to and lived on good terms with the family of the Godwins.  Their father
was dead, and the eldest son, Harold, asked the king's permission to go
to Normandy and claim the release of his brother and nephew, who had been
left as hostages in the keeping of Duke William.  The king did not
approve of the project.  "I have no wish to constrain thee," said he to
Harold: "but if thou go, it will be without my consent: and, assuredly,
thy trip will bring some misfortune upon thee and our country.  I know
Duke William and his crafty spirit; he hates thee, and will grant thee
nought unless he see his advantage therefrom.  The only way to make him
give up the hostages will be to send some other than thyself."  Harold,
however, persisted and went.  William received him with apparent
cordiality, promised him the release of the two hostages, escorted him
and his comrades from castle to castle, and from entertainment to
entertainment, made them knights of the grand Norman order, and even
invited them, "by way of trying their new spurs," to accompany him on a
little warlike expedition he was about to undertake in Brittany.  Harold
and his comrades behaved gallantly: and he and William shared the same
tent and the same table.  On returning, as they trotted side by side,
William turned the conversation upon his youthful connection with the
king of England.  "When Edward and I," said he to the Saxon, "were living
like brothers under the same roof, he promised, if ever he became king of
England, to make me heir to his kingdom; I should very much like thee,
Harold, to help me to realize this promise; and be assured that, if by
thy aid I obtain the kingdom, whatsoever thou askest of me, I will grant
it forthwith."  Harold, in surprise and confusion, answered by an assent
which he tried to make as vague as possible.  William took it as
positive.  "Since thou dost consent to serve me," said he, "thou must
engage to fortify the castle of Dover, dig a well of fresh water there,
and put it into the hands of my men-at-arms; thou must also give me thy
sister to be married to one of my barons, and thou must thyself espouse
my daughter Adele."  Harold, "not witting," says the chronicler, "how to
escape from this pressing danger," promised all the duke asked of him,
reckoning, doubt-less, on disregarding his engagement; and for the moment
William asked him nothing more.

But a few days afterwards he summoned, at Avranches according to some,
and at Bayeux according to others, and, more probably still, at
Bonneville-sur-Touques, his Norman barons; and, in the midst of this
assembly, at which Harold was present, William, seated with his naked
sword in his hand, caused to be brought and placed upon a table covered
with cloth of gold two reliquaries.  "Harold," said he, "I call upon
thee, in presence of this noble assemblage, to confirm by oath the
promises thou didst make me, to wit, to aid me to obtain the kingdom of
England after the death of King Edward, to espouse my daughter Adele, and
to send me thy sister to be married to one of my people."  Harold, who
had not expected this public summons, nevertheless did not hesitate any
more than he had hesitated in his private conversation with William; he
drew near, laid his hand on the two reliquaries, and swore to observe, to
the best of his power, his agreement with the duke, should he live and
God help.  "God help!" repeated those who were present.  William made a
sign; the cloth of gold was removed, and there was discovered a tub
filled to the edge with bones and relies of all the saints that could be
got together.  The chronicler-poet, Robert Wace, who, alone and long
afterwards, recounts this last particular, adds that Harold was visibly
troubled at sight of this saintly heap; but he had sworn.  It is
honorable to human nature not to be indifferent to oaths even when those
who exact them have but small reliance upon them, and when he who takes
them has but small intention of keeping them.  And so Harold departed
laden with presents, leaving William satisfied, but not over-confident.

When, on returning to England, Harold told King Edward what had passed
between William and himself, "Did I not warn thee," said the king, "that
I knew William, and that thy journey would bring great misfortunes upon
thyself and upon our nation?  Grant Heaven that those misfortunes come
not during my life!"  The king's wish was not granted.  He fell ill; and
on the 5th of January, 1066, he lay on his couch almost at the point of
death.  Harold and his kindred entered the chamber, and prayed the king
to name a successor by whom the kingdom might be governed securely.  "Ye
know," said Edward, "that I have left my kingdom to the Duke of Normandy;
and are there not here, among ye, those who have sworn to assure his
succession?"  Harold advanced, and once more asked the king on whom the
crown should devolve.  "Take it, if it is thy wish, Harold," said Edward;
"but the gift will be thy ruin; against the duke and his barons thy power
will not suffice."--Harold declared that he feared neither the Norman nor
any other foe.  The king, vexed at this importunity, turned round in his
bed, saying, "Let the English make king of whom they will, Harold or
another; I consent;" and shortly after expired.  The very day after the
celebration of his obsequies, Harold was proclaimed king by his
partisans, amidst no small public disquietude, and Aldred, archbishop
of York, lost no time in anointing him.

William was in his park of Rouvray, near Rouen, trying a bow and arrows
for the chase, when a faithful servant arrived from England, to tell him
that Edward was dead and Harold proclaimed king.  William gave his bow to
one of his people, and went back to his palace at Rouen, where he paced
about in silence, sitting down, rising up, leaning upon a bench, without
opening his lips and without any one of his people's daring to address a
word to him.  There entered his seneschal William de Bretenil, of whom
"What ails the duke?" asked they who were present.  "Ye will soon know,"
answered he.  Then going up to the duke, he said, "Wherefore conceal your
tidings, my lord?  All the city knows that King Edward is dead; and that
Harold has broken his oath to you, and had himself crowned king."  "Ay,"
said William, "it is that which doth weigh me down."  "My lord," said
William Fitz-Osbern, a gallant knight and confidential friend of the
duke, "none should be wroth over what can be mended: it depends but on
you to stop the mischief Harold is doing you; you shall destroy him, if
it please you.  You have right; you have good men and true to serve you;
you need but have courage: set on boldly."  William gathered together his
most important and most trusted counsellors; and they were unanimous in
urging him to resent the perjury and injury.  He sent to Harold a
messenger charged to say, "William, duke of the Normans, doth recall to
thee the oath thou swarest to him with thy mouth and with thy hand, on
real and saintly relics."  "It is true," answered Harold, "that I swore,
but on compulsion; I promised what did not belong to me; my kingship is
not mine own; I cannot put it off from me without the consent of the
country.  I cannot any the more, without the consent of the country,
espouse a foreigner.  As for my sister, whom the duke claims for one of
his chieftains, she died within the year; if he will, I will send him the
corpse."  William replied without any violence, claiming the conditions
sworn, and especially Harold's marriage with his daughter Adele.  For all
answer to this summons Harold married a Saxon, sister of two powerful
Saxon chieftains; Edwin and Morkar.  There was an open rupture; and
William swore that "within the year he would go and claim, at the sword's
point, payment of what was due to him, on the very spot where Harold
thought himself to be most firm on his feet."

And he set himself to the work.  But, being as far-sighted as he was
ambitious, he resolved to secure for his enterprise the sanction of
religious authority and the formal assent of the Estates of Normandy.
Not that he had any inclination to subordinate his power to that of the
Pope.  Five years previously, Robert de Grandmesnil, abbot of St. Evroul,
with whom William had got embroiled, had claimed to re-enter his
monastery as master by virtue solely of an order from Pope Nicholas II.
"I will listen to the legates of the Pope, the common father of the
faithful," said William, "if they come to me to speak of the Christian
faith and religion; but if a monk of my Estates permit himself a single
word beyond his place, I will have him hanged by his cowl from the
highest oak of the nearest forest."  When, in 1000, he denounced to Pope
Alexander II. the perjury of Harold, asking him at the same time to do
him justice, he made no scruple about promising that, if the Pope
authorized him to right himself by war, he would bring back the kingdom
of England to obedience to the Holy See.  He had Lanfranc for his
negotiator with the court of Rome, and Pope Alexander II. had for chief
counsellor the celebrated monk Hildebrand, who was destined to succeed
him under the name of Gregory VII.  The opportunity of extending the
empire of the Church was too tempting to be spurned, and her future head
too bold not to seize it whatever might be the uncertainty and danger of
the issue; and in spite of hesitation on the part of some of the Pope's
advisers, the question was promptly decided in accordance with William's
demand.  Harold and his adherents were excommunicated, and, on committing
his bull to the hands of William's messenger, the Pope added a banner of
the Roman Church and a ring containing, it is said, a hair of St. Peter
set in a diamond.

The Estates of Normandy were less easy to manage.  William called them
together at Lillebonne; and several of his vassals showed a zealous
readiness to furnish him with vessels and victual and to follow him
beyond the sea, but others declared that they were not bound to any such
service, and that they would not lend themselves to it; they had calls
enough already, and had nothing more to spare.  William Fitz-Osbern
scouted these objections.  "He is your lord, and hath need of you," said
he to the recalcitrants; "you ought to offer yourselves to him, and not
wait to be asked.  If he succeed in his purpose, you will be more
powerful as well as he; if you fail him, and he succeed without you, he
will remember it: show that you love him, and what ye do, do with a good
grace."  The discussion was keen.  Many persisted in saying, "True, he is
our lord; but if we pay him his rents, that should suffice: we are not
bound to go and serve beyond the seas; we are already much burdened for
his wars."  It was at last agreed that Fitz-Osbern should give the duke
the assembly's reply; for he knew well, they said, the ability of each.
"If ye mind not to do what I shall say," said Fitz-Osbern, "charge me not
therewith."  "We will be bound by it, and will do it," was the cry amidst
general confusion.  They repaired to the duke's presence.  "My lord,"
said Fitz-Osbern, "I trow that there be not in the whole world such folk
as these.  You know the trouble and labor they have already undergone in
supporting your rights; and they are minded to do still more, and serve
you at all points, this side the sea and t'other.  Go you before, and
they will follow you; and spare them in nothing.  As for me, I will
furnish you with sixty vessels, manned with good fighters."  "Nay, nay,"
cried several of those present, prelates and barons, "we charged you not
with such reply; when he hath business in his own country, we will do him
the service we owe him; we be not bound to serve him in conquering
another's territory, or to go beyond sea for him."  And they gathered
themselves together in knots with much uproar.

"William was very wroth," says the chronicler, "retired to a chamber
apart, summoned those in whom he had most confidence, and by their advice
called before him his barons, each separately, and asked them if they
were willing to help him.  He had no intention, he told them, of doing
them wrong, nor would he and his, now or hereafter, ever cease to treat
with them in perfect courtesy; and he would give them, in writing, such
assurances as they were minded to devise.  The majority of his people
agreed to give him, more or less, according to circumstances; and he had
everything reduced to writing."  At the same time he made an appeal to
all his neighbors, Bretons, Manceaux, and Angevines, hunting up soldiers
wherever he could find them, and promising all who desired them lands in
England if he effected its conquest.  Lastly he repaired in person, first
to Philip I., king of France, his suzerain, then to Baldwin V., count of
Flanders, his father-in-law, asking their assistance for his enterprise.
Philip gave a formal refusal.  "What the duke demands of you," said his
advisers, "is to his own profit and to your hurt; if you aid him, your
country will be much burdened; and if the duke fail, you will have the
English your foes forever."  The count of Flanders made show of a similar
refusal; but privately he authorized William to raise soldiers in
Flanders, and pressed his vassals to follow him.  William, having thus
hunted up and collected all the forces he could hope for, thought only of
putting them in motion, and of hurrying on the preparations for his
departure.

Whilst, in obedience to his orders, the whole expedition, troops and
ships, were collecting at Dives, he received from Conan II., duke of
Brittany, this message: "I learn that thou art now minded to go beyond
sea and conquer for thyself the kingdom of England.  At the moment of
starting for Jerusalem, Robert, duke of Normandy, whom thou feignest to
regard as thy father, left all his heritage to Alain, my father and his
cousin: but thou and thy accomplices slew my father with poison at
Vimeux, in Normandy.  Afterwards thou didst invade his territory because
I was too young to defend it; and, contrary to all right, seeing that
thou art a bastard, thou hast kept it until this day.  Now, therefore,
either give me back this Normandy which thou owest me, or I will make war
upon thee with all my forces."  "At this message," say the chronicles,
"William was at first somewhat dismayed; but a Breton lord, who had sworn
fidelity to the two counts, and bore messages from one to the other,
rubbed poison upon the inside of Conan's hunting-horn, of his horse's
reins, and of his gloves.  Conan, having unwittingly put on his gloves
and handled the reins of his horse, lifted his hands to his face, and the
touch having filled him with poisonous infection, he died soon after, to
the great sorrow of his people, for he was an able and brave man, and
inclined to justice.  And he who had betrayed him quitted before long the
army of Conan, and informed Duke William of his death."

Conan is not the only one of William's foes whom he was suspected of
making away with by poison: there are no proofs; but contemporary
assertions are positive, and the public of the time believed them,
without surprise.  Being as unscrupulous about means as ambitious and
bold in aim, William was not of those whose character repels such an
accusation.  What, however, diminishes the suspicion is that, after and
in spite of Conan's death, several Breton knights, and, amongst others,
two sons of Count Eudes, his uncle, attended at the trysting-place of the
Norman troops and took part in the expedition.

Dives was the place of assemblage appointed for fleet and army.  William
repaired thither about the end of August, 1066.  But for several weeks
contrary winds prevented him from putting to sea; some vessels which made
the attempt perished in the tempest; and some of the volunteer
adventurers got disgusted, and deserted.  William maintained strict
discipline amongst this multitude, forbidding plunder so strictly that
"the cattle fed in the fields in full security."  The soldiers grew tired
of waiting in idleness and often in sickness.  "Yon is a mad-man," said
they, "who is minded to possess himself of another's land; God is against
the design, and so refuses us a wind."

About the 20th of September the weather changed.  The fleet got ready,
but could only go and anchor at St. Valery at the mouth of the Somme.
There it was necessary to wait several more days; impatience and
disquietude were redoubled; "and there appeared in the heavens a star
with a tail, a certain sign of great things to come."  William had the
shrine of St. Valery brought out and paraded about, being more impatient
in his soul than anybody, but ever confident in his will and his good
fortune.  There was brought to him a spy whom Harold had sent to watch
the forces and plans of the enemy; and William dismissed him, saying,
"Harold hath no need to take any care or be at any charges to know how we
be, and what we be doing; he shall see for himself, and shall feel before
the end of the year."  At last, on the 27th of September, 1066, the sun
rose on a calm sea and with a favorable wind; and towards evening the
fleet set out.  The Mora, the vessel on which William was, and which had
been given to him by his wife, Matilda, led the way; and a figure in
gilded bronze, some say in gold, representing their youngest son,
William, had been placed on the prow, with the face towards England.
Being a better sailer than the others, this ship was soon a long way
ahead; and William had a mariner sent to the top of the mainmast to see
if the fleet were following.  "I see nought but sea and sky," said the
mariner.  William had the ship brought to; and, the second time, the
mariner said, "I see four ships."  Before long he cried, "I see a forest
of masts and sails."  On the 29th of September, St. Michael's day, the
expedition arrived off the coast of England, at Pevensey, near Hastings,
and "when the tide had ebbed, and the ships remained aground on the
strand," says the chronicles the landing was effected without obstacle;
not a Saxon soldier appeared on the coast.  William was the last to leave
his ship; and on setting foot on the sand he made a false step and fell.
"Bad sign!" was muttered around him; "God have us in His keeping!"  "What
say you, lords?" cried William: "by the glory of God, I have grasped
this land with my hands; all that there is of it is ours."

[Illustration: Normans landing on English Coast----353]

With what forces William undertook the conquest of England, how many
ships composed his fleet, and how many men were aboard the ships, are
questions impossible to be decided with any precision, as we have
frequently before had occasion to remark, amidst the exaggerations and
disagreements of chroniclers.  Robert Wace reports, in his Romance of
Rou, that he had heard from his father, one of William's servants on this
expedition, that the fleet numbered six hundred and ninety-six vessels,
but he had found in divers writings that there were more than three
thousand.  M. Augustin Thierry, after his learned researches, says, in
his history of the _Conquest of England by the Normans,_ that "four
hundred vessels of four sails, and more than a thousand transport ships,
moved out into the open sea, to the sound of trumpets and of a great cry
of joy raised by sixty thousand throats."  It is probable that the
estimate of the fleet is pretty accurate, and that of the army
exaggerated.  We saw in 1830 what efforts and pains it required, amidst
the power and intelligent ability of modern civilization, to transport
from France to Algeria thirty-seven thousand men aboard three squadrons,
comprising six hundred and seventy-five ships of all sorts.  Granted that
in the eleventh century there was more haphazard than in the nineteenth,
and that there was less care for human life on the eve of a war; still,
without a doubt, the armament of Normandy in 1066 was not to be compared
with that of France in 1830, and yet William's intention was to conquer
England, whereas Charles X. thought only of chastising the dey of
Algiers.

Whilst William was making for the southern coast of England, Harold was
repairing by forced marches to the north in order to defend, against the
rebellion of his brother Tostig and the invasion of a Norwegian army, his
short-lived kingship thus menaced, at two ends of the country, by two
formidable enemies.  On the 25th of September, 1066, he gained at York a
brilliant victory over his northern foe; and, wounded as he was, he no
sooner learned that Duke William had on the 29th pitched his camp and
planted his flag at Pevensey, than he set out in haste for the south.
As he approached, William received, from what source is not known, this
message: "King Harold hath given battle to his brother Tostig and the
king of Norway.  He hath slain them both, and hath destroyed their army.
He is returning at the head of numerous and valiant warriors, against
whom thine own, I trove, will be worth no more than wretched curs.  Thou
passest for a man of wisdom and prudence; be not rash, plunge not thyself
into danger; I adjure thee to abide in thy intrenchments, and not to come
really to blows."  "I thank thy master," answered William, "for his
prudent counsel, albeit he might have given it to me without insult.
Carry him back this reply: I will not hide me behind ramparts; I will
come to blows with Harold as soon as I may; and with the aid of Heaven's
good will I would trust in the valor of my men against his, even though I
had but ten thousand to lead against his sixty thousand."  But the proud
confidence of William did not affect his prudence.  He received from
Harold himself a message wherein the Saxon, affirming his right to the
kingship by virtue of the Saxon laws and the last words of King Edward,
summoned him to evacuate England with all his people; on which condition
alone he engaged to preserve friendship with him, and all agreements
between them as to Normandy.  After having come to an understanding with
his barons, William maintained his right to the crown of England by
virtue of the first decision of King Edward, and the oaths of Harold
himself.  "I am ready," said he, "to uphold my cause against him by the
forms of justice, either according to the law of the Normans or according
to that of the Saxons, as he pleases.  If, by virtue of equity, Normans
or English decide that Harold has a right to possess the kingdom, let him
possess it in peace; if they acknowledge that it is to me that the
kingdom ought to belong, let him give it up to me.  If he refuse these
conditions, I do not think it just that my people or his, who are not a
whit to blame for our quarrel, should slay one another in battle; I am
ready to maintain, at the price of my head against his, that it is to me
and not to him that the kingdom of England belongs."  At this proposition
Harold was troubled, and remained a while without replying; then, as the
monk was urgent, "Let the Lord God," said he, "judge this day betwixt me
and William as to what is just."  The negotiation continued, and William
summed it all up in these terms, which the monk reported to Harold in
presence of the English chieftains: "My lord, the duke of Normandy
biddeth you do one of these things: give up to him the kingdom of
England, and take his daughter in marriage, as you sware to him on the
holy relics; or, respecting the question between him and you, submit
yourself to the Pope's decision; or fight with him, body to body, and let
him who is victorious and forces his enemy to yield have the kingdom."
Harold replied, "without opinion or advice taken," says the chronicle, "I
will not cede him the kingdom; I will not abide by the Pope's award; and
I will not fight with him."  William, still in concert with his barons,
made a farther advance.  "If Harold will come to an agreement with me,"
he said, "I will leave him all the territory beyond the Humber, towards
Scotland."  "My lord," said the barons to the duke, "make an end of these
parleys; if we must fight, let it be soon; for every day come folk to
Harold."  "By my faith," said the duke, "if we agree not on terms
to-day, to-morrow we will join battle."  The third proposal for an
agreement was as little successful as the former two; on both sides there
was no belief in peace, and they were eager to decide the quarrel once
for all.

Some of the Saxon chieftains advised Harold to fall back on London, and
ravage all the country, so as to starve out the invaders.  "By my faith,"
said Harold, "I will not destroy the country I have in keeping; I, with
my people, will fight."  "Abide in London," said his younger brother,
Gurth: "thou canst not deny that, perforce or by free will, thou didst
swear to Duke William; but, as for us, we have sworn nought; we will
fight for our country; if we alone fight, thy cause will be good in any
case; if we fly, thou shalt rally us; if we fall, thou shalt avenge us."
Harold rejected this advice, "considering it shame to his past life to
turn his back, whatever were the peril."  Certain of his people, whom he
had sent to reconnoitre the Norman army, returned saying that there were
more priests in William's camp than warriors in his own; for the Normans,
at this period, wore shaven chins and short hair, whilst the English let
hair and beard grow.  "Ye do err," said Harold; "these be not priests,
but good men-at-arms, who will show us what they can do."

On the eve of the battle, the Saxons passed the night in amusement,
eating, drinking, and singing, with great uproar; the Normans, on the
contrary, were preparing their arms, saying their prayers, and
"confessing to their priests--all who would."  On the 14th of October,
1066, when Duke William put on his armor, his coat of mail was given to
him the wrong way.  "Bad omen!" cried some of his people; "if such a
thing had happened to us, we would not fight to-day."  "Be ye not
disquieted," said the duke; "I have never believed in sorcerers and
diviners, and I never liked them; I believe in God, and in Him I put my
trust."  He assembled his men-at-arms, and setting himself upon a high
place, so that all might hear him, he said to them, "My true and loyal
friends, ye have crossed the seas for love of me, and for that I cannot
thank ye as I ought; but I will make what return I may, and what I have
ye shall have.  I am not come only to take what I demanded, or to get my
rights, but to punish felonies, treasons, and breaches of faith committed
against our people by the men of this country.  Think, moreover, what
great honor ye will have to-day if the day be ours.  And bethink ye that,
if ye be discomfited, ye be dead men without help; for ye have not
whither ye may retreat, seeing that our ships be broken up, and our
mariners be here with us.  He who flies will be a dead man; he who fights
will be saved.  For God's sake, let each man do his duty; trust we in
God, and the day will be ours."

[Illustration: William the Conqueror reviewing his Army----357]

The address was too long for the duke's faithful comrade, William
Fitz-Osborn.  "My lord," said he, "we dally; let us all to arms and
forward, forward!"  The army got in motion, starting from the hill of
Telham or Heathland, according to Mr. Freeman, marching to attack the
English on the opposite hill of Senlac.  A Norman, called Taillefer, "who
sang very well, and rode a horse which was very fast, came up to the
duke.  'My lord,' said he, 'I have served you long, and you owe me for
all my service: pay me to day, an it please you; grant unto me, for
recompense in full, to strike the first blow in the battle.'  'I grant
it,' quoth the duke.  So Taillefer darted before him, singing the deeds
of Charlemagne, of Roland, of Oliver, and of the vassals who fell at
Roncesvalles."  As he sang, he played with his sword, throwing it up into
the air and catching it in his right hand; and the Normans followed,
repeating his songs, and crying, "God help!  God help!"  The English,
intrenched upon a plateau towards which the Normans were ascending,
awaited the assault, shouting, and defying the foe.

The battle, thus begun, lasted nine hours, with equal obstinacy on both
sides, and varied success from hour to hour.  Harold, though wounded at
the commencement of the fray, did not cease for a moment to fight, on
foot, with his two brothers beside him, and around him the troops of
London, who had the privilege of forming the king's guard when he
delivered a battle.  Rudely repulsed at the first charge, some bodies of
Norman troops fell back in disorder, and a rumor spread amongst them that
the duke was slain; but William threw himself before the fugitives, and,
taking off his helmet, cried, "Look at me; here I am; I live, and by
God's help will conquer."  So they returned to the combat.  But the
English were firm; the Normans could not force their intrenchrnents; and
William ordered his men to feign a retreat, and all but a flight.  At
this sight the English bore down in pursuit: "and still Norman fled and
Saxon pursued, until a trumpeter, who had been ordered by the duke thus
to turn back the Normans, began to sound the recall.  Then were seen the
Normans turning back to face the English, and attacking them with their
swords, and amongst the English, some flying, some dying, some asking
mercy in their own tongue."  The struggle once more became general and
fierce.  William had three horses killed under him; "but he jumped
immediately upon a fresh steed, and left not long unavenged the death of
that which had but lately carried him."  At last the intrenchments of the
English were stormed; Harold fell mortally wounded by an arrow which
pierced his skull; his two brothers and his bravest comrades fell at his
side; the fight was prolonged between the English dispersed and the
Normans remorselessly pursuing; the standard sent from Rome to the duke
of Normandy had replaced the Saxon flag on the very spot where Harold had
fallen; and, all around, the ground continued to get covered with dead
and dying, fruitless victims of the passions of the combatants.  Next day
William went over the field of battle; and he was heard to say, in a tone
of mingled triumph and sorrow, "Here is verily a lake of blood!"

There was, long after the battle of Senlac, or Hastings, as it is
commonly called, a patriotic superstition in the country to the effect
that, when the rain had moistened the soil, there were to be seen traces
of blood on the ground where it had taken place.

Having thus secured the victory, William had his tent pitched at the very
point where the standard which had come from Rome had replaced the Saxon
banner, and he passed the night supping and chatting with his chieftains,
not far from the corpses scattered over the battle-field.  Next day it
was necessary to attend to the burial of all these dead, conquerors or
conquered.  William was full of care and affection towards his comrades;
and on the eve of the battle, during a long and arduous reconnoissance
which he had undertaken with some of them, he had insisted upon carrying,
for some time, in addition to his own cuirass, that of his faithful
William Fitz-Osbern, who he saw was fatigued in spite of his usual
strength; but towards his enemies William was harsh and resentful.
Githa, Harold's mother, sent to him to ask for her son's corpse, offering
for it its weight in gold.  "Nay," said William, "Harold was a perjurer;
let him have for burial-place the sand of the shore, where he was so
madly fain to rule."  Two Saxon monks from Waltham Abbey, which had been
founded by Harold, came, by their abbot's order, and claimed for their
church the remains of their benefactor; and William, indifferent as he
had been to a mother's grief, would not displease an abbey.  But when the
monks set about finding the body of Harold, there was none to recognize
it, and they had recourse to a young girl, Edith, Swan's-neck, whom
Harold had loved.  She discovered amongst the corpses her lover's
mutilated body; and the monks bore it away to the church at Waltham,
where it was buried.  Some time later a rumor was spread abroad that
Harold was wounded, and carried to a neighboring castle, perhaps Dover,
whence he went to the abbey of St. John, at Chester, where he lived a
long while in a solitary cell, and where William the Conqueror's second
son, Henry I., the third Norman king of England, one day went to see him
and had an interview with him.  But this legend, in which there is
nothing chronologically impossible, rests on no sound basis of evidence,
and is discountenanced by all contemporary accounts.

[Illustration: Edith discovers the Body of Harold----360]

Before following up his victory, William resolved to perpetuate the
remembrance of it by a religious monument, and he decreed the foundation
of an abbey on the very field of the battle of Hastings, from which it
took its name, Battle Abbey.  He endowed this abbey with all the
neighboring territory within the radius of a league, "the very spot,"
says his charter, "which gave me my crown."  He made it free of the
jurisdiction of any prelate, dedicated it to St. Martin of Tours, patron
saint of the soldiers of Gaul, and ordered that there should be deposited
in its archives a register containing the names of all the lords,
knights, and men of mark who had accompanied him on his expedition.  When
the building of the abbey began, the builders observed a want of water;
and they notified William of the fact.  "Work away," said he: "if God
grant me life, I will make such good provision for the place that more
wine shall be found there than there is water in other monasteries."

It was not everything, however, to be victorious, it was still necessary
to be recognized as king.  When the news of the defeat at Hastings and
the death of Harold was spread abroad in the country, the emotion was
lively and seemed to be profound; the great Saxon national council, the
Wittenagemote, assembled at London; the remnants of the Saxon army
rallied there; and search was made for other kings than the Norman duke.
Harold left two sons, very young and not in a condition to reign; but his
two brothers-in-law, Edwin and Morkar, held dominion in the north of
England, whilst the southern provinces, and amongst them the city of
London, had a popular aspirant, a nephew of Edward the Confessor, in
Edgar surnamed Atheliny (the noble, the illustrious), as the descendant
of several kings.  What with these different pretensions, there were
discussion, hesitation, and delay; but at last the young Edgar prevailed,
and was proclaimed king.  Meanwhile William was advancing with his army,
slowly, prudently, as a man resolved to risk nothing and calculating upon
the natural results of his victory.  At some points he encountered
attempts at resistance, but he easily overcame them, occupied
successively Romney, Dover, Canterbury, and Rochester, appeared before
London without trying to enter it, and moved on Winchester, which was the
residence of Edward the Confessor's widow, Queen Editha, who had received
that important city as dowry.  Through respect for her, William, who
presented himself in the character of relative and heir of King Edward,
did not enter the place, and merely called upon the inhabitants to take
the oath of allegiance to him and do him homage, which they did with the
queen's consent.  William returned towards London and commenced the
siege, or rather investment of it, by establishing his camp at
Berkhampstead, in the county of Hertford.  He entered before long into
secret communication with an influential burgess, named Ansgard, an old
man who had seen service, and who, riddled with wounds, had himself
carried about the streets in a litter.  Ansgard had but little difficulty
in inducing the authorities of London to make pacific overtures to the
duke, and William had still less difficulty in convincing the messenger
of the moderation of his designs.  "The king salutes ye, and offers ye
peace," said Ansgard to the municipal authorities of London on his return
from the camp: "'tis a king who hath no peer; he is handsomer than the
sun, wiser than Solomon, more active and greater than Charlemagne," and
the enthusiastic poet adds that the people as well as the senate eagerly
welcomed these words, and renounced, both of them, the young king they
had but lately proclaimed.  Facts were quick in responding to this
quickly produced impression; a formal deputation was sent to William's
camp; the archbishops of Canterbury and York, many other prelates and
laic chieftains, the principal citizens of London, the two brothers-in-
law of Harold, Edwin and Morkar, and the young king of yesterday, Edgar
Atheling himself, formed part of it; and they brought to William, Edgar
Atheling his abdication, and all the others their submission, with an
express invitation to William to have himself made king, "for we be
wont," said they, "to serve a king, and we wish to have a king for lord."
William received them in presence of the chieftains of his army, and with
great show of moderation in his desires.  "Affairs," said he, "be
troubled still; there be still certain rebels; I desire rather the peace
of the kingdom than the crown; I would that my wife should be crowned
with me."  The Norman chieftains murmured whilst they smiled; and one of
them, an Aquitanian, Aimery de Thouars, cried out, "It is passing modest
to ask soldiers if they wish their chief to be king: soldiers are never,
or very seldom, called to such deliberations: let what we desire be done
as soon as possible."  William yielded to the entreaties of the Saxon
deputies and to the counsels of the Norman chieftains but, prudent still,
before going in person to London, he sent thither some of his officers
with orders to have built there immediately, on the banks of the Thames,
at a point which he indicated, a fort where he might establish himself in
safety.  That fort, in the course of time, became the Tower of London.

When William set out, some days afterwards, to make his entry into the
city, he found, on his way to St. Alban's, the road blocked with huge
trunks of trees recently felled.  "What means this barricade in thy
domains?" he demanded of the abbot of St. Alban's, a Saxon noble.  "I
did what was my duty to my birth and mission," replied the monk: "if
others, of my rank and condition, had done as much, as they ought to and
could have done, thou hadst not penetrated so far into our country."

On entering London after all these delays and all these precautions,
William fixed, for his coronation, upon Christmas-day, December 25th,
1066.  Either by desire of the prelate himself or by William's own order,
it was not the archbishop of Canterbury, Stigand, who presided, according
to custom, at the ceremony; the duty devolved upon the archbishop of
York, Aldred, who had but lately anointed Edgar Atheling.  At the
appointed hour, William arrived at Westminster Abbey, the latest work and
the burial-place of Edward the Confessor.  The Conqueror marched between
two hedges of Norman soldiers, behind whom stood a crowd of people, cold
and sad, though full of curiosity.  A numerous cavalry guarded the
approaches to the church and the quarters adjoining.  Two hundred and
sixty counts, barons, and knights of Normandy went in with the duke.
Geoffrey, bishop of Coutanees, demanded in French, of the Normans, if
they would that their duke should take the title of King of the English.
The archbishop of York demanded of the English, in the Saxon tongue, if
they would have for king the duke of Normandy.  Noisy acclamations arose
in the church and resounded outside.  The soldiery, posted in the
neighborhood, took the confused roar for a symptom of something wrong,
and in their suspicious rage set fire to the neighboring houses.  The
flames spread rapidly.  The people who were rejoicing in the church
caught the alarm, and a multitude of men and women of every rank flung
themselves out of the edifice.  Alone and trembling, the bishops with
some clerics and monks remained before the altar and accomplished the
work of anointment upon the king's head, "himself trembling," says the
chronicle.  Nearly all the rest who were present ran to the fire, some to
extinguish it, others to steal and pillage in the midst of the
consternation.  William terminated the ceremony by taking the usual oath
of Saxon kings at their coronation, adding thereto, as of his own motion,
a promise to treat the English people according to their own laws and as
well as they had ever been treated by the best of their own kings.  Then
he went forth from the church King of England.

We will pursue no farther the life of William the Conqueror: for
henceforth it belongs to the history of England, not of France.  We have
entered, so far as he was concerned, into pretty long details, because we
were bound to get a fair understanding of the event and of the man; not
only because of their lustre at the time, but especially because of the
serious and long-felt consequences entailed upon France, England, and, we
may say, Europe.  We do not care just now to trace out those consequences
in all their bearings; but we would like to mark out with precision their
chief features, inasmuch as they exercised, for centuries, a determining
influence upon the destinies of two great nations, and upon the course of
modern civilization.

As to France, the consequences of the conquest of England by the Normans
were clearly pernicious, and they have not yet entirely disappeared.  It
was a great evil, as early as the eleventh century, that the duke of
Normandy, one of the great French lords, one of the great vassals of the
king of France, should at the same time become king of England, and thus
receive an accession of rank and power which could not fail to render
more complicated and more stormy his relations with his French suzerain.
From the eleventh to the fourteenth century, from Philip I. to Philip de
Valois, this position gave rise, between the two crowns and the two
states, to questions, to quarrels, to political struggles, and to wars
which were a frequent source of trouble in France to the government and
the people.  The evil and the peril became far greater still when, in the
fourteenth century, there arose between France and England, between
Philip de Valois and Edward III., a question touching the succession to
the throne of France and the application or negation of the Salic law.
Then there commenced, between the two crowns and the two peoples, that
war which was to last more than a hundred years, was to bring upon France
the saddest days of her history, and was to be ended only by the inspired
heroism of a young girl who, alone, in the name of her God and His
saints, restored confidence and victory to her king and her country.
Joan of Arc, at the cost of her life, brought to the most glorious
conclusion the longest and bloodiest struggle that has devastated France
and sometimes compromised her glory.

Such events, even when they are over, do not cease to weigh heavily for a
long while upon a people.  The struggles between the kings of England,
dukes of Normandy, and the kings of France, and the long war of the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries for the succession to the throne of
France, engendered what historians have called "the rivalry between
France and England;" and this rivalry, having been admitted as a natural
and inevitable fact, became the permanent incubus and, at divers epochs,
the scourge of French national existence.  Undoubtedly there are, between
great and energetic neighbors, different interests and tendencies, which
easily become the seeds of jealousy and strife; but there are also,
between such nations, common interests and common sentiments, which tend
to harmony and peace.  The wisdom and ability of governments and of
nations themselves are shown in devoting themselves to making the grounds
of harmony and peace stronger than those of discord and war.  Anyhow
common sense and moral sense forbid differences of interests and
tendencies to be set up as a principle upon which to establish general
and permanent rivalry, and, by consequence, a systematic hostility and
national enmity.  And the further civilization and the connections
between different people proceed with this development, the more
necessary and, at the same time, possible it becomes to raise the
interests and sentiments which would hold them together above those which
would keep them asunder, and to thus found a policy of reciprocal equity
and of peace in place of a policy of hostile precautions and continual
strife.  "I have witnessed," says M. Guizot, "in the course of my life,
both these policies.  I have seen the policy of systematic hostility, the
policy practised by the Emperor Napoleon I. with as much ability and
brilliancy as it was capable of, and I have seen it result in the
greatest disaster France ever experienced.  And even after the evidence
of its errors and calamities this policy has still left amongst us deep
traces and raised serious obstacles to the policy of reciprocal equity,
liberty, and peace which we labored to support, and of which the nation
felt, though almost against the grain, the justice and the necessity."
In that feeling we recognize the lamentable results of the old historic
causes which have just been pointed out, and the lasting perils arising
from those blind passions which hurry people away, and keep them back
from their most pressing interests and their most honorable sentiments.

In spite of appearances to the contrary, and in view of her future
interests, England was, in the eleventh century, by the very fact of the
conquest she underwent, in a better position than France.  She was
conquered, it is true, and conquered by a foreign chieftain and a foreign
army; but France also had been, for several centuries previously, a prey
to conquest, and under circumstances much more unfavorable than those
under which the Norman conquest had found and placed England. When the
Goths, the Burgundians, the Franks, the Saxons, and the Normans
themselves invaded and disputed over Gaul, what was the character of the
event?  Barbarians, up to that time vagabonds or nearly so, were flooding
in upon populations disorganized and enervated.  On the side of the
German victors, no fixity in social life; no general or anything like
regular government; no nation really cemented and constituted; but
individuals in a state of dispersion and of almost absolute independence:
on the side of the vanquished Gallo-Romans, the old political ties
dissolved; no strong power, no vital liberty; the lower classes in
slavery, the middle classes ruined, the upper classes depreciated.
Amongst the barbarians society was scarcely commencing; with the subjects
of the Roman empire it no longer existed; Charlemagne's attempt to
reconstruct it by rallying beneath a new empire both victors and
vanquished was a failure; feudal anarchy was the first and the necessary
step out of barbaric anarchy and towards a renewal of social order.

It was not so in England, when, in the eleventh century, William
transported thither his government and his army.  A people but lately
come out of barbarism, conquered, on that occasion, a people still half
barbarous.  Their primitive origin was the same; their institutions were,
if not similar, at any rate analogous; there was no fundamental
antagonism in their habits; the English chieftains lived in their domains
an idle, hunting life, surrounded by their liegemen, just as the Norman
barons lived.  Society, amongst both the former and the latter, was
founded, however unrefined and irregular it still was; and neither the
former nor the latter had lost the flavor and the usages of their ancient
liberties.  A certain superiority, in point of organization and social
discipline, belonged to the Norman conquerors; but the conquered Anglo-
Saxons were neither in a temper to allow themselves to be enslaved nor
out of condition for defending themselves.  The conquest was destined to
entail cruel evils, a long oppression, but it could not bring about
either the dissolution of the two peoples into petty lawless groups, or
the permanent humiliation of one in presence of the other.  There were,
at one and the same time, elements of government and resistance, causes
of fusion and unity in the very midst of the struggle.

We are now about to anticipate ages, and get a glimpse, in their
development, of the consequences which attended this difference, so
profound, in the position of France and of England, at the time of the
formation of the two states.

In England, immediately after the Norman conquest, two general forces are
confronted, those, to wit, of the two peoples.  The Anglo-Saxon people is
attached to its ancient institutions, a mixture of feudalism and liberty,
which become its security.  The Norman army assumes organization on
English soil according to the feudal system which had been its own in
Normandy.  A principle of authority and a principle of resistance thus
exist, from the very first, in the community and in the government.
Before long the principle of resistance gets displaced; the strife
between the peoples continues; but a new struggle arises between the
Norman king and his barons.  The Norman kingship, strong in its growth,
would fain become tyrannical; but its tyranny encounters a resistance,
also strong, since the necessity for defending themselves against the
Anglo-Saxons has caused the Norman barons to take up the practice of
acting in concert, and has not permitted them to set themselves up as
petty, isolated sovereigns.  The spirit of association receives
development in England: the ancient institutions have maintained it
amongst the English landholders, and the inadequacy of individual
resistance has made it prevalent amongst the Norman barons.  The unity
which springs from community of interests and from junction of forces
amongst equals becomes a counter-poise to the unity of the sovereign
power.  To sustain the struggle with success, the aristocratic coalition
formed against the tyrannical kingship has needed the assistance of the
landed proprietors, great and small, English and Norman, and it has not
been able to dispense with getting their rights recognized as well as its
own.  Meanwhile the struggle is becoming complicated; there is a division
of parties; a portion of the barons rally round the threatened kingship;
sometimes it is the feudal aristocracy, and sometimes it is the king that
summons and sees flocking to the rescue the common people, first of the
country, then of the towns.  The democratic element thus penetrates into
and keeps growing in both society and government, at one time quietly and
through the stolid influence of necessity, at another noisily and by
means of revolutions, powerful indeed, but nevertheless restrained within
certain limits.  The fusion of the two peoples and the different social
classes is little by little attaining accomplishment; it is little by
little bringing about the perfect formation of representative government
with its various component parts, royalty, aristocracy, and democracy,
each invested with the rights and the strength necessary for their
functions.  The end of the struggle has been arrived at; constitutional
monarchy is founded; by the triumph of their language and of their
primitive liberties the English have conquered their conquerors.  It is