by A. D. Crake
CHAPTER II. THE BLACK AND DARK NIGHT.
It was the evening of Saturday, the 14th of October, in the year ofgrace 1066.
All was over; the standard--the royal standard of Harold--had gonedown in blood, and England's sun had set for generations on thefatal field of Senlac or Hastings.
The orb of day had gone down gloomily; had it but gone down onehour earlier, all might yet have been well; it but lingered tobehold the foe in possession of the hill where the last gallantEnglishmen died with Harold, not one who fought around the standardsurviving their king.
The wind had arisen, and was howling in fitful gusts across theensanguined plain of the dead; dark night gathered over the gloomyslopes, conquered at such lavish waste of human life--dark, but notsilent; for in every direction arose the moans of the wounded anddying.
On the fatal hill, where the harvest of death had been thickest,the Conqueror had caused his ducal pavilion to be reared, justwhere Harold's standard had stood, and where the ruined altar ofBattle Abbey stands now. They had cleared away the bodies to makeroom for the tent, but the ground was sodden with the blood of bothEnglishman and Norman.
The sounds of revelry issued from beneath those gorgeous hangings,and mocked the plaintive cries of the sufferers around.
"O Earth, Earth, such are thy rulers!" exclaimed a solemn voice."To gratify one man's ambition, this scene disfigures thy surface,and mocks the image of God in man."
So spake a good monk, Norman although he was, who had followedGeoffrey, Bishop of Coutances, into England as his chaplain,selected because he could speak the English tongue--that warriorprelate, who in conjunction with Odo of Bayeux blessed theConqueror's banners, and ministered in things sacred to the "pious"invaders.
He wandered, this good brother, from one dying sinner to another,absolving the penitent, and ministering to the parched lips of manya sufferer. His own long brown garment was stiff at the extremitieswith gore, but he heeded it not.
And at last, when he came to a heap of slain just where the Normanshad first hewn their way through the English entrenchments, afterthe sham retreat had drawn away so many of their defenders, he wasattracted by the sound of convulsive weeping.
There, kneeling beside the body of an English warrior, he saw a boyof some fourteen years, sobbing as if his young heart would break,while he addressed the slain one with many a plaintive cry.
"Father, wake; speak but once more to me; thou canst not be dead.Oh my father, only once more speak to thy son."
"Alas! my poor boy, he will speak no more until the earth gives upher dead, and refuses to cover her slain; but we will comfort hissoul with masses and prayers. How didst thou come hither, my poorchild?"
"I followed him to the battle, and he bade me tarry by the stuff;but when all was lost Guthlac ran away, and I came hither to diewith him if need should be. Oh my father, would God I had died forthee."
"Father, good father, what clamour is this?" said a deep voice,"some English lad mourning a sire?"
"Even so, my Lord of Blois. The poor child mourns his father."
"There be many mourners now. William Malet, with a lady whom Haroldloved, and two good monks of Waltham, have just found the body ofthe perjured usurper. The face was so mangled, that no man mightknow him, but she recognised him by a mark on his body. So theyhave carried it away by the duke's command to bury it by the shorewhich he strove so vainly to guard."
"Oh may I but bear his body home to my poor mother," moaned thelad.
"We will ask the Conqueror to grant thy petition, poor mourner,"said the sympathising monk.
"William will not refuse his prayer, father, if thy superior, theBishop of Coutances, urges it; he is all-powerful just now," saidEustace of Blois. "The poor boy shall plead himself. Come, my lad,to the pavilion; there shalt thou ask for and obtain the poor boonthou cravest."
The unhappy Wilfred--for our readers have of course recognised theyoung heir of Aescendune--repressed his sobs, strove to wipe awayhis tears, as if he felt them unmanly, and followed his conductors,the knight and the monk, towards the ducal tent.
There William, attended by all his chief officers--by Odo of Bayeuxand Geoffrey of Coutances, by Hugh de Bigod and Robert de Mortain,and some few others of his mightiest nobles, was taking the eveningmeal, served by a few young pages, themselves the sons of nobles orknights, who learnt the duties of chivalry by beginning at thelowest grade, if to wait on the Conqueror could be so considered.
Speaking to the sentinel, the good chaplain was allowed to enter,and whisper low in the ear of the bishop.
"I can refuse thee nought after thy good service," said the courtlyprelate. "Thou say'st the poor boy has a boon to crave--the body ofhis sire, and begs through me--I will out, and speak to him."
"Thy name, my son?" said Geoffrey to Wilfred.
"Wilfred, son of the Thane of Aescendune, in Mercia."
"Hast thou been in the battle?"
"Only since all was over, or I had died by his side."
"The saints have preserved thee for better things than to die in acause accursed by the Church. Nay, my son, I blame thee not, thouart too young to know better."
And truly the boy's face and manner, winning though suffused withtears, might have softened a harder heart than beat beneath therochet of the Bishop of Coutances, warrior prelate though he was.
So, without any further delay, he led the boy into the presence ofthe mighty Conqueror.
"Who is this stripling? an English lad, my lord of Coutances?"
"He has come to beg permission to carry away the body of his sire.Bend thy knee, my lad, and salute thy future king."
"Nay, thy present one; coronation will but put the seal onaccomplished facts," said Eustace.
But young though Wilfred was, he had his father's spirit in him,and spoke in broken sentences.
"My lord," he said, "I cannot own thee as my king. My father wouldnot have me abjure all he taught me before his body is yet cold. Ibut ask thee as a kind enemy, who wars not with the dead, to giveme leave to remove him from this fatal spot--to take him home. Thouwilt not deny an English lad this poor boon, mighty duke as thouart."
William understood English well, and was touched by the boyishspirit of the address, by the absence of fear.
"Thou dost not fear me then?" he said.
"He who lies dead on yon field for his country's sake taught me todespise fear."
"Thou art verily a bold youth, and were there many like thee,England might yet be hard to win. A noble father must have begottenso brave a son."
Then turning to his guests:
"But I hope yet," he added, "to win the hearts of such as he. Theyloved Canute, although he conquered them. Am I less a foreignerthan he? and may not I win their love as he did?"
"Begin then thy reign with an act of clemency, my royal son," saidthe bishop.
"I do; the lad shall have the protection he needs, and theassistance of our people, so far as our power yet extends."
The tears started once more into Wilfred's eyes.
"I thank thee, my Lord Duke, for my dead father's sake, and for myliving mother, and will pray the saints to forgive thee thebloodshed of this day."
It was a curious ending to his speech, especially as the bloodshedwas supposed to be on account of the saints, over whose bones theill-fated Harold had taken his famous oath; but William had respectfor courage and outspoken truthfulness, and more than once promotedmen to high office in Church or State, who had withstood him in theface.
He only added, "When we meet again, my son, thou mayst judge thyking differently."
Wilfred left the ducal tent; the authority of Count Eustacespeedily procured the assistance of some Norman camp followers, andthe body was reverently removed from the heap of slain, and placedupon a litter. Wilfred slept in the tent of Eustace, and in themorning commenced his homeward journey, with the funeral cortege.
It is unnecessary to enter further into the details of that mostsad journey. Suffice it to say that he was
able to transfer theprecious burden from Norman to English hands, and that he arrivedhome in safety, whither Guthlac had preceded him, with the tidingsthat all save himself had perished alike.
Therefore the return of Wilfred was like that of one dead and aliveagain, lost and found; and the poor widow felt she had yetsomething besides her daughter Edith to live for.
The immediate effects of the conquest were not felt for some fewweeks in the central parts of Mercia, and nought interfered withthe solemn function customary at funerals in those ages.
The second morning after the return of Wilfred was fixed for theburial of the deceased thane, in the priory church which his fatherhad built in the place of an earlier structure burnt by the Danesin 1006.
It was a noble pile for those early days, built chiefly of stone,which was fast superseding wood as a material for churches,dedicated to St. Wilfred. The lofty roof, the long choir beyond thetransept, gave magnificence to the fabric, which was surroundedwithout by the cloisters of the priory, of which it was the centralfeature.
In the south transept--for it was a cruciform church--was a chapeldedicated especially to St. Cuthbert, where the ashes of thedeceased thane's forefathers reposed in peace beneath the pavement.There lay Ella of Aescendune, murdered by a Dane named Ragnar; histwo sons, Elfric, who died young, and Alfred, who succeeded to theinheritance. There, as in a shrine, the martyr Bertric reposed,who, like St. Edmund, had died by the arrows of the heathen Danes,there the once warlike Alfgar, the father of our thane, rested inpeace, his lady Ethelgiva by his side {vi}.
The body lay in the great hall, where he had so recently feastedhis retainers after the return from Stamford Bridge. Six largetapers burned around it, and watchers were there both by day andnight.
There his people crowded to gaze upon the sternly composed featuresfor the last time; there knelt in prayer his disconsolate widow,her son and daughter: they scarcely ever left the hallowed remainsuntil the hour came when, amidst the lamentations of the wholepopulation, the body of the gallant Edmund was borne to the tomb inthat chapel of St. Cuthbert, where those gallant ancestors whosestory we have told in former chronicles awaited him--"earth toearth, and dust to dust."
It was a touching procession. The body was borne by the chieftenants yet living, and surrounded by chanting monks, whose solemn"Domine refugium nostrum" fell with awful yet consoling effect uponthe ears of the multitude. The churls and thralls, sadly thinned bythe sword, followed behind their lady and her two children, Wilfredand Edith.
They placed the bier before the high altar while the requiem masswas sung, six monks kneeling beside it, three on each side, withlighted tapers. Then the coffin was sprinkled with hallowed water,perfumed with sweet incense, and borne to its last resting place inthe chapel of St. Cuthbert, where they laid him by the side of hisfather, Alfgar the Dane.
"Ego sum resurrectio et vita, dixit Dominus--I am the Resurrectionand the Life, saith the Lord."