So Aldred, who had not only crowned William, but supported his power north
of Humber by all means lawful, sat in York Keep, and looked at William
Malet, wondering what he would do.
Malet would hold it to the last. As for the new keep, it was surely
impregnable. The old walls--the Roman walls on which had floated the flag
of Constantine the Great--were surely strong enough to keep out men
without battering-rams, balistas, or artillery of any kind. What mattered
Osbiorn's two hundred and forty ships, and their crews of some ten or
fifteen thousand men? What mattered the tens of thousands of Northern men,
with Gospatrick at their head? Let them rage and rob round the walls. A
messenger had galloped in from William in the Forest of Dean, to tell
Malet to hold out to the last. He had galloped out again, bearing for
answer, that the Normans could hold York for a year.
But the Archbishop's heart misgave him, as from north and south at once
came up the dark masses of two mighty armies, broke up into columns, and
surged against every gate of the city at the same time. They had no
battering-train to breach the ancient walls; but they had--and none knew
it better than Aldred--hundreds of friends inside, who would throw open to
them the gates.
One gate he could command from the Castle tower.
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