The Knights of England, France, and Scotland

by Henry William Herbert

“Anchor, then—anchor, presently; we will await their coming, and in the meanwhile, Sir Seneschal, serve us a breakfast of your best, and see there be no lack of wines, the strongest and the noblest!” and, on the instant, the heavy plunge was heard of the huge anchor in the deep; the sails were furled; and like a living creature endowed with intellect, and moving by volition, the gallant ship swung round, awaiting the arrival of her consorts.

The feast was spread, and, from the high duke on the poop to the most humble mariner on the forecastle, the red wine flowed for all in generous profusion. Again a lookout was sent up, and now he cried, “I see far, far, to seaward, the topsails of four vessels.” A little pause consumed in revelry and feasting, and once again the ship-boy climbed the mast. “I see,” he said, the third time, “a forest on the deep, of masts and sails!”

“God aid! God aid!” replied the armed crew—“God aid!” and, with the word, again they weighed the anchor, and, ere three hours had passed, the whole of that huge armament rode at their moorings off the beach at Pevensey.

There was no sign of opposition or resistance; and on the third day after Harold’s victory at Staneford, the Norman host set foot on English soil. The archers were the first to disembark—armed with the six-foot bows, and cloth-yard shafts, then, for the first time, seen in England, soon destined to become the national weapon of its stout yeomanry. Their faces closely shorn, and short-cut hair, their light and succinct garments, were seen by the affrighted peasantry, who looked upon their landing from a distance, with equal terror and astonishment. Next came the men-at-arms, sheathed in their glittering hauberks and bright hose-of-mail, with conical steel helmets on their heads, long lances in their hands, and huge two-handed swords transversely girt across their persons. After them landed the pioneers, the laborers, and carpenters, who made the complement of that immense army, bearing with them, piece after piece, three fortresses of timber, arranged beforehand, and prepared to be erected on the instant, wherever they should come to land. Last of the mighty host, Duke William left his galley, and the long lines fell into orderly and beautiful array, as he was rowed to land. In leaping to that wished-for shore, the Norman’s right foot struck the gunwale of the shallop, and he fell headlong on the sand, face downward. Instantly, through the whole array, a deep and shuddering murmur rose—“God guard us—’tis a sign of evil!”

But ere the sounds had passed away, he had sprung to his feet. “What is it that you fear?” he shouted, in clear and joyous tones, “or what dismays you? Lo! I have seized this earth in both mine hands, and, by the splendor of our God, ’tis yours!”

Loud was the cheer of gratulation which peeled seaward far, and far into the bosom of the invaded land, at that most brilliant and successful repartee—and with alacrity and glee—confident of success, and high in daring courage—the Norman host marched, unopposed, in regular and terrible array, toward Hastings. Here on the well-known heights, to this day known by the commemorative name of Battle, the wooden fortresses were speedily erected; trenches were dug; and William’s army sat down for the night upon the land, which was thenceforth to be their heritage—thenceforth for evermore.

The news reached Harold as he lay at York, wounded and resting from his labors, and on the instant, with his victorious army, he set forth, publishing, as he marched along, his proclamation to all the chief of provinces and shires, to arm their followers, and meet him with all speed at London. The western levies came without delay; those from the north, owing to distance, were some time behind; and yet, could Harold have been brought by any means to moderate his fierce and desperate impatience, he would, ere four days had elapsed, have found himself, at least, in the command of twice two hundred men. But irritated to the utmost by the sufferings of his countrymen, whose lands were pitilessly ravaged, whose tenements were burned for miles around the Norman camp, whose wives and daughters were subjected to every species of insult and indignity, the Saxon king pressed onward. And though his forces did not amount to one-fourth part of the great duke’s array, still, he was resolved to encounter them, precipitate and furious as a madman.

On the eighteenth day after the defeat of Tosti and Hardrada, the Saxon army was encamped over against the fortified position of the invaders. On that same day, a monk, Sir Hugues Maigrot, came to find Harold, with proposals from the foe, offering him peace on one of three conditions—either that he should yield the kingdom presently—or leave it to the arbitration of the pope—or, finally, decide the matter by appeal to God in single combat.

To each and all of these proposals, the Saxon answered bluntly in the negative. “I will not yield my kingdom! I will not leave it to the pope! I will not meet the duke in single combat!”

Again the monk returned. “I come again,” he said, “from William. ‘Tell Harold,’ said the duke, ‘if he will hold him to his ancient compact, I yield him all the lands beyond the Humber; I give his brother Gurth all the demesnes his father, Godwin, held. If he refuse these my last proffers, tell him before his people, he is a perjured liar, accursed of the pope, and excommunicated—he, and all those that hold to him!’”