The prince listened till the end of the song, and said he, “Thou hast wondrous skill, good minstrel; never heard I the like, nay, and the song thou singest pleaseth me.”
Then Feargus answered, imitating the broken English of the Lothian Britons, “Yes, sir knight, but I am old and my hand will not long keep its cunning.”
“Here’s gold to thee, and, if thou art willing, thou mayest come with me this night, for there is much merriment in my hall and I am to wed a fair lady to-morrow.”
“That will I gladly, sir knight, but my beast is old and weary and can go but slowly.”
“An thou canst play as thou wert doing a minute since I will wait on thy beast and ride with thee.”
Then Feargus arose, but made as though he were bent and decrepit, and, mounting his beast, rode on behind the prince; but they went but slowly for the horse of Feargus was overdone, and Feargus was a merciful man and loved all breathing things. At length they won the castle, and Feargus marked it well. It lay between high hills in a narrow glen, and to the west were two hills with conical tops;[8] it was a great building of wood, stone, and earth and had many towers, some tall and narrow and pointed, others in the style of the Roman city of Camelon, which could be seen lying in the plain to the north-west, from the great brae up which they wended by the hill of Bonaly. Close by the castle stretched a loch and the hills encompassed it. It was the last outpost of the English of Lothian built to keep back the native people who still held out in the wide moors and fastnesses. They entered over the drawbridge and the prince bade his servants give the minstrel meat and drink and then bring him to the hall. They set the meat before him and he ate heartily, so that they were astonished he being so old a man. Then said the seneschal, “Methinks thou hast had a mighty frame in thy youth, good minstrel.” “Aye, and thou hast handled a sword as well as a harp methinks, father,” said another.
Then Feargus arose. “Yes,” he said, “I have used the harp and the sword, but better I love the harp which makes men merry than the sword which makes them sad.”
“Thou sayest sooth,” said the seneschal, and Feargus took his harp and soon, such was his skill, and such was the beauty of the music of Albainn which he played, that they forgot the harper and cried, “Well done! well done! thou art the king of minstrels.”
They took him to the hall and there, as he entered, he beheld the prince seated at the middle of the table and at his right hand and his left a great and motley company of wild and savage men, on the faces of most of whom drunkenness had left its mark. The prince himself was a man of bloated visage, but well featured and powerful of form and with an air of some courtliness. He was, moreover, much younger than most of his companions. At his right hand sat Torfrida dressed in red and cloth of gold, a jewel of wondrous beauty in her hair. Feargus thought her pale at first, but so lively and bright was she, and so merrily she chatted with the prince, that he was surprised. Instead of finding her distressed he found her gay, and so far from being appalled by the thought of her marriage with the prince on the coming day, she was bright and lively. Feargus looked again—this was no feigned composure or merriment. Had she forgotten him, and, glad to escape the dangers of their journey, was she going to wed the prince? The thought flashed across his brain only to be crushed back, and he was ashamed that it had even entered his heart. A merry peal of laughter rang through the hall and thrilled him, and the thought returned again, again to be forced back. Then he struck his harp, avoiding all those airs which Torfrida knew, and so, the meal over, Torfrida sped lightly through the hall to her chamber leaning on the arm of the prince. Feargus stood up in the corridor as they passed, for move he could not, and he watched him bid her farewell at the door, she giving him her hand to kiss and waving it to him as he passed along to the hall. And when the door of her chamber closed on her Feargus felt his knees give under him; his strength melted away; his body shook so that his harp nigh fell from his hands. Anger against her he felt none but only grief. There life ended for him; all the pain, the weariness, the danger he had passed through for her and with her, returned to him and crushed him. Now he was in the snowstorm, now in the robbers’ cave, now he leapt into the waters of Aire after the host of Penda; now she plucked him by the beard and awoke him from his madness with her touch—how beautiful she looked in that moment of recognition, was ever human creature so lovely before! Then he saw her dying face upturned in the boat and cut his arm that she might drink. Anger—no, he could never feel anger towards her, and towards him—if she loved him he should go unscathed, and what help he could give should be his. Then the water gathered in his eyes and despair seized him, and he groped with his hand for his sword to slay himself, and then he staggered forward a step or two and sank to earth knowing no more.
Long time he lay, till at length he became ware of one kneeling beside him, while strong wine was poured between his teeth; then soft lips kissed his forehead and a soft voice whispered in his ear, “Awake, oh, awake! Oh, what aileth thee, my Feargus? Now thou openest thine eyes. Thanks be to God! hadst thou died I would have slain myself—there, drink a little.” And then she kissed him again and wept and kissed, between joy and grief. “Canst thou arise,” she said at length, “for there is danger in lying here lest any should come. Better sit in my chamber till thou art well—my tire-woman is abed.”
So Feargus arose and stepped into the light, but he no longer dare look at her, but stood before her shamefaced and cringed on the ground beneath, kissing her feet and asking forgiveness.
“I know not what it is that I must forgive; what hast thou ever done that should need my forgiveness?”
Then Feargus told her and she went white and trembled, and wept again, and refused his kisses and turned from him, till at last she forgave him and he arose. And she told him all that had happened since she was taken captive, and how she had set the tapestry on fire and been beaten by the earl’s mother and had tried to find the battlements to fling herself from them, and how she had gone instead into the hall where her enemy was and been again sorely beaten. And he was full of rage and indignation and grief and shame at his own doubts of one so noble and devoted.
“Then,” said she, “know that I knew thee the moment thou didst enter despite thy disguise, for no other harper that ever me saw doth hold his harp as fondly and strike it just as thou dost; but even had this not been so, I should have known thee for Feargus among ten thousand, and so overjoyed was I at seeing thee that I could scarce contain myself, for never did I think the ring would betray him so quickly and I had little hope indeed. Now thou must go, and at thy signal I will do as thou hast bidden me, to-morrow, and I pray we may get hence with whole skins, but my heart fails me at the thought.”
“Much have we come through and it will go hard if we do not escape from this place.”
So he departed to the hall and lay among the rushes on the floor, where he slept soundly, many dangers having taught him to sleep when he might, that his strength should be husbanded. When the folk began to stir about the castle he arose, and, breakfasting with the soldiers, waited in the hall while they got ready a great feast, for that day the prince was to wed the strange lady and he and his friends were to make merry. So the hour of the feast drew nigh and the nobles entered and took their places at the board on either side the prince. On the right hand was Torfrida, dressed in a long white gown, about which in cunning wise was drawn a sash of gold. The veil which had half hidden her face yesterday had gone, and her fair hair with its shining depths of red and gold fell down over her shoulders in simple fashion. So lovely she looked, and so young and fresh and ruddy, that a murmur arose from the rough soldiers and serving men as she entered, and even the loose, low sots who sat round the board gazed upon her for a moment open-mouthed. And they ceased to wonder how it was that the strange maiden had been able to make their master put off the wedding, day by day. Feargus, who sat among the servants at the opposite end of the table, had been playing, but as she entered his hand had fallen, and he stopped to gaze with the rest. Seeing this the prince turned and said, “Why stoppest thou, minstrel? When I bid thee thou mayest stop.”
Then there entered a few other women, wives of the nobles, coarse and red-faced like their lords with much eating and drinking. By them Torfrida looked the fairer. The feast began, and thereafter the wine cup went round and Feargus played his merriest music that they might drink the more. Soon there was no man among them that had not taken more than enough and some grew noisy, and shouts and oaths filled the hall, while some lay asleeping with their heads on the board. And so mad was the music that many drank still, till at length the prince arose, his face flushed and hand unsteady, and cried, “A toast with me, my friends; I pledge the bonniest lady in Lothian!”
“Nay, now, sir prince, how shall they know that thy words be true unless thou tellest whose lady she is that thou dost pledge, for there may be some here who hold their own ladies the bonniest.”
“Thou hast over much to say for thyself, sir minstrel. I tell thee I will break the head of him who will refuse to drink this toast with me: the lady I speak of is mine.”
“Nay, then, prince, my head must thou break, for her I hold to be the fairest lady in this company is mine.”
“Ha, ha! what new foolery is this to please the company? Go on, minstrel, it must be something of great wit to warrant thy assurance. Here is an old coxcomb indeed, friends.” And the laugh went round. And Feargus sang this song, thinking to sober the company a little and hoping to escape without bloodshed:—
The song pleased the love-sick prince and there was a round of cheers ere Feargus had done.
“Thou art indeed a good minstrel,” said the prince, “but now to the toast.”
“Yea, he singeth well, but he hath had over much wine and his head is not so strong as it once was,” said one.
“Nay, good sir knight, thou art mistaken, wine hath not passed these lips to-day, for I drink wine but sparingly; but I hold that no man may drink this pledge an he hath a lady whom he holdeth fairest.”
“Thou art mad; sit thee down,” roared the prince, “or a halter shall sit where thy lady’s arm should be.”
“Thou wilt at least put me to the proof, and ye gentlemen all. I swear that when I ask, the bonniest lady shall arise and walk to me across the hall, or, an she doth not, thou mayest hang me forthwith.”
Then followed roars of rude laughter, and shouts of, “Where is she?” “Bring her forth,” and others shouted, “’Twill be a good jest; let the minstrel have his way.”
“Go on then, minstrel,” said the prince, “since it is the wish of the company.”
“That will I, but thou must first give me thy pledge that if I fail not, then wilt thou allow my lady and myself to leave thy halls unmolested and without scath, and will leave us to wend our way as we may list, on two good beasts of thy stable.”
“Thou art beside thyself. How could it profit us to keep the lady of such as thou?”
Then the nobles, who began to feel a kind of curiosity stirring them, said, “This is so persistent a madman that we must needs let him have his way.”
“I swear to thee, minstrel,” said the prince, “to do as thou sayest, an thou succeed, and, moreover, I swear to hang thee an thou failest.”
Feargus turned to the knights and called them to witness, and then rose and taking his long staff bound round with thongs, and his harp, he walked down the hall to the door and standing with his back against it struck a few notes on his harp and sang this verse in strong, clear tones:—
The passionate tones of the singer had stirred his hearers and the laugh died out on their lips ere he had finished the first bar. Mere curiosity had become keen interest, and there was a pause in the buzz and murmur that had filled the hall. He reached his right hand to his left shoulder and from beneath the loose red plaid he wore drew forth his great sword. This was the signal. Torfrida arose from her place and, ere the astonished prince could collect his senses, tripped lightly down the hall and stood beside the aged minstrel, the company being too much astonished to hinder her. Siegfried started up in great rage, and made towards them. Quickly and with wondrous strength did Feargus draw some ponderous benches that lay about to the front of him as a fence, and warned the prince back.
“Prince, thou hast sworn, and all the company hath witnessed; be not rash, for an thou break promise given, thou wilt lose such worship as is left to thee. And I ask ye, knights and gentlemen, to see right done.”
Many were for Feargus, but the prince still advanced, slowly and with great labour clearing the benches from before him as he went. Then Feargus set down his harp, and handed his long staff, which was his bow, to Torfrida that she might free it of the thongs which had served to hide it, and he started to his full height and cast off his grey beard and his rags and stood big and strong in his byrny with his great sword in his palm. Then those who had unwillingly followed their master held back, for they knew him the captain of the king’s guard.
“Thou hast stolen my lady, and I am come to rescue her, and be he earl or boor, he that goeth to stay me shall die.”
Then the prince, mad with rage, drew forth his sword and with many oaths advanced upon him, followed by those of his own Northumbrians who were present. The others, Britons from Strathclyde and Lothian and Southern Picts who had submitted to the rule of the strangers, saw that the minstrel was a Pict, and their jealousy of the Northumbrians being aroused they were less ready to see so gross a wrong done to one of their race.
“Now he is a coward and recreant chief who keeps not his pledge,” cried Feargus, “and they be coward knights who help a lying leader.”
Then the Britons tried to reason with the prince, but in vain, still he came on, followed by his drunken rout.
“Back, prince, or thou shalt die,” said Feargus once more, wishing to spare the spilling of blood. Drunk and mad with anger, however, the prince heeded not, but laid his steel against that of Feargus, though it was only a moment ere the sword of Feargus was buried in his body, and the blood of him leaped up suddenly from his mouth and, to the horror of his men, he fell back dead. Then Feargus tried to stop the Northumbrians, stout fighting men and big of body, but they would not hearken to him, coming on crying, “Down with him! he hath killed the prince!” They pressed against him on the right hand and the left, but so close the one upon the other that they had little space to move, while lightly Feargus swung his brand from behind the benches, so that they could not get into him, and legs and arms were shorn in its sweep, until there lay before him a confused and bloody mound, mixed up with wine cups and meat and drink and table gear, and still the Picts and Britons withheld from the strife. But Feargus knew that the fight must go against him, so thick and fast they came, wounding and trampling on each other in their eagerness to get at him. Then, wounded and weary of so much sword play, in a pause of the fight he cried out in Gaelic, “Now here am I, Feargus, son to king Nechtan of the Hundred Fights, and kin to all ye Picts and Britons, and my lady is of the South Albanich by her mother’s side. Yet though of these Northumbrians I have slain some and maimed more, till I am sick of slaughter, yet my lady and I must fall, so many are our enemies. Never a friend shall he lack though all the world be turned against him who helpeth me.”
Then said one to his fellows, “This must indeed be Feargus, king Penda’s captain, for never saw I man so giant-like or of so great strength and hardihood. All that man can do hath he done; shameful and unknightly of us were it to see him, our kin, who is in his right, destroyed.” Then many of the others agreed, though they were loth to join the fray, fearing for their own lands. But he who had spoken first, one Llewellin of the Gwynedd tribe of Britons whose lands had stretched up into the Lothians, stepped to the leader of the Northumbrians and for a moment the fight ceased.
“Now,” said he, “ye men of Northumbria, ye have had your fill of fighting and it is dastardly of all ye to attack one, though he hath ye at some advantage. Surely your king would little admire ye.”
“Hath he not slain our prince? right angry will be the king. Not one of us dare face him without this man’s head, stark though he be, for he is son to king Nechtan and it must be he who was Penda’s captain.”
“Then no hand will we have in this unknightly work; but we bid ye desist, or an ye do not we will join with Feargus, and what could we not do under so mighty a leader?”
Feargus spoke out to the Lindeseymen. “Now, ye men of Lindesey, this, my lady, is Torfrida, daughter of Sigmund, your king, and ye, men of Mercia, I have bled for your king, and two hundred of my men fought for him when others fled, and all died for him at the last. If ye do not help me we must fall.”
Then one Lindeseyman said: “I saw him save prince Edwy and his thanes from the Mercians. I will help him.”
“And I saw him stop the slaughter of the Lindeseymen,” said another.
“And I was with him when he held the cliffs for Penda on Trent water,” said a Mercian.
“And I when he saved the day for Mercia at Camulodunum in East Anglia.”
“And I, and I,” said others.
So all these who had held aloof came down over the barriers and stood beside him.
“And I and all Lindeseymen will fight for Torfrida,” said another thane. And he cried, “Lindesey! Lindesey!” and behind him followed the rest of the Lindeseymen crying, “Lindesey! Lindesey!” And the Mercian thanes cried the cry of “Penda! Penda!” that held armies spellbound with fear in the old days, and all the Mercians joined them.
Then said Llewellin of the Gwynedd to the Northumbrians, “Let no more blood be spilt. We do not want to fight ye, Northumbrians; we would be friends.”
Getting scornful reply they drew their swords and fell mightily upon the Northumbrians. And the clang of sword on helm, and the rushing and hurrying of mailed feet, and the cries of “Lindesey! Lindesey!” “Penda! Penda!” filled the hall, where late had been merriment and a different music. And no more terrible and savage sight fell ever on the eye of Feargus. Torfrida had long fainted for very horror of it. And when the din ceased there was no Northumbrian left standing unwounded out of all that throng.
And when that fight was done the Britons and others paused awhile, speechless, awe-stricken, at the scene, and not without fear, for they dreaded the wrath of the king. They spoke among themselves, Feargus meanwhile carried Torfrida down out of the hall to her own chamber, and bade her make ready to depart. Then to the British knights he said, “Much do I owe ye for great service done, and I pledge me that if ever ye win my land I will requite ye, as much as gold can requite service like to this. And as ye are many I advise ye to go in small companies, and I will likewise, and go ye into your own lands quickly. And if any trouble fall upon ye now or in time to come send ye to me and I will not be tardy in helping ye both with men and ships.”
So they parted with great friendship, and Feargus descended into the stable with Torfrida, and chose therefrom the two best steeds and rode forth.
Within the castle, the victors bade their men to gather the wine cups and arms and horses from the stable, and every beast was laden with the spoil. And it fell that as they rode through the wood northward, making great haste to get out of king Sigeberht’s land, Feargus said, “Behold, how the castle of prince Siegfried burneth,” and Torfrida turned and saw that all the lift was lit up at the back of them and filled with sparks of burning timber without number. A moment they gazed awe-stricken at the glorious sight. And they met many people on their road, but these being mostly British stood not in their way. After they had gone many miles they made the coast and found one ready to ferry them over Forth, and so they got aboard with their two beasts and sailed up beyond the Ochils and there landed, and once more made their way northward. At length they drew nigh to the city where dwelt the king of the South Picts and were for going straight forward hoping to pass by unseen of the people. Hardly had they got within sight of the town, however, before they saw a party of horse and foot, the footmen being so fleet that they kept pace with the horses. They quickly came round Feargus, but he warned them to lay no hand on either his lady or himself, but the captain laughed and rode at him crying, “Render thyself up, for thou art our prisoner and must come before the king.”
“I will come before the king, sir captain, but I warn thee that no man’s hand will I allow on my bridle.”
The captain laughed again, and stretched forth his hand, whereupon Feargus struck him with his sheathed sword that he fell senseless. Then quickly turning their horses’ heads they wheeled suddenly, leaving the soldiers behind them, and dashed across towards the gate of the city. There they entered and rode up to the king’s hall and were surrounded by his people, and the party which had been sent to bring them in now coming, took them to the king, who ordered that they should be cast into prison, for Feargus did not tell them that he was king Nechtan’s son, thinking they might deem him so rich a prize that they would not readily release him. Then was Feargus much downcast, for his spirits had been high at thought that they were near his own land after so many wanderings.
Now it fell that there was one Domlech, a man of the North Picts, staying in the town at that time; he had come as a messenger from king Nechtan, and he beheld Feargus when he entered with Torfrida. By his speech, which differed slightly from that of the Southern Picts, he knew him to be a countryman of his, and by the richness of his byrny he judged him to be a chief. Domlech, however, said nothing, deeming it best to keep his own counsel till he won home to king Nechtan. And when the old king heard that one who was seemingly a great chief of his people had been taken by the king of the South Picts, he was angry, and sent a captain who was well known throughout the land as a mighty warrior to demand the stranger and with him went a strong force. So Feargus and Torfrida had been prisoners but a week when one night the peal of the pipes burst upon the ear of Feargus and he knew it was the slogan of the king of Albainn. Here were his noble father Nechtan and his friends, and the end of his wanderings had come at last! An hour passed and he began to grow weary of waiting, when the door opened and his jailor came in and bade him follow him, for his kinsmen of North Alban had come to demand him. So he was led up out of the dungeon to the light where he found Torfrida, and they saw that the Picts were all around the walls, having stolen up to the town silently, making no sound until they were at the very gates, when they demanded their kinsman, whoever he might be, who was held prisoner. Then the king of the South Picts agreed to release him if they would withdraw. And so they opened the gate, and they two rode out towards the captain who commanded the host of Nechtan. And Feargus could speak to no man so was he overcome at this so happy end to their troubles, and then at last they came into the captain’s tent, and behold the captain was Duncan! And each had deemed the other dead, and like men bereft of their senses they gazed upon each other and fell to greeting for very gladness. By reason of their great strength it had chanced that Duncan and Alastair and some others of Feargus’s company had been healed of their wounds at Winwid, and had found their way back to their king. So there was great rejoicing in the camp that night, and the townspeople wondered why they moved not away but made so merry. In the morning they marched northward, and when they won the halls of Nechtan, Feargus entered alone, but it was with difficulty he passed the men who guarded the king, for none knew him. At length he called for Duncan to order that he should be let see the king and so won in, and came to the king’s own chamber, and many stood about and looked at him and he at them, but they minded him not. Not so the king, for though he had thought him dead, and though he came now in strange arms, yet no sooner did he enter than the old man knew him and started back a moment and then clasped him to him and wept. And when the chiefs knew that the stranger was Feargus they made great rejoicing and drew him and Torfrida round their city in a chariot. And Torfrida was brought in, and the king was mightily pleased with her, and took great pride in his son, for he knew that between all those seas there was not a warrior like to him. And in the land, also, was great rejoicing, the fathers were as glad as though they had each found a son that was lost, and the sons as though they had found one of their brethren. For king Nechtan of the hundred battles was greatly regarded, being one who never broke faith or failed an Albannach in need, and it was thus that in this present, he having sent to succour whom he thought a stranger had won a son instead. As to Torfrida, she was so overcome with joy at this happy end of their troubles that she kept her bed for a week and then arose to make ready for the marriage feast. Not a month had passed since they won home to Alban before a ship came thereto, and brought a messenger from Edwy, who told how Osbert had turned upon king Sigmund and slain him, and seized the kingdom and joined it to his own. After vainly trying to rouse his father’s men to make war upon Osbert with him, their lawful king, Edwy had been forced to fly with a handful of faithful followers, and, reaching the fens before Osbert knew which way he had taken, sent his messenger in a small ship to Alban, asking the aid of the king of the Picts for the sake of Feargus, whom he had long thought dead, else he knew that he would have returned ere now to succour him.
Then did Feargus mind him of his promise to return to save his friend Edwy. So king Nechtan called a council and sent to his shipmen to make ready, and gathered together a host and set Feargus in command with Duncan and Alastair and others who had been in Mercia with Penda. And right gladly they armed them to serve once more their mighty captain; and on the morrow reached the ships and sailed for the land of Lindesey. So with good winds they soon made the coast and anchored fast their ships in the river Witham and sailed in smaller boats into the fen country; and when they had gotten well within it they landed, and made for the woods and there found Edwy at the trysting place. Right full of gladness were he and his men to see the Albanich, and when he beheld Feargus at their head he was like to one beside himself for gladness. Then said he to his men, “Now of a surety shall my father be avenged and our country saved from the spoiler, for here is the greatest captain in all this land to lead us, with such a company of giants as was never seen, and every man a brother to his fellow, so that little wonder it is that they have always the victory.”
Then said Feargus, “Now, good Edwy, we will to the war if thou wilt lead us through these marshes.”
“We will have less journey to travel than methought at the first, for Osbert hath found that I have betaken me to the fens and for many days past we have been hunted like wolves, by men and dogs.”
“Then what is thy wish?”
“The army of Osbert lieth only some twenty miles northward of us. My rede is that we march by night, keeping the woods by day, until we come up with them, and fall upon them privily in the dark, for by such means will we save our men and much bloodshed.”
“Thy counsel is good; what dost think, Duncan, and thou, Alastair?”
“Better rede we cannot offer.”
“Then so it shall be,” said Feargus, “and how far doth their host lie from the river?”
“Twenty miles from Witham by the water.”
“And dost know the ground?”
“None should know it better.”
“Then thou canst place us all around his camp, that we may attack together?”
“That can I, if thy men can keep silence.”
“As silent as the stars they can be, or as the fish that swim in the sea. Let us row up to the point where Witham joins the Bane Water, and there leave the boats in among the reeds.”
That same night they hied them back to the boats and rowed up among all that fen water, and no man spoke, and no sound broke the night save the cry of the peaseweeps and the whaups which anon flew across the boats’ track as they rowed. And the osiers swayed in the night wind and the long train of boats full of giant forms glided up the grey water. At length they landed and marched northward along the bank of the river Bane which flows into Witham. At daybreak they halted and lay in a small wood hard by until nightfall, then on. And when they drew nigh to where the host of Osbert lay, Feargus bid Duncan cross the stream to the west side and there strike through the wood a piece, when they were to turn them east till they saw the camp of the enemy. Edwy he sent also on along the other bank to return upon Osbert when he had won north of his army, while Alastair was to close in likewise from the east shielded by the osiers. And Feargus himself held the south with the road to their boats. And so each force was to wait till its captain heard the signal from the other three, which he was to answer with a wolf’s cry, at which they were to close in and attack, Edwy first with his Lindeseymen.
In Osbert’s camp all was feasting and merriment that night, but at last the whole host lay sleeping, and even the watchers around the camp dozed; till one, a half-drunk soldier, who paced the river side, heard the cry of the howlet from the wood which lay to the west of them, then answering cries from the northward and east, and the man wondered that so many owls should be about, and kicked the bits of wood into the stream with half-tipsy thoughtfulness. Twice the cry came again from the east, then Feargus from the south gave the answering cry—their first round of signals. Then each captain led his men in towards the camp and drew so near that, all being sunk in sleep, they could hear the tread of the watchers. Still the soldier paced the water side, until of a sudden, close to him on the west, he heard the cry of the wolf, then from the north and east the same weird sound arose; then came a pause, and Feargus, peering through the bulrushes in the river, singled out the camp of Osbert himself. At that moment the sentry was wondering whether to call the night guard seeing there were so many wolves abroad, but he fixed an arrow in his bow and waited, stirring the fire to brighter blaze to scare the wild creatures. Then from the south Feargus uttered the cry which was the final signal and all in a moment came the sound of the rush of Edwy and his Lindeseymen through the long sweet meadow grass to the north of them and the death cry of a wounded Anglian arose into the night. In a moment the camp of Osbert was awake and men were running wildly hither and thither, tumbling over one another in their hurry to get their arms, and the captains shouted to the men and the men knew not what had happened. Then midst all the confusion came showers of arrows from the osier planting to the east, showers from the wood that skirted them to the west, and showers from the bulrushes which lined the river bed. When they turned east the osiers started to life and dark and silent forms dashed forth to fall upon them like a frost wind upon the fields. Then the host of Osbert, half armed and half mad with fear, turned west, when the willow wood on that side of them rendered up its armed host, and Duncan and his Picts came upon them claymore in hand. Osbert’s captains shouted once more for order and urged their men to stand fast and set out the bowmen, and Osbert himself marshalled them and encouraged those that wrought with spears here, there the swordsmen. But to the Anglians and Lindeseymen, used as they were to the noise and rush of battle, the war cry and the clash of arms, there was something fearsome in the silence of their foes, and in their unusual size and garb. Osbert, finding enemies on three sides of him now turned his men with their backs to the river to protect their flank, when lo! a shower of arrows flew among them from the flank and the Anglians who stood in the rear ranks fell in droves, and as the terrible sense of being trapped by a silent and unknown foe, of seemingly overwhelming numbers, crept over the terrified and demoralised footmen, they heard the splash of water and the southward wing of the Picts under Feargus left their lair among the bulrushes, and dashed through the water breast deep. In an instant the river bank was alive with men of giant shape, who burst upon them, their long plaids floating in the wind behind, and for the first time the night was startled by the voices of their foemen as they raised the old shout of “Albanich! Albanich!” and from east and west came answering cries “Albanich! Albanich!” from the followers of Duncan and Alastair; while from the north rose the shout of “Lindesey! Lindesey! God save King Edwy!” Then Osbert knew that his old enemy had returned and that Edwy the hunted had turned hunter and had trapped the game, and he trembled. And there arose a din as though Babel were loosened. Again Osbert ordered his men to stand fast, but ordering was useless now, and after an hour’s desperate fighting, utterly beaten, the whole host turned and fled over the dark fen. Then, seeing the Picts start in pursuit, Edwy called aloud to those near him, “Pardon to all! Let the others go, but spare not the murderer,” and so he ran towards where he believed Osbert to be, and it was then about the dawn so that he could well distinguish faces. Soon there started one up before him and struck the weapon suddenly from his hand, saying, “Ha! king of Lindesey, I have sought thee long; my time and thy time have come together,” and so he rushed upon him, fury in his eyes.
“Nay, not so fast—thou canst war well on old men and boys; thou art able to fight bigger folk, and here is one for thee,” said Duncan, “thou and I have long been debtors each to other.”
Osbert waited no more, but turned suddenly upon him with all his force, but he had one to deal with stronger and more skilled than himself and he fell back, stabbed through the heart. So died the arch traitor who had given great trouble to many, whereof this history treats. Then Feargus and Duncan and Alastair brought in their men, and Feargus calling the Lindeseymen and all the captains around him, took the circlet of gold from the helm of Osbert and placed it on the brow of Edwy. Then all the warriors raised a great shout and cried, “God save king Edwy!” And so they fell to the booty, which they found in the camp of Osbert, and made themselves a great feast. And after they had rested and feasted them, they marched across towards Lindum, taking with them the head of Osbert. When they reached the city set on the hill, the people came forth to meet them, and all men swore to follow the king.
And so Feargus and his Picts helped Edwy to clear the land of Lindesey and they sent word out to all the thanes around that Edwy was king of the lands of his fathers, and if any would not call him king there would be war with him and all the Picts with him upon his side. And so after awhile Feargus returned, leaving Alastair to be king Edwy’s captain until all the land was brought under him. And they won Alban, and on the third day of their return was a great feast spread, and all the chiefs of that country were guests and many kings and princes, with Llewellin of Gwynedd and one MacGilliosa, a stout stranger from Galloway, and many Picts and Britons from Lothian, who had helped Feargus in times past, as this history showeth, for the beautiful and noble Torfrida, whose fame was in men’s mouths as a heroine for all time, was wed to Feargus of Albainn, son to king Nechtan of the Hundred Battles.
Of the Britain of which the foregoing story treats we know but little, and the strong Anglo-Saxon bias of many otherwise excellent writers has obscured what few facts we really possess of the stormy times of the great and faithful patriot king Penda. It may be the case that the Saxons had a reputation for cruelty, as the late Mr. Freeman points out, but we can have no true picture of the England of those times if we imagine that our English or Saxon ancestors were ever numerous or barbarous enough to exterminate, as historians would have us believe they did, the native Welsh or British, except in rare instances. The foregoing story makes it clear that the “English,” though a strong and well-organised handful of soldiers, were but a large handful after all, just as the Roman settlers, and Normans of later times, were but a handful compared to the whole population. Historians have based their beliefs in the Teutonic origin of the “English” people of to-day largely on language, on the fact that the surnames of the majority of the people are English and that the language they speak to-day is chiefly of English origin. We know now that a language is not necessarily an index to the race of the people, but that it is often acquired by contact with another race who spoke it and who may or may not have been its original owners.
The story shows that the country was at that time covered with vast woods and forests, with fens and marshes to the east, and with wide stretches of mountain and waste on the north-west. In all these tracts, as well as in the strong cities of Roman-British origin, the natives were able to hold their own, or to make terms with their Anglo-Saxon conquerors. It was only very slowly that those who served the conquerors as slaves or villeins adopted English names, as documentary evidence shows, even in the east of England, which has been assumed rather rashly to be the most Teutonic part of the island. The bands of outlaws, who were so noted even as late as the time of Edward III. in the Forest of Arden in Warwickshire, in Charnwood Forest, in Waltham Forest, and in the Fens of Bedford, Lincoln, and the East generally, were probably British refugees or their descendants.
The story of Feargus it is hoped will help the reader to understand the close kinship of both English and Scots with the “Welsh.” It is certainly time that we realised the fact that those Britons whom “Anglo-Saxon” writers have despised were really at that time a civilised and Christian race who had moreover been in contact with the highest culture the world possessed for a period of no less than five hundred years. We must ultimately realise that it is to them and to the admixture of Roman blood amongst them, rather than to the savage fighting men by whom they were conquered, or to the still more ruthless Norsemen who came later, that we owe the great beginnings of the civilisation of which we make so much to-day.
England in Penda’s time was broken up into at least twenty small kingdoms which were more or less independent; he made Mercia a great power by his statesman-like alliances with the smaller kingdoms and with the natives, both British and Picts, Christian and heathen. These states included the North English of the Osbert of our story; the Middle English, the South English, the Hwiccas, and the Gainas and Lindeseymen of Sigmund, whose names still survive in Gainsborough and in the district of Lindsey in Lincolnshire. To the east were the East Anglians, to the south the kingdom of Wessex. To the west of Mercia dwelt the tribes of South Wales, while the territory of the great Christian race of the Gwynedd included North Wales and stretched up into the region of Strathclyde, which, roughly speaking, was composed of Westmorland, Cumberland, and the central and, excepting Galloway, the western part of Southern Scotland as far as the river Forth and the great Romano-British city of Camelon on the Roman wall near Falkirk.
The northern Cymry or Gwynedd had, however, been separated from their kinsmen to the south owing to the important capture of Chester and the Wirral Peninsula by Ethelfrith, king of Northumbria in 607. It is to them we owe one of the most beautiful and refined cycles of folk tales in Europe—the legends of Arthur and the far earlier mythological stories translated by Lady Charlotte Guest in the Mabinogion, of which they were a development and somewhat of a medley. In every respect, save possession of the ruthlessness and strength which characterise savage races, the Gwynedd were in advance of their conquerors whose very heathenism was of a comparatively low type.
When Penda began his reign the dominant power was Northumbria, but the overthrow of its great king Edwin by Penda and Cadwalla, king of the Gwynedd, brought Mercia to the first place.
The list of Penda’s subsequent victories is a long one and more brilliant than that of any general of his times, not excepting the Welsh hero Cadwalla. On his overthrow after thirty years of victory Mercia for a few months passed under the rule of Northumbria, but was restored to Penda’s son Wulfere by the act of the Mercians themselves. His older son, Peada, had married Oswy’s daughter and already adopted Christianity. Under him and his brother Wulfere Mercia became Christian, though this probably only meant that the king and court were “converted” and the people were expected to follow. The men who were really in earnest in the spread either of Christianity or Heathenism, like Edwin, Penda, Oswald, Oswy, and Peada, were few. They, and Penda, the great ruler and organiser, stood out from among their fellows as giants amongst pigmies and gave their mental and moral backbone to the English people. So solid indeed were the foundations which Penda had laid in Mercia that for nearly two centuries after she maintained her place as practically the first power in Britain.
Penda “the Strenuous,” being a heathen, has received scant justice at the hands of Christian writers, but even they have reluctantly admitted his possession of that chief mark of civilisation—tolerance. His character has also puzzled modern historians, but puzzled them needlessly I think, for the few facts we have give the key to the position. It is clear that the advanced and Christian British would not have joined hands with him had he shown any inclination to force his heathenism upon them. In the same way had he intended to conquer them, which was the averred purpose of Christian Northumbria, they would not have chosen him their political ally, nor would the small midland states around him. What then seems to have attracted them alike was his unaggressive spirit towards the unaggressive—the British and the small states—and the tremendous antagonism he showed to any attempt at aggression on the part of the larger kingdoms—Northumbria, East Anglia, and Wessex. Though the small kingdoms are massed together by historians under the general title of “Mercia” they appear under Penda’s guidance to have really retained their integrity and their kings and ealdormen and to have formed a defensive federation rather than a single state. This may have been the secret of Penda’s power and of Mercia’s greatness.