Spake the sea king to his foes,
Spake while savage brows grew darker,
As he told the countless woes
Which the bear's fierce cubs should bring
To those who slew their father and their king."
Then he described the retribution, and the lingering death of Ella under the agonies of the "rista oern" so vividly, that every Danish heart was filled with emulation.
"Well sung!" shouted the Danes. "Thou dost sing a song worth hearing. Hast not taught thy son to sing likewise?"
In turn Alfgar was forced to support his assumed character. Luckily his tenacious memory retained the words of many an old song, and the warriors were well pleased.
"Why must thou go to shore? We will feed and guerdon thee well if thou wilt stay with us."
"We are aweary now, and would fain return to our comrades on the shore, but we will return by and by."
"Do so, here is thy reward;" and one of the speakers threw a gold chain round the gleeman's neck. Gold was plentiful with the robbers.
They were allowed to return to their boat; but as they did so, many a keen eye was fixed upon them. The dawn was already beginning to appear in the east, and every moment was of importance.
"Thou hast borne the test well," said the gleeman, "and hast not flinched."
"I could not in your presence."
At this moment they heard the rapid splash of a boat, manned by many rowers, behind, and a voice shouted aloud to the men on board the ship they had left:
"Hast seen a boat with a gleeman and harp bearer?"
"They have just left the ship."
"Follow; they are English spies. Sweyn will give the weight of their heads in red gold."
Instantly they heard the sound of hurried voices, the lowering of boats, the splash of numerous oars, and all nearly close behind them. They took an oar each, and pulled with all the energy of men who pull for life or death.
The light was gradually growing stronger, and their chance of escape seemed feeble, when Alfgar saw before them a dense cloud of mist rolling round the eastern promontory, and uttered a cry of joy as it enfolded them.
"The wind is east, keep it on your right cheek, and steer straight forward. I will take both oars," said the gleeman.
It was wonderful with what energetic force and success the gleeman pulled until they had cleared the mist, and saw that they were in the red light of dawn, in the midst of the Solent.
One half-mile behind them a solitary boat pursued. There appeared to be only five men, four rowing and one steering. Other boats there were, but wide of the mark.
"Alfgar," said the gleeman, "you will find a quiver of arrows and a long bow at the bottom of the boat behind you."
Alfgar handed them to him.
"The points are passing sharp, and the bow is in order; take your turn to row."
Alfgar obeyed; he could not do otherwise, the gleeman's tone of command was so powerful, but he feared they would loss time by the change.
"You need not hurry yourself; let them approach. They are not likely to have brought other weapons than their swords and axes."
The boat gained on them rapidly, until it was within a hundred and fifty yards.
"Keep just this distance if you can," said the gleeman, and drew an arrow suddenly to its head; it whistled through the air, and the steersman, transfixed, rose, leapt in the boat, and fell in the sea a corpse.
"Gone to seek oysters for King Sweyn's table, I suppose," said the gleeman.
Another steersman promptly took the place, but some yards were lost by the pursuers.
"Slacken, we are too far for accurate aim; and we English must not disgrace ourselves in Danish eyes."
They slackened, another arrow sped, and the foremost rower fell. Evidently the Danes had no means of reply.
"Slacken yet more;" and before the pursuers could recover their confusion, a third fell, then a fourth, before the unerring shafts. The fifth was at the fearful gleeman's mercy, but he restrained himself, now danger had vanished.
But as he did so he cried aloud:
"Dane, we give thee thy life, blood sucker though thou art. Go, and tell King Sweyn that Edmund {viii} the Etheling, son of Ethelred of England, has been his gleeman, and hopes he enjoyed the song which told the doom of parricides."
CHAPTER XII. THE MONASTERY OF ABINGDON.
One of the central lights of civilisation and Christianity in the early days of Wessex was the monastery of Abingdon. St. Birinus had fixed the centre of his missionary labours at Dorchester, only six miles distant, but the Abbey was the fruit of the heroic zeal of another evangelist, upon whom his mantle fell--St. Wilfrid. After the death of Birinus, the zeal of his successors failed to evangelise the southeastern districts of Wessex, until, at length, came Wilfrid, fervent in zeal, and, stationing himself at Selsey, near Chichester, evangelised both Sussex and Wessex, sending out missionaries like-minded with himself, even into the most inaccessible wilds.
Centwin was then king of Sussex, but various petty states were tributary to him, and ruled by viceroys. One of these viceroys was Cissa, whose dominions included Wiltshire and the greater part of Berkshire {ix}. This Cissa and his nephew, Hean, founded Abingdon. A mission was sent out from Chichester which attracted great multitudes of the Berkshire folk. Hean was present, and heard the preacher take for his text that verse of St. Matthew which declares that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. These words entered into the hearts of Hean and his sister Cilla, who was with him. They determined to go and sell all that they had and embrace a life of poverty. From their uncle, Cissa, they obtained grants of land, whereon they founded monastic homes. Cilla dedicated the convent she reared to St. Helena, the mother of Constantine, traditions of whose life in the neighbourhood had survived the Saxon Conquest.
Hean obtained the land of which Abingdon formed the central point, then generally known by the name Cloveshoo. He was tardy in his work as contrasted with his sister, and Cissa died without seeing the work for which he had given the land accomplished. Ceadwalla succeeded him (A.D. 685), and further augmented the territory. He rebelled against Centwin, and became king of Wessex; spending most of his life in warfare; it was through his conquest of the island that the "Wight" became Christian. He made a pilgrimage to Rome, where he died, after his baptism by Pope Sergius.
Ina, his successor (A.D. 688), was so angry at the long delay in building the monastery, that at first he revoked the grant of his predecessors to Hean, but becoming reconciled, gave all his energy to the work, and Cloveshoo {x}, or Abingdon, became a monastic town, and its history commences as a house of God from Ina, about A.D. 690-700.
Important benefits were thus conferred on the whole neighbourhood; agriculture flourished, learning increased, a sanctuary for the oppressed was provided, and last, though not least in Ina's eyes, a bulwark against Mercia was provided for the neighbourhood; while the poor and the afflicted found their happiness in every way promoted by the neighbourhood of the monastery.
Several times the monastery was in peril by reason of the wars between Wessex and Mercia. In A. D. 752, Cuthred of Wessex defeated Ethelbald of Mercia at Burford, hard by, and protected Abingdon from further aggressions. Twenty-five years later the decision of war was reversed. Offa, the great and fierce king of Mercia, defeated Cynewulf of Wessex, at Bensington, and spoiled the land, destroying the convent of St. Helena, founded by Cilla, and grievously robbing and oppressing Abingdon.
But the most awful calamity it ever underwent was its destruction in the first great Danish invasion, in the early days of King Alfred, when it was literally levelled with the ground, only, however, to arise in greater magnificence when the storm had passed away.
However the period of anarchy had introduced evils which required a stern reformer, and one was found in the person of the abbot Ethelwold, the friend of St. Dunstan, who, in conjunction with him and Oswald, introduced the rule of St. Benedict into Abingdon, Glastonbury, Ely, and other great houses, which, by its absolute prohibition of monastic idleness, and its wise regulations, caused the religious houses of that period to become the central points of civilisation and learning in the land.
Here, at this famous monastery, we resume Father Cuthbert's Diary.
In festo St. Edmundi.
Again I resume my diary, at the great monastic house of Abingdon, where I have rejoined my brethren. I have already told how, in company with Elfwyn, Father Adhelm and I sought the forest farm where our beloved ones had found refuge from the cruel oppressor. The joy of the women and children to whom their husbands and fathers were thus restored was very touching; all seemed willing to forget the destruction of their homes, since they had been spared to each other, and I, to whom, by my vows, such love is unknown, yet could but feel how holy a thing is family affection.
Alas, there was one family where the bitterness of death had found its way. I cannot describe the touching scene when Elfwyn told the fate of dear Bertric. Well, they will learn by and by to thank God for him and his example, for we doubt not he died a martyr, although we know not the details, and, unless Alfgar yet lives, shall perhaps never know them.
We held a long consultation upon our future movements. It was wisely decided not to rebuild Aescendune at present, for the place where they now are can be rendered very commodious, and is far more secure against a foe. We do not dare to hope that we have seen the last of our troubles; the Danes are wintering in the Wight, ready for fresh mischief next spring and summer.
We have been able to learn nothing of Alfgar; but we think that Anlaf probably yet lives, and that he has recovered his son; yet we cannot imagine how he escaped on St. Brice's night.
Well, to return. We at once set to work, and erected a church of timber, for the service of God; and I said mass in it the first Sunday after our arrival there. It may be supposed it is not a very grand church; but God looks at the living stones, and reads the heart.
We all had enough to do for the first few days; but within a week one might suppose we had been living there an age. Log huts were erected for the whole population; the old farm house, which is large and strongly built, taking the place of the hall. One must dispense with some comfort now.
My brother sent a portion of his men to rejoin the army, but feels himself justified in entering at once on his winter quarters with the remainder; in fact, since my arrival at Abingdon, the troops have all been dismissed for the winter, and the Danes have, as I said, retired to the Wight.
Then, leaving Father Adhelm in charge of the woodland settlement, I determined to visit my brethren here, where I have been received with all Christian love and hospitality by the abbot and his brethren. Three days my journey lasted. I travelled with only two attendants, serfs of our house; a poor prior burnt out from house and home.
Nov. 21st, 1006.--
This evening I heard heavy steps on the stairs, and methought their tread seemed familiar, as well it might, for no sooner had the door opened than my son Alfgar, for whom we had mourned as dead, or at least dead to us, fell upon my neck and wept.
It was a long time before either of us was composed enough to say much, but when we had a little recovered, the abbot who had brought them to my rooms introduced a tall young man in gleeman's garb, as Edmund the Etheling.
At length we all sat down to supper, but talked so much we could eat little, and I soon learned all the news Alfgar had to tell. His tale is wonderful; he has been indeed delivered from the mouth of the lion, nay, from the jaws of the fierce lion; but I must set down all things in order.
The one thing which delights me most is the way in which his faith has stood the hard hard test to which it has been put.
But my dear nephew Bertric, Saint Bertric we must assuredly call him, oh how it will lighten the grief of his parents and sister to know how gloriously he died for Christ! One could envy him his crown.
And then how delighted Ethelgiva will be to learn not only that Alfgar is alive, but to hear how true and brave he has been.
But when all these congratulations were over, and we had learned all that Alfgar had to tell, there was evidently something on the mind of the prince.
"Alfgar and I have a very important duty to perform," he said.
I waited, and he proceeded.
"There has been grievous treachery in our ranks. Edric Streorn has sold us to the Danes."
"I feared as much," said I, sadly.
"I learned it at Carisbrooke, and am now on my way to Dorchester, where my royal father has arrived, or will arrive tomorrow. I should have gone there at once, but Alfgar learned you were here, and would come. Besides, we need your help to fit us for appearing at court."
And, in truth, their habiliments were not very royal.
Well, Abingdon is a town of great resources, wherein all things meet may be found.
"We will to the tradesmen tomorrow," I said, "and fit you for the presence."
"I have yet heavier news to unfold," Edmund added, very seriously. "The Danes purpose a winter campaign in the heart of the land, hoping to take us unawares."
"Now the saints forbid!" said I.
"Even so; but they are not all with us. St. Brice is against us."
I sighed, and so did they. The very remembrance of that day is sickening.
"We have heard," said the abbot, "that the king will arrive tomorrow at Dorchester; we will send you thither in the morning. Meanwhile, my sons, you do not eat and drink as I would have you. Remember you need to sustain exhausted nature."
That was indeed true. They had travelled fast, and had fasted by the way, of necessity.
"Well, Alfgar, we will tomorrow to the king," said Edmund, after they had eaten and drunken; "he must surely listen to us now."
"He appears to love this wicked Edric," said the abbot sorrowfully.
"Far better than his own flesh and blood," replied Edmund.
"My son," said the abbot, "rest here this night in our poor house; tomorrow we will find you both horses and fitting apparel, and ye shall go meetly to the king, who is the guest of the bishop."
"I shall not be sorry, father, to see the inside of my chamber," said the young prince; for he is yet young, although so wise and valiant--not more than a year or two older than Alfgar.
The compline bell rang.
"I will go with you to thank God first for our deliverance, and to pay my vows to Him," said Edmund; "then to bed."
After compline, Edmund went from the chapel to bed. Alfgar would not retire. He came to my cell; there he talked with me for a full hour. His affection moves me greatly. He has evidently found a real friend in Prince Edmund, who has delivered him from a cruel death, and who wants to attach him permanently to his service. Meanwhile Alfgar is all haste to return to Aescendune and Ethelgiva, before any further steps are taken.
Saturday, Nov. 22d, 1006.--
After we had arrayed the Etheling and Alfgar this morning, I decided to accompany them on their road to Dorchester, for it happened that I had arranged to say mass and preach tomorrow at the little church of St. Michael at Clifton, the residence of my sister Bertha and her husband Herstan. It lies on a cliff over the Thames, on the way to the cathedral city, whence its name, "the town on the cliff."
So we started, the Etheling, Alfgar, and I, after the chapter mass at nine. We crossed the fine timber bridge over the Isis, then kept the causeway over the marshes, till, crossing an arm of the main stream, we ascended a hill and passed through the open country.
On the north the country is richly wooded. There lies the chase of Neweham, abounding in deer, with a few wolves yet lingering in its recesses, and forming sport for the ceorls.
In the neighbourhood of a great monastery the roads are always good, and waggons can travel easily and smoothly from Abingdon to Dorchester. So, being well mounted, we were only the best part of an hour in reaching Clifton.
The river here makes a sudden bend to the east, after running for some time almost due north, and at the bend the steep cliff rises whereon the little church and my brother Herstan's hall is built, with a few cottages below and around occupied by his theows.
We went first to the church and offered our devotions. From the elevated ground whereon it stands, the cathedral of Dorchester and the Synodune hills formed conspicuous objects.
Then we turned to the hall, and met a reception such as warmed the heart. When we had refreshed ourselves, I had to tell Bertha all the strange events which have recently happened at Aescendune; of the destruction of her old home, but of the well being of all her friends; yes, of all, for we know that he has won the martyr's crown.
Some natural tears she dropped; but I think she soon came to see all things in their right light, as we try to do.
Soon after our arrival, Herstan sent a messenger to Dorchester to learn at what hour the king was expected; and the answer was returned, that they expected him in time for the banquet at the episcopal palace this evening. So Edmund and Alfgar consented to pass the day quietly at Cliffton.
CHAPTER XIII. THE CITY OF DORCHESTER.
Dorchester was at this period the most important city of the Midland counties, for it was the seat of the great bishopric which extended its sway over nearly the whole of Mercia.
Here the apostle of Wessex, Birinus, had converted and baptized Cynegils, king of that country, Oswald, the saintly king of Northumbria, being present, and receiving him fresh from the regenerating waters as his adopted son. Here, the next year, Cuichelm, his brother, was baptized, and from this centre Christianity was widely diffused. The good bishop died in the year 650, and was buried amongst the people he loved, but many years later his relics were translated to Winchester. But the tale went forth that the cunning canons of Dorchester had given them another body than that of the saint, and their shrine was the object of veneration equally with the rival shrine at Winchester.
Dorchester became successively the seat of two great bishoprics --the one West Saxon, the other Mercian. The first, founded by Birinus, when Wessex extended far north of the Thames, was divided seventy years later into two sees--Winchester and Sherburne. For some years the city was without bishops, owing to its insecure position during the strife between Wessex and Mercia, but later it appears as the seat of the great Mercian bishopric, retaining its jurisdiction until after the Norman conquest, when the see was transferred to Lincoln. Therefore Dorchester long enjoyed a wide celebrity and greater influence, than the city, Oxenford, which, lying at a distance of ten miles, was destined to supersede it eventually.
The day was closing on an evening of November 1006, and the sun was sinking across the level country beyond the walls, when the people of Dorchester might have been seen crowding the roads which led from the eastern gate towards Bensington and Wallingford; the wooden bridge by which the road crossed the Tame was covered with human beings, and every eye was eagerly directed along the great high road. The huge cathedral church towered above the masses, rude in architecture, yet still impressive in its proportions, while another church, scarcely smaller in its dimensions, rose from the banks lower down the stream, below the bridge, and the wooden steeple of a third was visible above the roofs of the houses in the western part of the city.
But, as in every other city which had once been Roman, the relics of departed greatness contrasted painfully (at least we should think so) with the humbler architecture around. The majesty of the churches was indeed (as a contemporary wrote) great, but thatched roofs consorted ill with the remains of shattered column and pedestal, and with the fragmentary ruins of the grand amphitheatre, which were yet partly visible, although the stones which had been brought from Bath to build it had been employed largely in church architecture.
The light of day was rapidly fading; a light breeze brought down the remaining leaves from the trees, or whirled them about in all directions; winter was plainly about to assume the mastery of the scene, as was evident from the clothing the people wore, the thick fur and warm woollen cloaks which covered their light tunics.
At length the sound of approaching cavalry was heard, and the cry "The King! the King!" was raised, and cheers were given by the multitude. It was observable, almost at a glance, that they proceeded from the young and giddy, and that their elders refrained from joining in the cry.
About a hundred horsemen, gaily caparisoned, appeared, and in the midst, with equal numbers of his guard preceding and following, rode Ethelred the king. He was of middle stature and not uncomely, but there was a look of vacillation about his face, which would have struck even an indifferent physiognomist, while his thin lips, which he was constantly biting (when he was not biting his nails), seemed to indicate a tendency towards cruelty.
But by his side rode one, whose restless eyes seemed to wander to each individual of the crowd in turn, while power and malice seemed equally conspicuous in his glance. Little changed since we last beheld him rode the traitor, for so all but the king accounted him, Edric Streorn.
Amidst the shouts of the populace, who loved to look on the display, the Bishop Ednoth {xi} and the chief magistrates of the city received the monarch and his councillor in front of the church of Sts. Peter and Paul, and escorted him through the streets to the palace, which stood in what was then a central position, on the spot now called Bishop's Court. It was spacious, built around a quadrangular courtyard, with cloisters surrounding the lowest storey and the smooth shaven lawn, in the centre of which a granite cross was upraised. A gateway opened in the southern side and led to the inner court, and the cloisters opened from either side upon it.
On the opposite side of the quadrangle was the great hall where synods were held, and where, on state occasions, such as a royal visit, the banquet was prepared.
Here, after the king had availed himself of the bath, and his attendants had divested themselves of their travel-stained attire, the throne of the king was placed at the head of the board, and a seat for the bishop on his right hand, and for Edric on his left.
Ethelred took his place; upon his head a thin circlet of gold confined his flowing locks already becoming scant, but, as their natural colour was light, not otherwise showing signs of age: he was only in his fortieth year. His tunic was finely embroidered in colours around the neck, and was below of spotless white, secured by a belt richly gilded, whereon was a sheath for the dagger or knife, which was used for all occasions, whether in battle or in meal time, the haft being inlaid with precious stones. Over the tunic a rich purple mantle was lightly thrown, and his slippers were of dark cloth, relieved by white wool; the tunic descended to his heels.
The attire of Edric was similar in shape, but of different colour; his tunic was of green, edged with brown fur, his mantle of dark cloth, and his belt of embossed leather. There was a studied humility in it all, as if he shunned all comparison with the king.
Ednoth said grace, and the chanters responded. The canons of the cathedral, the priests of the other churches, the sheriff of the county, the reeve of the borough, the burgesses, all had their places, and the banquet began; huge joints being carried round to each individual, from which, with his dagger, he cut what he fancied and deposited it on his plate; then wine, ale, and mead were poured foaming into metal tankards, and lighter delicacies followed. There was no delay; no one cared to talk until he had satisfied his appetite.
The king, as a matter of course, opened the conversation, when the edge of desire was gone.
"Have the levies who served in the war all been disbanded, Sheriff?"
"The last returned from the garrisons in Sussex a week ago, and are all hoping for a quiet winter in the bosom of their families."
"Have they lost many of their number? Did the people of this hundred suffer greatly in the war which Sweyn forced upon us?"
"Not very many; still there has been a little mourning, and much anticipation of future evil," replied the bishop.
"That is needless," said Edric; "they may all prepare to keep their Christmas with good cheer. The Danes are sleeping, hibernating like bears in their winter caves."
"While they are so near as the Wight, who can rest in peace?" said Ednoth.
"The Wight! it must be a hundred miles from here; the Danes have never reached any spot so far from the coast as this."
"Yet there is an uneasy belief that they will attack the inland districts now that they have exhausted the districts on the coast, and that we must be prepared to suffer as our brethren have done."
"Before they leave their retreat again we shall be ready to meet them; our levies will be better trained and more numerous."
"A curse seemed upon all our exertions this last year," said Ednoth, sorrowfully. "We were defending our hearths and our homes, yet we were everywhere outmanoeuvred and beaten. It could not have been worse had we had spies and traitors in command."
The king slightly coloured, for he resented all imputations on his favourite, and was about to make a sharp reply, when a voice which made him start, replied:
"Quite right, reverend father! as you say, success was impossible while spies and traitors commanded our forces."
All looked up in amazement; two guests had entered unbidden, and the king, the bishop, and Edric recognised Prince Edmund.
"The unseemly interruption is a sufficient introduction to the company. I need not, my friends, present to you my turbulent son Edmund, or the attendant he has picked up."
"No need whatsoever, if you will first allow us to explain the reasons of our presence here. We have somewhat startling news from the enemy."
"The enemy, by my last advices, lies quiet in the Isle of Wight," said Edric.
"I will not dispute your knowledge, my lord Edric," replied the Prince, "considering the intimacy you stand on with Sweyn."
"Intimacy! I would sooner own intimacy with the Evil One."
"You might own that, too, without much exaggeration, since the good bishop will bear me witness that he is the father of lies."
"Edmund, this is unbearable," said the king.
"Pardon, my father and liege, but truth will out."
The company sat in amazement, while the hand of Edric played convulsively with the hilt of his dagger; meanwhile Edmund ate, and gave to Alfgar, ere he spake again.
"Stay, Edric," whispered the king; "thou art my Edric. I was never false to thee, nor will I be now; did I not, for thy sake, look over the death of Elfhelm of Shrewsbury, and put out the eyes of his sons? canst thou not trust me now?"
Thus strengthened, Edric remained, and uneasy whispers passed around the assembly.
At last Edmund looked up.
"When the flesh is weak through toil and fasting, speech is not eloquent, but now listen, all Englishmen true, and I will speak out."
He told his tale, how he had conceived suspicions that the Danes intended a winter descent; how he had risked his life (in the exuberance of youthful daring) to ascertain the truth; how, trusting to his knowledge of Carisbrooke, wherein he had spent many pleasant days in his boyhood, he had ventured amongst the Danes as a gleeman, in imitation of Alfred of old; how there he had assisted, unsuspected, at a meeting of the council in the great hall, and heard it decided to invade England, and finally how he had escaped. And then he continued:
"And in that council I heard that the Danes had a secret friend in the English army, who ever gave them due warning of our movements, and who caused all the miscarriage of our last campaign. Stand forth, Edric Streorn, for thou art the man, and my sword shall prove it, if need be."
"Edmund, thou ravest," cried the king; "produce thy witnesses."
"Alfgar, son of Anlaf, answer; whom didst thou espy talking with Sweyn?"
"Edric Streorn."
"How didst know him?"
"Because he threatened my life on St. Brice's night, and I had often seen him while dwelling in Mercia."
"A Dane witnessing against a free-born Englishman? Can it be endured?" cried Ethelred. "What, here, my royal guard!--here! here! your King is insulted--insulted, and by his son and his son's minions."
The guard rushed in, their weapons in their hands.
"Seize my son, the false Edmund."
"Here I am," quietly said the hero of the English army, for such he was, although not recognised as such by the government of his father. "Here I am; what Englishman will bind me?"
The men stood as if paralysed.
"Will you not obey?" shouted the weak Ethelred, and stamped in impotent anger on the floor.
But they would not--they could not touch Edmund.
Edric whispered in the king's ear.
"I was wrong," said the king; "retire, guards.
"Edmund, come with me; tell me what you have seen. I will hear you, and judge between you and my Edric--judge fairly."
"Wait till my return, Alfgar."
Alfgar waited. No one spoke to him; all the company seemed utterly bewildered, as well they might be until, after the expiration of an hour, during which time Ednoth had left the hall, and the company broke up by degrees, an officer of the court came and whispered in his ear that Edmund awaited him without the gates.
He left the table at once, and proceeded beyond the precincts of the palace, following his guide.
"Where is the prince?"
"He has had a stormy interview with his father, and has just left him, refusing to lodge in the palace, to sleep without the precincts. I am to conduct you thither."
Leaving the palace, they were passing through some thick shrubbery, when all at once two strong men sprang upon Alfgar. At the same moment his attendant turned round and assisted his foes. He struggled, but he was easily overpowered, when his captors led him away, until, passing a postern gate in the western wall of the town, they crossed an embankment, and came upon the river. There they placed him on board a small boat, and rowed rapidly down the stream.
In the space of a few minutes they ran the boat ashore in the midst of dense woods which fringed the farther bank, and there they forced him to land, and led him upwards until, deep in the woods, they came upon an old timbered house. They knocked at the door, which was speedily opened by a man of gigantic stature and ruffianly countenance, by whose side snarled a mastiff as repulsive as he.
"Here, Higbald, we have brought thee a prisoner from our lord."
The wretch looked upon Alfgar with the eyes of an ogre bent on devouring a captive, and then said:
"The chamber where blind Cuthred was slaughtered looks out on the woods behind where no one passes, and it is strong; it will be better for you to take him there."
And he drew aside to let them pass.
"Here, Wolf" said the uncouth gaoler, "smell him, and see you have to guard him."
The dog seemed to comprehend. He smelt around the prisoner, then displayed his huge fangs, and growled, as if to tell Alfgar what his fate would be if he tried to escape.
The poor lad turned to his captors who had brought him there, for they seemed more humane than his new gaoler.
"For pity's sake, tell me why I am brought here--what crime I have committed."
No reply.
"At least bear a message to one who will think I have deserted him in his need."
Again they were silent.
They had ascended a rough staircase. At the summit a passage led past two or three doors to one made of the strongest plank, and strengthened with iron.
They opened it, thrust him in, showed him, by the light of their torches, a bed of straw in the corner.
"There you can lie and sleep as peacefully as at Carisbrooke," said one of his guards.
"And let me tell you," added Higbald, "that it will be certain death to try to get away; for if you could escape me, my dog Wolf, who prowls about by day and night, would tear you in pieces before any one could help you. He has killed half-a-dozen men in his day."
Like a poor wounded deer which retires to his thicket to die, Alfgar threw himself down upon the bed of straw. His reflections were very, very bitter.
"What would Edmund think of him?"
"He will know I am faithful. He will not think that the lad whose life he saved has deserted him. He will search till he find me even here."
Thus in alternate hope and despair he sank at last to sleep-- nature had its way--even as the criminal has slept on the rack.
CHAPTER XIV. THE SON AND THE FAVOURITE.
A stormy scene had meanwhile taken place in an interior chamber of the palace of the bishop, which had been metamorphosed into a council chamber for the king. There were present Ethelred himself, his irrepressible son, the traitor Edric, the bishop, the sheriff of the shire, and the reeve of the borough, with the captain of the hus-carles, or royal guard.
"We all need Divine guidance at this moment," said Edric, clasping his hands meekly; "would you, my lord and king, ask the bishop to open our proceedings with especial prayer for the grace of meekness."
"Hypocrite!" said Edmund, with a sound like the gnashing of teeth.
The bishop, however, said the form generally used at the meetings of council, but omitted to notice the special suggestion of Edric.
"The case before us," said the king, "is a difficult and trying one, but one which we must discharge in our bounden duty towards our subjects. Perhaps it is well that the accusation so often urged by backbiters against our faithful subject Edric should--"
"Your majesty begs the question when you call that coward 'faithful.'"
"Silence, Edmund," said the king, sternly, "you are hardly yet of age, yet you dare to interrupt me. I was going to say that it is a good thing the accusation should at length be plainly made, and not spoken in a corner by men who are afraid to speak out."
"Lest they should get the reward of Elfhelm of Shrewsbury," added Edmund.
The bishop here interposed.
"Prince, remember that God has said, 'Honour thy father.'"
"Has he not somewhere also said, 'Parents, provoke not your children to anger'?"
"God judge between you, then," said the bishop, "but I warn you that you appear the greater transgressor."
"Meanwhile," said Edric, "I feel like a man who is being put unjustly to the torture. What is the accusation against me?--let it be stated in plain words."
"That just after the army disbanded in October, you visited the camp of Sweyn, and gave him to understand that the country was at his mercy, opposition being removed."
"What day of the month?"
"I do not know the exact day."
"Perhaps it was in the Greek calends," said Edric.
"I do not know when the Greek calends are, nor do I want to; my mother spent her time, I thank God, in teaching me to speak the truth, and to be true to my country, and not in teaching me outlandish gibberish."
"Still," said the bishop, "it is important to learn the day."
"Alfgar can perhaps inform you, but one day must have been much like another to him in the Danish camp."
"His statement would need verification," said Ednoth.
"He is as true and brave as any man here."
"Of course, all Danes are true and brave," said Edric.
"He is a Christian."
"Yes; I think he became one on St. Brice's day," suggested Edric.
"To save his life, no doubt," said the sheriff.
Meanwhile Ethelred had changed colour, and Edric cried out:
"Have we not forgotten in whose presence we are? The king, who was quite ignorant of the mistaken zeal which misinterpreted his wishes that day, cannot bear to be reminded of it. He is all too merciful and gentle for such days as ours."
"I suppose he put on mourning for Elfhelm," whispered Edmund in the bishop's ear.
"Forget not that he is your father."
"We are wasting time," said the king. "Edric, what is your answer to this accusation?"
"That when the army disbanded I went on pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Joseph at Glastonbury, and can produce, in the time requisite for a messenger to go and return, an attestation to that effect. Here," he said, putting his hand to his bosom, and drawing out a reliquary, "is a holy thorn plucked from St. Joseph's tree."
"Art thou not ashamed, my son, to have brought such a charge against the venerator of the Saints, one of the few in whom faith yet lives?"
"No, for I do not believe he was ever there at all."
"Witness the holy thorn."
"Thorns may be plucked in bushels round Dorchester or any other place."
"It is a question of pure testimony," said the bishop.
"It is," added the sheriff and the reeve.
"Then, may I produce my witness?" said Edmund.
"Certainly," said the king.
"By all means," added Edric.
The bishop called an attendant, and ordered him to fetch Alfgar.
"Before he enters I must remind you all," said Edric, "that the word of a Dane is to be opposed to that of a Christian."
"I have already said that Alfgar is a Christian."
But Edric had already, by his adroit suggestion about St. Brice's day, predisposed the company to doubt the genuineness of Alfgar's conversion.
A long pause succeeded, which no one seemed to care to break. Ethelred was anxious for his favourite; the traitor himself was studying how to meet the accusation; the Prince was furious, and was striving in vain to repress his surging passions, the others were perplexed.
The messenger returned after a time to say that Alfgar had left the palace.
"Left the palace!" said Edmund.
"About half-an-hour since."
"There is some vile treason here," said Edmund.
"Treason! on whose part?" said Edric.
"Thine, villain."
"I am glad you think so, for you give me an opportunity of demonstrating to the court how unreasonable your hatred makes you, and how unjust. I have not left the king's presence since your first appearance."
"It is true," said Ethelred.
Edmund was completely baffled.
"It appears to me," said the king, "that he fears the discovery of his villainy, and has taken himself off. I will offer a fitting reward to the man who shall produce him; meanwhile, it is useless to continue this scene."
"Wait at least a few minutes," said Edmund, and went forth himself.
Vainly he sought through all the courts of the palace--once he thought Alfgar, whose fidelity he never suffered himself to doubt, might be in the chapel, and went there in vain.
At last he found a servitor who had seen him go with some men into the city, and hurried forth in search of him. He passed through all the streets inflaming the curiosity of the watchmen; the darkness (for there were very few lamps or lights of any kind, in those days, for public use) was intense, a drizzling rain was falling, and at length, weary, wet, and dispirited, he returned to the palace, and found that the council, tired of waiting, had at length broken up.
The bishop offered him hospitality, evidently sympathising with his distress, and once suggested a doubt of the fidelity of his page, but Edmund repelled it instantly.
"He is true as life," he said.
"But the king himself is witness that Edric has not left his presence."
"If not, he has plenty of villains about him to anticipate his orders, vile as Godwin, port-hund of Shrewsbury. Depend upon it they have murdered him, but if so, I will have vengeance, such vengeance--I will challenge the villain Edric to single combat."
"The Church would forbid it."
"Do you then sympathise with the hypocrite?"
"Alas, my son! who can read the heart of man? I know not what to think."
"But you could read the history of the last campaign. A fool might--I beg pardon--were not all our plans known beforehand? Did not all our enterprises fail? Were not all our ambushes anticipated? Did we not fall into all theirs? If they had had a prophet like Elisha, who told the king of Israel all Benhadad said in his council chamber, they couldn't have managed better. Can you explain this?"
"No, my son."
"Then I can, for I heard Sweyn say that they had a friend in the English camp."
"Then you actually put your head in the lion's mouth, prince?" and the good bishop, purposely to relieve the prince's mind, drew out from him all the story of his late adventures.
Deep was the distrust which Ednoth himself entertained of the fair-speaking Edric, yet he would not encourage the Etheling in further ill-timed opposition to his father.
So at last Edmund slept, and trusted that with the morn he should find Alfgar; but the morn came, and all his inquiries were vain.
The chamber in which Alfgar was confined contained a box-like recess for the straw bed, a chair, and a rough table, and these were all the comforts at his disposal, but they were enough for one in that hardy age. It was very strongly built, not a loose plank about it, although the wind found its way through numerous crevices, to the slight discomfort of the inmate.
But not one hour of sleep could Alfgar take all that night. What would the Etheling think of him? was his constant thought, he who had saved his life at the risk of his (the Etheling's) own. Must he not think that the lad whose life he had saved had been false to him? and this thought was agony to the faithful and true heart of the prisoner.
He scarcely doubted for one moment into whose hands he had fallen--that he was in Edric Streorn's power. The only thing he could not quite comprehend was, why they had thought it worth while to imprison him, when murder would seem the more convenient mode of removing an unpleasant witness.
Early on the following day he heard some people approach the door of the house, and heard them admitted. Shortly afterwards a firm step ascended the stair, and the door opened.
Edric Streorn stood before him.
The captor eyed his captive with a look of conscious pride, and said with some complacence, "You see, and perhaps repent, your rashness in the accusation you made."
"It was true."
"I do not think it worth my while to deny it here; but what of that?--I am an Englishman by birth, but (let us say) a Dane by choice. You are a Dane by the fortune of birth, but an Englishman by choice; the worse choice, you will find, of the two."
Alfgar felt confused.
"But I did not come here to exchange compliments with you, nor to prove, as to the fools you have chosen to serve, that I was on pilgrimage at the time you name. I have a direct purpose in detaining you here, for I have lately seen Sweyn."
"Traitor!"
"I thought we had agreed that we could not throw stones at each other on that account. Well, the gentle Sweyn has taken your evasion very much to heart, and earnestly desires to repossess himself of your person; but for this, my easiest plan would have been to rid myself of so troublesome a witness in a more speedy manner, and you might ere this have fed the fishes of the Thames.
"Therefore," he continued, "unless you can satisfy me of two or three points, I shall deliver you to Sweyn."
Alfgar thought at first that this was simply an idle threat, since it would be almost impossible to convey him secretly through the country to the Isle of Wight. Edric understood his thoughts.
"You forget," he said, "that Sweyn will shortly be here; your friend, the Etheling, may have told you that, if you did not know it before; he is telling it to everybody, but no one believes him. Only think, no one will believe that Sweyn could be so audacious, and they think that, listening behind walls and in cupboards, the Etheling, perhaps, drank too much of what he found there--and that was all. Well, when Sweyn comes, he may, if he will, make a public example to all apostates in your honoured person; meanwhile Edmund thinks you have deserted him."
No torturer ever seemed to take a keener pleasure in the throes of his victim, than Edric in the mental agony he kindled in the breast of his unhappy prisoner.
"But I said I might release you, or at least mitigate your fate, on one condition, that you answer me a plain question directly and plainly. Under what name does Edmund travel, and what disguise, and does he purpose to trust himself in the Danish camp again? Where is he at present residing? he has disappeared from the palace."
"Monster!" said Alfgar, "you tempt like Satan. Away, and leave me to my fate."
"You will think better of it by and by when confinement upon bread and water has tamed you. I will come once more, but it will be the last time; and, mark you, should your people be defeated-- the Danes I mean--still your escape would not necessarily follow; the house might take fire, it is of timber, and would soon burn down; a sad misfortune it would be.
"Good morning. I am going to mass with the king; shall I say a Pater and an Ave for you, since you are prevented from being there. The saints have you in their holy keeping!"
His manner throughout had been like that of a cat playing with a mouse, and there was quite a gratified smile upon his lips as he went.
Strange to say, Alfgar felt less miserable after he was gone. The wickedness of Edric seemed so great, his hypocrisy so unblushing, that in his simple faith Alfgar could not believe that he would be allowed to succeed. Many a holy text in the Psalms came to his mind, and seemed to assure him of Divine protection.
"I myself have seen the ungodly in great power; and flourishing like a green bay tree.
"I went by, and, lo! he was gone; I sought him, but his place could nowhere be found.
"Seek innocency, and take heed to the thing that is right: for that shall bring a man peace at the last."
"So, come what will," said he, "I will trust in Him and never will I save my life by uttering one word which might betray the innocent."
In this manner days lengthened into weeks. He tried in vain to open any intercourse with his ferocious jailor, whose ward was sometimes shared by a comrade, when there was much ungodly revelry below, and snatches of Danish war songs mingled with profane oaths. The deep, deep bay of the mastiff sometimes gave warning of the advent of a stranger, or of the step heard from the distance, in the still deep night; but this was all that Alfgar could learn of the outer world, from which he was banished at so critical a moment.
CHAPTER XV. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY AT CLIFFTON.
SUNDAY BEFORE ADVENT.--
The evening, after the Vesper service in the church was over, and darkness had closed in, we all sat down to our evening meal. The doors were shut to keep out the storm, and I had already said grace, when the Etheling suddenly appeared.
His manner struck us all. He looked wild and agitated, and his first words cast a chill over us.
"Where is Alfgar?"
"Is he not with you, what has happened?" said I and Herstan, speaking in the same breath.
"No, I have lost him. I had hoped to find him here; they must have murdered him," he cried.
"Murdered him?"
"Yes, he was too dangerous to Edric to be suffered to live. I might have foreseen it; and they have put him out of the way by cowardly assassination," insisted the Etheling.
There was too much reason in his words.
"Besides," said he, "if he were well and uninjured, would he not have come here, where he was sure of a welcome?"
"I will go to Dorchester at once," said Herstan.
"It is useless," said Edmund; but my brother, having learnt all that the prince could tell him, mounted and rode into the town.
Meanwhile Edmund evidently needed our care; we found he had not eaten all day.
"I have risked my life for my country," he said, "and now that I bring tidings which ought to circulate through the land like the wind, and rouse every man to action, I am disbelieved. Nay, it is hinted that I drank too much Danish wine and mead, and misunderstood what I heard. I could brain the man who dared say so to my face. I could--and would. Meanwhile no steps are taken, no levies called out; but I will myself alarm the country. The innocent blood shall not be on my head."
"Surely they must heed your warning," said we all together.
"Not they. The fox, Edric, pretended that it was all moonshine."
"But did you not expose his treachery?" asked I.
"I tried to do so; but he pulled out a bit of some hedge, which he said was a holy thorn from St. Joseph's tree at Glastonbury, and that he was there on pilgrimage when Alfgar saw him--saw him, mark you--at the Danish camp on the borders of Sussex; and I saw men, I won't mention names, who had more than once taken reward to slay the innocent, look as if they would go down on their knees to this holy thorn, which wasn't a holy thorn at all, but plucked from some hedge hard at hand. Did not Edric mock them in his heart! I should like to strangle him."
How I thought of those who tithed mint and rue, and all manner of herbs, and passed over justice, mercy, and the love of God.
So, in unavailing complaints, midnight drew on, and we heard the sound of my brother's horse.
He soon entered the room. We saw at a glance that he had laboured in vain, and spent his strength for nought.
"No one has seen him," he said.
"Have you asked many people?" we inquired.
"Yes, scores. The sheriff, the bishop, the watchmen, the tradesfolk--no one has seen or heard aught. I will go again tomorrow."
"Meanwhile, do the people know what passed at the banquet last night?"
"No; it has all been kept quiet," was the reply.
We could do no more, and all retired to rest. I have sat up to say my mattins and finish this diary. It is now nearly the third hour of the morn, and--
Monday Night, 23d Nov. 1006.--
I had written as far as the word "and," when I was alarmed by a loud cry from the chamber next my own, which was occupied by the Etheling. I rose, and knocked at the door, but, receiving no answer, opened it and went in.
I saw at once that the prince was delirious; the fever, which I had marked in his eyes and manner, but which he struggled against, had at length overcome his brave spirit.
Just as I entered the room, bearing my torch, he sprang out of bed.
"There is a snake under my pillow."
I tried to soothe him.
"It is Edric; he is turned into a snake, and is trying to sting me. Kill him! kill him!"
I got him into bed with some difficulty, and sat by him, after giving him a composing draught--for I never travel without a few simples at hand, in case of sickness amongst those to whom I minister.
He slept at last, but it was evident to me that exposure and excitement had grievously injured his health, and that he was in danger of prolonged sickness. Ever and anon he raved in his sleep about Sweyn, Edric, his father, and Alfgar, mixing them up in his mind most strangely: but the object of his abhorrence was ever Edric, while he spoke of Alfgar, "poor Alfgar!" as a father might speak of a son.
I watched by him all through the night, and in the morning he was evidently too ill to rise. His mind became clear for a short time, and yet his memory was so confused that he scarcely comprehended where he was, or how he got here.
So my return to Abingdon is indefinitely delayed, for Herstan and my sister both insist on my staying till he is out of danger, if God will; and indeed I know no one else to whose care I could willingly commit him.
We think it best not to let his father or Edric know where he is, for we know how his death would rejoice the latter, and the wish is often father to the action. A little would turn the scale now.
Herstan has gone into Dorchester again to inquire about Alfgar, and to ascertain whether any action has been taken consequent upon Edmund's intelligence from Carisbrooke.
Saturday.--Vigil of St. Andrew, and Eve of Advent Sunday.--
All this week I have been watching by the sickbed of the Etheling.
I hope the crisis is past, but he is still very weak. He has been delirious nearly the whole time, and today has but a confused idea of things around him.
All our inquiries about Alfgar have been fruitless, but there was one circumstance which we learned, which seemed to me to bear some reference to the matter.
The ferryman, whose hut is situate at the bend of the river below the Synodune hills, where people cross for Wittenham, says that late on the night in question a boat with four people passed down the river, and that it struck him that one only rowed, while two of the rest seemed guarding the fourth passenger. He did not know the boat, yet he thought he knew every boat on the river.
This he has told to Herstan and others, but no further discovery has ensued.
But another important matter has claimed our attention. The king left on Monday without making any efforts to profit by the Etheling's discovery at Carisbrooke; but we could not in conscience let the matter rest. So Herstan and I went on to Dorchester on Wednesday, and I obtained an audience of the bishop, while he sought the sheriff.
The bishop received me very kindly, and talked to me a great deal a bout the happy days of Dunstan, when peace and plenty ruled everywhere; but I led the conversation to the point I aimed at, and told him frankly how alarmed we were at Abingdon about Edmund's tidings.
"And so was I," said he, "and I have persuaded the king to place guards and watchers all through the coasts opposite the Wight, and with Edric's aid we elaborated a goodly plan."
"Indeed," said I, "but I wish Edric had nought to do with it."
"So did I at first, but I feel convinced that the young Dane who vanished so suspiciously must have deceived the prince concerning the presence of Edric in the Danish camp, and that we have no sufficient reason for thinking him such a child of hell as he would be could he betray his country thus cruelly. It would be Satanic wickedness. He is, I believe, a bad and untrustworthy man, but not quite so bad as all that."
I tried to explain my reasons for being of a contrary opinion, and asked what was the plan.
"Advanced guards have been placed all along the coasts of Hampshire, beacons prepared on every hill, with constant attendants, so that the Danes would find their coming blazed over the country at once."
"But if so, what men have we to oppose to them?"
"The sheriff has promised that the levies shall appear in case of need."
"Does he realise the danger?"
"I hardly think he believes in it; but the beacons will give sufficient warning."
"Who has arranged the guards and chosen the sites for the beacons?"
"Edric, of course, as general of the forces under the king."
I could say no more--it was useless--but I felt very sick at heart. After the noon meat I left the palace, and found my brother ready to depart for home. His interview had been the counterpart of mine. Neither had he succeeded in convincing the sheriff that there was any danger to be apprehended.
Well, all we can do is to prepare ourselves for the worst. I find that no tidings have been sent by any authority to the men of this estate to hold themselves in readiness for sudden alarm. I wonder whether the same remissness prevails elsewhere. No one expects danger. The Danes, they say, never fight in winter.
Advent Sunday, 1006.--
My patient was able to sit up for a short time today, but his weakness is very pitiable to behold, and he dares not leave his room. He inquired very earnestly after Alfgar, and I found great difficulty in persuading him to commit the matter to God, which is all that we can do; for although the river has been dragged, the country searched, no tidings have yet been obtained, and we can only believe that the poor lad has been secretly murdered and buried, or that he has been sent away out of the country.
"I had a strange dream about him," said Edmund. "I thought that it was midnight of Christmas Eve, and that I was attending mass, when, just as the words were sung by the choir, 'Pax in terra,' the scene suddenly changed, and I stood in the dark on the chalk hills which overlook the Solent; by my side was a beacon ready laid for firing. I thought next I saw the Solent covered with the warships of the Danes, who were advancing towards the English shore, and that I tried to fire the beacon, but all in vain, for the wood was wet through, and would not burn.
"Then I had a strange sense of woe and desolation, for my country was in danger, and I could not even warn her. All at once I heard steps rushing towards me, and Alfgar appeared bearing a lighted torch. He thrust it into the pile, and it fired at once. Other beacon fires answered it, and the country was aroused. Then I awoke."
Saturday, December 5th, 1006.--
The week has again been spent mainly at Clifton. The prince is better, but only able to rise a few hours each day, and I fear a relapse would be fatal.
On Wednesday I visited Abingdon, and had a long conference with the abbot about the neglected warning Edmund had given; but he seemed to think that the beacon fires and the guards placed near the sea coast secure us sufficiently. Like all the world, he thinks that the Etheling has exaggerated the danger.
I have written a full account of all things to my brother at Aescendune. Father Adhelm is still there ministering to the flock.
Saturday, December 12th, 1006.--
The week has passed monotonously enough. The Etheling is now able to leave his room, but the stormy weather, with its torrents of rain, makes it impossible for him to leave the house. The river has overflowed its banks; all the country around is like a lake. We console him by telling him that all has been done which is possible, both to warn the people and learn the fate of Alfgar. He tries to look contented, but if he knew how little has really been done, and that that little has been in Edric's hands, he would not be so contented.
Saturday, December 19th, 1006.--
A very severe frost has set in this week, and there has been much snow; the whole country is decked in her winter braveries for Christmas. O that it may pass in peace, as the birthday of the Prince of Peace should pass!
I intend to spend it at Clifton, after which I shall return to my flock at Aescendune.
Edmund has been out today, but the sharp air hurt his lungs, which have been grievously inflamed, and he was forced to return early.
He has been so patient for one of his temperament, so grateful for attention shown him, one would hardly think the lion could be such a lamb. He intends to receive the Blessed Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ on Christmas day in the little church of St. Michael here, and then he will leave for London in the course of the week.
We have heard nothing of Alfgar--we fear there is no hope; but the prince clings to it, and says his dream will come true, and that Alfgar has yet a great work to do.
Christmas Eve, 1006.--
O happy happy Christmastide! All griefs seem hushed and all joys sanctified by the blessed mystery of the Incarnation. O that Mary's blessed Son, the Prince of Peace, may indeed bring us peace on earth, and good will towards men!
The weather is beautiful. The stars shine as brightly tonight as if they were the lights about His throne; the very earth has decked herself in her clear and spotless robe of snow in His honour. As for the dear ones who were with us last Christmas--Bertric, Alfgar (for I fear he is gone where I hope he keeps a happier Christmas)--they have left the heart less lonely, for if we miss them on earth they seem to attract us to heaven, which is yet more like home when we think of the loved and the lost who await us there.
We sing a midnight mass in an hour in the little church, another tomorrow at dawn, a third in the full daylight. All the good people here will communicate, and the evening will be given up to such merrymaking as is befitting amongst Christians. All the ceorls and serfs will be at the Hall, and the prince will share the entertainment. Herstan and Bertha have been very busy preparing for it, as also their children, Hermann, Ostryth, and Aelfleda.
But I must go and assist in decking the church for the midnight festivity.