Hereward, the Last of the English is a Webnovel created by Charles Kingsley.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“Not with their new brother-in-law? Much he has gained by throwing away the Swan-neck, like a base hound as he was, and marrying my pretty niece.
But where were they?”
“No man knows clearly. They followed him down as far as London, and then lingered about the city, meaning no man can tell what: but we shall hear–and I fear hear too much–before a week is over.”
“Heavens! this is madness, indeed. This is the way to be eaten up one by one! Neither to do the thing, nor leave it alone. If I had been there! If I had been there–“
“You would have saved England, my hero!” and Torfrida believed her own words.
“I don’t say that. Besides, I say that England is not lost. But there were but two things to do: either to have sent to William at once, and offered him the crown, if he would but guarantee the Danish laws and liberties to all north of the Watling street; and if he would, fall on the G.o.dwinssons themselves, by fair means or foul, and send their heads to William.”
“Or what?”
“Or have marched down after him, with every man they could muster, and thrown themselves on the Frenchman’s flank in the battle; or between him and the sea, cutting him off from France; or–O that I had but been there, what things could I have done! And now these two wretched boys have fooled away their only chance–“
“Some say that they hoped for the crown themselves.
“Which?–not both? Vain babies!” And Hereward laughed bitterly. “I suppose one will murder the other next, in order to make himself the stronger by being the sole rival to the tanner. The midden c.o.c.k, sole rival to the eagle! Boy Waltheof will set up his claim next, I presume, as Siward’s son; and then Gospatrick, as Ethelred Evil-Counsel’s great-grandson; and so forth, and so forth, till they all eat each other up, and the tanner’s grandson eats the last. What care I? Tell me about the battle, my lady, if you know aught. That is more to my way than their statecraft.”
And Torfrida told him all she knew of the great fight on Heathfield Down–which men call Senlac–and the Battle of Hastings. And as she told it in her wild, eloquent fashion, Hereward’s face reddened, and his eyes kindled. And when she told of the last struggle round the Dragon [Footnote: I have dared to differ from the excellent authorities who say that the standard was that of “A Fighting Man”; because the Bayeux Tapestry represents the last struggle as in front of a Dragon standard, which must be–as is to be expected–the old standard of Wess.e.x, the standard of English Royalty. That Harold had also a “Fighting Man”
standard, and that it was sent by William to the Pope, there is no reason to doubt. But if the Bayeux Tapestry be correct, the fury of the fight for the standard would be explained. It would be a fight for the very symbol of King Edward’s dynasty.] standard; of Harold’s mighty figure in the front of all, hewing with his great double-headed axe, and then rolling in gore and agony, an arrow in his eye; of the last rally of the men of Kent; of Gurth, the last defender of the standard, falling by William’s sword, the standard hurled to the ground, and the Popish Gonfanon planted in its place,–then Hereward’s eyes, for the first and last time for many a year, were flushed with n.o.ble tears; and springing up he cried: “Honor to the G.o.dwinssons! Honor to the Southern men! Honor to all true English hearts!
Why was I not there to go with them to Valhalla?”
Torfrida caught him round the neck. “Because you are here, my hero, to free your country from her tyrants, and win yourself immortal fame.”
“Fool that I am, I verily believe I am crying.”
“Those tears,” said she, as she kissed them away, “are more precious to Torfrida than the spoils of a hundred fights, for they tell me that Hereward still loves his country, still honors virtue, even in a foe.”
And thus Torfrida–whether from woman’s sentiment of pity, or from a woman’s instinctive abhorrence of villany and wrong,–had become there and then an Englishwoman of the English, as she proved by strange deeds and sufferings for many a year.
“Where is that Norseman, Martin?” asked Hereward that night ere he went to bed, “I want to hear more of poor Hardraade.”
“You can’t speak to him now, master. He is sound asleep this two hours; and warm enough, I will warrant.”
“Where?”
“In the great green bed with blue curtains, just above the kitchen.”
“What nonsense is this?”
“The bed where you and I shall lie some day; and the kitchen which we shall be sent down to, to turn our own spits, unless we mend our manners mightily.”
Hereward looked at the man. Madness glared in his eyes, unmistakably.
“You have killed him!”
“And buried him, cheating the priests.”
“Villain!” cried Hereward, seizing him.
“Take your hands off my throat, master. He was only my father.”
Hereward stood shocked and puzzled. After all, the man was “No-man’s-man,”
and would not be missed; and Martin Lightfoot, letting alone his madness, was as a third hand and foot to him all day long.
So all he said was, “I hope you have buried him well and safely?”
“You may walk your bloodhound over his grave, to-morrow, without finding him.”
And where he lay, Hereward never knew. But from that night Martin got a trick of stroking and patting his little axe, and talking to it as if it had been alive.
CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW EARL G.o.dWIN’S WIDOW CAME TO ST. OMER.
It would be vain to attempt even a sketch of the reports which came to Flanders from England during the next two years, or of the conversation which ensued thereon between Baldwin and his courtiers, or Hereward and Torfrida. Two reports out of three were doubtless false, and two conversations out of three founded on those false reports.
It is best, therefore, to interrupt the thread of the story, by some small sketch of the state of England after the battle of Hastings; that so we may, at least, guess at the tenor of Hereward and Torfrida’s counsels.
William had, as yet, conquered little more than the South of England: hardly, indeed, all that; for Herefordshire, Worcestershire, and the neighboring parts, which had belonged to Sweyn, Harold’s brother, were still insecure; and the n.o.ble old city of Exeter, confident in her Roman walls, did not yield till two years after, in A.D. 1068.
North of his conquered territory, Mercia stretched almost across England, from Chester to the Wash, governed by Edwin and Morcar, the two fair grandsons of Leofric, the great earl, and sons of Alfgar. Edwin called himself Earl of Mercia, and held the Danish burghs. On the extreme northwest, the Roman city of Chester was his; while on the extreme southeast (as Domesday book testifies), Morcar held large lands round Bourne, and throughout the south of Lincolnshire, besides calling himself the Earl of Northumbria. The young men seemed the darlings of the half-Danish northmen. Chester, Coventry, Derby, Nottingham, Leicester, Stamford, a chain of fortified towns stretching across England, were at their command; Blethyn, Prince of North Wales, was their nephew.
Northumbria, likewise, was not yet in William’s hands. Indeed, it was in no man’s hands, since the free Danes, north of the Humber, had expelled Tosti, Harold’s brother, putting Morcar in his place, and helped that brother to slay him at Stanford Brigg. Morcar, instead of residing in his earldom of Northumbria, had made one Oswulf his deputy; but he had rivals enough. There was Gospatrick, claiming through his grandfather, Uchtred, and strong in the protection of his cousin Malcolm, King of Scotland; there was young Waltheof, “the forest thief,” who had been born to Siward Biorn in his old age, just after the battle of Dunsinane; a fine and gallant young man, destined to a swift and sad end.
William sent to the Northumbrians one Copsi, a Thane of mark and worth, as his procurator, to expel Oswulf. Oswulf and the land-folk answered by killing Copsi, and doing, every man, that which was right in his own eyes.
William determined to propitiate the young earls. Perhaps he intended to govern the centre and north of England through them, as feudal va.s.sals, and hoped, meanwhile, to pay his Norman conquerors sufficiently out of the forfeited lands of Harold, and those who had fought by his side at Hastings. It was not his policy to make himself, much less to call himself, the Conqueror of England. He claimed to be its legitimate sovereign, deriving from his cousin, Edward the Confessor; and whosoever would acknowledge him as such had neither right nor cause to fear.
Therefore he sent for the young earls. He courted Waltheof, and more, really loved him. He promised Edwin his daughter in marriage. Some say it was Constance, afterwards married to Alan Fergant of Brittany; but it may, also, have been the beautiful Adelaide, who, none knew why, early gave up the world, and died in a convent. Be that as it may, the two young people saw each, and loved each other at Rouen, whither William took Waltheof, Edwin, and his brother; as honored guests in name, in reality as hostages, likewise.
With the same rational and prudent policy, William respected the fallen royal families, both of Harold and of Edward; at least, he warred not against women; and the wealth and influence of the great English ladies was enormous. Edith, sister of Harold, and widow of the Confessor, lived in wealth and honor at Winchester. Gyda, Harold’s mother, retained Exeter and her land. Aldytha, [Footnote: See her history, told as none other can tell it, in Bulwer’s “Harold.”] or Elfgiva, sister of Edwin and Morcar, niece of Hereward, and widow, first of Griffin of Wales, and then of Harold, lived rich and safe in Chester. G.o.diva, the Countess, owned, so antiquarians say, manors from Cheshire to Lincolnshire, which would be now yearly worth the income of a great duke. Agatha, the Hungarian, widow of Edmund the outlaw, dwelt at Romsey, in Hampshire, under William’s care.
Her son, Edward Etheling, the rightful heir of England, was treated by William not only with courtesy, but with affection; and allowed to rebel, when he did rebel, with impunity. For the descendant of Rollo, the heathen Viking, had become a civilized, chivalrous, Christian knight. His mighty forefather would have split the Etheling’s skull with his own axe. A Frank king would have shaved the young man’s head, and immersed him in a monastery. An eastern sultan would have thrust out his eyes, or strangled him at once. But William, however cruel, however unscrupulous, had a knightly heart, and somewhat of a Christian conscience; and his conduct to his only lawful rival is a n.o.ble trait amid many sins.
So far all went well, till William went back to France; to be likened, not as his ancestors, to the G.o.ds of Valhalla, or the barbarous and destroying Viking of mythic ages, but to Caesar, Pompey, Vespasian, and the civilized and civilizing heroes of cla.s.sic Rome.
But while he sat at the Easter feast at Fecamp, displaying to Franks, Flemings, and Bretons, as well as to his own Normans, the treasures of Edward’s palace at Westminster, and “more English wealth than could be found in the whole estate of Gaul”; while he sat there in his glory, with his young dupes, Edwin, Morcar, and Waltheof by his side, having sent Harold’s banner in triumph to the Pope, as a token that he had conquered the Church as well as the nation of England; and having founded abbeys as thank-offerings to Him who had seemed to prosper him in his great crime: at that very hour the handwriting was on the wall, unseen by man; and he and his policy and his race were weighed in the balance, and found wanting.
For now broke out in England that wrong-doing, which endured as long as she was a mere appanage and foreign farm of Norman kings, whose hearts and homes were across the seas in France. Fitz-Osbern, and Odo the warrior-prelate, William’s half-brother, had been left as his regents in England. Little do they seem to have cared for William’s promise to the English people that they were to be ruled still by the laws of Edward the Confessor, and that where a grant of land was made to a Norman, he was to hold it as the Englishman had done before him, with no heavier burdens on himself, but with no heavier burdens on the poor folk who tilled the land for him. Oppression began, lawlessness, and violence; men were ill-treated on the highways; and women–what was worse–in their own homes; and the regents abetted the ill-doers. “It seems,” says a most impartial historian, [Footnote: The late Sir F. Palgrave.] “as if the Normans, released from all authority, all restraint, all fear of retaliation, determined to reduce the English nation to servitude, and drive them to despair.”
In the latter attempt they succeeded but too soon; in the former, they succeeded at last: but they paid dearly for their success.
Hot young Englishmen began to emigrate. Some went to the court of Constantinople, to join the Varanger guard, and have their chance of a Polotaswarf like Harold Hardraade. Some went to Scotland to Malcolm Canmore, and brooded over return and revenge. But Harold’s sons went to their father’s cousin; to Sweyn–Swend–Sweno Ulfsson, and called on him to come and reconquer England in the name of his uncle Canute the Great; and many an Englishman went with them.
These things Gospatrick watched, as earl (so far as he could make any one obey him in the utter subversion of all order) of the lands between Forth and Tyne. And he determined to flee, ere evil befell him, to his cousin Malcolm Canmore, taking with him Marlesweyn of Lincolnshire, who had fought, it is said, by Harold’s side at Hastings, and young Waltheof of York. But, moreover, having a head, and being indeed, as his final success showed, a man of ability and courage, he determined on a stroke of policy, which had incalculable after-effects on the history of Scotland. He persuaded Agatha the Hungarian, Margaret and Christina her daughters, and Edgar the Etheling himself, to flee with him to Scotland. How he contrived to send them messages to Romsey, far south in Hampshire; how they contrived to escape to the Humber, and thence up to the Forth; this is a romance in itself, of which the chroniclers have left hardly a hint. But the thing was done; and at St. Margaret’s Hope, as tradition tells, the Scottish king met, and claimed as his unwilling bride, that fair and holy maiden who was destined to soften his fierce pa.s.sions, to civilize and purify his people, and to become–if all had their just dues–the true patron saint of Scotland.