Cameos from English History, from Rollo to Edward II

C >> Charlotte Mary Yonge >> Cameos from English History, from Rollo to Edward II

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The Crusade was preached, and Robert invited Edgar to join in it; but he
could not forsake the charge of his sister's children, and was forced to
remain at home. Revolutions, however, continued in Scotland. Donald was
overthrown by Duncan, a son of Malcolm, born long before his marriage;
and the Lowland Scots were impatient of the return to barbarism. Duncan
was killed, and Donald restored. Edgar hoped that his nephews might
be restored. Edmund had chosen to renounce the throne and embrace a
religious life; but the next in age, Edgar and Alexander, were spirited
princes, and eager to assert their right.

The Etheling had never shed blood to regain his own lost kingdom; but he
was a true knight-errant and redresser of wrongs. He asked leave from
William to raise a Saxon army to restore his nephew to the Scottish
throne; and such was the reliance that even the scoffer William had
learnt to place on his word, that it was granted. The English flocked
with joy round their "darling," wishing, without doubt, that it was for
the restoration of the Saxon, instead of the Scottish Edgar, that they
took up arms.

At Durham the monks of St. Cuthbert intrusted to the Etheling their
sacred standard--a curious two-winged ensign, with a cross, that was
carried on a car. It was believed always to bring victory, and at the
first sight of it Donald's men abandoned him, and went over to Edgar.
Donald was made prisoner, and soon after died. Young Edgar assumed the
crown, sent for the rest of his family, and had a happy and prosperous
reign.

Had Edgar Etheling been selfish and ambitious, he might now, at the
head of his victorious Saxons, have had a fair chance of dethroning the
tyrant William; but instead of this, his thoughts were fixed on the Holy
Land; and embarking with his willing army, he came up with the Crusaders
just in time for the siege of Jerusalem, where the English, under "Edgar
Adeling," fought gallantly in the assault in the portion of the army
assigned to Robert of Normandy.

Edgar and Robert returned together, and visited the Normans of Apulia,
where Edgar had been some years before. Robert here fell in love with
Sybilla, the beautiful daughter of the Count of Conversana, and soon
after married her. It was in the midst of the wedding festivities that
Ralph Flambard, lately the wicked minister of William Rufus, arrived
from England, having escaped from prison, bringing the news that his
master, the Red King, was slain, and Henry Beauclerc wore the crown. The
hasty wrath of Duke Robert was quickly fanned by Ralph Flambard, and he
set off at once to attack his brother, and gain the kingdom which Henry
had sworn should be his.

However, on his arrival, he at first only amused himself with conducting
his bride through his dukedom, and being feasted at every castle. When
two knights of Maine came to tell him that Helie de la Fleche was
besieging their castles, he carelessly thanked them for their fidelity,
but told them he had rather gain a kingdom, than a county, and so that
they should make the best terms they could.

Sybilla's dowry enabled Robert to raise a considerable army, and he had
likewise the support of most of the barons whose estates lay both in
Normandy and England, and who therefore preferred that the two states
should be united; whereas those who had only domains in England held
with Henry, wishing to be free from the elder and more powerful nobility
of Normandy. The Anglo-Saxons were for Henry, who had relieved them from
some of their sufferings, and had won their favor by his marriage, which
connected him with the Etheling. Edith, the eldest daughter of the good
Queen Margaret, had remained with her aunt Christina in the Abbey of
Wilton, after her brother had been made King of Scotland. She was like
her mother in many respects; and her aunt wished to devote her to the
cloister, and secure her from the cruel sorrows her mother had endured,
under the black veil that she already wore, like the professed nuns, to
shield her from the insults of the Norman knights, or their attempts to
secure a princess as a bride. But Edith remembered that her father
had once said that he destined her to be a queen, and not a nun. She
recollected how her mother had moulded her court, and been loved and
honored there, and her temper rebelled against the secluded life in the
convent, so much that, in a girlish fit of impatience, she would, when
her aunt was out of sight, tear off her veil and trample upon it.

At length the tidings came that Henry, the new King of England, wooed
the Princess of Scotland for his bride.

A marriage of policy it evidently was; for, unlike the generous love
that had caused Malcolm to espouse the friendless exile Margaret, Henry
was a perjured usurper, and dark stories were told of his conduct in
Normandy. Christina strongly and vehemently opposed the marriage, as the
greatest calamity that could befall her niece: she predicted that, if
Edith persisted in it, only misery could arise from it; and when she
found her determined, tried to prove her to be already bound by the
promises of a nun.

Here Christina went too far: a court was held by Archbishop Anselm,
and it was fully proved that the Lady Edith was under no vows. She was
declared free to marry, and in a short time became the wife of Henry,
changing her own Saxon name to the Norman Matilda, or Maude. In the
first year of her marriage, when Henry was anxious to win the favor
of the English, he conformed so much to their ways that the scornful
Normans used to call him and his young wife by the Saxon names of Godric
and Godiva. The Saxons thus were willing to stand by King Henry, all
excepting the sailors, who were won by Robert's spirit of enterprise,
and deserting, with their whole fleet, went to Normandy, and brought
Robert and his army safe to Portsmouth.

This happened just as Edith Maude had given birth to her first child,
at Winchester. Robert was urged to assault the city; but he refrained,
declaring such would be an unknightly action toward his sister-in-law
and her babe. Henry soon came up with his forces, the brothers held a
conference, and, as usual, Robert was persuaded to give up his rights,
and to make peace.

For the next four years Robert continued in Normandy, leading a gay and
careless life at first with his beautiful Sybilla; but she soon died,
leaving an infant son, and thenceforward his affairs grew worse and
worse, as he followed only the impulse of the moment. From riot and
drunkenness he fell into fits of devotion, fasting, weeping, and
praying; his poverty so great that he was at one time obliged to lie in
bed for want of garments to wear; and his dukedom entirely uncared for,
fields left uncultivated, and castles which were dens of robbers.

The Normans begged that some measures might be taken for their relief,
and King Henry came, and, with Robert's consent, set things on a better
footing; but meanwhile he was secretly making arrangements with the
barons for the overthrow of his brother. In two years' time he had
tempted over almost every baron to desert the cause of their master, and
in 1106 prepared to wrest the dukedom from him. The unfortunate Robert
came to him at Northampton, almost alone, forced himself into his
presence, and told him he would submit everything to him, if he would
only leave him the state and honor due to his birth. Henry turned his
back on him, muttering some answer which Robert could not hear, and
which he would not repeat. In a passion, Robert reproached him with his
ill faith and cruel, grasping temper, left him hastily, and returned to
Rouen, to make a last sad struggle for his inheritance.

He placed his child in the Castle of Falaise, obtaining a promise from
the garrison that they would give up their trust to no summons but his
own, or that of a trusty knight called William de Ferrieres. Hardly a
vassal would rally round him in his dire distress; his only supporters
were two outlawed barons, whom Henry had driven out of England for their
violence, and besides these there were two faithful friends of his
youth, whose swords had always been ready in his cause, except in the
unhappy war against his father. One was Helie de St. Saen, the other
was Edgar Etheling, who quitted his peaceful home, and all the favor he
enjoyed in England as uncle to the Queen, to bear arms for his despoiled
and injured friend.

Henry invaded Normandy, and all the nobles came over to his side. Robert
met him before the Castle of Tenchebray, and the two armies prepared for
battle the next day. In the evening a, hermit came to the English camp;
his head strewn with ashes, and a cord about his waist. He conjured
Henry to cease from his unnatural war with a brother who had been a
soldier of the Cross, "his brow still shining with traces of the crown
of Jerusalem," and prevailed so far as to gain permission to go and
propose terms of peace to the Duke of Normandy. On coming into his
presence, the hermit begged to kiss the feet which had trodden the
pavement of the Holy Sepulchre, and then exhorted Robert to be contented
with the kingdom reserved for him in heaven. He declared Henry's terms
very hard ones; but the Duke would have accepted them, but that he was
required to own himself vanquished; and against this his haughty spirit
revolted. He cast aside all offers of accommodation, and prepared for
battle.

The fight of Tenchebray took place on St. Michael's Eve, 1106, the day
forty years since the Battle of Hastings; and when the Saxons in Henry's
army turned Robert's Normans to flight, they rejoiced as if they were
wiping out the memory of the defeat of Harold. Yet in the vanquished
army was their own Etheling, the darling of England, who was made
prisoner together with the unfortunate Robert, and led before Henry. It
was the last battle in which the two friends fought side by side; the
disinherited prince had fought for the son of the despoiler for the last
time, and soon they were to part, to spend the many remaining years of
their lives in a far different manner.

Robert was made to summon the surrender of Rouen, and Ferrieres was sent
to receive Falaise, and the little William, heir of Normandy; but the
faithful garrison would not yield till Henry had conducted thither the
Duke himself, who called on them to surrender, lest the castle should be
taken by the wicked outlaw De Belesme. Little William was brought to the
King, and his tears and caresses for a moment touched Henry's heart
so far that he gave the child into the charge of Helie de St. Saen,
Robert's faithful friend, and husband of his illegitimate daughter.

It was the last time Robert of Normandy saw the face of his only child.
The boy went to Arques with the faithful Helie, while Robert was sent
to England, and imprisoned in Cardiff Castle. At first he was honorably
treated, and allowed to indulge in hunting and other amusements; but he
made an attempt to escape, and was only recaptured in consequence of his
horse having plunged into a bog, whence he could not extricate himself.
After this he was more closely guarded, and it is said that his eyes
were put out; but there is reason to hope that this may not be true. He
was under the charge of Robert, an illegitimate son of Henry, who had
married Amabel Fitzaymon, heiress of Gloucester, and who was a noble,
high-minded, chivalrous person, likely to do all in his power to cheer
his uncle's captivity.

Here Robert from time to time heard of his son: first, how Henry had
sent messengers to seize him when St. Saen was absent from Arques; but
happily they came on a Sunday morning, when the child was at church,
and the servants, warned in time, carried him off to meet their brave
master. Then Helie chose to forfeit lands and castle rather than give up
his trust, and conducted his little brother-in-law from court to court,
wherever he could hope for security, till young William was grown up,
and raised an army, with the aid of Louis of France and Foulques of
Anjou, to recover his inheritance and rescue his father. But Foulques
was detached from the alliance by the betrothal of his daughter to
Henry's son William, and the battle of Brenville ruined the hopes of
William of Normandy. Next, Robert learnt that the male line of the
Counts of Flanders had failed, and his son, as the representative of
Matilda, the Conqueror's wife, had been owned as the heir of that rich
country. Shortly after, the captive Duke was one morning found weeping.
He had had a dream, he said, in which he had seen his son dying of a
wound in the hand. The tidings came in due time that William had been
accidentally pierced by the point of a lance in the hand, the wound had
mortified, and he expired at the end of a week. The prisoner still lived
on, till, in the twenty-eighth year of his captivity, death at length
released him. There is a story of his having starved himself to death in
a fit of anger, because Henry had sent him a robe after wearing it once;
but this is very improbable. Robert had reached a great age, and his
was a character which was likely to be much improved when absent from
temptation and with time for thought. He lies buried in Gloucester
Cathedral, under an effigy carved in bog oak, with the legs crossed, in
memory of his crusade, but unfortunately painted in such a manner as to
entirely to spoil its effect.

Edgar Etheling was soon allowed to ransom himself, and retiring to his
own estates, lived there in peace. His niece, the good Queen Maude,
lived on in the English Court, trying to imitate her mother in her
charities, and being, like her, much beloved by the poor, to whose wants
she ministered with her own hands; while her youngest brother David,
then a gay-tempered youth, used to laugh at her for such mean toils, as
he called them. No help, such as her father had given St. Margaret, did
Maude receive from her husband; she had only the pain of watching his
harshness, cruelty, and hypocrisy, during the eighteen years of her
marriage. She died in 1118, leaving three children--Maude, already
married to the Emperor of Germany, and William and Richard. William
Etheling is reported to have been as proud as his sister Maude, and to
have talked of using the churl Saxons as beasts of burden. But there
are stories more in his favor. He seemed generously disposed toward his
cousin, the son of Robert; and he met his death in an attempt to save
life, so that it may be hoped that he was not entirely unworthy of the
good old name of Etheling, which he bore as heir to the throne.

Our Etheling Edgar lived on in peace through all the troublous times of
Stephen, without again appearing in history, till his death is noted in
1159, ninety-three years after the Norman Conquest.

It has been the fashion to call him a fool and a coward; and no doubt
the ambitious men who broke oath after oath, and scrupled at no
violence, so esteemed one whose right was the inheritance over which
they quarrelled. Whether he was a fool, may be answered by showing
that, after he was fourteen, his name was never once brought forward by
factious men for their own purposes; that he conducted a treaty with
Scotland, and restored his nephew to the throne: and whether he was a
coward, no one can ask who has heard of him hastening to attack the
Saracens of Apulia, invading warlike Scotland, leading the English to
scale the walls of Jerusalem, and, lastly, fighting in a cause that
could only be desperate, in a battle that _must_ be lost, where he had
no personal interest, and only came to aid a distressed and injured
friend. No one can inquire into the history of the last of the race of
Alfred without acknowledging in him one of the most perfect examples of
true chivalry, in inviolate adherence to his word, and in redressing of
grievances, for which his good sword was ever ready, though for his own
rights it was never drawn, nor was one drop of English blood shed that
Edgar Etheling might reign.

CAMEO XV.

THE COUNTS OF ANJOU.
(888-1142.)

Having traced the ancestry of our Norman kings from the rocks of Norway
and the plains of Neustria, let us, before entering on the new race
which succeeded them, turn back to the woodland birthplace of the house
of Plantagenet, on the banks of the Loire.

The first ancestor to whom this branch of our royal line can be traced
is Torquatus, a native of Rennes in Brittany, and keeper of the forest
of Nid de Merle in Anjou, for the Emperor Charles the Bald. Of Roman
Gallic blood, and of honest, faithful temper, he was more trusted by
his sovereign than the fierce Frank warriors, who scarcely owned their
prince to be their superior; and in after times the counts and kings his
descendants were proud of deriving their lineage from the stout Woodman
of the Blackbird's Nest.

His son Tertullus distinguished himself in battle, and died early,
leaving an only son, named Ingelger, who was godson to the Countess de
Gastinois, and was brought up in her castle, the school of chivalry and
"courtoisie" to the young vassals of the county.

The lady was heiress of Gastinois in her own right, and as the monarch
had the power of disposing of his wards in marriage, she had been
obliged to give her hand to the seneschal of Charles the Bald, a person
whom she much disliked. One morning her husband was found dead in his
bed; and his nearest relation, whose name was Gontran, accusing her of
having murdered him, laid claim to her whole inheritance.

The cause was brought before Charles the Bald, at Chateau Landon; and
Gontran offered to prove his words by the ordeal of battle, taking
off his gauntlet and throwing it down before the Emperor. Unless the
countess could find a champion to maintain her innocence, or unless
Gontran was overthrown in single combat, she would be completely
ruined, adjudged a murderess, and forced to hide her disgrace in a
convent. None of the knights present would undertake her cause; and
after gazing round at them in despair, she fainted away.

Her godson Ingelger, who attended her as a page, could not bear the
sight of her distress, and, as a last hope, threw himself on his knees
before the Emperor, entreating that, though he was only sixteen, and in
the last grade of chivalry, he might be allowed to take up the gauntlet,
and assert the innocence of his godmother.

Permission was granted; and Ingelger, trusting to the goodness of
his cause, spent the night in prayer, went in early morning with the
countess to hear mass, and afterward joined her in giving alms to the
poor; then she hung a reliquary round his neck, and sent him to arm for
the decisive combat.

The whole court were spectators; the Emperor Charles on his throne, and
the accused widow in a litter curtained with black. Prayers were offered
that God would show the right; the trumpets sounded, and the champions
rode in full career against each other. At the first onset Gontran's
lance pierced his adversary's shield, so that he could not disengage it,
and Ingelger was thus enabled to close with him, hurl him to the ground,
and dispatch turn with a dagger. Then, while the lists rung with
applause, the brave boy rushed up to his godmother, and threw himself
into her arms in a transport of joy.

The countess, thus cleared, only desired to retire from the world, and
besought the Emperor's consent to her bestowing all her lands on her
young defender. It was readily granted; and shortly after Charles
gave him, in addition, the government of the city of Angers, and the
adjoining county of Anjou, whence he derives his title. [Footnote: Many
similar tales of championship will occur to every one, in romance and
ballad. The Ginevra of Ariosto, our own beautiful English ballad of Sir
Aldingar, where it is an angel in the form of a "tinye boy," who appears
to vindicate the good fame of the slandered and desolate queen, the "Sir
Hugh le Blond of Arbuthnot, in Scotland." Perhaps this story may be the
root of all the rest. It is recorded in the "Gesta Andegavorum," in the
compilation of which a descendant of Ingelger had a considerable share.]

Little more is known of the first Count of Anjou, except that he bravely
resisted the Northern pirates; and for his defence of the clergy of
St. Martin of Tours was rewarded by a canonry, and the charge of the
treasure of the chapter. He died in 888, and was succeeded by his son
Count Foulques le Roux, or the Red. From this time the house of Anjou
began to acquire that character of violence, ambition, and turbulence,
which distinguished the whole family, till, six hundred years after, the
last of the race shed her blood on the scaffold of the Tower of London.
It therefore seems appropriate here to give the strange, wild story to
which they were wont to attribute their family temper, though it is
generally told of one who came later in the line. It was said that the
count observed that his wife seldom went to church, and never at the
celebration of mass; and believing that she had some unholy dealings to
cause this reluctance, he put her to the proof, by causing her to be
forcibly held throughout the service by four knights. At the moment of
consecration, however, the knights found the mantle alone in their hands;
the lady had flown through the window, leaving nothing behind her but the
robe, and a fearful smell of brimstone!

From the witch-countess, as she was called, her sons were thought to
derive the wild energy and fierce mutual hatred which raged for so many
centuries, and at last caused the extinction of the line. Foulques le
Roux was certainly not exempt, for he was believed to be the murderer of
his own brother. His eldest son, Geoffrey, called the Beloved of Ladies,
died before him; and Foulques, who succeeded him, though termed "_le
bon_," had little claim to such a title, unless it was derived from his
love of learning and his friendship with the monks of Tours.

He composed several Latin hymns for the use of the Cathedral, and always
took part in the service on high festivals in his canonical dress, as
hereditary treasurer.

Once, when King Louis IV. was present, he and his courtiers irreverently
amused themselves during the service by making jests on the clerical
count. A few days after, Louis received the following letter:

"The Count of Anjou to the King of France. Hail. Learn, my liege
Lord, that an unlettered King is no better than a donkey with
a crown on."

In spite of his devotion, to St. Martin, Foulques sacrilegiously robbed
the treasury of two golden vessels, and did not restore them till a
severe illness brought him to the point of death. The Bretons accuse him
of a horrible crime. He married the widow of Duke Alan _barbe torte_,
who brought with her to Angers her infant son, the little Duke Drogo.
The child died, and the Bretons believed that, for the sake of retaining
the treasure brought by his subjects, his stepfather had murdered him,
by pouring boiling water on his head while his body was in a cold bath,
so that, the two streams mingling, it might appear that he had been only
placed in tepid water.

However this might be, a war broke out between the Angevins and Bretons,
and there was bitter hatred between the two races, which is scarcely
yet at an end. Indeed, an Angevin Count could hardly in these days be a
peaceable man, bordering on such neighbors as Brittany, Normandy, and
Poitou. The Angevins were much more French than any of these neighbors;
and their domain being smaller, they generally held by the King. They
were his hereditary grand seneschals, carving before him on great
occasions; and Geoffrey Grise gonnelle, who succeeded Foulques le Bon
in 958, was on the side of the crown in all the war with Richard the
Fearless of Normandy. His ogre-like surname of Grise gonnelle simply
means gray gown, and is ascribed by the chronicle of Anjou to the
following chivalrous adventure:

In the course of the war with Normandy, when Harald Bluetooth's
Norwegians were ravaging France, and were encamped before the walls
of Paris, a gigantic Berserk daily advanced to the gate of the city,
challenging the French knights to single combat. Several who accepted
it fell by his hand; and King Lothaire forbade any further attempts to
attack him. Count Geoffrey was at this time collecting his vassals to
come to the King's assistance; and no sooner did he hear of the defiance
of the Northman, than, carried away by the spirit of knight-errantry, he
bade his forces wait for him at Chateau Landon; and, without divulging
his purpose, rode off, with only three attendants, to seek the
encounter. He came to the bank of the Seine in early morning, caused a
miller to ferry him and his horse across the river, leaving his squires
on the other side, and reached the open space before the walls in time
to hear and answer the Northman's daily challenge. The duel ended in the
death of the giant, and was witnessed by the French on the walls; but
they did not recognize their champion, and before they could come down
to open the gates, and thank him, he was gone. He had cut off the
enemy's head, and, bidding the miller carry it to the King, crossed the
Seine again, met his squires at the mill, and rejoined his vassals at
Landon, without letting any one know what had happened.