The Saxons retired slowly. Tostig was still looking fixedly at his antagonist. "Who is the warrior with such a proud tongue?" asked Hadrada. "King Harold, son of Godwin," said Tostig. "Why did you not tell me so" cried Hardrada; "he would not have lived to boast of having defeated us." He then added, "He is little, but he sits firmly in the saddle." At the same moment, King Harold was asking his companions whether this gigantic warrior clad in blue was really the formidable sovereign of the seas. It is the same, they told him. "He is a powerful man," replied Harold thoughtfully, "but I think his good fortune has deserted him."
The battle began—Hardrada was killed almost immediately by an arrow which stuck in his throat. Tostig took command of the army. Harold sent proposals for peace a second time for Tostig and the Norwegians. "We will owe nothing to the Saxons," cried the Norwegians, and the struggle recommenced. Tostig was killed in his turn, and great havoc was made among his men. The "despoiler of the world" was now surrounded but by a small number of warriors. They at length pulled up their precious standard, and slowly, defending themselves step by step, they regained the road leading to their vessels. A stout Norwegian had taken up his stand upon Stamford Bridge, covering the retreat of his comrades. They had nearly all passed the bridge, taking with them young Olof, son of Hardrada, when an English soldier, pushing his lance through a crevice in the timber, killed the valiant defender. The Scandinavian vessels unfurled their sails, and returned to Norway to spread the sad news of a defeat, indicated beforehand by the gloomy predictions of the soldiers, who had seen in their dreams a woman of gigantic stature seated on a wolf, and rushing along their ranks, making at each step a fresh corpse for the ferocious animal to devour.
Harold did not attempt to pursue the Norwegians on sea; he was recalled southward by the near approach of his great peril. William had assembled all his forces on the coast of Normandy, almost without any foreign help. The king of France, Philip I., had refused to give him any assistance, although the Duke had proposed to do homage to him when he should obtain possession of England. "You know," the French barons had said to the king, "how little the Normans obey you now; they will obey you still less if they conquer England, and if they fail in their enterprise, having assisted them we shall make enemies of the English people for ever afterwards."
The fleet and the army had been lying together for more than a month at Dive; the wind was unfavorable, and it was impossible to sail out of port. The south wind at length rose, and drove the vessels to Saint-Valéry-en-Caux, and then the bad weather began again. Several ships were dashed to pieces and their crews perished. In the army the men were murmuring. "There has been no fighting," they said, "and yet there are already some men killed." The Duke caused the sands to be watched, in order that the dead bodies thrown up by the sea might be buried immediately; and he allowed good cheer to his soldiers to induce them to wait patiently. He sent for the relics of the wrecks from Saint-Valéry, which were carried through the camp with great pomp. At length a propitious wind arose; all the sails were unfurled, and four hundred large ships and a thousand transport vessels sped away from land. The Duke's ship was at the head of them, bearing on the foremast the banner sent by the Pope; the sails of various colors were flying in the wind. The Duke's vessel soon left all the others behind; at daybreak he found himself alone. He sent a sailor to the foremast. "I only see the sky and the sea," cried the sailor; but a short time afterwards he reported four vessels in sight, and the Duke had not taken his breakfast before a forest of masts and sails was discovered.
It was a fine morning, on the 28th of September, 1066. Harold's vessels, which had been cruising along the coast during a whole month, had put in to land on the previous evening, being short of provisions. The fleet of the Normans approached, therefore, without resistance, and landed in Sussex, at Bulverhithe, between Pevensey and Hastings. The archers landed first, then the horsemen, and lastly the pioneers carrying their tools and wood ready prepared for making trenches round their camp. The Duke was the last to set foot on English soil, after superintending the disembarking of his men. Immediately upon stepping down, he stumbled and fell, smearing his hands with dirt. A shudder ran along the ranks. "What ails you?" cried the Duke, who had instantly sprung to his feet. "I have seized the land with my hands, and by the grace of God, throughout its length and breadth, it is yours." They were reassured at these words; a camp was at once planned and fortified with wooden trenches, after the French fashion, and bands of soldiers overran the neighborhood, ravaging and laying waste the country. Harold was still at Stamford, resting after the fatigues of the campaign against the Norwegians, when a messenger in an exhausted and breathless condition, burst into the room where he was at supper. "The enemy," he cried, "the enemy has landed!" Harold rose, for daybreak had arrived. He knew William and the Normans sufficiently well to feel confident that the struggle would be fierce and prolonged.
Time was precious. Harold was accustomed to make forced marches, and he accordingly started for London, ordering on his road all the earls and free men to rally round his standard. The whole country rose at his command, and large forces were being organized in different parts. "In four days the Saxon will have a hundred thousand men at his side," William was informed by one of those Normans formerly established in England during the reign of King Edward, who served him as spies. But some time was necessary to bring together these confused masses of men and to assemble them at a given point. Harold, in his haste, had not given them time to do so. He had arrived in London; his mother Gytha found his army worn-out and very small for opposing so formidable an enemy. "Do not risk a battle, my son," she said; "let the Normans pursue their ravages in the country, and famine will rid you of them." Harold trembled with indignation. "Would you have me ruin my kingdom?" he said. "By my faith, it would be treason; I prefer to put my trust in the strength of my arm and the justice of my cause." His young brother, Gurth, persisted, for the oath made to the Duke William weighed upon his conscience.
William the Conqueror Reviewing His Troops.
"Either under constraint, or by your own free will," he said, "you swore, and your oath will paralyze your arm during the conflict. We have promised nothing; leave us to defend the kingdom. You shall avenge us if we should be killed." Harold smiled bitterly at the remembrance of the Duke's perfidy, but he was inflexible, and he started the same day for Hastings with a force very much less than that of William.