<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XXXVII</h2>
<h3>BATTLE ABBEY</h3>
<blockquote><p>Le Souvenir Normande—The Battle of Hastings—Normans and Saxons on
the eve—Taillefer—The battle cries—The death of Harold—Harold's
body: three stories—The field of blood—Building the Abbey—The
Abbot's privileges—Royal visitors—A great feast—The suppression
of the Abbey—Present-day Battle—An incredible
butler—Ashburnham—The last forge—Ninfield—Crowhurst.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The principal excursion from Hastings is of course to Battle, whither a
company of discreetly satisfied Normans—Le Souvenir Normande—recently
travelled, to view with tactfully chastened enthusiasm the scene of the
triumph of 1066; to erect a memorial; and to perplex the old ladies of
Battle who provide tea. Except on one day of the week visitors to Battle
must content themselves with tea (of which there is no stint) and a view
of the gateway, for the rule of showing the Abbey only on Tuesdays is
strictly enforced by the American gentleman who now resides on this
historic site. But the gateway could hardly be finer.</p>
<div class="sidenote">BATTLE CRIES</div>
<p>The battle-field was half a mile south of the Abbey, on Telham hill,
where in Harold's day was a hoary apple tree. We have seen William
landing at Pevensey on September 28, 1066: thence he marched to Hastings
"to steal food," and thence, after a delay of a fortnight (to some
extent spent in fortifying Hastings, and also in burning his boats), he
marched to Telham hill. That was on October 13. On the same day Harold
reached the neighbourhood, with his horde of soldiers<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_349" id="Page_349"></SPAN></span> and armed
rustics, and both armies encamped that night only a mile apart, waiting
for the light to begin the fray. The Saxons were confident and riotous;
the Normans hopeful and grave. According to Wace, "all night the Saxons
might be seen carousing, gambolling, and dancing and singing: <i>bublie</i>
they cried, and <i>wassail</i>, and <i>laticome</i> and <i>drinkheil</i> and
<i>drink-to-me</i>!"</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page349.png" id="page349.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page349.png" width-obs='623' height-obs='700' alt="Battle Abbey, the Gateway" /></p>
<h4><i>Battle Abbey, the Gateway.</i></h4>
<p>At daybreak in the Norman camp Bishop Odo celebrated High Mass, and
immediately after was hurried into his armour to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_350" id="Page_350"></SPAN></span> join the fight. As the
Duke was arming an incident occurred but for which Battle Abbey might
never have been built. His suit of mail was offered him wrong side out.
The superstitious Normans standing by looked sideways at each other with
sinking misgiving. They deemed it a bad omen. But William's face
betrayed no fear. "If we win," he said, "and God send we may, I will
found an Abbey here for the salvation of the souls of all who fall in
the engagement." Before quitting his tent, he was careful that those
relics on which Harold had sworn never to oppose his efforts against
England's throne should be hung around his neck.</p>
<div class="sidenote">TAILLEFER</div>
<p>So the two armies were ready—the mounted Normans, with their conical
helmets gleaming in the hazy sunlight, with kite-shaped shields, huge
spears and swords; the English, all on foot, with heavy axes and clubs.
But theirs was a defensive part; the Normans had to begin. It fell to
the lot of a wild troubadour named Taillefer to open the fight. He
galloped from the Norman lines at full speed, singing a song of heroes;
then checked his steed and tossed his lance thrice in the air, thrice
catching it by the point. The opposing lines silently wondered. Then he
flung it at a luckless Saxon with all the energy of a madman, spitting
him as a skewer spits a lark. Taillefer had now only his sword left.
This also he threw thrice into the air, and then seizing it with the
grip of death he rode straight at the Saxon troops, dealing blows from
left to right, and so was lost to view.</p>
<p>Thus the Battle of Hastings began. "On them in God's name," cried
William, "and chastise these English for their misdeeds." "Dieu aidé,"
his men screamed, spurring to the attack. "Out, Out!" barked the
English, "Holy Cross! God Almighty!" The carnage was terrific. It seemed
for long that the English were prevailing; and they would, in all
likelihood, have prevailed in the end had they kept their position. But
William feigned a retreat, and the English crossed their vallum in
pursuit. The Normans at once turned their<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_351" id="Page_351"></SPAN></span> horses and pursued and
butchered the unprepared enemy singly in the open country. A complete
rout followed. The false step was decisive.</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE DEATH OF HAROLD</div>
<p>Not till night, however, did Harold fall. He upheld his standard to the
last, hedged about by a valiant bodyguard who resisted the Normans till
every sign of life was battered out of them. The story of the
vertically-discharged arrows is a myth. An eye-witness thus described
Harold's death: "An armed man," said he, "came in the throng of the
battle and struck him on the ventaille of the helmet and beat him to the
ground; and as he sought to recover himself a knight beat him down
again, striking him on the thick of the thigh down to the bone." So died
Harold, on the exact site of the high altar of the Abbey, and so passed
away the Saxon kingdom.</p>
<p>That night, William, who was unharmed, though three horses were killed
under him, had his tent set up in the midst of the dead, and there he
ate and drank. In the morning the Norman corpses were picked out and
buried with due rites; the Saxons were left to rot. According to the
<i>Carmen</i> William I. had Harold's body wrapped in purple linen and
carried to Hastings, where it was buried on the cliff beneath a stone
inscribed with the words: "By the order of the Duke, you rest here, King
Harold, as the guardian of the shore and the sea." Mr. Lower was
convinced of the truth of that story; but William of Malmesbury says
that William sent Harold's body to his mother the Countess Gytha, who
buried it at Waltham, while a third account shows us Editha of the Swan
Neck, Harold's wife, wandering through the blood-stained grass, among
the fallen English, until she found the body of her husband, which she
craved leave to carry away. William, this version adds, could not deny
her.</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE FIELD OF BLOOD</div>
<p>Fuller writes in the <i>Worthies</i>, concerning the wonders of
Sussex:—"Expect not here I should insert what <i>William</i> of <i>Newbury</i>
writeth (to be recounted rather amongst the <i>Untruths</i> than <i>Wonders</i>);
viz. 'That in this County, not far from<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_352" id="Page_352"></SPAN></span> Battail-Abby, in the Place
where so great a slaughter of the Englishmen was made, after any shower,
presently sweateth forth very fresh blood out of the Earth, as if the
evidence thereof did plainly declare the voice of Bloud there shed, and
crieth still from the Earth unto the Lord.' This is as true, as that in
<i>white</i> chalky Countries (about Baldock in Hertfordshire) after rain run
rivolets of <i>Milk</i>; Neither being anything else than the Water
discoloured, according to the <i>Complexion</i> of the Earth thereabouts."</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page352.png" id="page352.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page352.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='696' alt="Mount Street, Battle" /></p>
<h4><i>Mount Street, Battle.</i></h4>
<p>The Conqueror was true to his vow, and the Abbey of St. Martin was
quickly begun. At first there was difficulty about<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_353" id="Page_353"></SPAN></span> the stone, which was
brought all the way from Caen quarries, until, according to an old
writer, a pious matron dreamed that stone in large quantities was to be
found near at hand. Her vision leading to the discovery of a
neighbouring quarry, the work proceeded henceforward with exceeding
rapidity.</p>
<div class="sidenote">ST. MARTIN'S ABBEY</div>
<p>Although the first Abbot was appointed in 1076, William the Conqueror
did not live to see the Abbey finished. Sixty monks of the Order of St.
Benedict came to Battle from the Abbey of Marmontier in Normandy, to
form its nucleus. It was left to William Rufus to preside over the
consecration of Battle, which was not until February, 1095, when the
ceremony was performed amid much pomp. William presented to the Abbey
his father's coronation robe and the sword he had wielded in the battle.
Several wealthy manors were attached and the country round was exempted
from tax; while the Abbots were made superior to episcopal control, and
were endowed with the right to sit in Parliament and a London house to
live in during the session. Indeed nothing was left undone that could
minister to the pride and power of the new house of God.</p>
<p>The Abbey of St. Martin was quadrangular, standing in the midst of a
circle nine miles round. Within this were vineyards, stew ponds and rich
land. Just without was a small street of artisans' dwellings, where were
manufactured all things requisite for the monks' material well-being.
The church was the largest in the country, larger even than Canterbury.
It was also a sanctuary, any sentenced criminal who succeeded in
sheltering therein receiving absolution from the Abbot. The high altar,
as I have said, was erected precisely on the spot where Harold fell: a
spot on which one may now stand and think of the past.</p>
<p>Battle Abbey was more than once visited by kings. In 1200 John was
there, shaking like a quicksand. He brought a piece of our Lord's
sepulchre, which had been wrested from Palestine by Richard the Lion
Heart, and laid it with tremulous hands<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_354" id="Page_354"></SPAN></span> on the altar, hoping that the
magnificence of the gift might close Heaven's eyes towards sins of his
own. In 1212, he was at Battle Abbey again, and for the last time in
1213, seeking, maybe, to find in these silent cloisters some
forgetfulness of the mutterings of hate and scorn that everywhere
followed him.</p>
<div class="sidenote">KINGS AT BATTLE</div>
<p>Just before the Battle of Lewes, Henry III. galloped up, attended by a
body-guard of overbearing horsemen, and levied large sums of money to
assist him in the struggle. After the battle he returned, a weary
refugee, but still rapacious.</p>
<p>These visits were not welcome. It was different when Edward II. slept
there on the night of August 28th, 1324. Alan de Ketbury, the Abbot, was
bent on showing loyalty at all cost, while the neighbouring lords and
squires were hardly less eager. The Abbot's contribution to the kitchen
included twenty score and four loaves of bread, two swans, two rabbits,
three fessantes, and a dozen capons; William de Echingham sent three
peacocks, twelve bream, six muttons, and other delicacies; and Robert
Acheland four rabbits, six swans, and three herons.</p>
<p>In 1331, Abbot Hamo and his monks kept at bay a body of French
marauders, who had landed at Rye, until the country gentlemen could
assemble and repulse them utterly.</p>
<p>Then followed two peaceful centuries; but afterwards came disaster, for,
in 1558, Thomas Cromwell sent down two commissioners to examine into the
state of the Abbey and report thereon to the zealous Defender of the
Faith. The Commissioners found nineteen books in the library, and
rumours of monkish debauchery without the walls. "So beggary a house,"
wrote one of the officers, "I never see." Battle Abbey was therefore
suppressed and presented to Sir Anthony Browne, upon whom, as we saw in
the first <SPAN href="#CHAPTER_I">chapter</SPAN>, the "Curse of Cowdray" was pronounced by the last
departing monk.</p>
<p>To catalogue the present features of Battle Abbey is to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_355" id="Page_355"></SPAN></span> vulgarise it.
One comes away with confused memories of grey walls embraced by white
clematis and red rose; gloomy underground caverns with double rows of
arches, where the Brothers might not speak; benignant cedars blessing
the turf with extended hands; fragrant limes waving their delicate
leaves; an old rose garden with fantastic beds; a long yew walk where
the Brothers might meditatively pace—turning, perhaps, an epigram,
regretting, perhaps, the world. Nothing now remains of the Refectory,
where, of old, forty monks fed like one, except the walls. It once had a
noble roof of Irish oak, but that was taken to Cowdray and perished in
the fire there, together with the Abbey roll. One of the Abbey's first
charms is the appropriateness of its gardens; they too are old. In the
cloisters, for instance, there are wonderful box borders.</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page355.png" id="page355.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page355.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='449' alt="Battle Abbey. The Refectory" /></p>
<h4><i>Battle Abbey. The Refectory.</i></h4>
<div class="sidenote">TURNER'S PICTURE</div>
<p>Turner painted "Battle Abbey: the spot where Harold fell," with a
greyhound pressing hard upon a hare in the foreground, and a Scotch fir
Italianated into a golden bough.</p>
<p>The town of Battle has little interest. In the church is a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_356" id="Page_356"></SPAN></span> brass to
Thomas Alfraye and his wife Elizabeth—Thomas Alfraye "whose soul"
according to his epitaph,</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>In active strength did passe</div>
<div>As nere was found his peere.</div>
</div></div>
<p>One would like to know more of this Samson. The tomb of Sir Anthony
Browne is also here; but it is not so imposing as that of his son, the
first Viscount Montagu, which we saw at Easebourne. In the churchyard is
the grave of Isaac Ingall, the oldest butler on record, who died at the
age of one hundred and twenty, after acting as butler at the Abbey for
ninety-five years.</p>
<p>From Battle one may reach easily Normanhurst, the seat of the Brasseys,
and Ashburnham Park, just to the north of it, a superb undulating
domain, with lakes, an imposing mansion, an old church, brake fern,
magnificent trees and a herd of deer, all within its confines. Of the
church, however, I can say nothing, for I was there on a very hot day,
the door was locked, and the key was at the vicarage, ten minutes'
distant, at the top of a hill. Churches that are thus controlled must be
neglected.</p>
<div class="sidenote">ASHBURNHAM</div>
<p>Ashburnham Place once contained some of the finest books in England and
is still famous for its relics of Charles I.; but strangers may not see
them. The best Sussex iron was smelted at Ashburnham Furnace, north of
the park, near Penhurst. Ashburnham Forge was the last to remain at work
in the county; its last surviving labourer of the neighbourhood died in
1883. He remembered the extinguishing of the fire in 1813 (or 1811), the
casting of fire-backs being the final task. Penhurst, by the way, is one
of the most curiously remote villages in east Sussex, with the oddest
little church.</p>
<p>I walked to Ashburnham from Ninfield, a clean breezy village on the hill
overlooking Pevensey Bay, with a locked church, and iron stocks by the
side of the road. It is stated somewhere that at "that corner of Crouch
Lane that leads to Lunford Cross, and so to Bexhill and Hastings," was
buried a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_357" id="Page_357"></SPAN></span> suicide in 1675. At how many cross roads in Sussex and
elsewhere does one stand over such graves?</p>
<div class="sidenote">CROWHURST</div>
<p>One may return to Hastings by way of Catsfield, which has little
interest, and Crowhurst, famous for the remains of a beautiful manor
house and a yew tree supposed to be the oldest in Sussex. It is curious
that Crowhurst in Surrey is also known for a great yew.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_358" id="Page_358"></SPAN></span></p>
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