CHAPTER IV. THE DANES IN WESSEX.
Up to this period we have availed ourselves of extracts from the Diary of Father Cuthbert; but the events of the following four years, as recorded in that record, although full of interest for the antiquarian or the lover of monastic lore, would possess scant interest for the general reader, and have also little connection with the course of our tale; therefore we will convey the information they contain, which properly pertains to our subject, in few words, and those our own, returning occasionally to the Diary.
The melancholy history of the times may be compressed, from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and other sources, in a few paragraphs.
Burning with revenge--for his own sister had fallen in the massacre on St. Brice's night--Sweyn returned to England the following year (1003). He landed in Devonshire, took Exeter by storm, and returned to his ships laden with the spoil. Then he sailed eastward, landed again and ravaged Dorset and Wiltshire. Here the ealdorman Elfric met him with a large English army; but when he saw the foe he fell sick, or feigned to be so; and then the old proverb came true, "When the general fails, the army quails." So the English looked on with fear and trembling, while Sweyn burnt Wilton and Salisbury, whence he returned to the sea laden with wealth and stained with blood; yet was not his revenge satisfied.
The following year East Anglia suffered as Wessex had suffered the year before. Ulfketyl, the ealdorman, gave them much money, hoping to buy peace from the merciless pagans. The result was as he might have expected. They took the money, laughing at his simplicity, and three weeks afterwards pillaged Thetford, and burnt it. Then Ulfketyl, who was a brave man, got an East Anglian army together, and fought the Danes, giving them the uncommon chastisement of a defeat, so that they escaped with difficulty to their ships.
The following year a famine so severe visited England, that even the Danes forebore to ravage so poor a land; but in 1006, the next year, they overspread Wessex like locusts. Here the action of our tale is resumed.
During this interval of four years in Aescendune there had been peace. Alfgar had been domesticated as one of the family, and was reported well of in all the neighbourhood. Diligent in the discharge of his religious duties, he was equally conspicuous in all warlike sports and exercises and in the chase, while he afforded much help to Elfwyn the thane in the management of the estate. In short, he had won his way to the hearts of all the family; and perhaps the report that he was the accepted suitor of the fair daughter of Aescendune, Ethelgiva, was not without foundation.
Ethelgiva was nearly his own age, and was a perfect type of that beauty which has ever distinguished the women of the Anglo-Saxon race. Her fair hair, untouched by artificial adornment, hung like a shower of gold around her shoulders, while her eyes were of that delicate blue which seemed to reflect the deep summer sky; but the sweet pensive expression of her face was that which attracted nearly all who knew her, and made her the object of general regard.
Bertric was now about sixteen--a handsome, attractive boy, full of life and fire, yet still possessing that devotion which Father Cuthbert had remarked in him as a boy of twelve. As the heir to the lands of Aescendune, and the only son, he would have been in much danger of being spoiled had he been less genuine and manly than he was. He and Alfgar were inseparable; they seemed to revive again the traditional love of Nisus and Euryalus, or Orestes and Pylades.
The famine, which had made Wessex too poor even to serve as a bait for the Danes, had also afflicted Mercia, but not nearly so severely, and the generosity of the family of Aescendune had been exerted to the utmost on behalf of the sufferers.
But the spring of the year 1006 bade fair to atone for the past. It was bright and balmy. May was just such a month as the poets love to sing, and June, rich in its promise of fruit, had passed when the events we are about to relate occurred. At this time there was some hope amongst the people that God had at length heard the petition breathed so often in the penitential wail of the Litany-- "From the cruelty of our pagan enemies, good Lord, deliver us"-- and they forgot that the massacre on St. Brice's night yet cried for vengeance.
It was a fine summer's evening towards the end of the month of July, and the sun was slowly setting behind the wood-crowned range of hills in the west, where the forest terminated the pastures of Aescendune; the cattle were returning to their stalls; the last load of hay was being transferred from the wain to the rick, and all things spoke of the calm and rest of a sweet night, fragrant with the breath of honeysuckle and wild brier, when nature herself seems to court luxurious repose.
The priory bell was tolling for compline, and thither many of the people, released from their labour, were wending their way. The Thane and his children, accompanied by Alfgar, paused on their homeward road, and when the drowsy tinkling ceased, deep silence seemed to fall over the landscape, while the night darkened--if darkness it could be called when the moonbeams succeeded to the fiercer light of the glowing orb of day.
The Lady Hilda was at the window of her bower, slightly indisposed; she had not gone down to the priory, but sat inhaling the rich fragrance of the night as the gentle breeze wafted it from a thousand flowers. Star after star peeped out; one sweet-voiced nightingale began her song, trilling through the air; another enviously took up the strain. Hilda thought the earth had never seemed so much like heaven, and she imagined the tuneful birds sang their vesper song in union with the monks, whose solemn and plaintive chant awoke the echoes of the priory church. Her heart was full of solemn yet not sad thoughts; peace, sweet peace, was the subject of her meditations, and she thought with gratitude of Him who had hitherto preserved Mercia from the foe, who had indeed for nearly two years ceased to molest England.
But as she gazed, her attention was attracted to a light on the opposite hills. It was a fire of some kind, and rose up more and more fiercely each moment. It was but a bonfire in appearance, yet it marred both the landscape and the meditative rest of the gazer.
The party from the hall were returning home from the church.
"Father," said Bertric, "look at that light! Is it not singular? I never saw one there before."
But even while they looked another fire appeared in an opposite direction, and Bertric saw his father turn grave.
"It is the beacon fire," said he seriously.
"Yes it is, and see it is answered from the hills to the north," said Alfgar.
Then they were silent, and Bertric felt his spirits sink with a vague kind of apprehension. They said no more till they reached home, and the whole family met, much later than usual, at the evening meal.
"You are late," said Hilda to her lord.
"We were returning home from the meadows on the water, whence the last load of hay has been carried, and we tarried for the compline at the priory. The bell sounded as we were passing."
"Did you see the bonfire on the hills? It must be a large one."
"I did; and it made me uneasy."
"Why so, my Elfwyn?"
"You forget that when the last invasion of our pagan foes was over, it was agreed in the Witan that a set of beacons should be prepared, in readiness to fire, on the tops of the hills, and that if the Danes appeared again, they should be fired everywhere, in which case Mercia was to hold herself in readiness to come to the aid of Wessex or East Anglia, whichever the foe might be harrying."
"But then that was eighteen months agone."
"Still the beacon piles remain or did remain. I saw one at the summit of the hills which the trackway crosses between our county and Oxfordshire, when I last returned form Beranbyrig {v}, and I think that one gives the present alarm. It means the Danes are again in the land."
"Now, God forbid!" said Hilda, with clasped hands.
"Amen say we all; but I fear me such will be the case, unless some poor fool has set the pile blazing for amusement. I fancied I saw it answered away north and west. We will go and see anon."
Supper being ended, Elfwyn rose to go out, and his example was followed by Alfgar and Bertric, and several of the serfs, who from the lower end of the ample board had heard with much alarm the previous conversation.
Ascending the hill, they directed their steps towards the highest point, where an old watchtower had once been reared, composed of timber, and overlooking the forest.
From the summit the party gazed over three or four counties lying dimly beneath them in the still moonlight.
The mist, slowly rising from the river and forest, partially obscured the immediate view, and hid the valley beneath in smoke-like wreaths; but the distant hills rose above. There three large fires immediately caught the eye, and confirmed the apprehensions. One was on the summit of the range culminating on the spot now known as Edgehill, lying about ten miles south; but on the west Malvern Heights had caught the flame, and on the far north the Leicestershire hills sent forth their reddening fire in more than one spot.
"The country has taken the alarm," said the Thane.
"What must we do, father?"
"Summon and arm all our vassals, and await the sheriff's orders; the king will communicate to us through him. We know not yet where the danger is."
"Perhaps it is only a false alarm," said Bertric.
"God grant it; but I dare not hope as much."
Alfgar was very silent. Well he might be. The enemy dreaded was his own kith and kin; and although all his sympathies were with his English friends, from whom he had received more kindness and love than he had ever known elsewhere, yet he seemed to feel compromised by the deeds of his kindred, whose savage cruelty no Christianity had as yet softened.
While they yet remained on the hill, fire after fire took up the tale and reddened the horizon, until a score of those baleful bonfires were in sight. Sighing deeply, Elfwyn led the way down the hill.
"What have you seen?" was the inquiry of the Lady Hilda.
"The hills flame with beacons."
"Alas for poor Wessex!"
"Alas for England! I have a foreboding that we shall not always be exempt from the woes which affect our neighbours. Wessex scarcely tempts the plunderer now; neither does East Anglia. Northumbria is half Danish, and kites do not peck out kites' eyes. No; on Mercia, poor Mercia, the blow must sooner or later fall."
"And how to avert it?"
"There is but one way; we must fight the foe in Wessex. Now we must rest, to rise early, and await the sheriff's summons."
It was silent, deep night; the whole house was buried in slumber, when Alfgar dreamed a strange dream. He thought he stood amidst the ruins of his home, the home of his father Anlaf, and that he heard steps approaching from the forest. Soon a solitary figure emerged, and searched anxiously amongst the fallen and blackened walls, uttering one anxious ejaculation, "My son! I seek my son!" and Alfgar knew his father. Their eyes met, recognition took place, and he awoke with such a keen impression of his father's presence that he could not shake it off for a long time.
"Do the dead indeed revisit earth?" he said. "Nay, it was but a dream."
He went to the narrow window of his chamber, and looked out. The dawn was already breaking in the east, and even as he gazed upon the purpling skies the birds began their matin songs of praise, and the valley awoke. The priory bell, beneath, by the riverside, now tolled its summons to matins, and Alfgar arose and dressed.
Never did the household of Aescendune begin the day without religious observance, and the first thing that they did on this, as on every day, was to repair to the priory church, where Father Cuthbert said mass; after which he and his brother the Thane were closeted together for a long time.
The rest of the party returned home to break their fast, and conversed about the warnings of the preceding night.
While they were still at their meal, Bertric, who sat near a window, cried out, "I see a horseman coming from Warwick."
The panting steed was soon reined up in front of the drawbridge, which was down as usual; and, passing beneath the arched gate, the rider dismounted in the courtyard.
All the household were soon assembled to hear his news. He bore a sealed missive addressed to the Thane; but he gave the secret of the night's alarm in a few words.
"They are in Wessex, plundering, murdering, and burning. The forces are all to meet at Dorchester as soon as man and horse can get there."
"Where did they land?"
"The great fleet came to Sandwich, and they are advancing westward as fast as they can come."
"Are they merciless as ever?"
"Worse."
"The fiends!" said Bertric bitterly; and then seeing Alfgar's saddened face, said, "Oh, I beg pardon," which made matters worse.
"You are not a Dane, Alfgar; you are a Christian; no one thinks of you as one."
Shortly Elfwyn returned from the priory, and received the messenger. The sealed packet only contained a formal summons to the general rendezvous of the forces, which was to take place at Dorchester, the episcopal city of the great Midland diocese, and situated in a central position, where Wessex and Mercia could easily unite the flower of their youth.
All the necessary preparations for departure were shortly made --the theows and ceorls were collected together, beasts of burden selected to carry the necessary baggage, the wallets filled with provisions.
Before the third hour of the day all had been done which the simple habits of the time required, and only the sorrowful leave takings remained. Husbands had to bid the last goodbye--it might be the very last--to their spouses, sons to their aged parents, fathers to their children. And then there was hurrying to and fro, as of people only half conscious of what they did; while the warriors strove to smile and preserve their fortitude.
But alas! there were no traditions of victory to encourage them; only gloomy remembrances of defeat; and, but for the stern call of duty which bade them, as men and Christians, go to the succour of their brethren, the majority would have preferred to remain at home and abide the worst, although they knew full well that submission utterly failed to mitigate the ferocious cruelty of their oppressors, who slew alike the innocent babe and the grey-haired grandsire.
Alfgar had volunteered to share the perils of his adopted lord, but was kindly told that it would be inexpedient. Indeed, by many he would have been suspected of treachery.
"Nay, Alfgar, remain at home; to you I commend the protection of my home, of the Lady Hilda, and our children," said Elfwyn.
Neither were Bertric's prayers to be allowed to share his father's perils any better received. He was bidden to remain where he was, and to be a good son to his mother--not that he had ever been otherwise.
And so the last sad words of adieu were spoken as bravely as might be, and the little troop, about fifty in number, departed from the hall. They crossed the rude wooden bridge, and took the southern road.
Their loved ones watched them until the last. They saw their warriors cast many a longing lingering look behind, and then the woodland hid them from sight; and a dread quiet came down upon Aescendune, as when the air is still before the coming hurricane.
CHAPTER V. THE TRACKS IN THE FOREST.
It was a long time before any news of the warriors reached home; for in those days the agony of suspense had always to be endured in the absence of posts and telegrams; but after a few weeks a special messenger came from the army. He was one of the Aescendune people, and his was the great privilege of embracing wife and family once more ere returning to the perils of the field.
His news was brief. The forces of Mercia had been placed under the command of Edric, formerly the sheriff of the county in which Aescendune lay, but long since returned to court, where his smooth tongue gained him great wealth and high rank. Gifted with a subtle genius and persuasive eloquence, he had obtained a complete ascendency over the mind of the weak Ethelred, while he surpassed even that treacherous monarch in perfidy and cruelty.
Under his direction that unhappy king had again and again embrued his hands in innocent blood. This very year they had both given a proof of these tendencies worth recording.
Edric had conceived a hatred against the Ealdorman Elfhelm, which he carefully concealed. He invited that unfortunate lord to a banquet at Shrewsbury, where he welcomed him as his intimate friend. On the third or fourth day of the feast he took him to hunt in a wood where he had prepared an ambuscade, and while all the rest were engaged in the chase, the common hangman of Shrewsbury, one Godwin "port hund," or the town's hound, bribed by Edric to commit the crime, sprang from behind a bush, and foully assassinated the innocent ealdorman. Not to be behind his favourite in cruelty, Ethelred caused the two sons of the unfortunate Elfhelm to be brought to him at Corsham, near Bath, where he was then residing, and he ordered their eyes to be put out.
Such was the man to whom the destinies of the English army were now confided, and such the king who ruled the unhappy land--cruel as he was cowardly.
Under such leaders it is no marvel that the messenger Ulric had no good news to tell. The army had assembled, and had marched after the Danes, whose policy for the present was to avoid a pitched battle, and to destroy their enemies in detail. So they were continually harassing the English forces, but avoiding every occasion of fair fight. Did the English march to a town under the impression the Danes were about to attack it, they found no foe, but heard the next day that some miserable district at a distance had been cruelly ravaged. Did they lie in ambush, the Danes took another road. Meanwhile the English stragglers were repeatedly cut off; and did they despatch a small force anywhere, it was sure to fall into an ambush, and be annihilated by the pagans.
Their repeated disasters weakened every man's heart, and gave rise to a well-founded belief that there was treachery in their midst, and that plans decided even in their secret councils were made known to the Danes. What wonder, then, that they grew dispirited, and that murmurs arose on all hands, while the army could scarcely keep together for want of provisions?
The war was at present raging in the southern counties, but ever and anon the marauders made a forced march, and sacked some helpless town remote from the seat of war.
There was no prospect, Elfwyn said, of the campaign coming to an end; the harvest must take care of itself or the women and children must reap it. The men were all and more than all, wanted in Wessex.
There were loving messages for wife and children, and Alfgar was not forgotten.
But there was one piece of information contained in the letter which made Alfgar very uneasy, and reminded him of his dream.
One Boom, a retainer of Elfwyn, had been taken prisoner by the Danes, and by a very uncommon piece of good fortune had escaped with life from his ferocious captors. He stated that he had been closely examined concerning his home, character of the population, and their means of defence, especially as to the events of St. Brice's night. Although he strove to evade their questions, yet he incautiously, or through fear of torture, revealed that he came from Aescendune.
The name evoked immediate interest, and he was asked several further questions about the destruction of Anlaf's house, and what became of his son. He tried to baffle their inquiries, and thought he had succeeded.
These facts the Lady Hilda thought of sufficient importance to justify their communication to Alfgar. They caused her some anxiety.
The messenger returned to the army. Weeks passed away, and the women and children, as well as the old men, were all busy in getting in the bounteous harvest with which this year God had blessed the earth. Alfgar and Bertric worked like the theows themselves, and slowly the precious gifts were deposited in the garners.
Alfgar had one source of consolation in the love he bore to Ethelgiva, a love which was fully returned. Their troth had been pledged to each other with the full consent of Elfwyn and the Lady Hilda; and on those fine August nights, as they walked home after the labours in the field, or the service in the priory, they forgot all the misery of the land, and lived only for each other.
Happy, happy days! How often they looked back to them afterwards!
A second messenger came during harvest time from the camp, now on the borders of Sussex. His news was no better than before. The Danes were harassing the army on every side, but no decisive battle had been fought. The enemy still seemed to know all the plans of the English beforehand; and the booty they had gained was enormous, while a deep distrust of their leaders was spreading amongst the defenders of the soil.
Elfwyn expressed his intention of seeking an early leave of absence should events justify him in paying a short visit home. This delighted the hearts of his wife and children, and they were happy in anticipation.
It was a fine day in September when the thankful people of Aescendune were called to raise the song of "Harvest Home"--for the fruits of the earth had indeed been safely gathered in ere the winter storms by the hands of women and children. Such joy as befitted the absence of their lords was theirs, and Alfgar and Bertric, not to waste the holiday, agreed to have a day's hunting in the forest, rich with all the hues of autumn, while the feast was preparing at home.
The day was delightful. Two young theows, whose fathers had gone to the war, but who had been left behind as being too young to share its dangers, although in the flush of early youth, accompanied them, and were soon loaded with the lighter game their masters had killed, while a deer they had slain was hung in the trees, where a wolf could not reach it, and where wayfarers were not likely to pass until the sportsmen should return for their own. Onward they wandered until the sun was declining, and then, having some few miles of forest to thread, and the deer to send for, they turned on their homeward way.
No thought of any danger was on their minds that day. The Danes were too far distant. They were more than a hundred miles from the seat of war, and a hundred miles in those days meant more than five hundred would mean now.
About the hour of five they rested and bathed in a tributary of the Avon. Bertric's spirits were very high: he laughed and talked like one whose naturally ardent temperament was stimulated by the bracing atmosphere and the exercise. His active and handsome frame, bright with all the attractions of youth, was equal to any amount of woodland toil; and Alfgar, who was, as we have said, deeply attached to his companion, felt proud of his younger brother, as he delighted to call him, and Bertric loved to be called so. Alfgar trusted some day to have a yet better claim to the title.
Leaving the bathing place while there was yet time to reach home before dark, they came at last to a ford across the stream, the only spot where it could be safely forded, and as such known to the natives of the vicinity; when their dogs began to whine, and to run with their noses to the ground, as if they had found something unusual to attract their attention.
The two theows who were in front paused at the ford till their lords came up, and then pointed to the ground with a terrified aspect. Alfgar gazed and started, as did Bertric. There were the footmarks of a large number of horses, evidently belonging to a body of horsemen who must have crossed the ford since they passed it in the morning.
"Can my father have returned unexpectedly?" said Bertric. "He said he should get an early leave of absence."
Alfgar did not answer for a moment. He was evidently very much alarmed.
"Look," he said, "at the footmarks, where some have dismounted."
Bertric looked, and comprehended the terror of his companion. The armed heels, which had sunk deeply into the mud, had left traces utterly unlike the marks to which they were accustomed in similar cases.
The stories they had both heard of predatory bands of Danes who had wandered far from their main body, and had sought gratification for their lust for plunder and blood in remote spots where the inhabitants dwelt in fancied security, came to their minds, and also the inquiries which had been made in the Danish camp concerning their home and the circumstances of St. Brice's fatal night.
"Still, it may be our father and his men; they may have worn the spoils of the enemy."
The spoils generally went the other way, Alfgar thought, but did not say.
They crossed the ford in silence, intent only on reaching home. For a long time they could follow the trail of the horsemen.
"Who can lead them?" said Bertric, as they bounded onward. "They seem to know the country."
A sad and harrowing suspicion had filled Alfgar's mind, that these men might be deputed to avenge the fiery death of his father --and to avenge it, probably, on the very people who would have died to prevent it.
But the one desire uppermost in the minds of the whole party was to hasten home. They feared every moment that they might see the bright flame through the trees, or that the wind might bring them the tidings that they were all too late--too late to save those whom they loved from outrage and death.
So they continued running, or walking when breath failed, at the utmost speed they could command, and just as the sun set they arrived at the crest of a hill, from which they could see the hall.
"Thank God, it yet stands!" said they both.
They descended, and plunged again into the wood which lay between them and the goal; their theows, less perfectly trained, and perhaps less ardent, fell slightly behind. They came upon the spot where they had left the deer, not, however, with any intention of encumbering themselves with the burden, as may be imagined. They looked, however, at the tree where they had hung the carcase, and their eyes met each other's.
"It is gone," said Alfgar, with bated breath.
They said no more, but continued their headlong course, until they had reached an open glade by the side of a small stream. Here their dogs became uneasy, and uttered low threatening growls.
The lads paused, then advanced cautiously, looking before and around.
Turning a corner round some thick underwood, they came suddenly upon a sight which justified all their previous alarm.
A huge fire burned by the side of a brook, over which was roasting the deer which they had killed. The light shone out in the gathering darkness, and illumined the recesses of the bushes around, and the faces of a large body of men reclining on the bank, or engaged in the task of sharpening their arms while their supper was roasting. A momentary glance told that they were Danes, thus advancing under the shadow of the forest, to take their foes unawares. Their horses were picketed around, and sentinels were evidently posted, to give the first alarm of any danger.
Alas! they had seen the poor lads before they could withdraw into the woods which fringed the path, and instantly prepared for pursuit. Three or four jumped upon their horses, two or three more plunged into the wood to cut off the retreat. It was all-important to their plans that their presence should not be discovered; and these manoeuvres were executed in perfect silence.
They had not seen the theows behind, but fixed all their attention on Bertric and Alfgar, who, on their part, comprehending their danger, turned at right angles into the wood, and ran for life. The boys were fleet of foot, and would probably have distanced their pursuers, but an arrow from some ambush on their left hand pierced Alfgar's thigh, wounding an important muscle, and he could run no farther.
"Leave me, leave me, Bertric," he cried; "you are in more danger than I."
Poor Bertric would not leave his friend. He tried to assist him, and turned a deaf ear to all solicitations for the few moments that they could have availed. It was soon too late, and the heavy hands of the Danish warriors were laid upon them.
Shuddering at the contact, they yet yielded without useless and unmanly resistance, and were at once led to the side of the fire.
It was a scene Salvator Rosa would have loved to paint: the firelight bringing out in strong relief the huge limbs of the oak trees, the bronzed faces of those dread warriors, which no pitiful or tender feelings ever seemed to visit.
The theows had fortunately, being behind, taken the alarm in time, and escaped unnoticed by the Danes.
A large athletic warrior, but yet a man of some age, rose from his seat by the fire, and scrutinised the captives. Alfgar knew him. It was Sidroc, an old fellow warrior of his father, who had often visited their home near Aescendune, and he was at no loss now to comprehend the object of their enterprise.
The warrior gazed upon him fixedly, and then spoke aloud.
"Whence your name and lineage? Your face is not of the hue of the faces of the children of the land. Speak! who art thou?"
"Alfgar, the son of Anlaf."
"Thor and Woden be praised! We had learned that you yet lived. Boy, thou art the object of our search. Thou, the descendant of kings, mayst not longer dwell with slaves. Thy father is at hand."
"My FATHER!"
"Yes. Didst thou not know that he escaped on St. Brice's night, baffling his would-be assassins, and yet lives? He thought thee dead, and only sought vengeance, when he heard from the captured prisoner of Elfwyn's band that thou wert yet alive, and he is come to seek thee."
Poor Alfgar!
CHAPTER VI. THROUGH SUFFERING TO GLORY.
For a few minutes Alfgar sat like one stunned by the intelligence. Joy and fear were strangely mingled together; well did he remember Sidroc's frequent visits to his father's English home, and that the warrior had more than once taken him in his infancy upon his knee and sung to him war songs, telling him that he too must be a warrior some day.
He was roused from his reverie by the voice of Sidroc.
"Who is your companion?"
"Bertric, the son of Elfwyn of Aescendune; oh! you will see that no wrong is done to him, will you not? his people saved my life."
"That they might make you a Christian, knowing that your father would sooner you had expired in the flames which consumed his house.
"No," he added sternly; "he is doomed, he and his alike."
Alfgar uttered a piteous cry, and appealed so earnestly that one might have thought he would have moved a heart of stone, yet all in vain.
"Does the eagle mourn over the death of the dove, or heed what pangs the kid may suffer which writhes beneath its talons? If you are of the race of warrior kings, act like one."
While this was going on the warriors had been selecting some light and sharp arrows and stringing their bows.
"You have but one target, not two," cried Sidroc, "and scant time wherein to use it."
"Then you shall have two, for I will die with him," cried Alfgar, comprehending at once that the death by which Saint Edmund of East Anglia, and many a martyr since, had glorified God, was destined for his companion, his brother.
He snatched at a weapon, and rushed to the tree to which the victim was bound, as if he would save him or perish in the attempt, but a grasp like iron was thrown around him, and he struggled in vain.
"Bind him, but do him no harm," said Sidroc, "and detain him where he may see all, and strengthen his nerves for future occasions."
Against the tree leaned Bertric, pale, yet strangely composed; the bitterness of death seemed to be past, so composed were his youthful features. The lips moved in earnest, fervent prayer. Once he glanced with a look of affection, almost of pity, upon Alfgar, and when the latter made the vain attempt to deliver him, he cried, "Do not grieve for me, dear Alfgar, you cannot save me; you have done your best; pray for me, that is all you can do."
His patient courage, so unexpected in one so young, touched his captors, as nothing else would have touched them, and Sidroc approached him.
"Bertric of Aescendune, thou mayst save thy life on one condition; dost thou wish to live?"
The thought of home and friends, of his mother, awoke in his breast, and he replied:
"Yes, for the sake of those who love me."
"I know nought of them, neither must thou henceforth, but thou mayst live if thou wilt join our nation and renounce thy Christianity; for I, who have no son, and seek one, will even adopt thee."
"I cannot deny my faith."
"Dost thou not fear the pain, the sharp arrows with which they will pierce thee?"
"I fear them, but I fear eternal death more; God help me!"
He repeated these last words over and over again, as if the struggle were very sore.
"Decide," said Sidroc.
"I have decided--'In manus tuas, Domine,'" he breathed out, "'commendo spiritum meum.'"
"Let fly," cried the chieftain, "and let the obstinate young fool know what death is."
Arrow after arrow sped through the air and pierced the legs and arms of the martyr boy, for it was the cruel amusement of the Danes to avoid the vital parts in their living target. The frame of the sufferer quivered with agony, while the lip seemed striving to form the holy name, which has given strength to thousands of martyrs, whether at the stake, beneath the ferocious beast, or in whatsoever manner it has pleased God to make His strength perfect in weakness.
Then Alfgar saw what was the marvellous power of Christianity, and beheld a heroism utterly beyond the fierce excitement which nerved his countrymen for their scenes of carnage and blood; not one of his pagan friends could have suffered as calmly, as patiently--it seemed easier for the sufferer to bear than for Alfgar to look on; once or twice the latter gave audible vent to his emotions, but the look which Bertric turned upon him spoke volumes, and he restrained himself lest he should add to the pain of the victim. He knew not then that the example before him would nerve him in moments of severest trial, then fast approaching, that the one accusation urged against the Christians, which he had felt most keenly, that of cowardice, was answered in the weak yet valiant boy, who found strength in the name of Christ to endure all for His sake; neither did his fierce countrymen know that they were preparing a disappointment for the pagan Anlaf, and for all those of his house and lineage.
We cannot enter more closely into the secret which gave the martyr his strength; we know not the visions of heavenly joy which may have overpowered the present pain, we know not whether He who gave this elaborate framework of flesh and blood, nerve and sinew, miraculously suspended the full operation of His laws, as is elsewhere recorded of other martyrs. Certain it is, that sooner than relinquish Him, Bertric, like Saint Edmund nearly two centuries earlier, yielded his life to the rage of the enemies of His Lord {vi}.
The struggle was sharp but short, for Sidroc, to the surprise, and we must add the disgust, of his compatriots, seized a bow and sent an arrow straight to the heart. One nervous shudder passed through the limbs, and all was still; they had killed the body, and had no more that they could do.
Alfgar gazed with reverence, as well as love, upon the calm features from which the expression of pain had wholly passed; the light of the fire, mingling strangely with that of the rising full moon, illumined them in this their first day of nothingness, for the spirit which had lived and dwelt in the tabernacle of clay had fled.
Yet there was a wondrous beauty still lingering over them; they seemed etherialised--as if an angel's smile had last stirred their lines, when the spirit went forth, and left its imprint of wonder, joy, and awe thereon; and Alfgar instinctively turned from them to the blue depths of heaven above, where a few stars were visible, although dimmed by the moonlight; and he seemed to trace his beloved Bertric's passage to the realms of bliss. A light wind made music in the upper branches of the oaks, and it seemed to him like the rush of angels' wings.
It had often been a sharp struggle to him, nursed in heroic times, learned in battle songs, and of the very blood of the vikings, to avoid the feeling that Christianity was not the religion of the brave; now the difficulty was over, and who shall say that the first joy of the martyr's soul was not the knowledge that his sufferings had already borne such fruit to God!
And not only was Alfgar reconciled to the reproach of the Cross, he was also content to be an Englishman, if not in blood, at least in affection and sympathy as in action.
An hour passed away; the body remained affixed to the tree; the night grew darker, and the hour approached when, under ordinary circumstances, people retired to rest, and the band commenced its preparations for carrying out the attack upon Aescendune.
One hope Alfgar had, and that not a faint one: he knew that the two theows had escaped unnoticed, and that they would give warning in time for either defence or escape; their strength at Aescendune was but slight for the former, all the able-bodied men were absent at the seat of war.
In the excitement of the last hour Alfgar had almost forgotten the meeting before him, but now it occupied his thoughts fully, and he began to expect the arrival of Anlaf each moment. He learned from the conversation around him that he and a portion of the band had gone to reconnoitre the position of the prey.
While Sidroc was somewhat impatiently expecting the arrival of his coadjutor, the cry of a raven was heard; it proved to be the signal for the party to advance, and Sidroc and his men obeyed at once.
But all their horses were left picketed by the stream, under the care of three of the youngest warriors, and there Alfgar was left, safely bound to a tree, for his captors could not trust him.
He was strongly, but not cruelly bound; it evidently was not intended to hurt him, only to secure him, and he could see that one of the warriors was especially charged to guard him.
Oh, how anxiously he strained the senses of sight and hearing for news from the forest party! could he but have given one warning, he would willingly have died like Bertric; all was silence --dread silence--the sleeping woods around gave no token of their dread inmates.
An hour and a half must have passed, when a bright light, increasing each minute in intensity, appeared through the trees-- then a loud and startling cry arose--after which all was silence.
The light seemed to increase in extent and to have two chief centres of its brilliancy, and Alfgar guessed them to be the hall and the priory.
But no screams of distress or agony pierced the air from two hundred women and children, and Alfgar hoped, oh, so earnestly! that they might have escaped, warned in time by the theows.
With this hope he was forced to rest content, as hour after hour rolled by, and at length the footsteps of a returning party were heard.
It proved to be only a detachment of the fifty, sent to bring horses to be loaded with the spoil. Alfgar listened intently to gain information, and heard enough to show that the Danes had been disappointed in some way, probably in their thirst for blood.
"But how could they have known we were coming? We have marched through a hundred miles of the most desolate country we could find, and have come faster than any one could have carried the information."
Such seemed to be the substance of the complaint of the warriors on guard, from which Alfgar felt justified in believing in the escape of the theows, and the consequent deliverance of the people, if not of the place.
Half the horses were taken to fetch the plunder, the other half left where they were, for the spot was conveniently situated, and the distance from Aescendune only about two miles.
When they had gone, Alfgar heard his guards talking together.
"What did they say, Hinguar?--not any blood?"
"No, but plenty of plunder."
"That is not enough, we want revenge. Odin and Thor will not know their children; our spears should not be bright."
"They must have been forewarned; Eric said that they had taken away a great many things."
"Why could we not trace them?"
"Because there is no time; we are too far from the army and fleet; we must return immediately, before the country takes the alarm; remember we are only fifty."
"Yes, but mounted upon the best horses, and the first warriors of our family; we may take some plunder, and send a few Englishmen to Niffelheim, before we get back; Anlaf would not let us stay to touch anything as we came."
"No; all his desire was to get to this Aescendune."
"Then the lad whom we made into a target is the only victim, while our kinsfolk's blood, shed near here, cries for vengeance."
"He died bravely."
"Yes, that is a Christian's kind of courage."
"Well, perhaps some day they will learn to fight, and then --"
"Their songs tell them of an Alfred who defeated our best warriors."
"That was long ago; if you go back far enough these English were sea kings before they were spoiled by becoming Christians."
"Hush; I think I hear steps."
"Who comes?" cried one of the guards, challenging a newcomer.
"I, Anlaf, your chief."
And the father of Alfgar appeared on the scene.
Of average height, Anlaf possessed vast muscular powers; his sinews stood out like tight cords, and his frame, although robust, was yet such that there seemed no useless flesh about him. His hair was a deep grizzled red, as also his beard, and his eyes were of the same tinge, his nose somewhat aquiline, and his whole features, weatherworn as they were, were those of one born to command, while they lacked the sheer brutality of expression so conspicuous in some of his subordinates.
Ho addressed a few words to the guards, and they led him to Alfgar.
"Cut him loose," he said.
They did so.
He looked mournfully yet sternly on the youth, who himself trembled all over with emotion.
"Alfgar," he said, "do I indeed see my son?"
"You do, my father."
"Follow me; nay, you are wounded--lean on my arm."
Alfgar's thigh had, it will be remembered, been pierced by an arrow, but the wound was not deep, and with his father's assistance he could proceed. He knew where Anlaf led. At length they came upon a deserted clearing, and there he paused until Alfgar, who could scarcely keep up, stood by his side.
Before them the moonbeams fell upon a dark charred mass of ruins in the centre of the space.
"This is the spot where father and son should meet again," said Anlaf and he embraced his son.
CHAPTER VII. FATHER AND SON.
"Here, my son," said the old warrior, as he pointed out the blackened ruins, "here stood our home, where now the screech owl haunts, and the wolf has its den. There, where the broken shaft yet remains, was the chamber in which thou first sawest the light, and wherein thy mother died there, where snake and toad have their home, was the great hall. Surely the moonbeams fall more peacefully on the spot now all has been avenged, and the halls of the murderers have fallen in their turn. But how didst thou escape?"
"The folk of Aescendune saved me, father."
"But how; from the burning pile?"
"Nay. I had spent the previous day with them, and returned home only in time to find the place in flames. The enemy seized me, and would have slain me, but Elfwyn and his brother, Father Cuthbert, delivered me; and now thou hast slain their Bertric, and burnt both hall and priory."
"Think not that I owe them gratitude for aught they have done. They tampered with thy faith, I now apprehend, even before the night of St. Brice, and perhaps drew from thee the knowledge which enabled them to surprise so large a party in my house. But all this was to make thee abandon the gods of thy fathers, and to inflict the worst injury they could upon a warrior. I trust they have failed!"
"Father, I am a Christian!"
"Say not that again, boy, if thou would not have me kill thee."
"I can but say it, father. In all that touches not my faith and duty as a Christian, I am bound to love, honour, and obey you. But our religion forbids me to nourish revenge."
"Of what religion, pray, were they who would have slain thy father on St. Brice's night?"
Alfgar hung his head.
"When Christians practise themselves what they teach, then we will heed their pretensions, but not till then. Their religion is but a cloak for their cowardice, and they put it aside as a man throws away a useless garment when they have the chance of slaying their foes without danger."
"There are good and bad Christians, father."
"Commend me to the bad ones then. Do not speak to me of a religion which makes men cowards and slaves. These English were warriors once, till the Pope and his bishops converted them, and now what are they? cruel and treacherous as ever, only without the courage of men."
Alfgar felt the injustice of all this, and with the example of Bertric in his mind, he cared nor for the accusation of cowardice.
"Here, then, my boy, on this spot where thou wert once cradled, renounce all these Christian follies and superstitions, and thou shalt go back with me to the camp of King Sweyn, where thou shalt be received as the descendant of warrior kings, and shalt forget that thou, the falcon, wert ever the inmate of the dovecote."
There was a time when this temptation would have been almost irresistible, but that time was over, and after one earnest prayer for strength from above, Alfgar replied.
"My father, if you claim my obedience, I must even go with you to your people, but it will be to my death. I have said I am a Christian."
"And dost thou think I have found thee--thee, my only son-- to part with thee again so easily? nay, thou art and shalt be mine, and, if not mine, then thou shalt be the grave's; for either thou shalt live as thy ancestors have lived, a warrior and a hero, or the earth shall cover thee and my disgrace together."
"Father, I can die."
"Thou dost not fear death then?"
"Thou hast left one behind thee--one who did not fear to die the martyr's death."
"Dost thou mean Bertric of Aescendune?"
"I do; they slew him, cruelly, although neither he nor his have ever dealt cruelly with thy people."
"Thy people, why not our people? art thou ashamed of thy kindred?"
"Of their cruelty and treachery."
Anlaf laughed aloud.
"Cruelty and treachery indeed! and canst thou say that here? who set the example in this place?
"Come boy, come," he continued, "I will lead thee to those who shall soon talk or drive all this Christian nonsense out of your young head; meanwhile, do not disgrace yourself and me by attempting to escape."
Alfgar sighed, and accompanied his father, so inopportunely found, back to the camp.
Arrived there, the word was given at once to mount, and the whole party started on the return journey to the south. Alfgar cast a longing glance behind at the spot where he knew all that was mortal of poor Bertric was left, to be, so far as the Danes cared, the prey of the wolf or the kite; but the young Dane knew well that, if any were yet alive at Aescendune, the hallowed temple of the martyr would not want its due honour.
All his heart was with his English friends; he felt that in going to the Danish camp he was really going to his death, for although within a few years the conversion of the Northmen took place, yet at this period their hatred of Christianity was simply ferocious, and his father belonged to the old heathen conservatives of his day, as did all his kinsfolk.
"O Aescendune, once happy Aescendune!" was the thought, the bitter thought, as each hour placed a larger barrier of space between Alfgar and his late home; all its happy memories came freshly back upon him, and particularly the thought of Ethelgiva, his betrothed, from whom he was so ruthlessly torn, torn as if he left part of himself behind.
They reached the confines of the forest by daybreak. Before them stretched an open country, where wild heaths alternated with cornfields, and wooded hills were of frequent occurrence upon the landscape.
All at once a signal of caution was given, and the whole party retired again within the cover of the wood, where they could see, for they were on an eminence, the whole district before them without being seen.
A body of fifty English soldiers was passing on the road, which lay at the distance of a few hundred yards only, travelling at a considerable speed, as if they anticipated the emergency of Aescendune, and hurried to the rescue. Alfgar knew them at once; they were Elfwyn and his troops; oh, if they had but arrived earlier, thought he, and started to see how completely English his sympathies were.
The Danes found it hard to repress their laughter at the thought of the reception which awaited the travellers at home; they had no idea of spoiling it by attacking them, although the numbers were about equal; besides, they had got all the plunder and spoil, and a battle would only endanger the success already obtained. So they lay in cover until the last straggler had disappeared in the direction of Aescendune, and then continued their course, with many a jest at the expense of the English.
Anlaf watched his son; he knew what his feelings were, and his thoughts were bitter as he felt that, could Alfgar have been consulted, he would be in that English band.
That night they arrived on the banks of the Thames, near Reading, the border of Mercia. Their passage had been quite unopposed; all the fighting men were in Wessex; and those who had seen the Danish party had fled with terror--they had not stopped long to plunder, but had speared one or two unfortunate victims who fell in their way, a sight which sickened Alfgar.
The following day they continued their march to the southeast, sometimes hiding in woods, for the country was mainly occupied by Ethelred's troops; sometimes pursued by larger bodies of horsemen, but always successful in distancing them, until, at the approach of eventide, they came in sight of the entrenched camp of the northern host. The spot was on the northern borders of the ancient kingdom of Sussex--the land of the Saxon Ella--a spot marvelously favoured by nature, occupying the summit of a low hill, which commanded a wide prospect on all sides, while itself almost impregnable when fortified, as it was, by ditches and mounds, dug in the usual Danish fashion, for the Danes owed much of their success to their skill in fortification.
Beautiful in time of peace was the country around, but its desolation was sufficient to sicken the heart. Blackened ruins lay on every side for miles; nay, they had disfigured the whole day's journey. Scarcely a town or hall, unless strongly fortified, had they seen standing, and this for nearly fifty miles.
Within this fortified enclosure the Northmen had collected abundance of spoil, and there they detained many prisoners, whom they held to ransom, putting them to death with the utmost cruelty if the money were not forthcoming at the stipulated time.
When the party of Anlaf arrived at the northern gate, crossing the summit of the ascent on that side, they found it open and almost unguarded, so slight was the danger from the dispirited English--now too accustomed to the idea of a foe in the heart of the land.
Entering, they beheld a strange scene: huts rudely constructed of the branches of trees, intermingled sparingly with tents, were disposed at regular intervals. In the centre, where the main streets crossed, was the royal tent, with the raven banner floating therefrom; and there, at that moment, was the savage tyrant Sweyn in person.
Sweyn was the son of Harold Bluetooth, who reigned in Denmark fifty years, from A.D. 935-985, and who in his old age became a Christian and strove to convert his subjects. But the ferocious warriors rebelled against him, and were headed by his unnatural son, Sweyn, who, although baptized, renounced Christianity, and fought to restore the bloodstained worship so congenial to the heart of a sea king. Defeated in battle, the unhappy father fled for his life, and fled in vain, for he was either murdered or died of his wounds.
Sweyn then became king, restored idolatry, and gratified to the full the fell instincts of his savage followers. His great object was now not merely to plunder, but to conquer England, and all his campaigns were so directed as to reduce province after province. Sussex and Kent were now wholly powerless; East Anglia was little better; Wessex trembled, for every inlet was a path for the robbers, and the turn of Mercia drew near.
Sweyn stood at the door of his tent, leaning upon his ponderous battle-axe; around him were two or three warriors, whose grey hairs had not softened the look of ferocity so plainly stamped upon their faces.
The king was not in armour, but wore a kind of close-fitting tunic, descending to the knees, and leggings leaving the legs bare above the knees. A rich mantle was thrown over the tunic, for it was cold.
By his side, similarly dressed, stood his son, the hopeful Canute, the future King of England, then only in his twelfth year, but already showing himself a true cub of the old tiger in fierceness and valour, yet not devoid of nobler and gentler virtues, as he afterwards showed.
"Welcome, Anlaf," cried Sweyn, as he saw the party arrive; "welcome, hast thou enjoyed thy holiday in Mercia?"
"Bravely, my king, the ravens have tasted flesh."
"No need to tell me that; thy revenge, then, is accomplished. Hast thou found thy son?"
"He is with me, my lord, but their saints must have warned the English of our approach. We burnt the place but the people were not in it. Their cries would have been music in our ears."
"Perhaps St. Brice told them you were coming; the English have a veneration for him," said Sweyn, bitterly.
They both laughed a bitter laugh, for both had suffered by the massacre in the persons of kinsfolks.
"But is this young springal thy long-lost son? he is like thee, even as a tame falcon is like, and yet unlike, the free wild bird."
"He is my son;" and Anlaf introduced Alfgar.
The youth made his salutations, not ungracefully, yet with an air of reserve which the king noticed.
"I thought St. Brice had got him long ago, and feared thou wert on a wild-goose chase."
"It is a long tale to tell now, my liege."
"Have they Christianised him?" said the king, with a sly look.
"He will soon lose that," replied Anlaf.
"Yes," said the king; "we know a way of curing the folly," when, even as he spoke, a spasm, as of mental agony, passed over him, and he shook like an aspen, but it was gone in a minute.
Was it the fate of his father which was thus avenged?
Every one looked aside and pretended not to notice the fact, and Anlaf, having made his homage, retired, leading Alfgar.
"You see, my son," commenced the old warrior, as he led his recovered boy to his own quarters, "how useless it would be for you to struggle against the tide, such a tide as no swimmer could breast."
"If he could not swim, it would be easy to drown," said Alfgar, and there was such a despairing utterance in his tone, that his father was checked.
The quarters of Anlaf were in the northwestern angle of the camp; they consisted of huts hastily constructed from the material which the neighbouring woods supplied, and one or two tents, the best of which, stolen property, appertained to the chieftain.
Over a wide extent of desolated land, beautiful in its general outline, where the eye could not penetrate to details, looked the prospect. The round gently-swelling Sussex downs rose on the southern horizon, guarding the sea, while around them were once cultivated fields which the foe had reaped, while quick streams wound in between the gentle elevations, crowned with wood, and here and there the mere spread its lake-like form. The sun was now sinking behind the huge rounded forms of some chalk hills in the west, when the camp became gradually illuminated by the light of numberless fires, whereat oxen were roasted whole, and partridges and hares by the dozen, for the Danes were voracious in their appetites.
In Anlaf's quarters one huge fire blazed for all. Alfgar seemed the only silent member of the company; the warriors related their successes, and boasted of their exploits, and the bards sang their ferocious ditties, until all were tired, and the quiet moon looked down upon the sleeping camp.
O the contrast--the calm passionless aspect of the heaven and the human pandemonium beneath.
CHAPTER VIII. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY.
St. Matthew's Day, 1006.--
It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write the events of the last few days. They have been so calamitous, so unexpected. We have heard of such things afar off, we had prayed for our brethren in Wessex, exposed to similar calamities, and now they have fallen upon us personally. May God, who alone is sufficient for these things, give us strength to bear all for His name's sake.
It was a fortnight ago, and our harvest was all gathered in. God had blessed our increase, and our garners were full with all manner of store; women and children had mainly been the reapers, but the Lady Hilda herself had been present amongst them, and so had her daughter, my niece, Ethelgiva, even sometimes labouring with their own hands.
Alfgar and Bertric had worked like common serfs, and did themselves honour thereby, for true nobility lies not in being idle, save in the field of battle, as the bloody Northmen vainly think.
Well, the work was over, and we had a mass of thanksgiving, after which Bertric and Alfgar went hunting in the forest. In the evening there was a harvest home; it was of course a strange one without the men, who were afar off, fighting for their country, but we tried to be thankful for mercies vouchsafed, and I and Father Adhelm were there to bless the food.
We found a large party assembled--as many, indeed, as the hall would contain. My sister, the Lady Hilda, was somewhat uneasy, because Alfgar and Bertric were not yet back, but still not much alarmed, for what harm could befall such lads in the woods? So I blessed the food and the feast commenced.
Eating and drinking were over, and the old gleeman, striking his harp, was beginning a song of harvest home, when in rushed the two young theows who had gone out with Alfgar and Bertric, with the startling intelligence that there was a band of Northmen lurking in the woods, who had seized their young lords, and were, they thought, bent on attacking the place.
Words of mine cannot paint the terror and dismay the tidings caused; the scene of distress and fear is yet before my eyes as I write. One woman rose superior to fear--the Lady Hilda; aided by her, I stilled the tumult, and we took hasty counsel together.
Nothing could be done for the poor lads, and the preservation of the lives of the whole population depended upon our promptitude. It was wonderful to see how the mother stifled her agony in her own breast, while she strove to remember that, in the absence of her lord, she was in charge of the safety of all her people, and the mother of all. I had already interrogated the two churls; their story was but too evidently true; and I learned that they had discovered the footmarks of the Northmen in crossing a ford that afterwards, while returning hastily home, they stumbled upon them, and Alfgar and Bertric were taken. The party were evidently awaiting the approach of night, and were doubtless bent on attacking the castle and village.
Fifty men! and how could we resist them? The poor old gleemen expressed their readiness to fight for the old hall, and so did even the boys; but these accursed pagans are the very spawn of the evil one, and fight like fiends, whom they equal in skill, so that I saw at once there was no chance in resistance.
But there was safety in retreat and flight, and under our circumstances no dishonour in so seeking it. So I saw the path clear at once, and not a minute too soon.
In the depths of the forest, about ten miles from Aescendune, in the opposite direction to that in which the enemy lay, is a solitary valley, surrounded by such morasses and quagmires that only those who know the paths could safely journey thither. But the valley is fertile, and my father years ago built a substantial farm house with outbuildings there, which has ever since been occupied by our chief forester.
Thither I saw at once the whole party must retreat, alike from the hall, the priory, and the village. In such a way only could they hope to escape the wretches to whom bloodshed and cruelty are pastimes.
Yet I was deeply puzzled to understand what motive could have brought a war party so far, and why they had passed so many flourishing homes to come to poor secluded Aescendune. Surely, thought I, there is some great mystery hidden in this, which time may perhaps show.
In a brief space of time, shorter, indeed, than under other circumstances we should have conceived possible, everything was prepared; horses were loaded with provisions and all things necessary for immediate use. Old men and children were also mounted, who could not otherwise travel, and we started. It was indeed painful to part from home, and to leave all we had to the mercy of the Danes, but "skin for skin, all that a man hath will he give for his life."
So soon as I saw the party safely away from the town, I left them under the guidance of some ancient foresters, who knew every woodland path, and hastened to my brethren, who had been duly forewarned, and were awaiting my arrival. I found them prepared for immediate departure. We had a large flat-bottomed boat on the river which washes the monastery garden; they had placed all the sacred vessels and the treasure of the priory therein, and had sent the novices and lay brethren to seek their safety with the rest in the woods, only the brethren, properly so called, remaining.
And now, ready for immediate flight, we went forth with calm composure, which God sent us. Then, upon the brink of the stream, we stopped and listened. No sound broke the dread silence of the night, and we stood in perfect quiet for some minutes.
At last we heard the sound of muffled footsteps, as of those who sneak about on the devil's work, approaching the priory, and we pushed the boat into the stream. The moon had not yet arisen; it was quite dark. It was the one boat near.
We knew well what they were doing--surrounding the priory to prevent any chance of escape, supposing, of course, that their victims would be within. This accomplished, they knocked loudly at the doors, and receiving no answer, raised their fierce battle cry, and looked, happily in vain, for the pallid faces they expected to see at windows or loopholes. Then they proceeded to break the doors down with their battle-axes. A similar din, beginning a moment before, told us that the hall and the priory were simultaneously attacked.
We had heard enough. We let the boat drop down the stream till we reached a small island, where we waited to see the end, praising the Lord who had not delivered us over for a prey unto their teeth.
While we waited in suspense, we saw a fierce light flash forth from the hall, and perceived that, having plundered it of all that was portable, they had fired it in many places at once; and while we looked, we saw our own once happy home share the same fate, and emulate the hall in sending forth its volume of ruddy flame towards the skies.
This we had waited for, and we held council, and decided that, having no home, the brethren should depart with the sacred vessels and treasure to the mother house at Abingdon, while I remained, as also Father Adhelm, to minister to our afflicted flock in the woods as best we might.
Alas for our poor priory! the foundation of Offa and Ella, once the light of the neighbourhood! but now our candlestick is removed out of its place.
Our minds being made up as to the course to be pursued, we rowed quietly down the stream, fearing pursuit.
Down the stream about two hours' journey an old Roman road, leading southward, crossed the river, where a bridge had once existed, long since swept away by time, but there was a tolerable ford quite safe, save in winter floods.
Hard by stood a hostelry, and thither we journeyed in our heavily-laden bark.
The light of the conflagration grew dimmer as we rowed down the stream, but it still lighted up the heavens with an angry glare. It was yet deep night when we drew near the inn, and we lay awhile on our oars, to listen for signs of pursuit; but there was nought to disturb the dead silence of the night, so we proceeded.
All the household were buried in sleep when we knocked at the doors--a proof that they had not observed the redness in the skies, or little sleep, I trow, would they have taken.
We were so exhausted with the fatigues and excitement of the enemy, that we hailed this lonely habitation as a little Zoar. It showed how safe people were feeling in Mercia, that we could not wake the good people for a long time, and we were getting impatient, for they seemed like the seven holy sleepers of Ephesus, awaiting the cessation of persecution. I wish we could all sleep like those Ephesians, and awake in better days.
But their dogs were awake, and saluted us with a vociferous barking, and would not allow us to land until they were driven away by the oars which our theows used with much effect upon their hides.
At last a window was thrown open above.
"Who are you who travel at this time of night?" said a voice, which tried to be firm.
"The poor brethren of St. Benedict from Aescendune."
"Now the saints help thy lying tongue," thus irreverently he spoke, "do holy men travel like robbers in dead of night?"
"Look, my brother, over the tree tops, and you may learn the cause of our wanderings; dost thou not even yet see the angry glare in the heavens? It is from Aescendune; the Danes have burned it."
"Good lack, poor Aescendune! and the people?"
"Are all safe, we trust, in body."
"God be praised!" and the host hurried down and admitted us.
His wife hasted to light a good fire, and to prepare us a breakfast; in short, we had fallen amongst the faithful, and we met great hospitality, for which may God repay the worthy host, Goodman Wiglaf.
We were so fatigued in mind and body that we no sooner lay down than we fell asleep, and slept until the sun was high in the heavens.
Wiglaf watched the river jealously to see that no foe pursued; but, as we afterwards learned, they had other things to think of.
The road which ran across the river at this spot continued southward into Wessex, and, so far as we could learn, was free from danger, so I determined to send my brethren to Abingdon by easy stages along its course, while I turned back with Father Adhelm, to share the misfortunes of my kindred and lay brethren in the woods. So we embraced each other and parted; and we two watched, with loving hearts, until the glades of the forest hid our brethren, dear to us in the Lord, from our sight, dimmed as were our eyes with tears. Then we plucked up our courage, and turned our thoughts to those others, dear and near to us, who had taken to the woods, where it was again our duty to seek them.