Читать книгу Voices from the Dust - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 9

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Since that pale, pious man—feeble king yet potent saint—called Edward the Confessor was laid in grave within his new great minster on Thorney Isle, the place has been deemed holy, a sanctuary for the hunted wretch, a place for prayer and the miraculous cure of ills, bodily and mental.

Had these grey walls the faculty of speech, what tales they might recount, what unrecorded stories of life and death, of joy and grief, what long-forgotten tragedies! Yet surely none more tremendous than that of those dim days when Saxon England fell.

The roar and tumult of Senlac’s bloody slopes, those cries of victory and death, have long since passed away. The shame of slavery, the long years of bitter oppression have gone, thank God, and are forgotten. Proud Norman and hardy Saxon, uniting, have left descendants as proud, as courageous, yet greater than either, still marching in the van of the nations. To-day Saxon Harold is only a name, Norman William but a memory, yet how real were they, those virile ancestors of ours, and how very much alive upon that dim, far-distant October morning when: ...

Young Godric of Brandon Holm leaned across the Saxon breastwork, that inner shield-wall and last defence manned by the chosen valour of England, where flew King Harold’s golden banner, the begemmed Dragon Standard of Wessex.

A goodly man was this youthful thegn of Brandon, and very warlike in his gleaming helmet and ringed mail, as he stood shading fierce blue eyes from the early sun of this fateful morning to stare away across gentle, grassy slopes, over valley and misty swamp, to that opposite range of hills where, beneath waving gonfanon, pennon, and fluttering banderol, rank upon rank in three great companies, was marshalled the eager host of William, Duke of Normandy.

Long stood young Godric gazing on that dark array, heedless of the unceasing stir about him where, mustered beneath the standard, stood the lithesmen of London, while far to left and right, above the rampart of shields, mail glittered, broadsword and axe-head gleamed as these men of Saxon England, King Harold’s own housecarls, his kin and chosen jarls and thegns, strengthened their defences and made them ready against the coming onset.

A great hand clapped down on Godric’s mailed shoulder, and starting round he beheld the smiling, ruddy face of Wiglaf Ericson, the mighty thegn of Bourne, a cheery giant, grey eyes twinkling beneath bright helm, long sword on thigh, and ponderous war-axe slung about his brawny neck.

“What, Godric!” quoth he. “D’ye peak, lad, d’ye pine?”

“Tush, man!” answered Godric, scowling. “Amid yon teeming thousands I seek me a pennon, the blue saltire of de Broc, my sworn and hated foe.”

“They be all thy foes, lad.”

“But, in especial, one!”

“Ha, dost mean Gilles de Broc, him thou dost name my rival and the cause o’ thy sweet sister Githa’s sighs?”

“Himself!”

“Then short rede to him this day, say I!” quoth the gigantic Wiglaf, his good-humoured visage darkening.

“Ay, verily!” nodded Godric fiercely. “Yonder he should ride ’neath the Pope-blessed banner of Duke William, being sib to him.”

“See!” cried Wiglaf, pointing. “The robber-rogues muster well, down yonder; and yet for all their brave showing they be more o’ monks than fighting-men,—shaven polls, d’ye see, and never a beard among ’em.”

“What fools say thus, Wiglaf?”

“Grimbald. He and his spies are in but now from viewing their array.”

“Then, sir, I say these same shavelings be stout knights all and lusty men-at-arms as we shall prove ere sundown. These be the pick and very flower of all Normandy, as I do know.”

“Ay, sooth, thou wert at the Norman’s court with our Harold ere we made him king. Ha, knights and men-at-arms, say you? Why, very well, say I,—for by the great rood at Thorney Minster, I’d liefer crack crown o’ lusty knight than monkish mazzard, ay, would I! Here shall be goodly fight—ha?”

“Never doubt it!” answered Godric, scowling at the Normans’ wide-flung battle-line. “And half our veteran levies beyond Humber! Verily Harold had been wiser to bide behind the walls of our London till England rallied to him. As ’tis, our force, the half of it, is but of rustics ill-armed, boors, serfs and the like——”

“Yet, being Saxons, lad, they should fight well and lustily.”

“And these Norman thieves out-man us three to one!”

“Well, by the Bones, the more honour to us, then!” cried Wiglaf, his golden beard bristling. “As for me, I’ve old Brainbiter here shall even the odds somewhat!” and he patted his great, broad-bladed battle-axe. “Ay, by the Blood, he wrought right well at Stamford fight and shall this day be good for ten, a score, ay, half a hundred o’ the dogs, an the gentle saints prove kind. Howbeit, an Wiglaf die he shall take a full tale o’ Normans for company.”

“Well, as for me, Wiglaf, content I’ll be with the life of single one——”

“Ha, by the Holy Nails! One, say ye? But a poor, scurvy one, lad?”

“But that one—mine enemy! To see him die ’neath mine axe! To feel him agonize upon my sword—ho, this shall suffice me!”

“Art a lusty hater, Godric, but to-day——”

“Hate?” cried the young jarl. “ ’Tis my life——”

“ ’Tis death, and the soul’s destruction!” said a voice, and to them came a grey friar, a small, lean man who limped.

“Away, shaveling!” cried Godric savagely. “Preach not to me. Hence, I say!” The friar drew a pace nearer:

“My son,” said he, gently, “needs must I preach to thee and all men the words of One that said ‘Love thine enemy.’ For by love only cometh salvation, and he that forgives his enemy findeth a friend.”

“Off!” cried young Godric. “Prate no more. I tell thee hate is the very soul of me!”

“So shall thy soul be changed, my son. For thou, great lord, like the humble serf, art very son of God, and He shall chasten thee.”

The gentle voice was lost in sudden shout swelling to a lusty Saxon cheer while sword, brown-bill, and broad axe flashed in welcome as up rode Harold the King with his brothers Gurth and Leofwine and, dismounting beneath the bejewelled banner, strode forward, a very comely, well-shaped man, light-treading despite weighty helm and bright-ringed hauberk.

“What, Godric—and thou, good Wiglaf! Greeting, noble lords!” quoth he, and gave a hand to each. But now were others, of high and low degree, eager to look upon their chosen king, to touch his hand and sue a word from him. So there beneath the banner Harold spake them, loud and clear:

“Ye men of mine, stout friends and comrades all, here stand we in arms this day for homes, for wives, and this, our land. Yonder crouch the Norman wolves to raven and destroy. Thus upon our swords doth rest the fate of all to us most dear. So, for the safety of our homes, the honour of our women, the glory of our race, let us smite, good comrades all, whiles life be ours. And now farewell, sirs. To your posts, and God defend us!”

And presently, as he stood, his quick, blue eyes glancing hither and yon, spake the mighty Gurth, and he sore troubled, for Gurth loved him beyond all men:

“Harold, good brother and king, the oath thou didst swear to Duke William upon most holy relics doth grieve us—us that love thee, and, in especial, myself——”

“Nay, Gurth, here was trick most base and vile!”

“Yet, lord—’twas an oath, and the relics very holy. Wherefore now, lest such great sacrilege bode ill for thee this day, go hence and leave us, that swore no oath, to fight——”

“Not so, Gurth, my brother. Ne’er will I stand by whiles others fight and ... Ha, there sound their clarions!” cried Harold, and out flashed his sword. “Now smite we all for God and our right!”

And so with hoarse blare of trumpets, with thunderous Norman shouts of “Dex aide” and Saxon roar of “Harold and Holy Rood,” began this ever-memorable battle of Senlac that was to change the destiny of England and shake the very world.

All day long, from early morn to set of sun, the battle roared unceasing. Up and down, to and fro, surged this desperate conflict, until the trampled slope was churned to bloody mire thick-strewn with dead and wounded. Hour after hour headlong valour of attack was met by defence as unflinching and courageous until, before the battered shield-wall, the Norman dead lay piled, horse and man, in ghastly heaps.

Yet on came the invaders, nothing daunted, to smite and be smitten, launching their fiercest attacks where flew the Dragon banner, for here fought Harold the King with all his chosen, thegn and churl and serf with the bold citizens of London; here young Leofwine plied deadly spear, here smote the mighty Gurth, while, hard by, Wiglaf’s terrible axe rose and fell; and here, too, fierce Godric thrust with tireless arm, seeking ever the hated face of his enemy. So here was blood and death and shock of crashing blows until the sun went down. But the Saxon rampart, grimly stained and direly battered, showed still unbroken above the ever-growing heaps of Norman dead.

“Splendour of God!” cried Duke William, as his shattered columns recoiled at last before the resistless sweep of Saxon sword, brown-bill, and shearing axe. “Stand, sirs, stand! Behind ye is the sea, dishonour and death: before ye is life and a marvellous rich booty. On, sirs, on!”

But, wearied with the long and desperate affray, breathless, shaken and awed by those ghastly piles of dead, his mighty following stood sullenly at bay. Then to him rode his half-brother Ode, the fighting Bishop of Bayeux and held him a while in counsel.

“Oho, archers—archers!” roared William, and galloping among their scattered ranks, he snatched the nearest bow and setting arrow on string, shot it high in air to drop within the Saxon barriers.

“Launch me your shafts so!” he commanded.

Now the gigantic Wiglaf, ghastly with slaughter, leaned upon the long shaft of Brainbiter, whose great, dimmed blade showed notches here and there, and panted:

“Aho, Godric, what shall mean this respite, think ye?”

“Some cursed Norman trick!” gasped young Godric, staring at the blood oozing slowly through his riven mail.

“God send our Saxon hotheads be not lured from their defences!” quoth Harold the King, glancing right and left along their battered line.

“Ha, by the pyx, I’m dry!” mourned Wiglaf.

And then ... down upon them rained the deadly arrow-shower, and, as men reeled and died, up, up against them once more, fierce and relentless, thundered the attack.

And now at the shield-barrier was close and bitter fray; and now it was also that, amid the reeling press, Godric at last beheld his enemy’s hated hawk-face, and cried aloud:

“Ho, Gilles—Gilles de Broc!” And Sir Gilles, seeing, would have turned aside, but his snorting war-horse bore him near, and thus fought they, sword to sword, till the raving battle tore them asunder; and when Godric, leaping upon the barrier, would have followed, Wiglaf’s mighty hand plucked him back.

And ever down upon them, from the darkening sky, rained the deadly arrows, and one most fateful of all! For, uttering a hoarse gasp of agony, King Harold dropped his bloody sword and reeled back and back till Godric, staying him with out-flung arm, saw him pierced through brow and eye with a quivering arrow. So stood the King a while, groaning in his anguish; then, plucking forth the shaft, stretched out hands that groped piteously.

“A sword!” he gasped. “A sword——!”

But, even then, the wall of shields was riven at last, the battle roared upon them, and Harold the King was down.

And so came dusk, lit by the glimmer of clashing steel, dreadful with cries of pain and thunder of trampling hoofs where horsemen leapt the shattered barriers, crushing alike the living and the dead. Yet still, amid that din and wild confusion, the Saxons, thegn and churl and men of London, fought back to back around the banner of their dying king.

“Godric ... ho, lad—art there?”

“Ay, but here’s our end. Good-night to thee, bold Wiglaf....”

“Verily, friend, here dieth ... Saxon England. So ... by the Blood ... here dieth Saxon Wiglaf!”

So saying, the death-smitten giant whirled aloft his mighty axe and, roaring like a Berserk, leapt into the close-locked fray and was gone.

And now it was that bold Leofwine fell, and heroic Gurth, slaying, was slain.

Thus came night.

Now Godric, lying half-smothered beneath the dead, heard strange, small cries, and sudden, thin whimperings, for the roar of conflict had ceased at last. He beheld a flickering light, felt hands, strong yet kindly, lift him, and saw dimly a hawk-face, streaked with blood and sweat, beneath a dinted helmet.

“Ah ... Gilles!” he gasped. “I yearned amain to slay thee, but ... the fortune’s thine. So now, here’s my throat!”

“Nay, Godric, our fighting shall be done with henceforth, I pray.”

“Thou’rt a cursed Norman——”

“And thou a valiant Saxon. So let there be amity betwixt us and all kindliness ... for Githa’s sweet sake.”

“Thou’rt hated foe!”

“And would be trusty friend.”

“So? Then ... give me—death!”

“Take life.”

“Ah, God of Battles,” groaned Godric, “let me die a free man still!”

Then, with bloody head pillowed on his enemy’s mailed breast, young Godric, thegn of Brandon Holm, closed his eyes.