CHAPTER XII.
Young Olave, the son of Hardrada, had happily escaped the slaughter.
A strong detachment of the Norwegians had still remained with the
vessels, and amongst them some prudent old chiefs, who foreseeing the
probable results of the day, and knowing that Hardrada would never
quit, save as a conqueror or a corpse, the field on which he had
planted the Ravager of the World, had detained the prince almost by
force from sharing the fate of his father. But ere those vessels
could put out to sea, the vigorous measures of the Saxon King had
already intercepted the retreat of the vessels. And then, ranging
their shields as a wall round their masts, the bold vikings at least
determined to die as men. But with the morning came King Harold
himself to the banks of the river, and behind him, with trailed
lances, a solemn procession that bore the body of the Scald King.
They halted on the margin, and a boat was launched towards the
Norwegian fleet, bearing a monk, who demanded the chief, to send a
deputation, headed by the young Prince himself, to receive the corpse
of their King, and hear the proposals of the Saxon.
The vikings, who had anticipated no preliminaries to the massacre they
awaited, did not hesitate to accept these overtures. Twelve of the
most famous chiefs still surviving, and Olave himself, entered the
boat; and, standing between his brothers, Leofwine and Gurth, Harold
thus accosted them:
"Your King invaded a people that had given him no offence; he has paid
the forfeit--we war not with the dead! Give to his remains the
honours due to the brave. Without ransom or condition, we yield to
you what can no longer harm us. And for thee, young Prince,"
continued the King, with a tone of pity in his voice, as he
contemplated the stately boyhood, and proud, but deep grief in the
face of Olave; "for thee, wilt thou not live to learn that the wars of
Odin are treason to the Faith of the Cross? We have conquered--we
dare not butcher. Take such ships as ye need for those that survive.
Three-and-twenty I offer for your transport. Return to your native
shores, and guard them as we have guarded ours. Are ye contented?"
Amongst those chiefs was a stern priest--the Bishop of the Orcades--he
advanced and bent his knee to the King.
"O Lord of England," said he, "yesterday thou didst conquer the form--
to-day, the soul. And never more may generous Norsemen invade the
coast of him who honours the dead and spares the living."
"Amen!" cried the chiefs, and they all knelt to Harold. The young
Prince stood a moment irresolute, for his dead father was on the bier
before him, and revenge was yet a virtue in the heart of a sea-king.
But lifting his eyes to Harold's, the mild and gentle majesty of the
Saxon's brow was irresistible in its benign command; and stretching
his right hand to the King, he raised on high the other, and said
aloud, "Faith and friendship with thee and England evermore."
Then all the chiefs rising, they gathered round the bier, but no hand,
in the sight of the conquering foe, lifted the cloth of gold that
covered the corpse of the famous King. The bearers of the bier moved
on slowly towards the boat; the Norwegians followed with measured
funereal steps. And not till the bier was placed on board the royal
galley was there heard the wail of woe; but then it came, loud, and
deep, and dismal, and was followed by a burst of wild song from a
surviving Scald.
The Norwegian preparations for departure were soon made, and the ships
vouchsafed to their convoy raised anchor, and sailed down the stream.
Harold's eye watched the ships from the river banks.
"And there," said he, at last, "there glide the last sails that shall
ever bear the devastating raven to the shores of England."
Truly, in that field had been the most signal defeat those warriors,
hitherto almost invincible, had known. On that bier lay the last son
of Berserker and sea-king: and be it, O Harold, remembered in thine
honour, that not by the Norman, but by thee, true-hearted Saxon, was
trampled on the English soil the Ravager of the World! [251]
"So be it," said Haco, "and so, methinks, will it be. But forget not
the descendant of the Norsemen, the Count of Rouen!"
Harold started, and turned to his chiefs. "Sound trumpet, and fall
in. To York we march. There re-settle the earldom, collect the
spoil, and then back, my men, to the southern shores. Yet first kneel
thou, Haco, son of my brother Sweyn: thy deeds were done in the light
of Heaven, in the sight of warriors in the open field; so should thine
honours find thee! Not with the vain fripperies of Norman knighthood
do I deck thee, but make thee one of the elder brotherhood of Minister
and Miles. I gird round thy loins mine own baldric of pure silver; I
place in thy hand mine own sword of plain steel; and bid thee rise to
take place in council and camps amongst the Proceres of England,--Earl
of Hertford and Essex. Boy," whispered the King, as he bent over the
pale cheek of his nephew, "thank not me. From me the thanks should
come. On the day that saw Tostig's crime and his death, thou didst
purify the name of my brother Sweyn! On to our city of York!"
High banquet was held in York; and, according to the customs of the
Saxon monarchs, the King could not absent himself from the Victory
Feast of his thegns. He sate at the head of the board, between his
brothers. Morcar, whose departure from the city had deprived him of a
share in the battle, had arrived that day with his brother Edwin, whom
he had gone to summon to his aid. And though the young Earls envied
the fame they had not shared, the envy was noble.
Gay and boisterous was the wassail; and lively song, long neglected in
England, woke, as it wakes ever, at the breath of Joy and Fame. As if
in the days of Alfred, the harp passed from hand to hand; martial and
rough the strain beneath the touch of the Anglo-Dane, more refined and
thoughtful the lay when it chimed to the voice of the Anglo-Saxon.
But the memory of Tostig--all guilty though he was--a brother slain in
war with a brother, lay heavy on Harold's soul. Still, so had he
schooled and trained himself to live but for England--know no joy and
no woe not hers--that by degrees and strong efforts he shook off his
gloom. And music, and song, and wine, and blazing lights, and the
proud sight of those long lines of valiant men, whose hearts had beat
and whose hands had triumphed in the same cause, all aided to link his
senses with the gladness of the hour.
And now, as night advanced, Leofwine, who was ever a favourite in the
banquet, as Gurth in the council, rose to propose the drink-hael,
which carries the most characteristic of our modern social customs to
an antiquity so remote, and the roar was hushed at the sight of the
young Earl's winsome face. With due decorum, he uncovered his head
[252], composed his countenance, and began:
"Craving forgiveness of my lord the King, and this noble assembly,"
said Leofwine, "in which are so many from whom what I intend to
propose would come with better grace, I would remind you that William,
Count of the Normans, meditates a pleasure excursion, of the same
nature as our late visitor, Harold Hardrada's."
A scornful laugh ran through the hall.
"And as we English are hospitable folk, and give any man, who asks,
meat and board for one night, so one day's welcome, methinks, will be
all that the Count of the Normans will need at our English hands."
Flushed with the joyous insolence of wine, the wassailers roared
applause.
"Wherefore, this drink-hael to William of Rouen! And, to borrow a
saying now in every man's lips, and which, I think, our good scops
will take care that our children's children shall learn by heart,--
since he covets our Saxon soil, 'seven feet of land' in frank pledge
to him for ever!"
"Drink-hael to William the Norman!" shouted the revellers; and each
man, with mocking formality, took off his cap, kissed his hand, and
bowed [253]. "Drink-hael to William the Norman!" and the shout rolled
from floor to roof--when, in the midst of the uproar, a man all
bedabbled with dust and mire, rushed into the hall, rushed through the
rows of the banqueters, rushed to the throne-chair of Harold, and
cried aloud, "William the Norman is encamped on the shores of Sussex;
and with the mightiest armament ever yet seen in England, is ravaging
the land far and near!"
