Exeunt Omnes.
Matilda died in 1082, and about five years later William followed her to the tomb. Matilda died in the palace part of the monastery at Cæn erected by William at the time of their marriage. Her last days were deeply shadowed by the renewal of hostilities between William and Robert, and by the death of a daughter, a young and beautiful girl full of hope and promise, who had suddenly been stricken with an incurable illness.
It was well that in those days in the twilight of the grave, Matilda could not foresee the sad fate of her son Robert. Little did that tender mother-heart dream of the destiny overhanging the boy, when at that last clandestine interview she hastily blessed him and kissed him good bye. Thank God for the heavy curtain rolled down impenetrably between the present and the future.
William, notwithstanding his grievance against Matilda, came to see her in her last illness. He was with her when she died. He followed her in the funeral cortege to that monastery built by her in far off happier days, and he stood sadly by as that devoted wife and mother of his many children was laid to rest.
Philip of France abetted the cause of Robert, and William, now an old man and grown excessively corpulent, was forced again to take up arms. William was under medical treatment for his corpulency, and Philip, hearing of this, jestingly remarked that “the old woman of England was in the straw.” A tale-bearer repeated this to William and in a rage the King swore that “the old woman of England would soon make things too hot for him.” William kept his word; burning villages and war horrors arose on every side as the irate monarch began his march of revenge.
The town of Mantes, on the road to Paris, was in flames, and William, riding thro’ and giving out orders in all directions, failed to notice that his horse was treading upon smoking ashes. Suddenly the horse reared violently, his feet evidently having been burnt by smouldering flame, and William was internally injured. He was borne by litter to a monastery just outside the gates of Rouen. William soon realized that he was face to face with the King of Terrors. He shrank with horror from the remembrance of his deeds: he ordered that a large sum of money should be given to the poor and that their prayers should be enlisted in his behalf; he gave orders that all the churches of Mantes, destroyed by him, should be at once rebuilt, and he richly endowed the monastery.
His sons William and Henry were soon at his side, but Robert came not. When asked as to whom he bequeathed the kingdom of England he replied that it had not been bequeathed to him, that, therefore, he bequeathed it to no one, but that he wished that his son William Rufus might succeed him.
William, at last, when he could hold it no longer, left Normandy to his eldest son Robert.
William tried to make his peace with Heaven as the dread summons came nearer and nearer. He was one morning suddenly aroused from a comatose state by the ringing of the church bells. Hastily arising and thinking himself in the clash of battle he demanded to know what that clangor meant. On being told that it was the church bells of St. Mary’s ringing for morning services, he lifted up his hands, turned his eyes heavenward, and exclaimed, “I commend myself to my Lady Mary, the holy Mother of God.” He then sank back and died.
William Rufus succeeded to the throne of England and after a troubled reign of thirteen years, he died.
Henry, the youngest son of William the Conqueror, claimed the crown and after overcoming his brother Robert in a terrible battle, he quietly took possession of the throne. Robert was held a prisoner by Henry I. until death released him twenty-seven years later.
So long ago were these scenes enacted, and so very long have the actors slumbered! Would they recognize themselves in the descriptions given of them today? and would they be pleased or displeased with the parts attributed to them in the play?
However all the actors, immediate and mediate, connected with the battle of Senlac-Hastings have long ago gone off the stage. The colossal If upon which once hung the history of England has become fate-fixed actuality. The Houses of Plantagenet, Lancaster, York, Tudor, Stuart—England’s story from 1066 to the passing hour are inseparably woven one with the battle of Senlac-Hastings and the If determinant in favor of William the Conqueror.
[Chapter IX.]
ORLEANS
What France won in three years (1428-1431) under the leadership of Joan of Arc restored all that France had lost during the Hundred Years’ War. Cressy, Poitiers, Agincourt were negatived by Orleans.
More wonderful than any myth of any nation under the sun, than any concept of poetic fancy throughout all literatures, than any vision of poet-sage or seer in all Sybilline rhapsodies—is the plain historical narrative of the life and deeds of Joan of Arc. Some power beyond the natural worked thro’ the peasant maid of Domremy.
“The people of Orleans when they first saw her in their city thought that it was an angel from Heaven that had come down to save them”, said an eye-witness of the scene who testified at the reversal of Jeanne’s sentence ten years after her death. On the contrary the Duke of Bedford, in a letter still extant, writing to Henry VI. and lamenting recent disasters to the English army says: “And alle thing there prospered for you til the tyme of the Siege of Orleans taken in hand God knoweth by what advis.
“At the which tyme, after the adventure fallen to the person of my cousin of Salisbury, whom God assoile, there fell by the hand of God as it seemeth, a great strook upon your peuple that was assembled there in grete nombre, caused in great part as I trowe, of lakke of sadde beleve, and of unlevefull doubte, that they had of a disciple and limb of the Feende, called the Pucelle, that used fals enchantments and sorcerie.”
“So certainly
As morn returneth in her radiant light
Infallibly the day of truth shall come”
said the Maid of Orleans.
That day of truth has come. Around Joan of Arc the charmed circle of the Church of Rome is drawn. Let no man dare to call evil that which the Church calls good; let no man dare to attribute imposture, hysterical exaltation, or necromantic might to one whom the Church calls Blessed. Vindicated, rehabilitated, restored, cherished, Blessed is now the Maid who died five hundred years ago burned at the stake as a witch.
Condemned by the University of Paris, an ecclesiastical tribunal? Yes. Hounded to the stake by Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais? Yes. But the Church can shake off and disclaim the clinging hands of her children whose touch pollutes her; and the Church of all ages can outshine the lurid darkness of any one age, and deprecate, and deplore and denounce the deeds done in that lurid darkness. Splendidly, too, and with stern magnanimity, defying apparent self-contradiction, can the Church reverse the decrees of ecclesiastical tribunals, and stoop down to pick up and restore and rehabilitate and bless a strangely foolish child whom kings and courts and the great University of Paris had condemned and cast away.
The Church of the Middle Ages must ever stand darkly enigmatic to the non-Catholic student of history. He cannot rightly appreciate the binding force of spiritual authority. The withering away from fear of Church censure, the clinging claim upon all the powers of the soul in the prayers and ceremonies and sacraments of the Church, the isolating horrors of her excommunications, the abject fear of her spiritual punishments, powerful alike over prince and potentate and peasant—are practically meaningless to the non-Catholic.
That scene in “Richelieu” by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, well illustrates the power of the Church in the Middle Ages. King Louis XIII. has sent to demand that Julie de Mortemar, Cardinal Richelieu’s orphan ward, shall be immediately sent to the court subject to the king’s pleasure. The girl clings to the Cardinal for protection. To these messengers Cardinal Richelieu replies,
“To those who sent you!—
And say you found the virtue they would slay
Here—couched upon this heart, as at an altar,
And sheltered by the wings of sacred Rome.
Begone!”
They go. But soon again comes Baradas, favorite of the king, First Gentleman of the Chamber, and about to be made premier to succeed the temporarily deposed Cardinal Richelieu. To Baradas’ insolent importunities the eloquent old Cardinal in righteous wrath exclaims:
“Ay, is it so?—
Then wakes the power which in the age of iron
Burst forth to curb the great and raise the low.
Mark where she stands!—around her form I draw
The awful circle of our solemn Church!
Set but a foot within that holy ground,
And on thy head—yea tho’ it wore a crown
I launch the curse of Rome!”
Baradas abashed retires, the king’s suit ceases; the Church has triumphed.