Two invasions at the same moment of time; and these no mere Viking raids
for plunder, but deliberate attempts at conquest and colonization, by the
two most famous captains of the age. What if both succeeded? What if the
two storm-clouds swept across England, each on its own path, and met in
the midst, to hurl their lightnings into each other? A fight between
William of Normandy and Harold of Norway, on some moorland in Mercia,--it
would be a battle of giants; a sight at which Odin and the Gods of
Valhalla would rise from their seats, and throw away the mead-horn, to
stare down on the deeds of heroes scarcely less mighty than themselves.
Would that neither might win! Would that they would destroy and devour,
till there was none left of Frenchmen or of Norwegians!
So sang Hereward, after his heathen fashion; and his housecarles applauded
the song. But Torfrida shuddered.
"And what will become of the poor English in the mean time?"
"They have brought it on themselves," said Hereward, bitterly. "Instead of
giving the crown to the man who should have had it,--to Sweyn of
Denmark,--they let Godwin put it on the head of a drivelling monk; and as
they sowed, so will they reap."
But Hereward's own soul was black within him. To see these mighty events
passing as it were within reach of his hand, and he unable to take his
share in them,--for what share could he take? That of Tosti Godwinsson
against his own nephews? That of Harold Godwinsson, the usurper? That of
the tanner's grandson against any man? Ah that he had been in England! Ah
that he had been where he might have been,--where he ought to have been
but for his own folly,--high in power in his native land,--perhaps a great
earl; perhaps commander of all the armies of the Danelagh.
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