Here Harold found them, a formidable force, drawn up in a circle, the

line marked out by shining spears. The English king had marched hither

in all haste from the coast, where he had been awaiting the coming of

William of Normandy. Tostig, the rebel son of Godwin, had brought ruin

upon the land.



Before the battle commenced, twenty horsemen rode out from Harold's

vanguard and moved towards the foe. Harold, the king, rode at their

head. As they drew near they saw a leader of the opposing host, clad in

a blue mantle and wearing a shining helmet, fall to the earth through

the stumbling of his horse.



"Who is the man that fell?" asked Harold.



"The king of Norway," answered one of his companions.



"He is a tall and stately warrior," answered Harold, "but his end is

near."



Then, under command of the king, one of his noble followers rode up to

the opposing line and called out,--



"Is Tostig, the son of Godwin, here?"



"It would be wrong to say he is not," answered the rebel Englishman,

stepping into view.



The herald then begged him to make peace with his brother, saying that

it was dreadful that two men, sons of the same mother, should be in arms

against each other.



"What will Harold give me if I make peace with him?" asked Tostig.



"He will give you a brother's love and make you earl of Northumberland."



"And what will he give to my friend, the king of Norway?"



"Seven feet of earth for a grave," was the grim answer of the envoy;

"or, as he seems a very tall man, perhaps a foot or two more."



"Ride back, then," said Tostig, "and bid Harold make ready for battle.

Whatever happens, it shall never be said of Tostig that he basely gave

up the friend who had helped him in time of need."



The fight began,--and quickly ended. Hardrada fought like a giant, but

an arrow in his throat brought him dead to the ground. Tostig fell also,

and many other chiefs. The Northmen, disheartened, yielded. Harold gave

them easy terms, bidding them take their ships and sail again to the

land whence they had come.



This warlike picture on the land may be matched by one upon the sea.

Over the waves of the English Channel moved a single ship, such a one as

had rarely been seen upon those waters. Its sails were of different

bright colors; the vanes at the mast-heads were gilded; the three lions

of Normandy were painted here and there; the figure-head was a child

with a bent bow, its arrow pointed towards the land of England. At the

mainmast-head floated a consecrated banner, which had been sent from

Rome.



It was the ship of William of Normandy, alone upon the waves. Three

thousand vessels in all had left with it the shores of France, six or

seven hundred of them large in size. Now, day was breaking, and the

king's ship was alone. The others had vanished in the night.



William ordered a sailor to the mast-head to report on what he could

see.



"I see nothing but the water and the sky," came the lookout's cry from

above.



"We have outsailed them; we must lay to," said the duke.



Breakfast was served, with warm spiced wine, to keep the crew in good

heart. After it was over the sailor was again sent aloft.



"I can see four ships, low down in the offing," he proclaimed.



A third time he was sent to the mast-head. His voice now came to those

on deck filled with merry cheer.



"Now I see a forest of masts and sails," he cried.



Within a few hours afterwards the Normans were landing in Pevensey Bay,

on the Sussex coast. Harold had been drawn off by the invasion in the

north, and the new invaders were free to land. Duke William was among

the first. As he set foot on shore he stumbled and fell. The hearts of

his knights fell with him, for they deemed this an unlucky sign. But

William had that ready wit which turns ill into good fortune. Grasping

two handfuls of the soil, he hastily rose, saying, cheerily, "Thus do I

seize upon the land of England."



Meanwhile, Harold was feasting, after his victory, at York. As he sat

there with his captains, a stir was heard at the doors, and in rushed a

messenger, booted and spurred, and covered with dust from riding fast

and far.



"The Normans have come!" was his cry. "They have landed at Pevensey Bay.

They are out already, harrying the land. Smoke and fire are the beacons

of their march."



That feast came to a sudden end. Soon Harold and his men were in full

march for London. Here recruits were gathered in all haste. Within a

week the English king was marching towards where the Normans lay

encamped. He was counselled to remain and gather more men, leaving some

one else to lead his army.



"Not so," he replied; "an English king must never turn his back to the

enemy."



We have now a third picture to draw, and a great one,--that of the

mighty and momentous conflict which ended in the death of the last of

the Saxon kings, and the Norman conquest of England.



The force of William greatly outnumbered that of Harold. It comprised

about sixty thousand men, while Harold had but twenty or thirty

thousand. And the Normans were more powerfully armed, the English having

few archers, while many of them were hasty recruits who bore only

pitchforks and other tools of their daily toil. The English king,

therefore, did not dare to meet the heavily-armed and mail-clad Normans

in the open field. Wisely he led his men to the hill of Senlac, near

Hastings, a spot now occupied by the small town of Battle, so named in

memory of the great fight. Here he built intrenchments of earth, stones,

and tree-trunks, behind which he waited the Norman assault. Marshy

ground covered the English right. In front, at the most exposed

position, stood the "huscarls," or body-guard, of Harold, men clad in

mail and armed with great battle-axes, their habit being to interlock

their shields like a wall. In their midst stood the standard of

Harold,--with the figure of a warrior worked in gold and gems,--and

beside it the Golden Dragon of Wessex, a banner of ancient fame. Back of

them were crowded the half-armed rustics who made up the remainder of

the army.



Duke William had sought, by ravaging the land, to bring Harold to an

engagement. He had until now subsisted by plunder. He was now obliged to

concentrate his forces. A concentrated army cannot feed by pillage.

There was but one thing for the Norman leader to do. He must attack the

foe in his strong position, with victory or ruin as his only

alternatives.



The night before the battle was differently passed by the two armies.

The Normans spent the hours in prayer and confession to their priests.

Bishop Odo celebrated mass on the field as day dawned, his white

episcopal vestment covering a coat of mail, while war-horse and

battle-axe awaited him when the benediction should be spoken. The

English, on their side, sat round their watch-fires, drinking great

horns of ale, and singing warlike lays, as their custom for centuries

had been.



Day had not dawned on that memorable 14th of October, of the year 1066,

when both sides were in arms and busily preparing for battle. William

and Harold alike harangued their men and bade them do their utmost for

victory. Ruin awaited the one side, slavery the other, if defeat fell

upon their banners.



William rode a fine Spanish horse, which a Norman had brought from

Galicia, whither he had gone on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Iago.

The consecrated standard was borne by his side by one Tonstain, "the

White," two barons having declined the dangerous honor. Behind him rode

the pride of the Norman nobility.



On the hill-side before them stood Harold and his stout body-guard,

trenches and earthworks in their front, their shields locked into a wall

of iron. In the first line stood the men of Kent, this being their

ancient privilege. Behind them were ranged the burgesses of London, the

royal standard in their midst. Beside the standard stood Harold himself,

his brothers Gurth and Leofwin by his side, and around them a group of

England's noblest thanes and warriors.



On came the Norman column. Steadily awaited them the English phalanx.

"Dieu aide!" or "God is our help!" shouted the assailing knights.

"Christ's rood! the holy rood!" roared back the English warriors. Nearer

they came, till they looked in each other's eyes, and the battle was

ready to begin.



And now, from the van of the Norman host, rode a man of renown, the

minstrel Taillefer. A gigantic man he was, singer, juggler, and champion

combined. As he rode fearlessly forward he chanted in a loud voice the

ancient "Song of Roland," flinging his sword in the air with one hand as

he sang, and catching it as it fell with the other. As he sang, the

Normans took up the refrain of his song, or shouted their battle cry of

"Dieu aide."



Onward he rode, thrusting his blade through the body of the first

Englishman he met. The second he encountered was flung wounded to the

ground. With the third the "Song of Roland" ended; the giant minstrel

was hurled from his horse pierced with a mortal wound. He had sung his

last song. He crossed himself and was at rest.



On came the Normans, the band of knights led by William assailing

Harold's centre, the mercenary host of French and Bretons attacking his

flanks. The Norman foot led the van, seeking to force a passage across

the English stockade. "Out, out!" fiercely shouted the men of Kent, as

they plied axe and javelin with busy hands. The footmen were driven

back. The Norman horse in turn were repulsed. Again and again the duke

rallied and led his knights to the fatal stockade; again and again he

and his men were driven back. The blood of the Norseman in his veins

burned with all the old Viking battle-thirst. The headlong valor which

he had often shown on Norman plains now impelled him relentlessly

forward. Yet his coolness and readiness never forsook him. The course of

the battle ever lay before his eyes, its reins in his grasp. At one time

during the combat the choicest of the Norman cavalry were driven upon a

deep trench which the English had dug and artfully concealed. In they

went in numbers, men and horses falling and perishing. Disaster

threatened Duke William's army. The Bretons, checked by the marshes on

the right broke in disorder. Panic threatened to spread through the

whole array, and a wild cry arose that the duke was slain. Men in

numbers turned their backs upon the foe; a headlong flight was begun.



At this almost fatal moment Duke William's power as a leader revealed

itself. His horse had been killed, but no harm had come to him.

Springing to the back of a fresh steed, he spurred before the fugitives,

and bade them halt, threatened them, struck them with his spear. When

the cry was repeated that the duke was dead, he tore off his helmet and

showed his face to the flying host. "Here I am!" he cried, in a

stentorian voice. "Look at me! I live, and by God's help will conquer

yet!"



Their leader's voice gave new courage to the Norman host, the flight

ceased; they rallied, and, following the headlong charge of the duke,

attacked the English with renewed fierceness and vigor. William fought

like an aroused lion. Horse after horse was killed under him, but he

still appeared at the head of his men, shouting his terrible war-cry,

striking down a foeman with every swing of his mighty iron club.



He broke through the stockade; he spurred furiously on those who guarded

the king's standard; down went Gurth, the king's brother, before a blow

of that terrible mace; down went Leofwin, a second brother of the king;

William's horse fell dead under him, a rider refused to lend him his

horse, but a blow from that strong mailed hand emptied the saddle, and

William was again horsed and using his mighty weapon with deadly effect.



Yet despite all his efforts the English line of defence remained

unbroken. That linked wall of shields stood intact. From behind it the

terrible battle-axes of Harold's men swung like flails, making crimson

gaps in the crowded ranks before them. Hours had passed in this

conflict. It began with day-dawn; the day was waning, yet still the

English held their own; the fate of England hung in the scale; it began

to look as if Harold would win.



But Duke William was a man of resources. That wall of shields must be

rent asunder, or the battle was lost. If it could not be broken by

assault, it might by retreat. He bade the men around him to feign a

disorderly flight. The trick succeeded; many of the English leaped the

stockade and pursued their flying foes. The crafty duke waited until the

eager pursuers were scattered confusedly down the hill. Then, heading a

body of horse which he had kept in reserve, he rushed upon the

disordered mass, cutting them down in multitudes, strewing the hill-side

with English slain.



Through the abandoned works the duke led his knights, and gained the

central plateau. On the flanks the French and Bretons poured over the

stockade and drove back its poorly-armed defenders. It was

mid-afternoon, and the field already seemed won. Yet when the sunset

hour came on that red October day the battle still raged. Harold had

lost his works of defence, yet his huscarls stood stubbornly around him,

and with unyielding obstinacy fought for their standard and their king.

The spot on which they made their last fight was that marked afterwards

by the high altar of Battle Abbey.



The sun was sinking. The battle was not yet decided. For nine hours it

had raged. Dead bodies by thousands clogged the field. The living fought

from a platform of the dead. At length, as the sun was nearing the

horizon, Duke William brought up his archers and bade them pour their

arrows upon the dense masses crowded around the standard of the English

king. He ordered them to shoot into the air, that the descending shafts

might fall upon the faces of the foe.



Victory followed the flight of those plumed shafts. As the sun went down

one of them pierced Harold's right eye. When they saw him fall the

Normans rushed like a torrent forward, and a desperate conflict ensued

over the fallen king. The Saxon standard still waved over the serried

English ranks. Robert Fitz Ernest, a Norman knight, fought his way to

the staff. His outstretched hand had nearly grasped it when an English

battle-axe laid him low. Twenty knights, grouped in mass, followed him

through the English phalanx. Down they went till ten of them lay

stretched in death. The other ten reached the spot, tore down the

English flag, and in a few minutes more the consecrated banner of

Normandy was flying in its stead.



The conflict was at an end. As darkness came the surviving English fled

into the woods in their rear. The Normans remained masters of the field.

Harold, the king, was dead, and all his brothers had fallen; Duke

William was England's lord. On the very spot where Harold had fallen the

conqueror pitched his tent, and as darkness settled over vanquished

England he "sate down to eat and drink among the dead."



No braver fight had ever been made than that which Harold made for

England. The loss of the Normans had been enormous. On the day after the

battle the survivors of William's army were drawn up in line, and the

muster-roll called. To a fourth of the names no answer was returned.

Among the dead were many of the noblest lords and bravest knights of

Normandy. Yet there were hungry nobles enough left to absorb all the

fairest domains of Saxon England, and they crowded eagerly around the

duke, pressing on him their claims. A new roll was prepared, containing

the names of the noblemen and gentlemen who had survived the bloody

fight. This was afterwards deposited in Battle Abbey, which William had

built upon the hill where Harold made his gallant stand.



The body of the slain king was not easily to be found. Harold's aged

mother, who had lost three brave sons in the battle, offered Duke

William its weight in gold for the body of the king. Two monks sought

for it, but in vain. The Norman soldiers had despoiled the dead, and the

body of a king could not be told among that heap of naked corpses. In

the end the monks sent for Editha, a beautiful maiden to whom Harold had

been warmly attached, and begged her to search for her slain lover.



Editha, the "swan-necked," as some chroniclers term her, groped, with

eyes half-blinded with tears, through that heap of mutilated dead, her

soul filled with horror, yet seeking on and on until at length her

love-true eyes saw and knew the face of the king. Harold's body was

taken to Waltham Abbey, on the river Lea, a place he had loved when

alive. Here he was interred, his tomb bearing the simple inscription,

placed there by the monks of Waltham, "Here lies the unfortunate

Harold!"