The sun had set, the first star was in heaven, the
“Fighting Man” was laid low, and on that
spot where now, all forlorn and shattered, amidst
stagnant water, stands the altar-stone of Battle Abbey,
rose the glittering dragon that surmounted the consecrated
banner of the Norman victor.
Close by his banner, amidst the piles of the dead,
William the Conqueror pitched his pavilion, and sate
at meat. And over all the plain, far and near,
torches were moving like meteors on a marsh; for the
Duke had permitted the Saxon women to search for the
bodies of their lords. And as he sate, and talked,
and laughed, there entered the tent two humble monks:
their lowly mien, their dejected faces, their homely
serge, in mournful contrast to the joy and the splendour
of the Victory-Feast.
They came to the Conqueror, and knelt.
“Rise up, sons of the Church,” said William,
mildly, “for sons of the Church are we!
Deem not that we shall invade the rights of the religion
which we have come to avenge. Nay, on this spot
we have already sworn to build an abbey that shall
be the proudest in the land, and where masses shall
be sung evermore for the repose of the brave Normans
who fell in this field, and for mine and my consort’s
soul.”
“Doubtless,” said Odo, sneering, “the
holy men have heard already of this pious intent,
and come to pray for cells in the future abbey.”
“Not so,” said Osgood, mournfully, and
in barbarous Norman; “we have our own beloved
convent at Waltham, endowed by the prince whom thine
arms have defeated. We come to ask but to bury
in our sacred cloisters the corpse of him so lately
King over all England—our benefactor, Harold.”
The Duke’s brow fell.
“And see,” said Ailred, eagerly, as he
drew out a leathern pouch, “we have brought
with us all the gold that our poor crypts contained,
for we misdoubted this day,” and he poured out
the glittering pieces at the Conqueror’s feet.
“No!” said William, fiercely, “we
take no gold for a traitor’s body; no, not if
Githa, the usurper’s mother, offered us its weight
in the shining metal; unburied be the Accursed of
the Church, and let the birds of prey feed their young
with his carcase!”
Two murmurs, distinct in tone and in meaning, were
heard in that assembly: the one of approval from
fierce mercenaries, insolent with triumph; the other
of generous discontent and indignant amaze, from the
large majority of Norman nobles.
But William’s brow was still dark, and his eye
still stern; for his policy confirmed his passions;
and it was only by stigmatising, as dishonoured and
accursed, the memory and cause of the dead King, that
he could justify the sweeping spoliation of those who
had fought against himself, and confiscate the lands
to which his own Quens and warriors looked for their
reward.
The murmurs had just died into a thrilling hush, when
a woman, who had followed the monks unperceived and
unheeded, passed with a swift and noiseless step to
the Duke’s foot-stool; and, without bending knee
to the ground, said, in a voice which, though low,
was heard by all:
