Ned, the son of Webb: What he did.

Ned, the son of Webb, heard, or thought he heard, a terrible exclamation from the king, and then both of the earls, his brothers, Gyrth and Leofwine, spurred away. They went to recall the mistaken sally of their overconfident men, but they were too late.

The quick eyes of Duke William had instantly perceived his opportunity. He was already reinforcing with fresh troops his rallying fugitives, and at once, in the open field, their superior numbers became available. In vain did their rash Saxon pursuers rally around the two royal brothers. In vain did they cut down hundreds of their foemen while they strove to fight their way back to the shelter of their Senlac defences.

"Swarms!" groaned Ned. "Oh, what swarms of Normans are pouring around those men! William himself is there! More of his men-at-arms are charging in! His very best knights! What? There! He and Earl Gyrth are fighting, hand to hand! William's horse is killed! He has fallen! He is up again! Gyrth's horse, too, is killed! They are fighting again on foot! Is it Gyrth? No, I can see William! Yes! Oh, dear! Gyrth is dead!"

It was terribly exciting to watch such a struggle as this had become. Near him sat King Harold, himself, upon his horse, as motionless as a bronze image.

"Father Brian," whispered Ned, hoarsely, "Leofwine, too, is down. King Harold hath no brothers, now. He must fight the rest of this battle alone. Oh, this is dreadful!"

Dark, indeed, had now become the prospect before the central body of the Saxon army. Although the defences in front of it were unbroken, those at its right as well as at its left were very soon passed by the Normans. It was afterward said that Duke William had cunningly ordered his troops on the Saxon right also to pretend flight, that their enemies might be tempted to follow as those on the left had followed the Bretons.

However that may be, the sun was now sinking, and the centre of King Harold's army was all that was left of it in good fighting order. Of its assailants, the number which had fallen was believed to equal, man for man, that of all the Saxons who had been present at Senlac that morning. Nearly a fourth part of Duke William's army, therefore, lay upon the field. The remainder of it, however, still outnumbered, five to one, the remnant of King's Harold's heroes.

Firm as a rock stood these, and against them the furious tide of the invaders, horsemen and footmen, broke in vain. Still they held their strong position upon the hill of the standards, the Golden Dragon of England and the Fighting Man that was Harold's own personal banner. The king, himself, was now fighting on foot in the front rank of his house-carles, and he had performed mighty deeds of valour.

In this hour, however, the subtle war cunning of the duke came to his aid. The shields and the armour of the closely serried Saxons behind these remaining works prevented the shafts of his bowmen from injuring greatly the solid wedge of warriors into which the thingmen and their comrades had formed themselves around and on the hill. The battle could not be altogether lost so long as this living wall should remain unbroken. All the Saxons were on foot, and the Normans, who were mounted, gained little thereby, since their unarmoured horses were so often killed by javelins as they pressed forward.

"Shoot up! Shoot up!" shouted the duke to his archers. "Let the shafts fall upon them from above. They have no shields over their heads."

Thousands of strong-armed bowmen at once obeyed him. In a moment more, it was as if a thick hail of sharp arrows was falling among the Saxons behind, while those who were in front were still compelled to hold their shields before them. The cunning device of the duke might yet have been baffled, perhaps, but for one of its first fatal consequences. Man after man was going down, and the king himself looked up to see what this might be. Even as he raised his head, the battle was lost, and the crown of England passed to William of Normandy, for from the sky above, as it seemed, a hissing shaft came down and pierced through his right eye to the brain.

"The king hath fallen!" screamed Ned, the son of Webb. "Harold is dead! He is dead! We are beaten! England is conquered!"

"Come thou on with me, then," said Father Brian. "There are plenty of horses. We must speed away from this place. The house-carles are wearied with long fighting, but they will all die where they stand. Thou and I have no need to die with them. Quickly, now, my boy!"

Fierce, frenzied, desperate, was the last stand of the Saxons around the royal standards and the dying king. Terrible was the carnage which they made among the Normans, but it was as Father Brian had said: the warriors of Harold were worn out with long fighting, and they were now continually assailed by arrivals of fresh troops, men who had hitherto done little or nothing. Flesh and blood could endure no more, and the work of destruction was slowly completed. One strong body of Saxons, it was afterward related, was actually getting away when the darkness came. It was closely followed by the duke himself and his men-at-arms. Then the Saxons turned again upon their pursuers, and William not only lost many horsemen, but came very near losing his own life also in the hour of victory.

"Where shall we go now?" asked Ned, as he and his friend clambered into the saddles of two horses which had been tethered in the rear of the lost position on the hill.

"I will guide thee, my boy," replied the missionary. "Thou and I may make good our escape, if we are prudent."

"How on earth can we get away from the Normans?" groaned Ned. "Some of them are between us, already, and all the rest of England. I don't see how we are to get through William's army."

"We must get out of the battle, first," said Father Brian. "Then we'll ride away around into the Norman camps at the seashore. We would do well to obtain speech with him in the morning. Now that he hath slain King Harold and considereth himself the ruler of England, he will gladly welcome any from among the Saxons who cometh to him with a peaceful tongue. Be thou mindful of that, my boy. I am glad that thou art able to speak French to him."

"So am I," said Ned, with some energy. "I'd really like to have a good talk with William the Conqueror. But, oh, Father Brian! this hath been an awful affair. They will not need so many surgeons or ambulances or hospitals as civilised armies would. As soon as any man is down, somebody killeth him. They do not seem to know what mercy is."

"That they do not," said Father Brian. "Thou wilt bear in mind, however, that the killing of King Harold and all of his best men giveth to William of Normandy all the good title he hath to the crown of England. If Harold had escaped all alone from this battle-field he would be king still."

"The English elected him fairly," replied Ned. "Not one voter among them put in a ballot for the duke. I suppose they won't try to do any more against him after this, though. Let him have it, then. All I can say is that I hope there will never be another invasion of England by anybody."

"No man may foretell concerning that matter," said the missionary. "There hath been much fighting on this island. Even Ireland herself hath been attacked many a time, and she might be again. It is my opinion, though, my boy, that England will for ever continue to be English, whoever is king, even as Ireland continueth Irish."

"Most likely thou art right," replied Ned. "The duke may bring in droves on droves of Normans and all sorts. He won't think of killing off the Angles, and Saxons, and Danes, and Welsh, and Scotch. We don't, when they come to America. Every kind that lands among us becometh American, and I shouldn't wonder if even the Normans became Englishmen."

"Better for them to become civilised," said the missionary, thoughtfully. "The duke will kill none unless it may be a few earls and other high men who may stand in his way, or such commoners as resist him. I think he will speak all others fairly and make peace with them. Were he not to do so, there are axes enough left in England to make away with all that the Senlac battle hath left of his army."

"That's so!" exclaimed Ned. "I've seen some of them. Anyhow, I don't want to be an English earl just now. It wouldn't be safe."

"Come!" said Father Brian. "Faster! The farther we get away from Senlac the safer we will be from sword and spear. It is getting very dark. I am glad of it."

After that he did not again draw his rein until they had almost reached a line of tents a little distance inland from the town of Hastings.

"Now do I wish I knew," he declared, emphatically, "which of these may happen to belong to some man who was killed in the battle. Oh, Ned, the son of Webb, let us make trial of this large one that is nearest at hand. Speak thou to yonder gaily apparelled youth in thy best French."

"Ho! whose tent is this?" Ned asked at once, as he rode nearer.

He shouted his question at a young man who appeared to be a sort of esquire, stepping hastily forward from the canvas doorway to meet them.

"This is the marquee of the Sieur Raoul de Berri," replied its custodian. "Whether he be now alive or dead we know not. What news, if any, have ye from the battle?"

"Of thy master I know nothing," said Ned, "but of the battle I can tell thee that the Saxon army is beaten and that Harold the King is dead. Hard hath been the fighting, all day, and the slain are many."

There had been hurrying feet from all directions toward the spot where the two newcomers had halted, and so there had been other hearers besides the gay esquire of Sieur Raoul de Berri. Loud and prolonged were the shouts with which the announcement made by Ned was received, for before this there had arrived doubtful news from the hard contested field.

"Dismount ye and come in," said the esquire. "Well may we feast the bringers of joyful tidings. Whoever ye may be, ye are most welcome. Even while ye are eating and drinking, moreover, we pray you to talk on. We would gladly hear all that we may concerning the great battle. How was it fought? Can ye tell us the names of any that were slain? How fareth it with our liege lord the duke, that shall henceforth be King of England?"

It was truly a good thing that Ned, the son of Webb, was so well practised in his French, albeit the kind he spoke varied much from that which was now being uttered so volubly around him. For once, indeed, Father Brian was left to something which to him painfully resembled silence.

Before long, however, there arrived a swarm of French and Norman clergymen, all of whom could understand the kind of Latin taught in the great school at Clontarf. Speedily, then, the good missionary went out with them, and Ned was left alone to entertain his tent-full of eager and excited listeners. All the while, moreover, the good news spread rapidly through all that camp and was carried on to others.

"Sir," said Ned to the esquire, at last, "I am tired out! I think there is nothing else that will use up a man so completely as a great battle."

"Ay!" exclaimed his new friend, hospitably. "Thy couch is prepared for thee. Thou hast fought well this day. Well am I assured that our liege lord, the Duke of the Normans, and the Sieur de Berri himself would have us take all care of thee."

"I shall be glad to get to bed," said Ned.

"Sleep thou well," replied the esquire, "and on the morrow thou shalt surely be brought into the presence of the duke, as thou desirest."

The appointments of that marquee and the comfort of its arrangements for sleeping were more in accordance with Norman luxury than with Saxon plainness. Ned, the son of Webb, took note of them, weary as he was. Nevertheless, before his eyes closed he was thinking:

"If here isn't another of these frauds! I didn't do any real fighting, for either side. I'm afraid it's as bad, almost, as the Stamford bridge humbug, and what to do about it I don't know. Oh, how sorry I am that I had no opportunity for telling King Harold that I did not kill Sikend the Berserker. I shall always have the credit of it, without any fault of mine. They may put it into books of history, just like other great exploits."

His slumbers were long and heavy, and they were broken at last by a friendly shaking at the hands of Father Brian.

"Up! Up!" he shouted. "O Ned, the son of Webb, hasten and eat thy breakfast. The Duke of Normandy cometh. Not yet, I think, are we to call him the King of England. That may not be until he hath been duly crowned as king. My boy, I trust that now thou art shortly to have speech with him."

Ned became very wide awake while he heard what the missionary had to say, and his mind grew very busy.

"I thought likely," he said, "that the duke would come back to his camp. He won't march for London till he knoweth what the other Saxons are doing. His army was badly mauled, yesterday, anyhow, and he must get it into shape again."

The army of Norman invaders had indeed been seriously damaged. If a second English army could have attacked them on the day after Senlac, it would have found them unfit for another such struggle. There was no such army in existence, however, and William went on with his plans without armed interruption. He went first to inspect his fleet, and he sent the greater part of it back to Normandy and other places.

At about the middle of the forenoon of that day, the duke was at a camp a little south of Hastings, attended by a number of his great men. Among them were his brother Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and Lanfranc, the famous scholar.

Here it was that Ned, the son of Webb, and Father Brian were brought before him, and they had already been named to the stern and haughty Conquerors as the persons who had brought the first tidings of the victory.

"They are guests of mine, my liege," said the Sieur Raoul de Berri, as he saw them approaching. "The youth is a young thane from Northumberland, and the priest is his tutor. They have prayed for an audience."