Before the duke left the Somme, a clerk had come to him, who knew, he said, astronomy and necromancy, and held himself a good diviner, and predicted many things. So he divined for the duke, and predicted that he should pass the sea safely, and succeed in his expedition, without fighting at all; for that Harold would make such promises, and come to such terms, that he would hold the land of the duke, and become his liegeman, and so William would return in safety. As to the good passage, he predicted right enough; but as to not fighting, he lied. When the duke had crossed, and arrived safely, he remembered the prediction, and inquired for the diviner. But one of the sailors said he had miscarried and was drowned at sea, being in one of the lost ships. "Little matters it," said the duke; "no great deal could he have known. A poor diviner indeed must he be about me, who could predict nought about himself. If the things to come were known to him, he might well have foreseen his own death; foolish is he who trusts in a diviner, who takes heed for others but forgets himself; who knows the end of other men's work, and can not discern the term of his own life." Such was the end of the diviner.
As the ships were drawn to shore, and the duke first landed, he fell by chance upon his two hands. Forthwith all raised a loud cry of distress, "An evil sign," said they, "is here." But he cried out lustily, "See, seignors, by the splendour of God! I have seized England with my two hands; without challenge no prize can be made; all is our own that is here; and now we shall see who will be the bolder man." Then one of his men ran forward and put his hand on a hut, and took a handful of the thatch, and turned to the duke, saying heartily, "Sire, come forward and receive seizin; of this land I give you seizin; without doubt the country is yours." And the duke said, "I accept it; may God be with us."
Then he ordered proclamation to be made, and commanded the sailors that the ships should be dismantled, and drawn ashore and pierced, that the cowards might not have the ships to flee to[1].
All cannot be told or written at once; but, passing backward and forward to each matter in its turn, I have now to tell that the duke immediately after his arrival made all his host arm themselves.
The first day they held their course along the sea-shore; and on the morrow came to a castle called Penevesel[2]. The squires and foragers, and those who looked out for booty, seized all the clothing and provisions they could find, lest what had been brought by the ships should fail them; and the English were to be seen fleeing before them, driving off their cattle, and quitting their houses. All took shelter in the cemeteries[3], and even there they were in grievous alarm.
[1] The Bayeux tapestry is considered to contradict Wace's supposed story of the ships being destroyed. Benoit says nothing of it. Is it clear that the ships are not meant to be represented in the tapestry as drawn ashore, dismantled, and in a state unfit for service? This probably was done, and it may be all that was meant to be reported. We venture to give this mitigated sense to 'despecies,' particularly as the operations in the next line of 'drawing ashore and piercing,' are hardly consistent with previous destruction. The dismantling of the ships, left under protection of the fort, when going inland, seems a prudent precaution against a surprise by Harold's fleet, as well as against any sudden fit of despair arising in the Norman army; but their destruction would have been a rash step. From such dismantling may have arisen the report of destruction, which the chronicle of Battel Abbey, MS. Cott. Dom. A. ii. improves into actual burning. It would appear that they were soon refitted, and followed William's cautious course along the coast to Dover. The Carmen de hello Hastingensi makes William rest five days at Hastings after the battle.
[2] Pevensey.
[3] This use of the cemeteries is again mentioned in Wace, ii. 381. 'As cimetieres tot atraient,' See also Ordericus Vit. xi. 815.
