The conduct and courage of Harold and his Saxons in this expedition are recorded by the Norman chroniclers. The Earl’s personal exertions saved, at the passage of Coesnon, a detachment of soldiers, who would otherwise have perished in the quicksands; and even the warlike skill of William, in the brief and brilliant campaign, was, if not eclipsed, certainly equalled, by that of the Saxon chief.
While the campaign lasted, William and Harold had but one table and one tent. To outward appearance, the familiarity between the two was that of brothers; in reality, however, these two men, both so able—one so deep in his guile, the other so wise in his tranquil caution—felt that a silent war between the two for mastery was working on, under the guise of loving peace.
Already Harold was conscious that the politic motives for his mission had failed him; already he perceived, though he scarce knew why, that William the Norman was the last man to whom he could confide his ambition, or trust for aid. One day, as, during a short truce with the defenders of the place they were besieging, the Normans were diverting their leisure with martial games, in which Taillefer shone pre-eminent: while Harold and William stood without their tent, watching the animated field, the Duke abruptly exclaimed to Mallet de Graville, “Bring me my bow. Now, Harold, let me see if thou canst bend it.”
The bow was brought, and Saxon and Norman gathered round the spot.
“Fasten thy glove to yonder tree, Mallet,” said the Duke, taking that mighty bow in his hand, and bending its stubborn yew into the noose of the string with practised ease.
Then he drew the arc to his ear; and the tree itself seemed to shake at the shock, as the shaft, piercing the glove, lodged half-way in the trunk.
“Such are not our weapons,” said the Earl; “and ill would it become me, unpractised, so to peril our English honour, as to strive against the arm that could bend that arc and wing that arrow. But, that I may show these Norman knights, that at least we have some weapon wherewith we can parry shaft and smite assailer,—bring me forth, Godrith, my shield and my Danish axe.”
Taking the shield and axe which the Saxon brought to him, Harold then stationed himself before the tree. “Now, fair Duke,” said he, smiling, “choose thou thy longest shaft—bid thy ten doughtiest archers take their bows; round this tree will I move, and let each shaft be aimed at whatever space in my mailless body I leave unguarded by my shield.”
“No!” said William, hastily; “that were murder.”
“It is but the common peril of war,” said Harold, simply; and he walked to the tree.