Of Neustria come roring, with a crew
Of hungry whelpes.”
OW a remarkable scene diversifies our pageant. You see before you the great hall of the Norman castle of Bayeux. Baron, knight, bishop, and priest fill up the background, and you perceive at once that an important crisis has arrived. Your eye instantly fastens on the two chief actors in the scene; and you do well to study them closely, for rarely in the history of our land have two such notable men stood face to face.
The one, albeit he betrays some signs of anxiety, claims, at first sight, your admiration and sympathy. He is tall and comely, with the blue eyes and the golden beard and flowing locks of the Saxon. You picture him as a bluff, good-humoured Englishman, proud of his strength of arm, his prowess in the chase, his skill in warfare, and his sense of fair play. You can readily believe him to be winning and courteous in public life, calm and cool in the hour of danger, easy and sociable when the fight is over. He is Harold of England, the most gifted of the sons of old Earl Godwin, that dogged earl who, in his lifetime, was the champion of Englishmen at the court of the feeble but pious King Edward, now reigning in England. Edward loves the Norman and despises the Englishman, and his court swarms with aliens, on whom he lavishes land and wealth. Men say he has bequeathed his sceptre to a Norman, but his subjects will have none of it. Yonder fair-haired Englishman is their pride and choice, and him they will seat on the throne when Edward is dead. King Edward is now fast sinking into his grave, his last hours disquieted by the appearance of a comet which the priests assure him betokens ruin for his country.
Now turn your attention to the other chief actor in the scene. You know at a glance that he is a great man, and that he is destined to make history. He is a giant in stature; no man living but he can bend his mighty bow. Rough and hard has been his upbringing, and rough and hard is his temper. He, too, is of Viking blood. His ancestor was that fierce outlaw Rollo, so long of leg and so heavy of frame that no horse could carry him. This fierce and crafty Viking had wrested a province from the imbecile King of France, on condition of doing homage to the poor simpleton. But Rollo would bow the knee to none save the rugged gods of his fierce Northern creed, nor would any of his chieftains so demean themselves. A common soldier was Rollo’s deputy, and even he disdained to bow, but seized the foot of the king and in bringing it to his mouth jerked the poor monarch off his throne!
Rollo lives again in William, this mighty Norman duke at whom you are now gazing. His father’s nature is well set forth in the nickname which his followers gave him—Robert the Devil. William’s mother was a tanner’s daughter, and his haughty nobles once sneered at his base origin. They dare not do so now, for they know full well the weight of his mighty arm. As a boy he was heir to the most turbulent dukedom in Europe, but while in his teens he curbed the wild lawlessness of the barons and put a hook in their proud nostrils. Full well they remember the fate of those townsmen of Alençon who insulted his mother’s memory by hanging hides from their walls as a fitting welcome to “the tanner.” They will not soon forget how, in his wrath, he lopped off the feet and hands of his prisoners, and bade his slingers hurl the ghastly trophies into the town. Watchful, patient, cunning, ruthless, yet withal clear and sure of vision, he stands before you as by far the greatest warrior and statesman of his time.
What manner of man this masterful Norman duke is, you may learn from the story of his wooing. He did not seek his wife with smiles and honeyed words, nor did he deign to display his best graces to win her heart. That is not his way. When Matilda, daughter of the Earl of Flanders, rejected his suit, both on account of his birth and because she loved another, he was not daunted—not he. He waited for her in the streets of Bruges, and forthwith rolled her in the dirt and soundly cuffed her ears. Strange to say, his new mode of wooing was successful. Matilda went home, changed her attire, put ointment on her bruises, and when next her lover presented himself declared that “the marriage pleased her well.”
And now his mind is bent on quite another conquest, but the same masterful method will prevail. He has visited England. He has embraced the old king, who owes a debt of gratitude to Normandy; for was it not in that civilized land that he found shelter, succour, and education when Sweyn the Dane drove him as a callow boy into exile? William sees with his own eyes that the poor old king is not long for this world; and he notes with satisfaction that Normans surround his throne, tend him at table, and administer to him the rites of the Church. William has willing allies now, and he will have helpers, he thinks, when the time comes. So he returns to Normandy, and announces that Edward has named him as successor to the English throne.
But how come William and Harold, these rivals for a throne, to be under the same roof? Sooth to tell, the one is the captive of the other. Harold’s bonds are very real, though not apparent. Some months ago he was cruising in the Channel, when an unlucky storm drove him on the Norman shore. The neighbouring baron seized him, and rejoiced at the prospect of a heavy ransom; but William claimed him, and welcomed him to his court with a show of cordiality. Together they have waged war on the Bretons, and Harold has done prodigies of valour. They have shared the same tent and have fed at the same table. To the outward eye they are brothers.