From the earliest ages of our recorded national history the soil of Yorkshire has been the “dark and bloody ground” of mighty chieftains and their armed thousands. Where the sickle gleams to-day amid the golden fields of autumn, our ancestors beheld the flashing steel of mighty hosts, and triumphed by the might of their red right hand, or endured the bitter humiliation of defeat.

Vain was the barrier of Hadrian’s Wall to restrain the fiery Caledonians from their prey in the old times before us, when the Roman Eagle was borne above the iron cohorts of the Empire through the remote and rugged Northland. When Severus visited the island, to maintain his rule and quell the raging storms of invasion, he found the city of York surrounded by barbarians, and encountered and drove them afar in bloody defeat When the Roman gallies bore off the last of the legionaries, and the Britons were left to their own resources, the tide of devastation spread wide and far, and the suffering people were driven to the verge of despair. According to William of Malmsbury, the Romans had drained the land of its best blood, and left it cursed with a sottish and debauched population. Hordes of Picts and Scots inundated the land, fired its villages, overthrew its cities, and slew the inhabitants with the edge of the sword. Oft has the pathetic earnestness of Gildas been quoted: “The barbarians drive us to the sea, the sea throws us back on the barbarians; thus two modes of death await us, we are either slain or drowned.”

Again the clang of arms and the loud tones of war rang through the north, when the White-horse Standard of the Saxons was spread upon the breeze, and the tall, muscular warriors, with their long, fair hair and flowing beards, swept towards the borders, filling the Briton with astonishment and admiration. Then blood flowed like water, and the fiery Picts were turned to sullen flight; but, ere long, Yorkshire plain and hill groaned under a fresh burden of blood as Briton and Saxon strove together for the mastery. The tide of war ebbed and flowed around the ancient city of York, and sanguinary and numerous were the engagements that ensued before the Britons relinquished the sovereignty of the island.

The history of Edwin, King of Deira and Bernicia, is worthy of a passing notice; he was left an orphan at the tender age of three years, when King Ethelfrith seized his inheritance of Deira, and pursued his steps with implacable persistency until Redwald King of East Anglia took him under his protection. Ethelfrith at once marched upon Redwald, and two sanguinary battles followed, the usurper perishing in the last conflict. Redwald then placed Edwin upon the throne of Deira and Bernicia.

Edwin was a pagan, but on espousing the sister of Ethelbald, King of Kent, he came under the influence of Bishop Paulinus, and his conversion followed. On Easter Day, 626, Edwin gave audience to his subjects in his “regal city” on the Derwent, a few miles from York. Doubtless it was a favourable time for the presenting of petitions, for during the night the Queen had given birth to a daughter.

Towards the conclusion of the morning’s business, a messenger was ushered into the royal presence, and, when about to address the King, drew forth a long double-edged knife, with which he attempted to stab the monarch, throwing all the weight of his body into the blow. Lila, the King’s minister, perceiving his master’s danger, interposed his body, which was transpierced by the weapon, which inflicted a slight wound upon the King. Upon the instant the assassin was slain by a score of weapons, but not before he had also killed Forthhere, one of Edwin’s household. It transpired that the murderer was a servant of Cuichelm, king of the West Saxons, and was named Eumer. The knife had been poisoned, and though robbed of its virulence in passing through the body of Lila, the King had to endure somewhat at the hands of his physician, and was no doubt under some apprehension of death. In conversation with Paulinus he vowed to accept the Christian religion if he recovered from his wound, and succeeded in punishing the murderous treachery of Cuichelm, and on Whit-Sunday the infant princess received Christian baptism.

The avenging army of Northumbria burst into the fair Westland with sword and spear, and Edwin carried his banner through many a sanguinary engagement, when the strong growing corn was trampled under foot and cursed with red battle-rain, as the massy columns of Northumbria drove over the field, banners flapping overhead, javelins and stones beating in a terrible shower along the front, whilst a forest of portended pikes rent and overwhelmed all who dared to brave the dreadful onset.

On the King’s return he hesitated long before professing the Christian religion, and called his chiefs to take council with him. To his surprise the way was prepared for him. Coifi, chief of the pagan priests, doubted the power of his gods. He gave them careful service, omitted nothing, and deserved well of them, yet he was not first in the King’s favour, nor prosperous in his undertakings.

One of Edwin’s chieftains took a more just and elevated view of the subject: “The present life of man, O King, seems to me, in comparison of that time which is unknown to us, like the swift flight of a sparrow through the room wherein you sit at supper in winter, with your commanders and ministers, and a good fire in the midst, whilst storms of rain and snow prevail abroad—the sparrow, I say, flying in at one door and immediately out at another, whilst he is within, is safe from the wintry storm; but after a short space of fair weather, he immediately vanishes out of your sight, into the dark winter from which he had emerged. So this life of man appears for a short space, but of what went before, or what is to follow, we are utterly ignorant. If, therefore, this new doctrine contains something more certain, it seems justly to deserve to be followed.”

The result was that Coifi undertook to desecrate his gods, assuming sword and spear, and mounting a stallion, forbidden to priests. Great was the astonishment and awe of the people as the royal party rode towards the temple. As Coifi approached he brandished his spear, and hurled it into the building. As it clashed upon the floor an awful cry burst from the priests, but no dire catastrophe followed, and fire being applied to the temple, building and gods were alike consumed. The impotence of the pagan gods established, the conversion of the people rapidly followed, and the wise and good King reigned over a flourishing state for several years.

Unhappily, the virtues of the King and the affection of his subjects were no protection from misfortune, and the chequered life went down in ruin and defeat. Penda, the pagan King of Mercia, a wretch inured to crime, entered into a confederacy with Cadwalla, King of North Wales, and, after vowing to compass the destruction of all the Christians in the island, marched against King Edwin.

The royal Northumbrian was neither slow to mass his troops nor meet his arch-enemy; but the triumph that had so often attended his arms was not vouchsafed in this inauspicious hour; and when the terrible waves of battle rolled against each other at the village of Hatfield, near Doncaster, in the October days of 633, his throne and crown went down in the fierce storm, though brave men flung themselves before his banners, and struggled with the savage foe as long as life lingered in the hacked and bleeding frame.

Falling with honour in the van of battle, Edwin breathed out his life amidst the roar of the contending hosts, and so the day darkened ere the night closed on Christian Northumbria. By the King’s side fell his son, the gallant young Osfrid, and the slaughter of the defeated army being very great, a season of extreme depression ensued. Great as the confusion was, the dead King received the last melancholy offices, his head being buried in the porch of the church at York, and the Abbey at Whitby receiving his body.

In the year 655, when the winters of eighty years had bleached the head of the warlike and ferocious Penda, he again participated in a tremendous conflict which took place on the Field of Victory, or Winwidfield, on the northern bank of the Aire, near Leeds. The occasion of the war was as follows: Adelwald, King of Deira, was threatened by Oswy, King of Bernicia, and perceiving that he could only hope to retain his crown by compassing the ruin of that powerful monarch, he formed a league with the Kings of Mercia and East Anglia, and declared war against Oswy, who, dismayed by so powerful a coalition, strove, by every possible means, to avert the bursting of the storm. All his efforts proving futile, he humbled himself in fervent supplications for victory on the solemn eve of the impending battle, and recorded a religious vow that, in the event of his being delivered from his enemies, his infant daughter, Elfleda, should be devoted to the service of the Holy Church. While Oswy was buried in supplication the shrewd brain of Adelwald was busily revolving the position. Should Oswy be defeated, he would be at the mercy of his allies of Mercia and East Anglia, and his own destruction and the division of his kingdom might be anticipated. To obviate such a disastrous result Adelwald resolved to reserve his own forces, and leave his allies to deal with Oswy, when he might reasonably hope to secure his kingdom against the decimated army, or armies of the victor. On the morning of the 15th of November, the four Kings marshalled their forces, spearmen, and other variously armed infantry and cavalry; and Penda, animated and impetuous, his fiery spirit undimmed by the four score years that had passed over his head, rushed to the attack, and the clash of arms and tumult of war resounded over the field as the troops of Oswy nobly sustained the fierce assault. At this juncture, the crafty Adelwald, assured that the deadly game would be continued to the bitter end, began to retire his troops, and the Mercians, losing heart under the suspicion of his treachery, relaxed their efforts, and commenced a hasty and confused retreat. Penda and his numerous chieftains appealed to them, and strove to restore their broken ranks, but in vain. Oswy pressed them hard; smote them with fierce charges of cavalry, and with the rush of his serried spearmen bore down all resistance. The Kings of Anglia and East Mercia were put to the sword, and their armies decimated and scattered. Oswy, secured in the possession of life and throne, exulted in the signal victory which had blessed his arms. Amid the lifeless thousands that encumbered the sanguinary field, twenty-eight vassal chieftains of the highest rank had fallen with their Kings.

Oswy satiated his regal ambition by taking possession of the realms of his conquered adversaries, but he respected the crown of the crafty Adelwald, who retained the glittering bauble until his death, a few years later.

Before the Saxon monarchy had time to develope, the Danes visited the unhappy island with fire and sword. Coasting along the shores, interrupting the commerce, blocking up the mouths of the rivers, or penetrating far inland, their only mission to plunder and destroy, they proved a terrible curse to the nation, and brought the islanders to the verge of ruin and despair.

With the name of Penda, is associated that of a very opposite Prince, Alfred, King of the Northumbrians, as he is styled in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Alfred espoused Kyneburga, Penda’s daughter, by whom he had issue one son, Osred, who succeeded to the throne.

This talented Prince ascended the throne after many vicissitudes, and was slain at Ebberston on the 19th January, 705, and was buried in the church of Little Driffield. It appears that the country was being ravaged by a large body of Danes and Norwegians, and that Alfred pursued and engaged them, holding them to a desperate trial of arms for the whole of the short winter’s afternoon. The gloomy night was closing in on the dreadful scene, and the Northmen were breaking before the charges of the royal troops, when an arrow smote the King, and he fell in the front of battle. On the instant a Danish warrior charged the prostrate monarch, and, before a hand could be raised in his defence, wounded him in the thigh. In haste and confusion the wounded man was carried away from the scene of strife, and concealed in a cave until the invaders had retired, when he was borne to the castle of Deira-field, and every attention given to recover him from his wounds, but after a week of suffering he expired, to the regret of his subjects.

In the year 867, a great conflict for the sovereignty of Northumbria was maintained between Osbert and Ella, the former having been expelled from his throne and the latter elected thereto in his stead. At this unhappy juncture, the Danish chieftains, Hinguar and Hubba, brought a powerful fleet into the Humber, and therewith passed their land forces over the river into Northumbria, directing the march of their principal forces upon York, and marking their track in blood and ashes. The common danger arrested the course of the internecine feud, and Osbert and Ella proposed to combine their forces for the defence of the capital. Before this junction could, however, be effected the Northmen fell upon York, and Osbert, without waiting for his ally, threw himself into the city, and attacked the advancing Danes. For a time the battle raged hotly. The banners were brought to the front, and the leaders fought gallantly beneath them, animating their followers by their example and exhortations. So fierce was the defence of the Northumbrians that the Danes were driven back, but only to again struggle forward through dust and blood to the devoted city. Osbert and his chieftains strove nobly to hold up against the heavy masses that bore down upon them with such determined energy. Again and again they cast themselves upon the steel-bound ranks of their enemies, only to be borne down in the press, before the descending swords, and lie beneath the feet that pressed forward and entered the city in triumph. Scarcely had Hubba and Hinguar established themselves, before Ella approached, and addressed himself to the storming of the walls. So fierce and stubborn was the onslaught, that his troops broke through the defences and penetrated the Danish lines. The Northman was never more to be feared than when at bay, with the sword above his head. The Danes sallied out, slew or drove out all the Northumbrians who had entered the city, and, engaging them in the open field, put Ella and the flower of his army to the sword. The day was fittingly concluded by a fiendish massacre of the citizens of York.

In Saxon and Danish times Northumbria was continually invaded, and in the days of King Athelstan the famous battle of Brunanburgh was fought north of the Humber, and, if we may attach any importance to the speculations of some of our Yorkshire antiquaries, our favoured county was the scene of that desperate conflict. As a matter of fact, the exact locality of the battle has not yet been established on sufficient evidence, and no doubt our historians will continue to regard it as unascertained.