History of the Anglo-Saxons, from the Earliest Period to the Norman Conquest / Second Edition

by Thomas Miller

[CHAPTER XXXI.]
EDMUND, SURNAMED IRONSIDE.

"His death, whose spirit lent a fire
Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,
Being bruited once, took fire and heat away
From the best tempered courage in his troops:
For from his metal was his party steeled;
Which, once in him abated, all the rest
Turned on themselves, like dull and heavy lead."

Shakspere.

Edmund, who, for his valour and hardy constitution, was surnamed Ironside, had already distinguished himself against the Danes, and shown signs of promise, which foretold that, whenever the sceptre fell into his hand, it would be ably wielded. Like those meteoric brilliancies which startle us by their sudden splendour, then instantly depart, so was his career—bright, beautiful, and brief. We perceive a trailing glory along the sky over which he passed, but no steady burning of the star that left it behind. Had he ascended the throne at a peaceful and prosperous period, he might probably have dozed away his days in apathy; for he was one of those spirits born to blaze upon the fiery front of danger, and either speedily to consume, or be consumed. He began by measuring his stature against a giant, and raised himself so high by his valiant deportment, that had a little longer time been allowed him to develope his growth, he would have overtopped the great Canute, by whose side he stood.

He had scarcely leisure to put off the mourning which he had worn at his father's funeral, before he was compelled to arm in defence of the capital of the kingdom; for the Danish forces, headed by Canute, had already laid siege to London, and nearly the half of England was at that period in the possession of his enemies. The struggle to carry the capital was maintained with great spirit by the besiegers, and as bravely repelled by the besieged; and the wall which then ran along the whole front of the city, beside the Thames, was the scene of many a valorous exploit. A bridge, even at this early period, stretched over into Southwark, and on the Surrey side it was stoutly defended by the enemy, who for a long time held the Saxons at bay; for they were strengthened by the ships which Canute had brought up from Greenwich, and placed on the west side of the bridge; thus cutting off all aid from the river; while he left a part of his fleet below, to guard against surprise from the mouth of the Thames. London was so strongly protected by its fortresses and citizens, that Edmund was enabled to remove a great portion of his army, and to fight two battles in the provinces during the time it was besieged.

The most important of these was his engagement at Scearstan, where he addressed his soldiers before commencing the battle, and so kindled their valour by his eloquence, that at the first onset, which was sounded by the braying of the trumpets, the Danish soldiers staggered as if the weight of a mighty avalanche had come thundering down amongst them. Edmund himself fought amid the foremost ranks—there was no sword that went deeper into the advanced line of the enemy than his own—no arm that made such bleeding gaps as the sovereign's. He seemed as if present in almost every part of the field at once—wherever his eager eye caught a wavering motion in the ranks, there he was seen to rally, and cheer them on. Edric, who had long been in the service of Ethelred, fought on the side of Canute, and by his influence arrayed the men of Wiltshire and Somerset against Edmund. So obstinately was the battle maintained on both sides, that neither party could claim the victory when night settled down upon the hard-fought field.

The dawn of a summer morning saw the combat renewed. While yet the silver dew hung pure and rounded upon the blood-stained grass, the Saxon trumpets sounded the charge. Foremost as ever in the conflict, Edmund fought his way into the very thickest of the strife, until he found himself face to face with Canute. The first blow which the Saxon king aimed at his enemy, Canute received upon his shield: it was cloven asunder; and with such force had the sword of Edmund descended, that after severing the buckler, the edge of the weapon went deep into the neck of the horse which the Danish king bestrode. The English monarch still stood alone amid a crowd of Danes, making such destructive circles with his two-handed sword, that no one dared approach him. After having slightly wounded Canute, and slain several of his choicest warriors, Edmund was compelled to fall back amongst his own soldiers, whom he now found in retreat and confusion.

While Edmund was thus busily engaged in the very heart of the battle, the traitor Edric had struck off the head of a soldier, named Osmear, whose countenance closely resembled that of the king, and holding it by the hair, he had ridden rapidly along the Saxon lines, exclaiming: "Fly! fly! and save yourselves—behold the head of your king." Edmund had just succeeded in fighting his way through the Danish ranks, when he beheld the panic which Edric had spread amongst the soldiers—his first act was to seize a spear and hurl it at the traitor—he stooped, missed the blow, and the weapon pierced two soldiers who stood near him. Edmund then threw down his helmet, and taking the advantage of a rising ground, stood up bareheaded, and called upon his warriors to renew the combat; but many were already beyond hearing. It was now near sunset, for the conflict had lasted all day long, and those who rallied around him were just sufficient to keep up the struggle without retreating, until darkness again dropped down upon the scene. So ended the second day, and neither side could claim the victory. Edmund again encamped upon the battle-field, for he had still sufficient faith in the force that remained with him to renew the contest in the morning. Day-dawn, however, revealed the departure of the Danes, and the Saxons found themselves alone, surrounded by the wounded and the dead; for Canute had taken advantage of the midnight darkness, and retreated from the field. The Danish king hurried off with his army to renew the siege of London; Edmund followed him, and drove the enemy as far as Brentford. Here another battle took place; and as we find Canute, soon after, once more beleaguering the capital, the advantages the Saxon king gained could only have been slight. Seeing that he could make no impression upon London, Canute next led his army into Mercia, where he appears to have met with but little opposition; he is said to have burnt every town he approached. At Otford, in Kent, Edmund once more attacked the Danish king, and drove him to Sheppey. Unfortunately, the Saxon sovereign had admitted Edric the traitor again into his friendship, and he betrayed him; but for this, it is questionable if Canute could have maintained another attack.

It was on the eve of one of these battles, in which the northmen were defeated, that a Danish chief, named Ulfr, who was hotly pursued by the Saxons, rushed into a wood, in the hurry of defeat, and lost his way. It was no uncommon hardship for a sea-king to throw himself at the foot of the nearest oak, pillow his head upon the root, and sleep soundly until the morning; he would only miss the murmur of the ocean, and, to make up for its lulling sound, would be saved the trouble of raising his hand every now and then to sweep off the salt spray that dashed over him. But the dawn of day found him no better off than the midnight; he would have known what course to have steered had he been out alone upon the open ocean, but in a forest, where one tree looked, in his eyes, just like another, he knew not on what tack to sail. After wandering about for some time, he met a Saxon peasant, who was driving home his oxen, at that early hour, for it was probably dangerous to allow them to be found in the forest after daylight, as the forest-laws were already severe. The Danish chief first accosted the churl, by inquiring his name. "It is Godwin," answered the peasant; "and you are one of the Danes who were compelled yesterday to fly for your life." The sea-king acknowledged it was true, and asked the herdsman if he could guide him either to the Danish ships, or to where the army was encamped. "The Dane must be mad," answered Godwin, "who trusts to a Saxon for safety." Ulfr entreated this rude Gurth of the forest to point him out the way, at the same time urging his argument by presenting the herdsman with a massive gold ring, to win his favour. Godwin looked at the ring—it was probably the first time in his life he had ever seen so costly a treasure—and after having carefully examined it, he again placed it in the hand of the sea-king, and said, "I will not take this, but will show you the way." Ulfr spent the day at the herdsman's cottage; night came, and found Godwin in readiness to be his guide. The herdsman had an aged father, who, before he permitted his son to depart, thus addressed the Danish chief—"It is my only son whom I allow to accompany you; to your good faith I entrust him; for, remember, that there will no longer be any safety for him amongst his countrymen, if it is once known that he has been your guide. Present him to your king, and entreat him to take my son into his service." Ulfr promised, and he kept his word, since there is no doubt that the young herdsman had gained upon his favour during the journey, for when the sea-king reached the Danish encampment, he took the peasant into his own tent, placed him upon a seat, (a great honour in those days,) which was as high as the one he himself occupied, and treated him as if he had been his own son. This humble cowherd, who afterwards married the sea-king's sister, will, ere long, have to figure amongst the most prominent characters in our history, but we must leave him for a time, and follow the fortunes of the Saxon king, Edmund.