Chapter LV (6)

With this object William placed himself at the head of his army, and, for the first time, crossed the Tweed. Not inclined to try conclusions with an antagonist so formidable, Malcolm presented himself to the Conqueror at a place near the frontier, which is supposed to have been Berwick; and, though declining to surrender the Saxon emigrants, "met King William in a peaceful attitude, touched his hand in sign of friendship, promised that William's enemies should be his also, and freely acknowledged himself his vassal and liegeman."

XXXV.

THE DEATH OF COSPATRICK.

It was the year 1072, when the destruction of the camp of Ely ruined the last hope which the Saxons entertained of making head against the Conqueror; and the year 1073 witnessed the exile of the last Saxon of illustrious lineage whom the Conqueror allowed to occupy a high position and exercise important functions.

It appears that after the installation of Cospatrick as Earl of Northumberland, the peace of the North was unbroken save by the terrible inroad of Malcolm, King of Scots. On that occasion, Cospatrick, having no force sufficiently powerful to oppose that of the Scottish king, endeavoured to draw Malcolm from Northumberland by making an incursion into Cumberland in the direction of Carlisle, which then lay in ruins. But finding the Scots too intent on carnage and plunder to move, he was fain to return, to shut himself up in Bamburgh, and in that fortress to listen, with unavailing regret, to accounts of the barbarous atrocities perpetrated by the invaders.

At length affairs began to settle; and the Bishop of Durham and his clergy, hearing that William had departed for the South, ventured back to their church. They found everything in disorder. Even the magnificent crucifix, the gift of Tostig and Judith, was stripped of all its ornaments, and tossed upon the floor. Nor was this the worst that was to befall. Ere long the bishop was degraded, and a native of Lorraine, named Vaulcher, instituted in his place.

When Vaulcher, accompanied by a numerous train of Norman knights, reached York, Cospatrick presented himself, and conducted the new bishop to Durham. Perhaps, by this attention to Vaulcher, Cospatrick hoped to escape such a fate as had befallen every other Saxon of high rank. But if so, he was mistaken. Between the Norman king and the Saxon earl no real confidence existed. Every movement in Northumberland hostile to the Normans had exposed Cospatrick to suspicion; and, after having received Malcolm's homage, William, thinking he could dispense with the aid of the grandson of Uchtred, alleged that he had taken part in the murder of Robert Comine and in the siege of York, and formally deprived him of his earldom.

Cospatrick was now at his wits' end. Mortified at his own reverses, and grieving at the oppression under which his countrymen were labouring, but against which it seemed vain to struggle single-handed, he left England and passed over to Flanders, to which the Saxons still looked with hope of aid. But all efforts proved vain; and he returned to die in poverty on the verge of the great northern province which he had lately ruled.

It would seem that Cospatrick had, by advising the flight of the bishop from Durham, lost favour with the clergy, and that they used all their efforts to terrify him with threats of the wrath of St. Cuthbert. An aged priest of Durham, while in Holy Island, professed to have had a dream, in which he saw a great Northumbrian thane, who had maltreated the bishop and his company during their flight, suffering the torments of hell, and in which St. Cuthbert appeared denouncing woes against Cospatrick. This dream derived importance from the circumstance of the Northumbrian thane having died at the very time; and when related to Cospatrick, now grown old and infirm, it caused him much trouble of spirit. Indeed, he is said to have forthwith taken the shoes from his feet, and set out on a pilgrimage to Holy Island, to propitiate St. Cuthbert by prayers and offerings.

After his pilgrimage to Holy Island, Cospatrick found rest for a time at Norham, on the Tweed. At that place, weary with adversity and woe, he soon felt himself sinking under his infirmities. At length, sick unto death, he bethought him of religious consolation, and intimated his wish to have the spiritual aid of Aldwin and Turgot, two monks in whose piety and prayers he had great confidence.

At Melrose--not on the spot occupied by the magnificent ruins of that great abbey, to which Sir Walter Scott has, in our day, given so wide a fame, but in a flat peninsula, described by Bede as "almost inclosed by the windings of the river Tweed"--the Culdees had, in the seventh century, erected a religious house. After flourishing for two hundred years, this edifice had suffered at the hand of King Kenneth, and gradually dwindled down to a chapel sacred to St. Cuthbert. In this chapel Aldwin and Turgot were "living in poverty and contrite in spirit for the sake of Christ." On receiving Cospatrick's message, these holy men hurried down the Tweed, eager to comfort the expiring sinner.

On reaching Norham the monks found the Saxon earl loudly lamenting his shortcomings, and expressing penitence for his sins, and they confessed him with all the ceremonies usual on such occasions. Before their departure he gave them two dorsals, or pieces of tapestry which were hung against walls as screens for the back, and begged that, in whatever place the monks might chance to take rest, they would hang the dorsals up in memory of him. This scene over, Cospatrick yielded up his breath.

It was destined that the posterity of this great Saxon, who passed his last days hovering between two countries, in neither of which he could find a home, and who died in misery, and with lamentations on his lips, should exercise the very highest authority in centuries then to come. He left two sons. One of these was Cospatrick, founder of the House of Dunbar, whose chiefs were so great in war and peace; the other was Dolfin, male ancestor of the Nevilles, who became famous for making and unmaking kings.

Meanwhile, Cospatrick was laid at rest in the porch of the church of Norham. In the chancel of that ancient edifice, a recumbent effigy, in the decorated style of the fourteenth century, when his descendants on both sides of the Tweed were in all their glory, still recalls his memory, when the places that once knew them know them no more--when the castle of Dunbar is desolate, and when Raby no longer owns a Neville as its lord.

XXXVI.

ATHELING AND HIS ALLIES.

When Edgar Atheling, after the disastrous defeat of the Saxons at York, took refuge in Scotland, he found himself treated with great respect. Malcolm Canmore, saluting the exiled prince as true King of England, assured him of a secure asylum, and influenced, doubtless, by the charms of the fair Margaret, still further evinced his sympathy with the Saxon cause by bestowing offices and lands on the expatriated chiefs. Moreover, he promised Atheling every aid to regain the throne of his ancestors.

The King of Scots was probably quite sincere in his professions of friendship and promises of support; but his power to assist the Saxons was by no means equal to his will. Besides, the mighty energy of William, bearing down all opposition, was calculated to daunt the boldest foe. Malcolm was brave as a lion; yet he might, without exposing himself to the imputation of cowardice, feel some degree of alarm as he conjured up visions of Norman warriors crossing the river Tweed, sweeping through the Merse and Lothian, and pursuing their victorious career as far north as to cool the hoofs of their horses in the waters of the Tay, and plant their standard on the towers of the palace of Scone.

At all events, it is certain that, after a brief residence in Scotland, Atheling recognised the necessity of seeking a reconciliation with the Conqueror. This was, without difficulty, obtained. Then, as ever, William was kind and forgiving to the heir of Alfred. But, as the work of the Conquest went on, and as the Saxons, exasperated by the deposition of their bishops and abbots, indicated their intention of making a great effort to recover their liberty, Atheling discovered that he was the object of suspicion. Indeed, it was natural that such should have been the case; for his name was in the mouth of all ardent patriots, and songs were sung in which he was described as "the brave, the beautiful darling of England." Perceiving that snares were set for him, Atheling effected his escape from court; and, with all the haste he could, made for Scotland.

"Curse him!" exclaimed the Normans; "he is the most fickle of human beings."

"Ah!" cried the Saxons, "he is young and handsome, and descended from the true race--the best race of the country."

It must be admitted that, so far as appearances went, the Saxons had reason to be proud of the heir of their ancient kings. Atheling was now approaching manhood, and looked worthy, indeed, of a nation's regard. His person was handsome, his figure tall and graceful, his manner courteous to excess, his temper serene to a fault, and he spoke with taste and eloquence. Brave he was beyond question, but somewhat slow in action; and while ever and anon giving proof that he inherited the courage of Ironsides, he constantly showed symptoms of having in his veins the sluggish blood of Ethelred.

Indeed, the prospects of Edgar Atheling were at no time so encouraging as to tempt him to heroic ventures to regain the crown which had, for a brief season, been his. After the day on which Malcolm Canmore did homage to William the Norman, aid from Scotland could not reasonably be expected. Not yet content, however, to submit tamely to circumstances, Atheling, in 1075, repaired to Flanders, probably when Cospatrick, after being deprived of Northumberland, went thither to crave the alliance of Count Robert, who, though Matilda's kinsman, was William's political enemy, and, moreover, a descendant of Alfred the Great. But Atheling's application was not attended with success, and he returned to Scotland with the impression that the Saxon cause was too hopeless to enlist the alliance of any European prince, when, somewhat to his surprise, he was favoured with a friendly message from the King of France.

Philip, though young, was no longer the mere boy whose countenance and support William the Norman had asked before undertaking his expedition against Harold. The heir of Hugh Capet was now in his thirty-third year, perfectly capable of comprehending his position, and of estimating the power of a Duke of Normandy who was also King of England. In fact, he had somewhat recent evidence of William's strength and his own weakness. While William, who had left England in 1073, was on the Continent, carrying on war in Maine with signal success, Philip had taken up arms against the Count of Flanders, and sustained a shameful defeat before Cassel. The idea of a man who had been vanquished by Count Robert of Flanders having to encounter William the Conqueror was not pleasant; and the French king, eager in the extreme to multiply William's enemies on the English side of the Channel, resolved to afford the Saxons such encouragement as to enable them to keep their conqueror in his insular dominions.

It was under the influence of such apprehensions, and with a view of accomplishing such an object, that Philip invited Atheling to France.

"Come hither," wrote the French king to the English prince--"come and aid me with your counsel. I will give you the fortress of Montreuil, which is so situated that thence you can either make a descent on England or ravage Normandy."

Atheling was not proof against such temptation. On receiving Philip's message, he prepared, with the companions of his exile, to embark for France, and made arrangements for his voyage. Malcolm, as William's liegeman, could not openly lend his countenance to the enterprise of his brother-in-law. Nevertheless, he secretly supplied Atheling with money, and furnished the companions of the exiled prince with arms.

But the expedition, and all the projects to which it was to lead, were destined to come to nought. The voyage of the adventurers proved the very reverse of fortunate. Scarcely had Atheling's fleet lost sight of the Scottish shores when a violent tempest arose. The vessels were scattered like leaves in autumn. Some sank, and others, going to pieces on the northern coast of England, left their crews at the mercy of the Norman officials, who made them prisoners. Atheling, and those who sailed in his ship, were wrecked, but escaped captivity. However, they lost everything; and in sadness and gloom they made their way, some on foot, others miserably mounted, back to the Scottish court, where Atheling, with his wonted eloquence, narrated to Malcolm and Margaret the misfortunes of the voyage.

"And now," asked Atheling, in conclusion, "what is to be done?"

"It seems to me," answered Malcolm, "that fortune is decidedly against you. Wherefore, struggle no longer with fate, but seek peace, once more, of William the Norman."

At all times Atheling was easily persuaded; and, on this occasion, he was in no frame of mind to dispute the wisdom of Malcolm's counsel. Accordingly he sent a message to William, who was still on the Continent; and William, responding frankly, asked him to repair to Normandy. Entering England by the north, passing through the country escorted by Norman counts, and entertained by them in the tall and turretted castles which already crowned every height, and which contrasted strangely with the low, irregular buildings, surrounded by woods, in which dwelt such of the Saxons of rank as had escaped death or banishment, Atheling could not fail to be impressed with a conviction of the fact that the work of the Conquest had gone much too far to be undone by force of arms, and that any thought of resistance was absurd.

Embarking for the Continent, he reached Rouen in safety, and was received by the Conqueror with kindness. A pension was granted to the banished prince to defray his personal expenses; but, taking a fancy to a charger in the stables of the palace, he afterwards parted with his pension in order to become master of the animal. For years Atheling remained at the palace of Rouen, amusing himself with hawks, dogs, and horses, and reflecting, with philosophic calmness, on the crown he had lost and the land from which he was exiled.

XXXVII.

FITZOSBORNE AND DE GAEL.

One day in the course of the year 1074, when William the Conqueror was in Normandy fighting with his Continental foes, and while Archbishop Lanfranc governed England in the king's absence, a great marriage took place in the castle of Norwich. Many guests of high rank were bidden; and the occasion was rendered memorable by the circumstance that the feast with which it was celebrated proved fatal to almost every individual who happened to be present.

About the year 1073, William Fitzosborne, the Conqueror's famous comrade in arms, departed this life, leaving two sons, named William and Roger, and a daughter, named Emma. William, succeeding to his father's lands in Normandy, was known as Lord of Breteuil; Roger, inheriting his father's English possessions, became Earl of Hereford; and Emma was sought in marriage by a young Breton, who figured as Earl of Norfolk, and naturally felt ambitious of allying himself with the high Norman nobility. But a union between Ralph de Gael and the daughter of Fitzosborne did not meet with the Conqueror's approval. In fact, William set his face decidedly against the matrimonial project, and, being at the time in Normandy, sent a messenger to forbid, in the most peremptory tone, the celebration of the marriage.

The interference of William was more than the high spirit of Roger Fitzosborne could brook. He resolved at once to set the Conqueror's prohibition at defiance; and, on a day appointed for the wedding, conveyed his sister to Norwich.

The ceremony was performed with a pomp worthy of the rank of the parties; and when the feast was spread in the castle hall, Norman bishops, and lords of high degree, both Norman and Welsh, and ladies fair to look upon, gathered around the board. So far all went smoothly. But as dishes were carved and cups emptied the master of the feast and his guests became rapidly excited and frank to excess. The habitual respect displayed by the Norman nobles for the great war-chief who had led them to conquest and plunder vanished as wine flowed in abundance, and the two earls especially vociferated in a strain which caused many present to stare in silent surprise.

"What is this man?" asked Roger Fitzosborne, in accents of supreme contempt--"what is this man, who dictates who are to be the husbands of ladies descended from the comrades of Rollo?--A bastard, owing this kingdom to my father, to whose memory this interference is an insult."

"He is a bastard, and a man of low birth," cried the Normans. "He may call himself a king; but 'tis clear that he is not made for one, and that he is not agreeable in the sight of God."

"And," exclaimed the Saxons, "he invaded England, he massacred the legitimate heirs of our kings and nobles, or obliged them to expatriate themselves."

"What is worst of all," roared the military adventurers who had followed William's banner in hopes of high reward, "he has not honoured as he might those who came to his aid--those who raised him higher than any of his predecessors."

"Yes," cried others; "what has he given to us, the conquerors covered with wounds? Sterile tracts of land, of which he deprives us whenever he sees them improving."

"It is true!" shouted the guests, tumultuously; "the man is odious to all; his death would gladden the hearts of all. Let him die!"

After further vociferation, the two earls, several bishops and abbots, many Normans and Saxons, and the Welsh chieftains, bound themselves by oath to rise against William, and arranged to ask the aid of Sweyn, King of Denmark, to insure the success of their perilous project. Perhaps, with the morning, repentance came, and many rued the words they had spoken and the promises they had made over wine at the festive board. But it was too late to retreat; and the two earls, to lessen the danger of being betrayed, resolved on immediate action. Roger Fitzosborne hastened home to raise his banner at Hereford; and Ralph de Gael prepared to shorten his honeymoon, leave the company of his bride, and raise his banner at Cambridge.

On reaching the province of which he was earl, Roger Fitzosborne lost no time in rallying his friends around him. Not only did he gather the discontented Normans to his standard. The Welsh on the Marches rose at his summons, and, with wild and vague hopes of recovering independence, rushed with enthusiasm to his aid. Having assembled a force which he deemed sufficiently formidable to inspire foes with terror, he commenced his march eastward, with the intention of joining De Gael. But, on reaching the Severn, and attempting to pass that river by the bridge at Worcester, he found, somewhat to his surprise, that preparations had been made to stop his progress.

In fact, the conspirators at Norwich had not very faithfully kept their secret. By some means or other, Lanfranc had become acquainted with the whole project; and when in possession of such intelligence the great archbishop was not the man to sleep at his post. He despatched soldiers from London to throw themselves in Roger's path; and he so far made use of the spiritual artillery at his command as to level a sentence of excommunication against the Norman earl.

Meanwhile, the king's friends were not idle in the west. Walter de Lacy, a Norman baron, and Eghelwig, the Saxon abbot of Evesham, roused the people of the country to take arms against Roger Fitzosborne and his Welshmen; and the people, regarding the Welsh as their natural enemies, obeyed the call of Walter and Eghelwig, and crowded to the royal standard.

At length the royal soldiers and the insurgents met face to face. It was on the banks of the Severn that the hostile armies encountered and fought a sanguinary battle. The Welsh, however, were defeated, and with such slaughter that the river was crimsoned with their blood. Roger Fitzosborne was made prisoner, and with him many adherents were taken with arms in their hands. The chief was kept in secure custody till the Conqueror should decide what was to be his fate. But the inferior captives were summarily disposed of. Some were hung on gibbets, some had their eyes put out, and others underwent such mutilation as to render them incapable of further mischief.

While such disasters attended the adventure of Roger Fitzosborne on the Severn, Ralph de Gael did not yield to the temptation of lingering with his fair bride at Norwich. Leaving that city, the bold Breton encamped in the neighbourhood of Cambridge, and succeeded in alluring a multitude of Saxons to his standard. But Ralph de Gael's part of the enterprise proved little more successful than that of Roger Fitzosborne had been. While the Breton earl was still gathering men to his camp, William de Warren, with Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutance, took the field, and the insurgents found themselves menaced by a force decidedly superior to them in number. Not shrinking, however, from a conflict, they bravely faced the royal force at a place named Fagadon. There a stubborn battle was fought; but Ralph de Gael's men were completely defeated; and the chief escaped from the lost field, while many of his adherents were taken and treated with the utmost cruelty. Indeed, the victors are said to have been so merciless as to cut off the right foot of every captive, no matter what his rank or nation.

In the midst of this operation, Ralph de Gael had the fortune to reach Norwich. He threw himself into the citadel with some vague and desperate notions of defending himself to the last. Seeing, however, the impossibility of holding out, he left the fortress under the charge of his bride, and sailed to Brittany to implore the aid of his friends. The daughter of Fitzosborne made a brave defence, but her resistance proved vain. After a somewhat protracted struggle, the men-at-arms, seeing famine staring them in the face, recognised the necessity of yielding, and agreed, not only to surrender Norwich, but to leave England in case of their lives being spared. Almost every Breton who had come to England with the Conqueror was involved in the ruin of Ralph de Gael, and departed from the English shores. "Glory be to God in the highest!" Lanfranc wrote joyfully to King William, "your kingdom is freed from the filthy Bretons."

On returning to England, William, at Christmas, held a great council of barons, and dealt with the rebel chiefs. Both were condemned to lose their estates. De Gael, being absent, could not, of course, be punished in person; but Fitzosborne, who appeared before the assembly, was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment.

When matters had reached this stage, a son of Sweyn, King of Denmark, unaware of the ruin of those who had craved assistance, approached the eastern coast. But the Danes made no attempt to land. On learning what had happened they turned their helms towards Flanders, and left Fitzosborne to his fate.

But even captivity and chains could not break the strong spirit nor humble the haughty pride of Fitzosborne. Even in his dungeon he found a way of braving and insulting the king whom he had attempted to dethrone. One day, during Easter, the Conqueror, according to a Norman custom, sent him a magnificent suit of precious stuff, as if he had been at liberty. Fitzosborne received the vestments with a smile, examined the coat and mantle of silk, and handled the jacket, trimmed with foreign furs, as if highly pleased. Having done so, however, Roger ordered a fire to be kindled, and committed coat, mantle, and jacket to the flames.

"Thus," said he, "does the son of William Fitzosborne treat the gifts of the bastard to whom his father gave a crown."

"By the splendour of God!" exclaimed the Conqueror, boiling with anger, when informed of this scene, "the man who has thus insulted me shall never leave his prison alive."

XXXVIII.

WALTHEOF, SON OF SIWARD.

Siward the Dane, when he expired at York, exhibiting his martial spirit to the last--clad, at his own request, in all the habiliments of war, with his helmet on his head, his coat of mail on his back, his gilt battle-axe in his hand, and that mystic banner, "The Raven of Earthly Terror," waving over his head--left, by his wife, the daughter of Earl Alred, one son to inherit his renown. The name of the son of Siward was Waltheof, and his career was anticipated with hope by the inhabitants of the provinces which his great father had ruled.

At the time of Siward's death, however, Waltheof was too young to succeed to Northumberland. Indeed, Tostig, as one of the sons of Godwin, immediately grasped at the earldom. Waltheof, however, soon began to figure as Earl of Huntingdon, and gave evidence of inheriting his father's courage and prowess in the conflicts of the Northumbrians with Tostig and Harold Hardrada.

After the battle of Hastings, Waltheof made his submission to the Conqueror. As a consequence, when William visited the Continent, the son of Siward was taken, with Edwin and Morkar, to grace the Conqueror's triumphant return to Rouen. But the sympathies of Waltheof were with the vanquished; and when the spirit of the country rose against the invaders he left London, and hurried northward, to take part in the operations of the Northumbrians. He was still very young; but, like his father, he was remarkable for his tall stature, his physical strength, and his strong arm; and the presence of the son of Siward was hailed with delight by those whom Siward had so often led.

When the Northumbrians, after the tragical death of Robert Comine, and the landing of the Danes, marched from Durham and besieged York, Waltheof performed prodigies of valour. Placing himself in ambuscade at one of the gates, battle-axe in hand, he fell upon some Normans who were attempting to escape, and laid twenty of them dead on the ground. A hundred men, who hoped to save themselves by flight, took refuge in a neighbouring wood; but Waltheof, who pursued them closely, was in no humour to allow them to escape.

"I will save myself further trouble," he said, "by setting the wood on fire."

Putting his threat immediately into execution, Waltheof gave the wood to the flames; and a Danish poet, who was also a warrior, celebrating Waltheof's deeds in verse, compared his valour to that of Odin, and congratulated him on having given the English wolves an ample repast on Norman corses.

When William was interrupted, while hunting in the Forest of Dean, with news of the outbreak beyond the Humber, and swore never again to lay aside his lance till he had slain all the Northumbrians, and marched suddenly with his choice troops to York, Waltheof once more fought like a hero of romance. Planting himself in a breach, through which only a single person could enter at a time, he cleft Norman after Norman with his ponderous battle-axe. His prowess on the occasion moved the admiration of his antagonists; and William was unable to refrain from expressions of surprise.

"By the Divine splendour!" he exclaimed, "I must make a friend of the man who dare do such deeds."

Accordingly a reconciliation was proposed; and a meeting was appointed at the Norman camp on the banks of the Tees. Everything went smoothly. Waltheof, in token of homage, placed his bare hand in that of the Conqueror, and William bestowed the earldoms of Huntingdon and Northampton on the son of Siward.

After this submission Waltheof received Judith, one of the Conqueror's nieces, in marriage, became the father of two children, and, after the deprivation of Cospatrick, had his highest ambition gratified by being installed as Earl of Northumberland. In that capacity the Anglo-Dane lived in the closest friendship with Vaulcher of Lorraine, Bishop of Durham. Sitting with Vaulcher in the synods of his clergy, Waltheof humbly and obediently put in execution the decrees of the bishop for reforming religion within the diocese. Nor did he by such conduct lose the favour of the English. All appeared prosperous; and Waltheof, united to the king's niece, and occupying his father's seat, enjoyed the favour of the Conqueror without having forfeited his popularity with the vanquished, when the conspiracy of Norwich, for which he cannot be considered to have been responsible, involved him in ruin and cost him his life.

On that day, when Norman counts, Saxon thanes, and Welsh chiefs assembled at Norwich to celebrate the marriage of Ralph de Gael with the daughter of William Fitzosborne, conspicuous, by his high head and gigantic stature appeared Waltheof, the Anglo-Dane. It would seem, however, that Waltheof took no part in the abuse lavished upon the uncle of his wife. But when the tumult was at the loudest, one of the Norman earls, rising suddenly, hushed the assembly to silence, and solemnly appealed to Waltheof to take part in the revolt.

"Brave man," said the earl, with that eloquence for which the Normans were so famous, "this is a great moment for your country; this is, for you, the hour of vengeance and fortune. Join us, and we will re-establish the kingdom of England in every respect as it was in the time of King Edward. One of us three shall be king, the other two shall command under him, and all lordships shall be held of us. William is occupied beyond sea; we are satisfied that he will not again cross the Channel. Now, brave warrior, adopt our plan; 'tis the best for thee, for thy family, and for thy crushed and fallen nation."

"It is! it is!" shouted the guests in chorus.

But Waltheof hesitated and remained silent. Warned by former failures, and with the fate of Edwin and Morkar before his mind's eye, he shrunk from embarking in an enterprise which he felt must terminate in disaster. At length he allowed himself so far to be drawn into the league that he promised secrecy.

It would seem, however, that Waltheof did not keep his word. The secret preyed on his mind. Uneasy, restless, and sleepless, he revealed the conspiracy first to his wife, Judith, and then to Archbishop Lanfranc. It is even said that he was persuaded by the primate to repair to Normandy and warn the Conqueror.

At all events, Waltheof did not escape punishment. When, in due time, the fleet invited from Denmark, commanded by the son of King Sweyn, approached the coast, Waltheof was accused of having invited the Danes over, lodged in the Castle of Winchester, and, ere long, brought to trial. He denied the charge. But the evidence given by Judith against her husband, whom she disliked, appeared conclusive, and the court was only divided in opinion as to the punishment to be inflicted.

"He deserves execution as a revolted Englishman," said some.

"No," argued others, "it should be perpetual imprisonment as a revolted officer of the king's."

While Waltheof remained a prisoner in the Castle of Winchester, his fate hung in the balance for nearly a year. But his enemies were eager for his destruction. Judith was eager to be a widow; Ivo Taille-Bois had set his heart on some of Waltheof's land which adjoined his own; and many Normans had a keen eye to the great earldom which had been enjoyed by the son of Siward. William did not resist the pressure, and sentence of death was pronounced.

The 29th of April, 1075, was appointed for the execution of Waltheof. But such was his popularity that the Normans apprehended an insurrection as the consequence of openly beheading him. It was, therefore, determined that the utmost secrecy should be observed. Before daybreak, accordingly, while the citizens of Winchester still slept, Norman officers, appearing in Waltheof's prison, informed him that his hour was come; and Waltheof, rising, arrayed himself in his earl's robes and walked forth to execution. Escorted by soldiers, attended by priests, and followed by some of the poor whose home was the street, the son of Siward directed his steps to a hill outside the city. On reaching this place, where the last scene was to be enacted, he prostrated himself on the ground, and, for a few moments, prayed in a low and earnest tone.

"Rise, that we may fulfil our orders," said the Normans, alarmed at the thought of the news spreading and a rescue being attempted.

"Wait," he replied calmly, "till I have said the Lord's Prayer for myself and for you."

"Yes," said they, consenting.

Waltheof, rising from his prostrate attitude, but remaining on his knees, said, in a loud voice, "Our Father, which art in Heaven." However, when he reached the words "lead us not into temptation," the executioner, growing impatient and uneasy, suddenly drew his large sword, waved it in the air, and with one blow severed the earl's head from his body. Alarmed at the approach of day, the Normans hastily dug a hole between two roads, threw in the body, and covered it with earth.

The possessions of Waltheof, and the earldom of Northampton, devolved upon Judith, his widow; and that lady consoled herself in her bereavement by regaling her imagination with the idea of sharing her wealth and power with a husband of her own choosing. But it soon appeared that in this respect the widow of Waltheof had made a serious miscalculation. William, in fact, without consulting her taste, destined her hand for Simon de Senlis, a French knight of unquestioned courage, but lame and somewhat deformed; and Judith expressed her utter horror of the match.

"What!" she exclaimed, "I marry a man who is lame and ill-shapen? Never!"

"As you will, madam," said the Conqueror, grimly; "but, at all events, Simon de Senlis shall be Earl of Northampton."

Meanwhile, the body of Waltheof was removed from the place where it had been hastily buried to the Abbey of Croyland, and interred in the chapter-house. Judith, disappointed in her hopes of a second husband, and mortified at the spectacle of Simon de Senlis figuring as Earl of Northampton, repaired to Croyland, and, as if to appease the spirit of the man whom she had betrayed, offered a silken cloth at his sepulchre. Left with her two children in poverty and obscurity, the widow of Waltheof passed the remainder of her life mournfully in a remote corner of England.

XXXIX.

WULSTAN, BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

In that memorable day when Edgar Atheling appeared at the Norman camp at Berkhampstead to make his submission to the conqueror of Hastings, one of the Saxon prelates who accompanied the grandson of Edmund Ironside was Wulstan, Bishop of Worcester.

Wulstan had taken part in the election of Edgar Atheling, and probably felt as anxious as any of his neighbours to maintain the national independence. But after having arrived at the conclusion that the game was up, and sworn allegiance to William the Norman, he continued faithful to his oath; and, in doing so, earned the distinction of being described by a modern historian as "a simple, weak-minded man, who, after a momentary impulse of patriotic enthusiasm, became heartily reconciled with the conquerors."

It appears that long after the other prelates of Saxon race were somewhat summarily deposed, Wulstan was, in consequence of his fidelity to William, allowed to remain Bishop of Worcester. In that capacity he rendered to the Norman cause services which only a Saxon churchman could have rendered. When the violence shown towards the Saxon clergy raised so much resentment throughout England that in some provinces no Norman bishop durst show his face, Wulstan made pastoral visitations, calmed the popular excitement, and proclaimed the amnesties of the king; and when Roger Fitzosborne, raising the standard of revolt, marched from Hereford, in hopes of crossing the Severn and joining Ralph de Gael, Wulstan not only rallied the natives of Worcester around the royal standard, but marched in person to oppose the rebel earl's progress.

Wulstan, after these events, doubtless considered his position secure. Indeed, it was quite natural that he should. But he was deficient in that kind of erudition which Lanfranc deemed that a bishop ought to possess--and Lanfranc, being no respecter of persons, reported him as "insufficient for his place for want of learning."

It was the year 1076; and a great council of barons and bishops was held in the church of Westminster, under the auspices of Lanfranc and under the presidency of William. Before that assembly Wulstan was cited; and by the assembly he was unanimously declared incapable of exercising episcopal functions. When this judgment was pronounced, William ordered Wulstan to take off his pontifical robes, and resign his staff and ring, the ensigns of his ecclesiastical dignity. Wulstan, however, was so amazed and indignant, that, instead of obeying quietly, as was anticipated, he rose, turned towards the Conqueror, and exclaimed, with energy--

"A better man than you, O king! bestowed these robes upon me, and to him I will restore them!"

As Wulstan spoke, the Norman barons and bishops stared in mute surprise, and they were astonished when the venerable man, as if under Divine inspiration, walked to the Confessor's tomb.

"Thou, holy Edward," said he, "gavest me this staff, and to thee I return and confide it!"

Suiting the action to the words, Wulstan energetically struck the tombstone with the end of his pastoral staff; and then turning back to the Normans, he said, with calm scorn--

"I received my staff from a better man than any of _you_! I have returned it to him. Take it from him if you can!"

At this distant period it would be impossible adequately to describe the effect produced on the assembled Normans by this scene. Had all the heroes, saints, and martyrs of that great regal House whose throne the son of Arlette so unworthily occupied come out of their graves, and walked in procession before the council, the bishops and barons could not have been more astonished. The air of Wulstan, his unexpected energy, and the circumstances under which it was displayed, produced a feeling of wonder mingled with superstitious awe. The king did not repeat his demand; but Lanfranc mustered voice to entreat Wulstan to put on his robes and remain in his bishopric.

But the effect produced on the bishops and barons within the church of Westminster was trifling compared with the impression produced throughout the country. According to popular report, something resembling a miracle had been wrought. It must be confessed, indeed, that the story lost nothing in the telling. The rumour ran, that when Wulstan struck the tomb his staff penetrated into the stone as into soft earth, and that no one was able to draw it but the bishop himself. The story spread far and wide, and was told by many an oppressed peasant at the cottage hearth, by many a bold outlaw under the greenwood tree, and by many a sad-hearted Saxon, driven from his country, dressed as a Varing, and guarding the palace of the Emperor of Constantinople.

XL.

ROBERT CURTHOSE.

The conquest of England having been accomplished, and the Saxons completely reduced to submission, the Conqueror, instead of enjoying his triumph, became sad and uneasy. Doubts as to the fidelity of his barons, and dismal forebodings as to the fate of his sons, haunted him day and night; and he even went so far, in his intense anxiety, as to consult some "wise men," who were supposed to have the gift of divination, as to the future of his line. Had any magician really had the power of revealing to him the fortune of his descendants in an enchanted mirror, as conjurers in another age revealed to Catherine de Medici the fortunes of her posterity, his worst apprehensions would have been confirmed. As it was, the conduct of his son Robert filled his heart with sadness and his mind with gloom.

Robert was the eldest son of William and Matilda. He drew his first breath about the year 1053; and his appearance was hailed with delight by his parents. Both William and Matilda appear to have indulged young Robert in such a way as utterly to spoil him; and when he passed from childhood to boyhood he acquired most dangerous notions of his importance.

When William sailed to conquer England, Robert had reached his thirteenth year. Ere that period he had been formally recognised by the Norman barons as heir of the duchy, and affianced to the heiress of the Counts of Maine; and when William sailed in the _Moira_, Robert was associated with Matilda in the administration of affairs. Flattered, complimented, and allowed to exercise enormous influence in Normandy during the absence of his sire, Robert early assumed the airs of an independent sovereign, and began to treat the parental authority with undisguised contempt.

Notwithstanding the influence which unfortunate training produced on the heir-apparent of Normandy, Robert, as he grew up to manhood, displayed qualities which recommended him to the hearts of the Norman chivalry. Brave and eloquent, intrepid and generous, he was just the person to secure the affection of a martial and high-spirited race of nobles. In war his prowess reminded men of the heroes of romance. But his appearance was in no respect heroic. He was under the ordinary height, fat to excess, and large in the bones. Rollo would have been astonished at the aspect of his heir; and William was so impressed with the shortness of Robert's legs, that the father, in ridicule, called the son "Curthose."

While Curthose was emerging from his teens, the death of the heiress of Maine and the annexation of that province to Normandy resulted in a quarrel between William and his heir. Eager to have a dominion of his own, Curthose claimed Maine as husband of the heiress; and the inhabitants, eager to have a lord of their own, supported Curthose's claim heart and soul. William, however, treated the idea with cold contempt; and while Curthose was brooding over this as a serious injury, circumstances occurred to fire his indignation.

It was the year 1077, and the Conqueror, Queen Matilda, and their sons happened to be on a visit to Laigle. One day, about noon, Curthose, with his friends around him, was standing in the courtyard of the house in which he lodged, expatiating with his wonted eloquence on his wrongs, and his brothers, William Rufus and Henry Beauclerc, who had been in the habit of taking part against Curthose in the domestic feud, coming thither, ascended to the upper rooms, where, making a great noise, they began to play at dice, after the manner of the soldiers of that age. Suddenly Rufus and Beauclerc conceived the idea of varying their amusement, and, without calculating the consequences, they threw a quantity of water on Curthose and those with whom he was in earnest and animated conversation.

This insult stung Curthose to the quick. Giving way to irritation, he swore that no man on earth should so treat him with impunity; and, drawing his sword, with a gesture of menace he sprang to the doorway, and rushed upstairs to inflict chastisement. Fortunately, his friends interfered in time to prevent bloodshed. But high words passed, defiances were exchanged, and the scene was so tumultuous that the Conqueror's presence became necessary to prevent the disputants from coming to blows.

At length order was restored. It was even supposed that the quarrel was at an end. But, all the time, the blood of Curthose was boiling in his veins, and his high spirit was swelling with anger and grief. Next night he left Laigle with a choice band of friends, and proceeded to Rouen. With some vague notion, he attempted to surprise the citadel. The enterprise, however, failed, and many of his adherents were arrested. Curthose, however, escaped, passed the frontier of Normandy, took refuge in La Perche, and found shelter in the castle of Sorel.

The conduct of his heir naturally excited the Conqueror's wrath. Curthose, however, had a powerful advocate in his mother, Matilda, and a reconciliation took place. But this domestic peace was not of long duration. The adherents of Curthose, generally gay and thoughtless young men, exercised all their art to stimulate his ambition; and he yielded somewhat too readily to their suggestions.

"Noble son of a king," said they, "thy father's people must take good care of his treasure, since thou hast not a penny to bestow on thy followers. Why endurest thou to remain so poor when thy father is so rich?"

"But what can I do?" asked Curthose.

"Ask him for a portion of his England," they answered; "or, at least, for the duchy of Normandy, which he promised thee before all his barons."

Curthose did as he was advised. Excited and discontented, he went to William, and demanded to be put in possession of either part of the kingdom of England or the duchy of Normandy. William, instead of complying, exhorted Curthose, in a paternal tone, to amend his life, and to behave in a manner more worthy of the position he was destined to occupy.

"Return to your duty as a son," said the Conqueror, "and then make choice of better counsellors than you now have. Make choice of wise and grave persons of mature age to guide you--such a man, for instance, as Archbishop Lanfranc."

"Sir King!" replied Curthose, so sharply that William started, "I came here to claim my right, and not to listen to sermons. I heard enough of them, and wearisome enough they were, when I was at my grammar. Answer me, therefore, distinctly, so that I may know what I have to do; for I am firmly resolved not to live on the bread of others, and not to receive the wages of any man."

"Know, then," exclaimed William, angrily, "that I will not divest myself of Normandy, to which I was born, nor share England, which I have acquired with so much labour."

"Well," said Curthose, "I will go and serve strangers, and perhaps obtain from them what is refused me in my own country."

Without further ceremony, Curthose summoned his adherents, mounted his horse, and, with a soul glowing with pride and a spirit swelling with indignation, rode out from Rouen and away towards Flanders. Passing from country to country, from castle to castle, and from court to court, Curthose travelled over Europe, publishing his grievances and demanding aid. Nor was his story, told in eloquent language, without influence on the magnates whom he visited. Counts, dukes, and princes testified their sympathy, and drew their purses. Their liberality, however, had no beneficial influence on the wanderer's circumstances. In fact, Curthose was one of those men who can give the most sapient advice as to the affairs of their friends, while their own affairs are going to ruin as rapidly as their enemies could wish. All that he received to support his cause slipped through his fingers. Mountebanks, parasites, and women of equivocal reputation perpetually preyed upon him. All that Curthose obtained from barons and princes to buy arms and equip men passed into the hands of those who ministered to his amusement or contributed to his pleasure. Hard pressed for money, inconvenienced by poverty and all its concomitant evils, compelled to beg afresh, but, probably, with less success than on the first occasion, he found himself under the necessity of going to the usurers, and borrowing gold at exorbitant interest. Such were the steps by which Curthose entered upon that fatal path which finally, notwithstanding his great fame as a prince and soldier, and as a champion of the Cross, conducted him to disaster and defeat, and to a long and dismal captivity in the dungeons of Cardiff.

XLI.

THE CONQUEROR AND HIS HEIR.

While Robert Curthose was journeying from castle to castle and from court to court, Philip, King of France, now in his twenty-seventh year, and William the Conqueror's sworn foe, was offering bribes and protection to all the discontented Normans. After wandering about Flanders, Lorraine, and Aquitaine, Curthose at length turned his horse's head towards France, made for St. Germain, and craved sympathy and support from the great grandson of Hugh Capet.

Never did monarch listen to exiled prince with more eagerness than Philip of France listened to the heir of Normandy. Fearing and hating William as he did, Philip smiled with delight at the idea of setting the son to pull down the father, and readily promised his utmost aid. After much conversation on the subject, Curthose formed his plan of action, and, under the auspices of the French king, repaired to Gerberoy, a castle on the frontiers of Normandy.

At that period it was the custom that the castle of Gerberoy should be occupied by two viscounts, equal in authority, and that fugitives from all nations should find protection within its walls. The reception of Curthose at this stronghold was all that he could have wished. He was courteously received at the gate by Elie, one of the viscounts, and afterwards cordially welcomed by Elie's colleague.

Ere this, Matilda of Flanders became aware of the pecuniary embarrassments of her son, and, eager to administer relief without informing William, she contrived, by means of a Breton named Samson, to send Curthose sums of money. Hearing of this, the Conqueror forbade her to hold any communication with a son who had forfeited all title to consideration. Matilda, however, had a will of her own. Her maternal anxiety proving, in this case, infinitely stronger than respect for her husband's mandate, she continued secretly to assist Curthose in the midst of his multitudinous difficulties. William, learning that he had been disobeyed, was highly indignant, and addressed his spouse in language somewhat reproachful.

"Behold my wife," said the Conqueror; "she whom I have loved as mine own soul--to whom I have confided the government of my realms, my treasures, and all that in this world I possess of power and greatness--she hath supported mine adversary against me; she hath strengthened and enriched him with the wealth I confided to her keeping; she hath secretly employed her zeal and subtlety in his cause, and done everything she could to encourage him against me."

"My lord," answered Matilda, "be not surprised if I feel a mother's tenderness for my first-born son. By the virtue of the Most High! I protest that if my son Robert were dead, and hidden far from the sight of the living, seven feet deep in the earth, and that the price of my blood would restore him to life, I would cheerfully bid it flow."

"But," said William, "you support my enemy with the very money I have committed to your keeping."

"And how," asked Matilda, "can you suppose that I could enjoy the pomps and luxuries with which I was surrounded when I knew that he was pining in want and misery? Far from my heart be such hardness!"

On hearing this, William grew pale with vexation. In his rage he bethought him of Matilda's messenger, and gave peremptory orders that Samson should be arrested and deprived of his sight. But the Breton, hearing that his eyes were to be put out, made his escape, and sought safety in the cloister. The old chronicler deemed the circumstance one in regard to which he had a right to be jocular, and remarked that Samson turned monk to save at once his body and soul.

Meanwhile, Curthose hoisted his flag and invited mercenaries to repair, without delay, to the castle of Gerberoy. Thither they flocked as eagles to the carnage. From France, from Flanders, and from Normandy they hastened, on foot and on horseback, with sword and with spear. Even men-at-arms who had served in William's court, who had lived under his protection, and who had partaken of the fruits of his successes, willing to worship the rising sun, left Rouen and galloped to Gerberoy. Curthose ere long found himself at the head of a formidable force, and Philip of France rejoiced in the triumph which he anticipated from having set the son against the father.

William was startled at the menacing attitude which Curthose had assumed, but he acted with all the energy of his earlier days. Landing in Normandy, the Conqueror prepared to encounter his refractory heir as he had encountered other foes, and, attended by his son, William Rufus, appeared in hostile array, and at the head of a numerous army, before Archembrage, where Curthose then was.

It was now Curthose's turn to feel some degree of anxiety. Inclosed within the walls of Archembrage, he saw himself hemmed in by a force with which his own was too weak to cope. But the chivalrous spirit of the heir of Normandy was not to be daunted by the odds arrayed against him; and making a sally, with his lance in rest, and his best warriors at his back, he bore down opposition and carried confusion into the enemy's camp.