as Fintan."

The Milesians are not much behind their predecessors in their claim, for
they say they are descended from a son of Japhet, and first discovered
writing, and all the arts commonly said to have been derived from Egypt,
but which they assert were carried thither by one Neill, who gave his
name to the river Nile, as well as to his sons, all the O'Neills of
Ireland.

It is more certain that these Milesians were Kelts, and were in early
times called Scots. A colony of them conquered the Picts; drove the
Caledonians into Galway, and gave North Britain, or Albin the name of
Lesser Scotland, while their own country, or Greater Scotia, returned
to its former name of Erin, called by the Romans Hibernia, and by the
English, Ireland.

The Erse tongue is nearly the same as the Gaelic, and there was much in
the Irish and Highland institutions showing their common origin. The
clan system prevailed in Ireland, the clans being called Septs, and
all having, as a surname, the name of the common ancestor. His
representative, the chief, was known as the Carfinny; but the succession
was not determined by the rules of primogeniture. It was always in one
family, but the choice was made by election of the next heir. When a
Carfinny died, another came into office who had been chosen on his
accession as heir, or Tanist, and at the same time another Tanist
was chosen to succeed him as Carfinny at his death. The land was the
property of the tribe, divided into holdings; and whenever the death of
a considerable proprietor took place, there was a fresh allotment of
the whole, which, of course, as well as the choice of a Tanist, set the
whole population at war.

There were four kingdoms--Ulster, Munster, Leinster, and Connaught--to
which the chiefs succeeded by tanistry, besides Meath, another kingdom
which always belonged to the principal king, or Toparch, who was in
like manner elected as Tanist on each new accession; and the number
of battles and murders among these wild Irish princes is beyond all
estimate. Out of 178 kings, 71 were slain in battle, and 60 murdered.

Christianity was brought to Ireland about the year 400, by St. Colman
and St. Patrick. It does not seem to have materially softened the
manners of the people at large, whose wars went on as fiercely as ever;
but the churches were seats of peace and learning, whence teachers went
forth in numbers into Gaul, and among the heathen Saxons of England. The
Roman calender shows so many names of Irish hermits, priests, and nuns,
that we do not wonder Erin once was known as the Isle of Saints.

The Northmen made their cruel inroads on Ireland, and swept away much
of the beginnings of civilization. Turges, a Danish chief, was, in 815,
King of all Ireland; and having forced Melachlin, or Malachy, King of
Meath, to give up his daughter to him, Melachlin sent with her, in the
disguise of female attendants, sixteen young men armed with skeynes, or
long knives. They killed Turges, and brought the princess back to her
father, who was waiting in ambush at no great distance with his armed
men, set upon the Danes, defeated them, and, being joined by the other
Irish princes, destroyed them all.

It is said that shortly before, Melachlin, when at the court of Turges,
had told him that Ireland was full of a kind of foul, ravenous bird, and
asked his advice how to get rid of them; to which Turges answered, that
he had better destroy the nests--eggs, nestlings, and all--counsel which
the Irish hardly needed; and the massacre of the Danish raven's brood
was frightful.

During the lull brought about by Alfred's conquests, the Irish enjoyed
the halcyon days remembered as those of Malachy with the collar of gold
(which he had torn from the neck of a conquered Dane), and those of
Brien Boromhe, or Boru, the great Brien, in whose reign a maiden, though

  "Rich and rare were the gems she wore,"
   travelled safely round the Green Isle unprotected,
   save by "Erin's honor and Erin's pride."

But when England suffered again, Ireland shared its fate, and, in 1004,
Brien Boru, at the age of eighty-eight, perished in the great battle of
Clontarf, with his eldest son Morogh, and the Danes gained a permanent
settlement, besides making endless forays on the coast. King Olaf
Trygvesson, of Norway, conducted one of these descents; and while
driving off a large herd of cattle, a peasant so piteously entreated to
have his own cows restored, that the king told him he might take them,
if he could tell at once which they were, but that he must not delay the
march. The peasant said his dog knew them, and sent the animal into the
midst of the herd, which consisted of several hundreds, when he drove
out just the number his master had asked, and all bearing the same mark.
The King desired to purchase the intelligent animal, but the man begged
that he would take it as a gift; on which Olaf presented him with a gold
ring, and kept and valued the faithful Vige as "the best of dogs" for
many years after.

Turlogh, the contemporary of the Conqueror, seems to have been
prosperous, since his subjects were rich enough to buy the unfortunate
English, who were sold for slaves, till St. Wulstan put a stop to the
traffic.

Morogh O'Brien, of Leinster, sent to William Rufus bog oak from the
green of Oxmanton, on the Liffey, to serve for the timber of the roof of
Westminster Hall; and this wood, enjoying the universal Irish exemption
from vermin, is said never to harbor a spider. Morogh was once told
that William Rufus intended to make a bridge of his ships, and conquer
Ireland. After some musing, Morogh asked, "Hath the King, in his great
threatening, said, 'If it please God?'" "No!" "Then, seeing he putteth
his trust only in man, and not in God, I fear not his coming."

Morogh was a peaceable man. Magnus, the Norse King of Man, by way of
defiance, sent him his shoes, ordering him to hang them on his shoulders
on Christmas-day, as he passed through his hall. The Irish were, of
course, much enraged at the insult offered to their master, but Morogh
only laughed at the folly of the conceit, saying, "I will not only bear
his shoes, but I had rather eat them, than that he should destroy one
province in Ireland." Magnus did not, however, give up his purpose of
invasion, but was killed in reconnoitring the coast. Morogh was murdered
at Dublin about 1130, and thenceforward all was dire confusion.

The Irish Church had never been decidedly under the dominion of Rome,
and the Popes, in the divided state of the country, obtained neither
money nor obedience from it. They thought much advantage might be gained
if it were under the rule of England; and in 1154, Adrian IV., assuming
that all islands were at the disposal of the Church, gave Henry II.
a bull, authorizing him to become Lord of Ireland, provided he would
establish the Pope's authority there. However, the Irish, not being
likely readily to receive their new Lord, and Henry having full
occupation at home, allowed his grant to rest in oblivion till
circumstances arose to enable him to avail himself of it.

Dermod MacMorogh, King of Leinster, a cruel savage, who had barbarously
revenged the death of his father, the good Morogh, had, in the year
1152, stolen away Devorghal, the wife of Tigheirnach O'Rourke, Prince of
Breffny. The toparch, Turlogh O'Connor, was the friend of O'Rourke, and
forced Dermod to make restitution, but the husband and lover, of course,
remained bitter enemies; and when O'Connor died, the new chieftain,
O'Lachlan, being on the side of Dermod, O'Rourke was severely oppressed,
till the tables were turned by O'Lachlan being killed, and Roderick
O'Connor, the son of Turlogh, becoming toparch. Thereupon Leinster was
invaded in 1167, and Dermod was obliged to flee, setting fire to his
capital at Ferns. He hastened to Henry II. in Normandy, and offered his
allegiance, provided the King would restore him. But Henry was too much
engaged in his disputes with France to attend to the matter, and all
Dermod could obtain was a letter permitting the English knights to take
up his cause, if they were so inclined.

With these letters Dermod sought the fierce Normans whose estates
bordered on Wales. The first who attended to him was Richard de Clare,
son of the Earl of Pembroke, and surnamed Strongbow--a bold, adventurous
man, ruined by his extravagance, and kept at a distance by the King on
account of his ambition. To him Dermod offered the hand of his daughter
Eva, and the succession of Leinster, provided he would recover for him
the kingdom. Richard accepted, but thought it prudent to obtain the
King's special permission; and in the meantime, Dermod, by his promises,
further engaged in his cause a small band of other knights--Robert
Fitzstephen, Maurice Fitzgerald, Milo Fitzhenry, Herve de Montmarais,
and some others. In May, 1169, thirty knights, sixty men-at-arms, and
three hundred archers, landed at the Creek of Bann, near Wexford, to
conquer Ireland.

They first besieged Wexford, and took it; then attacked the Prince
of Ossory, and gained a great victory; after which they had full
opportunity of seeing of what a savage they had undertaken the defence,
for Dermod mangled with his teeth the face of his chief foe among the
slain, to gratify his revenge.

However, they fought not for the right, but for the spoil; and when
Roderick O'Connor sent to declare war against them, and inform them of
the true character of their ally, they returned a scornful answer; and,
with their heavy armor and good discipline, made such progress against
the half-armed Irish kernes, that Richard Strongbow saw the speculation
was a good one, and was in haste for his share. He went to the King, to
beg him either to give him his inheritance, or to grant him leave to
seek his fortune in other lands. "Go where thou wilt, for what I care,"
said Henry. "Take Daedalus's wings, and fly away."

Taking this as sufficient consent, Strongbow sent before him 3,000 men
under his friend Raymond le Gros, and, landing on St. Bartholomew's day,
joined his forces with Dermod, took Waterford, and in a few days was
married to Eva. The successes of the English continued, and on the death
of Dermod, which took place shortly after, he declared Earl Richard his
heir. However, the vassals would not submit to the Englishman, and the
invaders were for a time hard beset, and found it difficult to keep the
enemy at bay, while the King in great displeasure peremptorily summoned
Strongbow to return, and forbade men, horses, or arms to be sent to his
aid. On this Richard found himself obliged to make his peace with the
King, sending Raymond le Gros and Herve de Montmarais before him. The
King was at Newnham, in Gloucestershire, and at first refused to see
him, but soon relented; and Richard, on entering his presence, threw
himself on his knees, and gave up to him the city of Dublin, and all
other towns and castles on the coast, after which Henry confirmed him
in the possession of the rest of Leinster, and made him Seneschal
of Ireland, though at the same time confiscating his castles in
Pembrokeshire, because his expedition had been unsanctioned. In October
of the next year, 1172, Henry himself came to Ireland, with 500 knights
and 4,000 men-at-arms. The Irish princes felt that it was needful to
submit to such power, nor was it with much reluctance on the part of the
toparchs, who had some pride in being under the sway of the mighty Henry
Fitzempress, rather than that of the petty chieftain of Meath.

Henry professed not to come as a conqueror, but in consequence of the
Pope's grant, and soon received the submission of all the toparchs of
Leinster and Munster. Roderick O'Connor himself did not hold out, though
he would not come to the King, and only met Hugo de Lacy and William
Fitz Adhelm on the Shannon, where he swore allegiance, but, as appeared
afterward, with a mental reservation--Connaught he was willing to hold
under Henry, but Ireland he neither could nor did yield up.

Henry invited all these new subjects of his to keep Christmas with
him at Dublin, where he entertained them in a temporary structure of
wicker-work, outside the gates; and after receiving their homage, he
gave them a banquet of every kind of Norman delicacy, among which were
especially noticed roasted cranes--a food hitherto held in abhorrence by
them, so that partaking of it was a sort of pledge that they were about
to forsake their peculiar and barbarous habits. They are said to have
been much impressed by the splendor of Henry's gold and jewels, the rich
robes of his court, and the chivalrous exercises of the knights and
nobles. Afterward he held a synod of the Irish clergy at Cashel, where
he caused the bull of Adrian to be read, and regulations were made for
the Church, requiring the priests to catechize children and baptize
them, enforcing the payment of tithes, and the performance of Divine
service, as well as that corpses should receive Christian burial. Henry
had intended to subject Ireland to English law, but the danger in which
he had been involved by the murder of Becket obliged him to return at
Easter, before his arrangements were completed. The lands settled by the
Normans around Dublin, which were called the English pale, were alone
under English laws; besides five septs--the O'Neills, the O'Connors, the
O'Briens, the O'Lachlans, and the MacMoroghs--all the rest were under
the Brehon, or Irish law; and an injury, or even murder done by an
Englishman on one of the Irish, was to be atoned for by a fine according
to this code.

Hugo de Lacy, [Footnote: The readers of "The Betrothed" will here
recognise a friend.] constable of Chester, an old, experienced warrior,
much trusted by the King, was made governor of Ireland with a grant
of the county of Meath. Shortly after, Oraric, a chieftain of that
territory, invited De Lacy to a conference on the hill of Tara, whither
each party was to come unarmed. The night before the meeting young
Griffith, the nephew of Maurice Fitzgerald, dreamt that he saw a herd of
wild boars rush upon his uncle and Hugo de Lacy, and tear them to pieces
with their tusks. Treating this dream as a warning, he chose seven tall
men of his own kindred, armed them well, and, leading them near the
place of conference, began to career about with them as if in chivalrous
exercises, always watching the assembly on the hill.

After a time Oraric retired a few steps from the rest, and made a sign,
on which an Irishman came forward and gave him his weapons. He instantly
fell upon Hugo de Lacy, and would have cloven his skull, if the
interpreter had not thrown himself between, and saved his master, with
the loss of his own arm. Oraric's men sprung from their ambush, but at
the same moment the eight Fitzgeralds rushed to the rescue; the traitor
fled, pursued by Griffith, who overtook him, thrust him through with a
lance, cut off his head, and sent it to King Henry.

Hugo de Lacy kept tolerable order until the King recalled him in the
troubles occasioned by the rebellion of the young princes, when trusty
friends were scarce. Earl Strongbow became governor, and was at once
more violent and less firm in the restraint of English and Irish. He
quarrelled with Raymond le Gros for presuming to gain the affections
of his sister Basilia, and took from him the command, conferring it on
Herve de Montmarais, a person much disliked. Raymond went home to Wales,
to receive his inheritance, on his father's death; and the Irish, as
old Campion's history says, rose "tagge and ragge;" headed by Roderick
O'Connor. They be sieged Waterford and Dublin; and Strongbow, in
distress, wrote to Raymond: "As soon as you read this, make all the
haste you can, bring all the help you can raise, and you shall have what
you have so long desired." No further summons was needed; and just as
Waterford was on the point of being taken, and the wild Irish were about
to massacre the English, Raymond, with twenty ships, sailed into the
harbor, dispersed the Irish, relieved Dublin, and in his full armor
wedded the Lady Basilia. The very next morning he pursued the Irish; he
took Limerick, and reduced Roderick to come to a final peace with the
King, to whom that prince sent messengers, disdaining to treat with
Strongbow.

Montmarais, being displaced, went in revenge to the King, and maligned
Raymond, so that Henry empowered commissioners to inquire into his
conduct, and send him home. Just as he was departing, the O'Briens of
Thomond broke out in insurrection, and besieged Limerick; the troops
refused to march unless under Raymond, and the commissioners were
obliged to send him to chastise the rebels. He pushed his conquests
into Desmond, and established his good fame. During his absence Earl
Strongbow died, leaving, by Eva, one daughter named Isabel, who, being
of tender age, became the ward of the Crown. It is said that he also had
a son by a former wife, and that this youth, being seized with a panic
in a battle with the Irish, was afterward stricken through with a sword
by his command, though given with streaming tears. He was buried at
Dublin, with an epitaph recording his cowardice.

The friends of Montmarais were resolved to let no tidings of Strongbow's
death reach Raymond, that so they might first gain the ear of the King,
and prevent him being made governor. They turned back all the servants,
and intercepted all the letters sent to him with the news, till they
were outwitted by Lady Basilia. She wrote a letter to her husband, with
no word of her brother, but full of household matters; among others,
that she had lost the "master tooth which had been so long ailing, and
she sent it to him for a token." The tooth was "tipped with gold and
burnished featly," but Raymond knew it was none of his lady's; and
gathering her meaning, hurried home, and was made Protector of Ireland
till the King's pleasure should be known. Henry sent as governor William
Fitz Adhelm, a selfish voluptuary, under whose command all went ill;
and, indeed, the English rule never prospered except when in the hands
of good old Hugo de Lacy, under whom "the priest kept his church, the
soldier his garrison, and the ploughman followed his plough." But Henry,
who was constantly tormented by jealousies of his Anglo-Irish nobles,
was perpetually recalling him on suspicion, and then finding it
necessary to send him back again. He built many castles, and, while
fortifying that of Dernwath, was entreated by some of the Irish to allow
them to work for hire. Glad to encourage any commencement of industry,
he took a pickaxe to show them how to work; when one of them, seizing
the moment when he bent forward to strike with it, cleft his head with
an axe, and killed him on the spot. His less worthy nephew and namesake
succeeded to his Irish estates, and at times held the government.

King Henry intended Ireland as the inheritance of his son John, and
in 1185 wrote to request the Pope to grant him the investiture. Urban
returned a favorable answer, and with it a crown of peacock's feathers
set in gold--a more appropriate present than he intended for the
feather-pated prince, who was then sixteen years of age, and who, having
been knighted by his father, set off for Dublin, accompanied by a train
of youths of his own age, whom the steadier heads of the good knight
Philip Barry, and his clerkly relative Gerald, were unable to keep in
order. This Gerald Barry was the historian commonly known as Giraldus
Cambrensis, to whom we are chiefly indebted for the account of the
conquest of Ireland. The Irish chiefs of Leinster flocked to pay their
respects, but were most improperly received by John and his friends, who
could not restrain their mirth at their homely garb, and soon proceeded
to gibes and practical jokes; pricking them with pins, and rapping them
on the head with a stick as they bent to pay homage, tweaking their
ample mantles, and pulling their long beards and moustaches, all as if
they had studied to enrage this proud and sensitive people. These were
the Irish of the friendly country; and when those of more distant and
unsubdued regions heard what treatment they had met, they turned back,
and soon broke out in insurrection. John and his gay companions did not
stay to meet the storm they had raised, but hastily fled to England, and
the King wrote to Sir John de Courcy to take the government, and do his
best to restore obedience.

It is round this De Courcy that the interest of the Irish wars chiefly
centres. [Footnote: This history of De Courcy is derived from an old
life of him by an Irish priest, which is disputed by many historical
authorities] In his youth, while serving the King in Normandy, he had
made friends with Sir Almeric Tristrem, and, in true chivalrous style,
the two knights plighted their faith in the Church of our Lady at Rouen,
to be sworn brethren-in-arms, to live and die for each other, and to
divide equally whatever they might gain in war. Their friendship was
never broken till death, and their whole career was one of perfect
chivalry. Almeric became the husband of his friend's sister, and in
honor of this closer alliance changed his surname to De St.
Laurence, their wedding-day being the feast of that Saint. The two
brethren-in-arms came into Ireland with Henry in 1172, and De Courcy
received a grant of Ulster, when he could conquer it. Sir Almeric at
once landed at Howth, and fought a bloody battle, in which he gained the
victory, but with the loss of seven of his kindred, and for that reason
Howth was made his portion, and long remained in his family. At the
battle of Daud, fought with Roderick O'Connor, the two friends, with
seven hundred men, were again victorious, owing to a timely charge of
Almeric's with his reserve of forty horse. The next midsummer another
battle took place, with the same result, though Sir Almeric was so
sorely wounded that he was found lying, faint and bleeding, under a
hedge, eating honeysuckles by way of cure, and his son Nicholas received
nine wounds, and was left for dead. These successes made the Irish
submit, and De Courcy was acknowledged as their feudal chief. He
proceeded to build castles, and granted two of them to one MacMahon, who
had made every promise of fidelity. Within a month, De Courcy heard that
the castles were pulled down, and, on his calling his refractory vassal
to account, received a truly Irish answer: MacMahon said he had not
promised to hold stones, but land, and it was contrary to his nature to
couch within cold stones, when the warm woods were so nigh.

De Courcy proceeded to foray his land, and was driving off a great herd
of cattle, when a host of Irish set on him, and by their shouts so
frightened the cows, that they ran on the English, and more were killed
by being trodden down by them than were slain by the Irish; and De
Courcy and De St. Laurence with difficulty collected the remnant in a
little fort. At night Almeric went out to survey the enemy, and reported
that there were five thousand feasting and drinking at no great distance.
If they should fall on the wearied, hungry, and wounded English the next
day, they would make them an easy prey, and he therefore advised a
night-attack, to take them by surprise. The English sat silent, looking
at each other, til Sir John de Courcy spoke: "I looked all this while
for some of these young gallants to deliver their courage; but, Sir
Almeric, where are their horses bestowed?"

"Your white horse and my black," said Sir Almeric, "I have cunningly
conveyed away, and the rest I can point out to you with my finger."

"Then," said Sir John, "let two men ride these two horses, gather their
horses together, and drive them in on the enemy; then, all who can bear
arms shall follow, and we will serve them with their horses as they did
us with our kine."

The stratagem was completely successful; the Irish were entirely routed
with great slaughter, while the English lost only two--though the
preceding day had lost them four hundred men.

By six battles, altogether, Sir John established his power, and he then
received from Henry the rank of Earl of Ulster. He governed Ireland from
the time of Prince John's flight till the accession of Richard Coeur de
Lion, with great prosperity; and during this time Roderick O'Connor was
dethroned by his sons, and forced to retire to a convent, where he died.

King Richard left the management of Irish affairs to his brother, who
took the government from De Courcy, and gave it to Hugo de Lacy, the
nephew. He, comporting himself as a favorite, of John was likely to
do, of course occasioned another war, and Cathal O'Connor, the
Bloody-handed, of Connaught, began to threaten Ulster. De Courcy
summoned Almeric to his aid, and the good knight set out with two
hundred foot and thirty horse; but, while passing through the enemy's
country, he suddenly found himself beset by Cathal, at the head of an
enormous host. The horsemen might easily have saved themselves by their
speed; but though death was certain if he remained, this true knight
would not forsake the foot in their extremity.

In Hanmer's affecting words, "Sir Almeric turned him to the foot
company, and hardly gathering breath with the sorrow of his heart,
resolved himself thus: 'I have no power to fly, and leave my friends, my
flesh and blood, in this extreme distress. I will live with them who for
my sake came hither, if it so please God; or I will die with them, if
it be His pleasure, that, ending here, we shall meet again, bodies and
souls, at the last day. God and the world bear witness that we do as
Christian knights ought to do. I yield my soul into God's hands; my body
to return whence it came; my service to my natural prince; my heart to
my wife, and brother Sir John de Courcy; my might, my force, my bloody
sweat, to the aid of you all that are in the field.' He alighted,
kneeled on his knees, kissed the cross of his sword, ran his horse
through, saying, 'Thou shalt never serve against me, that so worthily
hast served with me.' All the horses were then killed but two, on which
he mounted two of the youngest of his followers, bidding them watch the
fight from the next hill, then make all speed to bear his greetings to
his brother De Courcy, and report that day's service."

When the Irish saw the devoted band so firmly awaiting their attack,
they fancied that succor must be near, and did not venture their onset
till the whole country had been reconnoitred. Every Englishman was
slain, but one thousand Irish also fell, and the death of these brave
men was not in vain. Cathal was so impressed by their courage, that he
sued for peace, and never ventured another pitched battle. He afterward
told Sir Hugo de Lacy that he thought verily there never was the like
seen on earth; for, when the Englishmen could not stand, they set
themselves back to back, and fought on till the last man was slain.

De Courcy long survived his faithful brother-in-arms, and stood so high
in all men's estimation, that De Lacy in jealousy sent information to
King John, soon after the death of Arthur, that the Earl of Ulster was
sowing disaffection by accusing him of his nephew's murder. This was the
very thing for which John had lately starved to death the Lady de Braose
and her children, and he sent orders to De Lacy to attack the person of
De Courcy. Every means of open force failed, and De Lacy was reduced to
tamper with his servants, two of whom at length informed him that it was
vain to think of seizing their master when he had his armor on, as
he was of immense strength and skill, nor did he ever lay aside his
weapons, except on Good Friday, when he was wont to walk up and down the
churchyard of Downe, alone and unarmed.

Accordingly, De Lacy sent a band of horsemen, who fell upon the betrayed
knight. He caught up a wooden cross, and made brave resistance, and so
did his two nephews, sons of Sir Almeric, who were with him; but they
had no weapon, and were both slain, while De Courcy was overpowered, and
carried a prisoner to London. The two traitors begged De Lacy to give
them passports to go to England; on which he gave them a sealed paper,
on condition of their not opening it themselves, nor returning on pain
of death. Now, the paper set forth that they were traitors no better
than Judas, and exhorted every true man to spit in their faces, and
drive them away. However, these letters were never delivered; for the
wretched men were driven, by stress of weather, back on the coast of
Ireland, and De Lacy had them hanged.

De Courcy continued in captivity till one of the many disputes between
John and Philippe Auguste was to be decided by the ordeal of battle.
The most stalwart of all John's subjects was his prisoner, and he
immediately sent to release him from the Tower, offering him immense
rewards if he would become his champion. The old knight answered that
King John himself was not worthy to have one drop of blood shed for him;
and as to rewards, he could never requite the wrongs he had done him,
nor restore the heart's ease he had robbed him of. For John Lackland he
would never fight, nor for such as him, but for the honor of the Crown,
and of England, he undertook the cause. The old warrior, wasted with
imprisonment, was prepared by good feeding, and received his weapons:
the Frenchman fled at once, and De Courcy prepared to return to Ireland.
He made fifteen attempts to cross, and each time was forced to put back.
At length, as old chronicles relate, he was warned in a dream to make
the trial no more: for, said the voice, "Thou hast done ill: thou hast
pulled down the master, and set up the servant."

This was thought to refer to his having newly dedicated the cathedral of
Downe in the name of St. Patrick, whereas before it had been the Church
of the Holy Trinity. He took blame to himself, submitted, and going to
France, there died at an advanced age. For his championship, the right
of wearing the head covered in the presence of royalty was granted to
him and his heirs, and it is still the privilege of his descendants, the
Earls of Kinsale;

  "For when every head is unbonneted
  They walk in cap and plume."



   CAMEO XXIII.

   THE REBELLIOUS EAGLETS.
   (1149-1189.)

  _King of England_.
   1154. Henry II.

  _King of Scotland_.
   1165. William.

  _Kings of France_.
   1137. Louis VII.
   1180. Philippe II.


  _Emperor of Germany_.
   1152. Friedrich I.

  _Popes of Rome_.
   1154. Adrian IV.
   1159. Alexander III.
   1181. Lucius III.
   1185. Urban III.
   1187. Gregory VIII.

"The gods are just, and of our pleasant sins make whips to scourge us."
This saying tells the history of the reign of Henry of the Court Mantle.

Ambition and ill faith were the crimes of Henry from his youth upward,
and he was a man of sufficiently warm affections to suffer severely from
the retribution they brought on him, when, through his children, they
recoiled upon his head. "When once he loveth, scarcely will he ever
hate; when once he hateth, scarcely ever receiveth he into grace," was
written of him by his tutor, Peter of Blois, and his life proved that it
was a true estimate of his character.

The root of his misfortunes may be traced to his ambitious marriage with
Eleanor of Aquitaine, twelve years older than himself, and divorced by
Louis VII. of France on account of her flagrant misconduct in Palestine,
in the course of the miserable expedition called the Second Crusade. For
her broad lands, he deserted the woman whom he loved, and who had left
her home and duty for his sake, and on his promise of marriage.

Fair Rosamond Clifford was the daughter of a Herefordshire baron, with
whom Henry became acquainted in his seventeenth year, when he came to
England, in 1149, to dispute the crown with Stephen. He lodged her at
Woodstock, in the tower built, according to ballad lore, "most curiously
of stone and timber strong," and with such a labyrinth leading to it
that "none, but with a clue of thread, could enter in or out." There
Rosamond remained while he returned to France to receive Normandy and
Anjou, on the death of his father, and on going to pay homage to Louis
VII., ingratiated himself with Queen Eleanor, whose divorce was then
impending. Eleanor and her sister Petronella were joint heiresses of the
great duchy of Aquitaine, their father having died on pilgrimage to the
shrine of Santiago de Compostella, and the desire of the fairest and
wealthiest provinces of the south of France led the young prince to
forget his ties to Rosamond and her infant son William, and never take
into consideration what the woman must be of whom her present husband
was resolved to rid himself at the risk of seeing half his kingdom in
the hands of his most formidable enemy.

For some time Rosamond seems to have been kept in ignorance of Henry's
unfaithfulness; but in 1152, the year of his coronation, and of the
birth of her second child, Geoffrey, she quitted Woodstock, and retired
into the nunnery of Godstow, which the King richly endowed. It has been
one of the favorite legends of English history, that the Queen traced
her out in her retreat by a ball of silk that had entangled itself in
Henry's spurs, and that she offered her the choice of death by the
dagger or by poison; but this tale has been refuted by sober proof;
there is no reason to believe that Eleanor was a murderess; and it is
certain that Rosamond, on learning how she had been deceived, took
refuge in the nunnery, where she ended her days twenty years after, in
penitence and peace, far happier than her betrayer. Her sons, William
and Geoffrey, were honorably brought up, and her remains were placed in
the choir, under a silken canopy, with tapers burning round, while the
Sisters of the convent prayed for mercy on her soul and King Henry's.
Even King John paid the costs of this supposed expiation; but St. Hugh,
Bishop of Lincoln, not thinking it well that her history should be
before the minds of the nuns, ordered the corpse to be interred in the
ordinary burial-place of the convent.

During most of these twenty years of Rosamond's repentance, all
apparently prospered with Henry. The rigorous justice administered by
his excellent chancellor, Ranulf de Glanville, had restored order to
England; the only man bold enough to gainsay him had been driven from
the kingdom. Ireland was in course of conquest, and his astute policy
was continually overreaching the simple-minded Louis VI., who, having
derived the surname of _le jeune_ from his age at his accession, was so
boyish a character all his life as never to lose it.

Four sons and three daughters were born to Henry and Eleanor, and in
their infancy he arranged such alliances as might obtain a still wider
power for them--nay, even the kingdom of France. Louis VI. had married
again, but his second wife died, leaving two infant girls, named
Margaret and Alice, and to them Henry betrothed his two eldest sons,
Henry and Richard. It was to ask the hand of Margaret for the prince
that Becket took his celebrated journey to Paris, and the young pair,
Henry and Margaret, were committed to his care for education; but the
disputes with the King prevented their being sufficiently long in his
hands for the correction of the evil spirit of the Angevin princes.

By threats of war, Henry obtained for Geoffrey, his third son,
Constance, the only child of Conan, Duke of Brittany; though the
Bretons, who hated Normans, Angevins, and English with equal bitterness,
were extremely angry at finding themselves thus connected with all
three. On Conan's death, Geoffrey, then ten years old, was called Duke
of Brittany, but his father took the whole government into his hands,
and made it a heavy yoke.


John, Count of Mortagne, for whom no heiress had been obtained, was
gayly called by his father Lackland--a name which his after-life fitted
to him but too well. Richard was intended to be the inheritor of his
mother's beautiful duchy of Aquitaine, where he spent most of his early
years. It was a strange country, where the ordinary events of life
partook so much of romance that we can hardly believe them real.

It had never been so peopled by the Franks as to lose either the
language or the cultivation left by the Romans. The _langue d'oc_ had
much resemblance to the Latin, and was beautifully soft and adapted to
poetry; and when the nobles adopted chivalry, they ornamented it with
all the graces of their superior education. The talent of improvising
verses was common among them; and to be a minstrel, or, as they called
it, a troubadour (a finder of verses), was essential to the character of
a complete gentleman.

Courts of beauty and love took place, where arguments were held on cases
of allegiance of a knight to his lady-love, and competitions in poetry,
in which the reward was a golden violet. Each troubadour thought it
needful to be dedicated to the service of some lady, in whose honor all
his exploits in arms or achievements in minstrelsy were performed. To
what an extravagant length this devotion was carried, is shown in the
story of Jauffred Rudel, Lord of Blieux, who, having heard from some
Crusaders a glowing account of the beauty and courtesy of the Countess
of Tripoli, on their report made her the object of his affections, and
wrote poem after poem upon her, of which one has come down to our times:

  "No other love shall e'er be mine,
  None save my love so far away;
  For one more fair I'll never know,
  In region near, or far away."

Thus his last verse may be translated, and his "_amour luench_," or love
far away, occurs in every other line. He embarked for Palestine for the
sole purpose of seeing his _amour luench_, but fell sick on the voyage,
and was speechless when he arrived. The countess, hearing to what a
condition his admiration had brought him, came on board the vessel to
see him; the sight of her so charmed him, that he was able to say a few
words to her before he expired. She caused him to be buried with
great splendor, and erected a porphyry tomb over him, with an Arabic
inscription.

The romance of the Languedocians was unhappily not accompanied by purity
of manners, and much of Queen Eleanor's misconduct may be ascribed to
the tone prevalent in her native duchy, to which she was much attached.
Her brave son, Richard, growing up in this land of minstrelsy, became
a thorough troubadour, and loved no portion of his father's domains
as well as the sunny south; and his two brothers, Henry and Geoffrey,
likewise fell much under the influence of the poetical knights of
Aquitaine, especially Bertrand de Born, Viscount de Hautefort, an
accomplished noble, who was the intimate friend of all the princes.

The King's first disappointment was when, at length, a son was born to
Louis VI., who had hitherto, to use his own words, "been afflicted
with a multitude of daughters." This son of his old age was christened
"Philippe _Dieu donne_," and the servant who brought the welcome tidings
of his birth was rewarded with a grant of three measures of wheat yearly
from the royal farm of Gonesse. Soon after, Louis dreamt that he saw
his son holding a goblet of blood in his hand, from which his valor was
predicted, and he did indeed seem born to visit the offences of the
Plantagenets on their own heads. Even while quite a child, when present
at a conference between the two kings under the Elm of Gisors, he was
shrewd enough to perceive that Henry was unjustly overreaching his
father, and surprised all present by exclaiming, "Sir, you do my father
wrong. I perceive that you always gain the advantage over him. I cannot
hinder you now, but I give you notice that, when I am grown up, I will
take back all of which you now deprive us." And, by fair means and foul,
he kept his word.

Next Henry began to find that the Church would not allow him to remain
in peace while he kept the Archbishop in exile, and the dread of
excommunication caused him to obviate the danger of his subjects being
released from their oaths of allegiance, by causing his eldest son to
be crowned, and receive their homage. The Princess Margaret was in
Aquitaine with Queen Eleanor; and when she found that the rights of her
former tutor, Becket, were neglected, and the ceremony to be performed
by the Archbishop of York, she refused to come to England, and her
husband was crowned alone. It was then that his father carved at his
banquet, and he made the arrogant speech respecting the son of a count
and the son of a king.

That year was marked by the murder of the Archbishop, and soon after the
storm began to burst. Young Henry, now nineteen years of age, went with
his wife to pay a visit to her father at Paris, and returned full of
discontent, complaining that he was a king only in name, since he had
not even a house to himself, and insisting on his father's giving up to
him at once either England, Normandy, or Anjou.

His complaints were echoed by Richard and Geoffrey, who were with their
mother in Aquitaine. Richard had received investiture of the county of
Poitiers, but the entire authority was in the hands of Castellanes,
appointed by his father, and the proud natives were stirring up the
young prince to shake off the bondage in which he, like them, was held.
Geoffrey, though only fifteen, thought himself aggrieved by not having
yet received his wife's duchy of Brittany, and positively refused to pay
homage for it to his eldest brother, when newly crowned to repair the
irregularity of his first coronation, and for this opposition the
high-spirited Bretons forgave his Angevin blood, and looked on him as
their champion. The boys' discontents were aggravated by their mother,
and the state of feeling was so well known in the South, that when
Henry and his eldest son came to Limoges to receive the homage of Count
Raymond of Toulouse, that noble, on coming to the part of the oath of
fealty where he was engaged to counsel his lord against his enemies,
added, "I should warn you to secure your castles of Poitou and
Aquitaine, and to mistrust your wife and sons."

Henry, who was aware of the danger, under pretext of hunting, visited
his principal fortresses, and, to guard against the evil designs of his
son Henry, caused him to sleep in his own bedroom. At Chinon, however,
the youth contrived to elude his vigilance, stole away, and escaped to
Paris, where he was received in a manner that reflects great discredit
on the French monarch.

When the elder Henry sent to Paris to desire the restoration of the
fugitive, the messengers found him royally robed, and seated by the side
of the French King, who received them, asking from whom they came.

"From Henry, King of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of
Anjou and Maine."

"That is not true. Here sits Henry, King of England, who has no message
to send me by you. But if you mean his father, the late King of England,
he has been dead ever since his son has worn the crown; and if he still
pretends to be a king, I will soon find a cure."

Young Henry adopted a great seal, and wrote letters to the Pope, his
mother, and brothers, exciting them against his father, and putting
forth a manifesto declaring that he could not leave unpunished the death
of "his foster-father, the glorious martyr St. Thomas of Canterbury,
whose blood was crying out for vengeance."

On receiving these letters, Richard and Geoffrey hurried to meet him
at Paris, and Queen Eleanor was following in male attire, when she was
seized and made prisoner. Louis caused the two boys to swear that they
would never conclude a peace with their father without his consent, and
they were joined by great numbers of the Norman and Poitevin nobility,
even from among the King's immediate attendants. Each morning some one
was missed from his court, and known to be gone over to the enemy, but
still Henry outwardly kept up his spirits, conversed gaily, and hunted
as usual.

Only once did he give way. Geoffrey, the son of Rosamond, was
devotedly attached to him, and had at his own expense raised an army of
Brabancons, or mercenary soldiers, and defeated an inroad of the Scots,
and he now brought his victorious force to the aid of his father.
Rosamond was just dead in her nunnery, and at his first meeting with her
son, Henry embraced him with tears, exclaiming, "Thou art my true and
lawful son!" The bishopric of Lincoln was destined to Geoffrey, but he
was only twenty, and was unwilling to take orders, thinking himself
better able to help his father as a layman.

The Brabancons were the only troops on whom the King could rely, and
with them he marched against the Bretons, who had been encouraged by
Louis and their young Duke to rebel. They were defeated, and Louis, not
wishing to run further risks, brought the three youths to the Elm of
Gisors, and held a conference with them, where Henry showed himself far
more ready to forgive than his sons to ask pardon.

Afterward young Henry and Geoffrey returned to Paris, and Richard to
Poitou, whence he soon came to the French court, to receive the order
of knighthood from Louis--another insult to his father. The two queens,
Eleanor and Margaret, were in the old King's hands, and kept in close
captivity; the younger, who seems to have been a gentle and innocent
lady, was soon allowed to join her husband, but Eleanor was retained
in confinement at Winchester. As long as his mother, whom he tenderly
loved, was imprisoned, Richard thought his resistance justified, and
Aquitaine echoed with laments for the Lady of the South in the dungeon
of her cruel husband. Bertrand de Born, who had chosen her daughter
Eleanor, Queen of Castile, as the object of his songs, was especially
ardent in his lamentations.

The elder King's grief at the continued misconduct of his sons led him
to humble himself at the tomb of Becket, and the penance he underwent
brought on a fever. He thought, however, that he had received a token of
pardon, when news was brought that his faithful son Geoffrey of Lincoln,
and his chancellor, Ranulf de Glanville, had defeated the King of Scots,
William the Lion, and made him prisoner at Prudhoe Castle. But King
Henry had far more to suffer!

His eldest son was invading Normandy, and he was forced to march against
him. After a battle at Rouen, the princes were reduced to obedience;
Richard was the last of all to be reconciled, believing, as he did, that
his cause was his mother's, but he kept his oaths better than either of
the others.

A time of greater quiet succeeded, during which young Henry set out as
a knight-errant, going from one country to another in search of
opportunities of performing deeds of arms. He came, in 1180, to attend
the coronation of young Philippe II., who had just succeeded his father,
in his fifteenth year, and had, or pretended to have, a great friendship
for Geoffrey of Brittany.

Richard had in the meantime affronted Bertrand de Born, by assisting his
brother Constantine, whom he had deprived of his inheritance. Bertrand
rebelled with other Poitevins, proceeded to lash up, by verses, young
Henry, to join them against Richard, rousing him to be no more a mere
king of cowards, who had no lands, and never would have any.

Henry was worked upon to go to his father, and insist on receiving
Richard's homage; and as he threatened to take the Cross and go to
Palestine, the old King, who doted on him, consented. Richard declared
this would be giving up the rights of his mother; and though he
consented, at his father's entreaty, for the sake of peace, Henry was
now affronted, would not receive it, and, with Geoffrey, placed himself
at the head of the rebels of Poitou, and a fresh war broke out, and
their father was obliged to come to Richard's aid. It seems to have been
about this time that the unhappy King caused a picture to be painted
of four eaglets tearing their father's breast. "It is an emblem of my
children," he said. "If John has not yet acted like his brethren, it is
only because he is not yet old enough!"

Henry and Geoffrey invited their father to a conference in Limoges,
which he was besieging; but as he entered the town, a flight of arrows
was discharged from the battlements, some of which rattled against his
armor, and one pierced his horse's neck. The King held one of them up,
saying, "Ah, Geoffrey! what has thine unhappy father done that thou
shouldest make him a mark for thine arrows?"

Geoffrey treated the matter lightly. His brother was, however, so much
shocked, that for a little while he joined his father, swearing he would
never again rebel.

Only a few days had passed, before, on some trifling dispute, he again
quitted his father, and, vowing he would take the Cross, joined Geoffrey
and the rebel Poitevins. But this was indeed his last rebellion. He had
scarcely entered the town of Limoges, before a violent fever came on,
and in terror of death he sent to entreat his father to come and give
his blessing and forgiveness. It was too late. After that last treason,
the King could not trust himself in the rebel camp, and only sent the
Archbishop of Bordeaux to carry his signet ring, and assure his son of
his pardon. He found the unhappy young man in the agonies of death,
lying on a bed of ashes, accusing himself of having been a "wicked,
undutiful son, and bitterly disappointed at not seeing his father, to
receive the blessing he had once cast from him, and which in vain he
now sought earnestly and with tears." He died, fervently pressing the
ring to his lips. Surely his remorse might have served for a warning to
his brothers; but when the sorrowful father sent a priest to entreat
Geoffrey to make peace over his grave, the fierce youth only answered
that it was vain. "Our grandmother, the Witch, has left us a doom that
none of us shall ever love the rest. It is our heirloom, and the only
one of which we can never be deprived!"

However, Limoges was taken, and in it Bertrand de Born, who was led
before the King to receive the punishment he deserved, and there he
stood silent and dejected. "Hast thou nothing to say for thyself?" said
the King. "Where is all thy ready flow of fine words? I think thou hast
lost thy wits!"

"Ah, sire!" said Bertrand, "I lost them the day the brave young King
died!"

The father burst into tears, and exclaimed, "Sir Bertrand, thou mightest
well lose thy senses with grief for my son. He loved thee more than any
man on earth; and I, for love of him, give thee back thy castles and
lands."

Geoffrey still held aloof, and spent his time with his friend Philippe
of France. At Paris, in 1186, he who called hatred his inheritance, and
spurned his father's forgiveness, died without space for asking it,
leaving, indeed, his chosen heirloom to his innocent children. He was
in his twenty-fifth year, and the handsomest and the most expert in
chivalrous exercises of all his brothers; but in the midst of a great
tournament he was thrown from his horse, and trampled to death in the
throng before his squires could extricate him.

Richard, the second son, inheriting the "lyonnous visage" that Peter de
Blois ascribes to King Henry, and with it the Lion-heart, that gained
him his surname, had far more feeling and generosity than his brothers,
and, but for King Henry's own crimes, he might have been his blessing
and glory. When Henry had provoked him, by desiring him, as being now
heir of Normandy and England, to yield up Poitou to his brother John,
Richard had refused; but on the King bringing his mother to Aquitaine,
and reinstating her in her duchy, he instantly laid down his arms,
joyfully came to her, and continued perfectly peaceable and dutiful
whilst she still held her rights.

But after all these warnings, Henry was sinning grievously against his
wife and son. Richard had been, in his infancy, betrothed to Alice of
France, who had been placed in his father's keeping; but he had reached
his twenty-seventh year without having been allowed to see her, and
there was but too much reason to believe that the old King had wickedly
betrayed his trust, and corrupted her innocence. Richard had, in the
meantime, become attached to a modest, gentle maiden, Berengaria, sister
to King Sancho of Navarre, and was anxious to know on what ground he
stood with Alice; but the consequence of his first demonstration was,
that Henry sent Eleanor back to her prison at Winchester.

This broke the tie that held him to obedience, and he went to Paris
to consult with Philippe, Alice's brother, on the best measures for
breaking off his unfortunate engagement, as well as on securing the
succession to the crown, which he suspected his father of wishing to
leave to his brother John. Philippe received him most affectionately; so
that it is said they shared the same cup, the same plate, and the same
bed.

Just at this time, Archbishop William of Tyre came to preach a new
Crusade, and the description of the miseries of the Christians in
Palestine so affected the two kings and Richard, that they took the
Cross, and agreed to lay aside their disputes, to unite in the rescue of
Jerusalem. However, the concord did not last long; Richard quarrelled
with the Count of Toulouse, and a petty war took place, which the kings
agreed to conclude by a conference, as usual, under the Elm of Gisors.
This noble tree had so large a trunk, that the arms of four men could
not together encircle it; the branches had, partly by Nature, partly
by art, been made to bend downward, so as to form a sort of bower, and
there were seats on the smooth extent of grass which they shaded. King
Henry first arrived at this pleasant spot, and his train stretched
themselves on the lawn, rejoicing in being thus sheltered from the
burning heat of the summer sun; and when the French came up, laughed at
them, left beyond the shade, to be broiled in the sunbeams. This gave
offence, a sharp skirmish took place, the English drew off to Vernon,
and Philippe, mindful of the indignation he had felt in his boyhood
under that tree, swore that no more parleys should be held under it,
and his knights hewed it down with their battle-axes.

The war continued, and Richard fought gallantly on his father's side;
but as winter drew on, it was resolved that a meeting should be held
at Bonmoulins to re-establish peace. Richard thought this a fit
opportunity, in the presence of Alice's brother, for endeavoring to have
his rights confirmed, and to clear up the miserable question of his
betrothal. In the midst of the meeting he called on his father to
promise him, in the presence of the King of France, that he would no
longer delay his marriage, and declaration as his heir.

Henry prevaricated, and talked of bestowing Alice on John.

"This," cried Richard, "forces me to believe what I would fain have
thought impossible! Comrades, you shall see a sight you did not expect."

And ungirding his sword, he knelt down before Philippe, and did homage
to him, asking his assistance to re-establish his rights. Henry
withdrew, followed by a very small number of knights. They mostly held
with the young prince, won by his brilliant talents, great courage, and
liberal manners; and the King found the grief renewed that his son
Henry had caused him, while he himself, aged by cares rather than
years, was less able to cope with them: moreover, Richard was far more
formidable than his elder brother; Philippe a more subtle enemy than
Louis; and above all, the King's own faults were the immediate cause
of the rebellion. He took no active measures; he only caused his
castellanes in Normandy to swear that they would yield their keys up to
no one but to Prince John, on whom he had concentrated his affections.
He awaited the coming of the Cardinal of Anagni, who was sent by the
Pope to pacify these Crusaders, and remind them of their vows.

Again the parties met, and the legate, with four archbishops, began to
speak of peace.

"I consent," said Philippe, "for the love of Heaven and of the Holy
Sepulchre, to restore to King Henry what I have taken from him, provided
he will immediately wed my sister Alice to his son Richard, and secure
to him the succession of the crown, I also demand that his son John
should go to Palestine with his brother, or he will disturb the peace of
the kingdom."

"That he will!" exclaimed Richard.

"No," said Henry; "this is more than I can grant. Let your sister marry
John; let me dispose of my own kingdom."

"Then the truce is broken," answered the French King. The Cardinal
interfered, threatening to lay France under an interdict, and
excommunicate Philippe and Richard if they would not consent to Henry's
conditions. Their answers were characteristic.

"I do not fear your curses," said Philippe. "You have no right, to
pronounce them on the realm of France. Your words smell of English
sterlings."

"I'll kill the madman who dares to excommunicate two royal princes in
one breath!" cried Coeur de Lion, drawing his sword; but his friends
threw themselves between, and the Cardinal escaped, mounted his mule,
and rode off in haste.

The French took Mans, and pillaged it cruelly, while Richard looked on
in shame and grief at the desolation of his own inheritance. His father,
weak and unwell, resolved to make peace, and for the last time appointed
a meeting with Philippe on the plain between Tours and Amboise. There it
was arranged that Richard should be acknowledged as heir, and Alice put
into the hands of the Archbishop either of Canterbury or Rouen, as he
should prefer, until he should return from the Crusade. The conference
was interrupted by a vivid flash of lightning and a tremendous burst of
thunder. To the evil conscience of the elder King it was the voice of
avenging Heaven: he reeled in his saddle, and his attendants were forced
to support him in their arms and carry him away. He travelled in a
litter to Chinon, where his first son had deserted him, and there,
while he lay dangerously ill, the treaty was sent to him to receive his
signature, and the conditions read over to him. By one of them, those
who had engaged in Richard's party were to transfer their allegiance to
him.

"Who are they--the ungrateful traitors?" he asked. "Let me hear their
names."

His secretary began the list: "John, Count of Mortagne."

"John!"--and the miserable father started up in his bed. "John! It
cannot be true!--my heart, my beloved son! He whom I cherished beyond
the rest--he for whose sake I have suffered all this--can he also have
deserted me?" He was told it was too true. "Well," said he, falling back
on his bed, and turning his face from the light, "let the rest go as it
will! I care not what becomes of me, or of the world!"

He was roused in a few moments by the entrance of Richard, come, as a
matter of form, to ratify the treaty by the kiss of peace. The King,
without speaking, gave it with rigid sternness of countenance; but
Richard, as he turned away, heard him mutter, "May I but live to be
revenged on thee!" and when he was gone, the King burst out into such
horrible imprecations against his two sons, that the faithful Geoffrey
of Lincoln and the clergy of Canterbury, who attended him, were shocked,
and one of the monks reminded him that such hasty words had occasioned
the death of Becket. But he gnashed his teeth at them with fury. "I have
been and I am your lord, traitors that ye are!" he cried. "Away with
you! I'll have none but trusty ones here."

The monks left him; but one, turning round, said boldly, "If the life
and sufferings of the martyr Thomas were acceptable with God. He will do
prompt justice on thy body."

The King threw himself out of bed, with his dagger in his hand; but was
carried back again, and continued to rave, though growing weaker. In
an interval of calm he was taken into the church, and absolution was
pronounced over him; but no persuasion would induce him to revoke his
curses against his sons: the delirium returned, and the last words that
were heard from his dying lips were, "Shame, shame on a conquered King!
Cursed be the day I was born! Cursed be the sons I leave!"

In his fifty-fifth year he thus miserably expired, and his son Geoffrey
of Lincoln with difficulty found any one to attend to his funeral; the
attendants had all fled away, with everything valuable that they could
lay their hands on. A piece of gold fringe was made to serve for a
crown, and an old sceptre and ring were brought from the treasury
at Chinon; horses were hired, and the corpse was carried, as he had
desired, to be interred in the beautiful Abbey of Fontevraud. In the
midst of the service a hurried step was heard. It was Richard, who,
while laughing with his false friend Philippe over his ungracious
reception at Chinon, had been horror-struck by the news that his father
was dead, and that there was no more forgiveness to be looked for.

He had hastily left the French, and now stood beside the coffin, looking
at the fine but worn and prematurely aged face, which bore the stamp
of rage and agony. A drop of blood oozed from the nostril--a token,
according to the belief of those times, that the murderer was present.
Richard hid his face in his hands in the misery of remorse, and groaned
aloud, "Yes, it was I who killed him." He threw himself on his knees
before the altar, so remained "about as long as it would take to say a
_Pater_" and then, rising up in silence, dashed out of the church.

Ten years later, his corpse was, by his own desire, laid in humility at
his father's feet.



   CAMEO XXIV.

   THE THIRD CRUSADE.
   (1189-1193)

  _King of England_.
   1189. Richard I.

  _King of Scotland_.
   1165. William.

  _King of France_.
   1180. Philippe II.

  _Emperor of Germany_.
   1152. Friedrich I.
   1191. Henry VI.

  _Popes_.
   1183. Clement III
   1191. Celestine III


The vices of the Christians of Palestine brought their punishment.
Sybilla of Anjou, Queen of Jerusalem, had married the handsome but
feeble-minded Guy de Lusignan, who was no match for the Kurdish
chieftain, Joseph Salah-ed-deen, usually called Saladin, who had risen to
the supreme power in Egypt and Damascus. The battle of Tiberias ruined
the kingdom, and the fall of Jerusalem followed in a few weeks, filling
Christendom with grief.

The archbishop and historian, William of Tyre, preached a Crusade in
Europe, and among the first to take the Cross were the Plantagenet
princes and Philippe Auguste of France.

The unhappy discord between Henry II. and Coeur de Lion hindered the
enterprise until the death of the father, which left the son a prey to
the bitterest remorse; and in the hope to expiate his crimes, he hurried
on the preparations with all the vehemence of his impetuous nature.

He hastened his coronation, and began to raise money by the most
unscrupulous means, declaring he would even have sold London itself
could he have found a bidder. He made his half-brother, Geoffrey, pay
L3,000 for the possession of the temporalities of the see of York, and
sold the earldom of Northumberland to the aged Bishop of Durham, Hugh
Pudsey, saying, laughing, that it had been a clever stroke to make a
young earl of an old bishop. William the Lion of Scotland was also
allowed to purchase exemption from his engagements to Henry II., by the
payment of a large sum of money and the supply of a body of troops under
the command of his brother David, Earl of Huntingdon.

These arrangements made, Richard marched to meet Philippe Auguste at
Vezelai, and agree on the regulations for the discipline of their
host. If rules could have kept men in order, these were strict enough,
forbidding all gaming, all foul language, all disputing, and all
approach to licence, and ordering all acquisitions to be equally
divided; but with a prince whose violent temper broke through all
restraint, there was little hope of their observance. The English wore
white crosses, the French red, the Flemings green, to distinguish the
different nations.

They marched together to Lyons, whence Philippe proceeded across the
Alps to embark at Genoa in the vessels he had hired, and Richard went to
Marseilles, where his own fleet was appointed to meet him and transport
him to Messina, the place where the whole crusading army was to winter.
He waited for his ships till his patience failed, and, hiring those
which he found in the harbor, he sailed to Pisa, whence he rode to
Salerno, and there learning that his fleet had touched at Marseilles,
and arrived at Messina, he set out for the coast, attended by only one
knight. On the way he saw a fine hawk, kept at a cottage in a small
village, and forgetting that there were no such forest laws as in his
own domains, he was enraged to see the bird in the keeping of mean
"_villeins_" seized upon it, and bore it off on his wrist. This was no
treatment for Italian peasants, who, in general, were members of small,
self-ruling republics, and they swarmed out of their houses to recover
the bird. One man attacked the King with a long knife, and though
Richard beat him off with the flat of his sword, the assault with sticks
and stones was severe enough to drive the King off the field, and force
him to ride at full speed to a convent.

He thence went to Bagnata, where he found his own ship _Trenc-la-Mer_
awaiting him. In full state he sailed into the harbor of Messina at the
head of his fleet, streamers flying from the masts, and music playing
upon the decks. He was received by the King of Sicily, Tancred, Count of
Lecce, who without much right had assumed the crown on the recent death
of William the Good, the last of the direct Norman line.

This William, had been married to Joan Plantagenet, Richard's youngest
sister, who now came to join him, making complaints that Tancred was
withholding from her the treasures bequeathed to her by her husband; and
these were indeed of noted value, for she specified among them a golden
table twelve feet long, and a tent of silk large enough to contain two
hundred knights.

Tancred, who had lodged his royal guests, the one in a palace within the
town, the other in a pleasant house among the vineyards, was confounded
at these claims, and on his declaring that he had duly paid the Queen's
dowry, Richard seized upon two of his castles, and, on a slight quarrel
with the inhabitants, upon the city of Messina itself.

Philippe Auguste interfered, not on behalf of the unfortunate Sicilian,
but to obtain a share of the spoil; requiring that the French standard
should be placed beside the English one on the walls, and that half the
plunder should be his. It was, however, agreed that the keeping of the
city should be committed to the Knights Templars until the three kings
should come to an agreement.

It was at this time that Richard again showed his violent nature. A
peasant happening to pass with an ass loaded with long reeds, or canes,
the knights began in sport to tilt at each other with them, and Richard
was thus opposed to a certain Guillaume des Barres, who had once placed
him in great danger in a battle in Normandy. Both reeds were broken, and
Richard's mantle was torn; his jest turned to earnest, and he dashed his
horse against Des Barres, meaning to throw him from the saddle; but he
swerved aside, and the King's horse stumbled, and fell. He took another,
and returned to the charge, but in vain; however, when the Earl of
Leicester was coming to his aid, he ordered him off. "It is between him
and me alone," he said. At length repeated failures so inflamed his
anger, that he shouted, "Away with thee! Never dare appear in my
presence again! I am a mortal foe to thee and thine!" and it was only on
the threat of excommunication that he could be prevailed on to consent
to the knight remaining with the army.

In March, a meeting took place between the Kings of England and Sicily,
in which Tancred agreed to pay Richard and his sister 20,000 ounces of
gold; and Richard remitted his share as a portion for Tancred's infant
daughter, whom he asked in marriage for his nephew, Arthur of Brittany.
The two Kings were much pleased with each other, and an exchange of
presents was made.

Tancred disclosed that the French monarch had falsely sent him a warning
that it was useless to trust the King of England, who only intended to
break his treaties; and when Richard refused to believe that his former
friend would so slander him, showed him the very letters in which
Philippe offered to assist in expelling him from the island.

Unwisely, Richard called his rival to account for his treachery; on
which Philippe retorted with the old engagement to his sister Alice,
declaring that this was only an excuse, for casting her off. Richard
answered, that her conduct made no excuse necessary for not marrying
her, and proved it so entirely, that Philippe was glad to hush the
matter up, and rest satisfied with a promise that she should be restored
to her own count with a sufficient pension.

It was time indeed for Richard to be free from his bonds to Alice, for
he had already sent his mother to conduct to him his own chosen and
long-loved lady, Berengaria of Navarre, a gentle, delicate, fair-haired,
retiring maiden, to whom he had devoted his Lion-heart in his days of
poetry and song in his beloved Aquitaine, and who was now willing to
share the toils and perils of his crusade.

She arrived on the 29th of March; but the season of Lent prevented the
celebration of their wedding, and Queen Eleanor, placing her under the
charge of Joan, the widowed Queen of Sicily, returned to England to
watch over her son's interests there. The next day the fleet set sail,
Richard in his royal vessel, the ladies in another called the Lion; but
a tempest arose and scattered the ships, and though a lantern was hung
from the mast of _Trenc-la-Mer_ as a guide to the others, she was almost
alone when she put into the harbor of Rhodes.

The King had suffered so much from sea-sickness, that he was forced to
remain there ten days, in much anxiety, and there his vessels gradually
joined him, and he heard tidings of the rest. Philippe Auguste, with six
vessels, was safe at Acre, and the Lion had been driven to the coast
of Cyprus. Isaac Comnenus, a Greek, who called himself Emperor of
the island, had behaved with great discourtesy, forbidding the poor
princesses to land, and maltreating the crews of the vessels that had
been cast ashore.

All Coeur de Lion's chivalry was on fire at this insult to his bride. He
sailed at once to Cyprus, made a rapid conquest of the whole island,
and took prisoners both the Emperor and his daughter. The only request
Comnenus made was, that he might not be put into iron chains; and he was
gratified by wearing silver ones, until his death, four years after. His
daughter became an attendant on Berengaria, and as the feast of Easter
had now arrived, Richard no longer deferred his marriage, which was
celebrated in the church of Limasol by the Bishop of Evreux. It is
certainly one of the strangest stories in our history, that one of our
Kings should have been married in that distant isle of Cyprus, after
conquering it, as a sort of episode in his crusade.

It was a victory not without great benefit to the Crusaders, for the
island was extremely fertile, and Richard appointed a knight, named
Robert de Turnham, to send constant supplies of provisions to the army
in the Holy Land; after which he set sail.

Guy de Lusignan had already laid siege to St. Jean d'Acre, or Ptolemais,
a city on the bay formed by the projection of the promontory of Mount
Carmel, admirably adapted as a stronghold, in which succor from Europe
might be received. Leopold of Austria brought the first instalment of
Crusaders; next followed Philippe of France; but the increase of the
number of besiegers only caused famine, until the conquest of Cyprus
insured supplies. Richard had sailed first for Tyre; but Conrade,
Marquis of Montferrat, Prince of Tyre, who was related to the Comneni,
had given orders that he should be excluded from the city; and he
continued his course to Acre, capturing, on his way, a large galley
filled with troops and provisions sent from Egypt to the relief of the
besieged.

On his arrival, Richard at once resigned to Philippe half the booty,
whereupon the French King claimed half the island of Cyprus: this Coeur
de Lion replied he might have, if he was willing likewise to divide the
county of Flanders, which had just fallen to his wife by the death of
her brother. The siege was pressed on with the greatest ardor on the
arrival of the English, and Philippe was extremely jealous of the
reputation acquired by the brilliant deeds of daring in which Richard
delighted, while he himself was left completely in the shade. Cool,
wary, and prudent, he contemned the boisterous manners, animal strength,
and passionate nature of his rival, and nothing could be more galling
than to find himself disregarded, while all the "talk was of Richard the
King," and all the independent bands from Europe clustered round the
banner of the Plantagenet. Philippe tried to win the hearts of the army
by liberality, and offered two pieces of gold a week to any knight who
might be distressed; Richard instantly promised four, adding a reward of
high value to any soldier who should bring him a stone from the walls of
the city; and such allurements led many to leave the French service for
the English.

The heat of the climate soon brought on fevers, and both the kings were
attacked. Richard, when unable to mount his horse, was carried on a
mattress to the front of the army, to superintend the machines and
military engines, often himself aiming a ballista at the walls. He thus
slew a Saracen whom he beheld parading on the ramparts in the armor of a
Christian knight who had lately fallen. Saladin was hovering around
with his army, attempting to relieve the town; but the Christian army
enclosed it, said the Arab writers, close as the eyelid does the eye,
and he could only obtain intelligence from the inhabitants by means of
carrier-pigeons; while at the same time some friend to the Christians
within the town used to shoot arrows into the camp, with letters
attached, containing information of all the plans of the besieged. The
name of this secret ally was never discovered, but his tidings often
proved of the greatest service..

A curious interview took place, between Saladin's brother,
Malek-el-Afdal (Just King), and a deputy sent by Richard, to arrange for
a conference on his recovery. The meeting was held in Saladin's camp.
"It is the custom of our kings to make each other presents, even in time
of war," said the deputy, "My master wishes to offer some worthy of the
Sultan."

"The present shall be well received," said Malek-el-Afdal, "so that we
offer others in return."

"We have falcons, and other birds of prey, which have suffered much from
the voyage, and are dying of hunger. Would it please you to give us some
poultry to feed them with? When recovered, they shall be a gift to the
Sultan."

"Say rather," returned Malek, "that your master is ill, and wishes for
poultry. He shall have what he will."

Richard restored a Mussulman prisoner, and thereupon Saladin gave the
deputy a robe of honor, and sent an emir to the camp with presents of
Damascus pears, Syrian grapes, and mountain snow, which much conduced to
the convalescence of the Malek Rik, as the Saracens, who much admired
and feared King Richard, were wont to call him.

On his recovery, the siege was pressed on, fierce battles daily taking
place, though the heat was such that the burning rays of the sun had
their share of the slain. At last Saladin, much to his grief, was
obliged to send permission to the inhabitants to surrender; which they
did, on condition of being allowed to ransom themselves for a fixed sum
of money and the release of 2,600 Christian captives. Thus ended the
three years' siege of Acre. The Kings of France and England set up their
standards on the chief towers, and it was here that Richard insulted the
banner of Austria, which had been planted beside them. He caused it to
be torn down and thrown into the moat, demanding how a Duke dared assume
the rights of a King. Leopold maintained a sullen silence, brooding over
the indignity.

This overbearing conduct of Richard alienated the chief Crusaders, and
Philippe Auguste, whose health was really much impaired, resolved
to return home, and sent a deputation to acquaint Richard with his
intention. They were so much grieved at their King abandoning the
enterprise, that, when admitted into Richard's presence, they could not
utter a word for tears. "It will be an eternal disgrace to himself and
his kingdom," said Coeur de Lion; "but let him go, since he is dying for
want of his fair court of Paris." He accordingly parted, after taking an
oath to offer no injury to the English possessions in Richard's absence,
and leaving Hugh, Duke of Burgundy, with the portion of his army which
remained in Palestine. There was a dispute, too, on the succession to
the crown of Jerusalem. Sybilla's death transferred her rights to her
sister, Isabel, the wife of Conrade of Montferrat; bu