LITMIR.BIZ

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of the courtier, without injuring the pirate. Great was the triumph of the latter; and Eric, the son of Hako, admiring his intrepidity, procured his pardon. Another, Vagne, one of the chiefs, was pushed against the executioner by his next fellow; Thorkil fell, and, in so doing, his sword cut the rope which bound the pirate, who, seizing the weapon, beheaded the Norwegian jarl. Eric, too, procured his pardon. Eighteen being in this manner slain, the visitors began to feel some admiration for the rest. “Wilt thou accept the offer of thy life?” was demanded of the next. “That,” replied the man, who would not receive even life from an ignoble hand, “depends on the dignity of the giver!” Jarl Eric, the son of Hako, was named, and the offer was accepted. “Wilt thou?” was addressed to another. “Not unless my companions are spared also!” was the reply; and they were spared.^[106]

      |991 to 1001.|

      If the expedition against Norway thus failed, very different was the issue of that directed against England. During the greater part of a century, this island had been unmolested by the pirates. Alfred, towards the close of his reign, had humbled them; Edward the elder had signally triumphed over them; and the name of Athelstane had been dreaded by all the rovers of the sea. There had been battles, indeed, with the Danish state of Northumberland, which, prior to Athelstane’s reign, had formed no part of the Saxon confederation; but the coasts of central and northern England had been undisturbed. On the accession of Ethelred, however, the scourge was resumed. In 991, a large force appeared before Ipswich, and marched to Malden, laying waste the country on every side. On this occasion Brithnoth, the Saxon governor of Essex, was slain; and his fate has been related in a poem, from which copious extracts may be found in a volume connected with the present.^[107] These formidable invaders, as every child knows, were bribed to leave England; and, as every child knows, they soon returned in greater numbers than before. Even when steel, instead of gold, was to be the tribute, a cowardly and treacherous commander, Alfric of Mercia, was intrusted with the defence of England. In the following years, every province was desolated. In 994, Sweyn himself appeared in the Thames with a formidable fleet. He had an ally, Olaf, the son of Trygve, who, since infancy, had never been in Norway, and whose piratical exploits had been celebrated from Russia to Ireland.^[108] His attack on London was repelled; but Essex, Kent, Sussex, and Hampshire suffered dreadfully from his depredations, and those of his ally. As before, though the number of pirates did not exceed 10,000, money was offered by the despicable Ethelred. Olaf, on receiving it, visited the court of the Saxon king, received the rite of confirmation (he had previously been baptized in one of the Scilly islands), and promised never again to molest the English coast. We hear no more of his depredations: but whether his forbearance was owing to his promise, or to his departure for Norway, the throne of which he ascended in little more than a year from this period, may well be doubted.^[109] But Sweyn had no such moderation. In about three years from the payment of the 16,000l., he appeared in the south-west counties, advanced into Sussex and Hampshire, laying waste everything in his passage, and wintered as securely as if he had been naturalised: no opposition was made to his progress. Kent was next ravaged; and the whole of England would, no doubt, have become Danish, had not Sweyn been recalled to contend with a more formidable enemy, Olaf of Norway. One year after the death of that monarch^[110], that is, in 1001, the Danes returned to a country where they had found no enemies, but abundance of prey. Another heavy ransom, and extensive estates in different parts of the kingdom, procured a temporary cessation of hostilities.^[111]

      |1001 to 1003.|

      If Ethelred could not oppose the enemy in the field, and if his coffers were exhausted, he had still one resource left—that of a general massacre. The day before the festival of St. Brice, the authorities of every city and town received secret letters from the court, commanding them and the people everywhere to rise at a certain hour, to fall on the unarmed, unsuspicious Danes, and not to spare one of them. The order was too well obeyed, and the English nation made itself equally guilty with its king. Many of the victims were naturalised; many had English husbands or wives; more were on terms of intimacy with the natives, and, at the moment this bloody mandate was executed, were sharing the hospitality of their huts. Nobody was spared: decrepit age and helpless infancy, youth and beauty, pleaded in vain. Even Gunhilda, sister of Sweyn, a convert to Christianity and the wife of an English earl, suffered with the rest; but not until she had seen her husband and son beheaded in her presence. This was not the mere act of the crown, nor that of a few courtiers, nor that of the municipal authorities: it was that of the English nation. Retribution, as Gunhilda had prophesied, was at hand; and every reader will rejoice that it was so. Sweyn no sooner heard of the massacre, than he swore never to rest until he had inflicted a terrible vengeance on the people. He no longer wished for booty, merely: he would also destroy. With a fleet of three hundred sail, he steered to the west of the island, landed in Cornwall, commenced his devastating career, reached Exeter, which he took by assault, set it on fire, and massacred the inhabitants. From thence he proceeded into Wiltshire, where fire and sword did their work, and passed by way of Salisbury to the sea coast, laden with plunder. No attempt was made to arrest his destructive progress: a Saxon force under Alfric had, indeed, assembled; but it would not fight, and it retired covered with the derision of the invaders.^[112]

      |1003 to 1009.|

      The winter of 1003 Sweyn passed in Denmark; in the following year he was again in England. His destructive career now commenced in the eastern counties; but this year they terminated sooner than could have been foreseen. A famine—the result of preceding depredations—afflicted the land; and as provisions in sufficient abundance could not be found, the pirates returned home for a season. The deplorable cowardice of the troops, the imbecility of the governors, from Ethelred down to the meanest thane, was never equalled in any other country. This condition is well described by Turketul in a letter to Sweyn:—“A country illustrious and powerful; a king asleep, caring only for women and wine, trembling at the very mention of war, hated by his own people, despised by foreigners; generals envious of one another; governors who fly at the first shout of battle.” This weak and vicious king had the felicity to convert his friends into enemies at the very time he most needed their assistance. In 1002 he married the princess Emma of Normandy; but his behaviour to her was so grossly offensive, so brutal, that her father, duke Richard I., joined in making him still more contemptible by imprisoning or killing his subjects who happened to pass through Normandy. The pirates of Sweyn soon returned to consummate their work. In 1006 a heavy sum was paid them; the following year they demanded an equal sum, and declared that, in future, it must be annually paid by way of tribute. Some feeble efforts were made to defend the country; but the leaders of the fleet which had been raised turned their arms against one another. Thus fell the hopes of the nation, which prepared its neck for the most galling yoke that had ever afflicted it.^[113]

      |1010.|

      In the year 1010 the Danes were in possession of sixteen English counties, and they exacted forty-eight thousand pounds for sparing the rest. But such moderation was not in their policy; and no sooner was the money theirs, than their atrocities recommenced. The condition of Kent—which was that of half England—is more graphically described by the biographer of St. Elphege, archbishop of Canterbury, than by all the chronicles of the period. When that city was first besieged, there was some prospect of a defence; the walls were strong, and there were many strong arms eager to defend their cathedral, their bishop, their wives and children. But a traitor (and England was full of them) set fire to about twenty different houses: to extinguish the flames many of the defenders left their posts; one of the gates was broken open, and the pirates rushed into the city, while the flames spread on every side. The men were cut down in the streets, or they were thrown into the devouring fire; women were violated and speared; children were tossed like balls from the points of the lances. As a last resource, St. Elphege and his clergy had taken refuge in the cathedral; but he could not hear of these excesses without endeavouring to stop them. Rushing from the sacred pile into the midst of the pirates, he exclaimed, “Spare the city! at least, if you are men, spare the helplessness of infancy! Turn your weapons against me, only, who have always condemned your crimes!” They gagged him, bound him, and led him to witness the fate of his church, to which thousands of the people had now resorted in the vain hope that its sanctity would impress even pagans. It was soon on fire; the smoke ascended in clouds; the flames spread; and

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