Norman spoon in English dish,
And England ruled as Normans wish;
Blithe world in England never will be more,
Till England’s rid of all the four.”
And now, in mimic strife, let that great battle which gave England for the last time to foreign foes be fought again. The first act of the drama which we are about to witness takes place on the Sussex shore near Pevensey, on the spot where Roman and Saxon alike landed when they too coveted the possession of our isle.
It is the twenty-ninth day of September, in the year of grace 1066. The wind that is even now fluttering the victorious banners of Harold at York is wafting to our coast an even more terrible foe. You see the vast armada of the Norman approaching the beach. Amidst the crowd of vessels which cover the sea you discern a ship with the prow fashioned like a brazen child loosing an arrow from a bended bow. That ship bears Duke William and his fortunes. Speedily the vessels run aground, planks are thrust ashore, and the work of landing begins.
“Out archers!” is the cry, and the shaven and shorn cross-bowmen in their short habits spring ashore and form up on the beach. They scour the neighbourhood, but no armed foe is in sight. Now the knights, clad in hauberk, helmet, and shining cuirass, with their shields slung round their necks, step ashore, and their bustling squires, with many a tug and strain and muttered curse, lead their high-mettled chargers down the creaking gangways. In a trice the knights are mounted, their swords girded on, and their lances in hand. You see their glittering ranks form and wheel upon the shore.
Here come the carpenters, with their axes, planes, and adzes, seeking a suitable spot for the erection of a castle, which was completely fashioned in Normandy, and now only needs fitting together. Great frames are carried ashore, and like magic a wooden fortress is deftly reared on the strand. Ere set of sun the stores are landed and safely bestowed within its walls. The guards are set, and the evening meal is served.
Last of all to tread the soil of the land that is soon to be his comes Duke William. As he steps ashore he stumbles, and falls upon his face. A cry of consternation runs through the superstitious host. “God preserve us! this is a bad sign.”—“Nay,” he shouts lustily, and with that readiness of retort which never fails him; “see, my lords, I have taken possession of England with both my hands! It is now mine, and what is mine is yours.”
At dawn he marches along the seashore to Hastings, where other wooden castles are erected, and every precaution is taken against surprise. The foragers are busy in every neighbouring village, and as they appear the unarmed English flee, driving their cattle before them to secret places of safety. Mounted scouts push far into the country, and fall back on the main body as the English army draws near.