I sat in the warm sun under the wide spread of the farmhouse eaves,
dreaming my dreams with the dog at my feet, for so soon as the May
time came in I must needs get into the open air, and grow stronger
daily.
So it came to pass that one day up the green farm lane came a
stranger, at whom the dog barked not, as was his wont, but ran to
meet as if he were some well-loved friend. And it was Raud, his old
master, who came, lightly mail clad, and with a short hunting spear
instead of staff in his hand, and whistling his "Biarkamal" as
ever.
Now with Raud I had no quarrel concerning the death of the king,
for well I knew that what he had done was truly in mercy, nor had
he taken any part in what went before. So I greeted him heartily
enough, for all that with the sight of him came back to me, with a
sharp pang, the memory of how I saw him last. And he rejoiced to
see me again.
"I have half feared that I should find you gone," he said; "for,
when I heard of this from Hubba's men, I must needs come and find
you, and little hope had I that you would live."
"I have nearly died, they say," I answered; "but I think that I owe
it to you that I was not slain in Hoxne woods yonder."
"Why, not altogether," he answered, sitting on the settle by me,
and looking me over, from arm yet in sling to lame leg. "Some of
the men with Ingvar and me wanted to slay you before they left that
place; but Ingvar growled so fiercely that they must let you be,
that they said no more, nor even would look your way again. But he
himself looked at you, and said strange things to himself."
"What said he?" I asked, wondering.
"He said, paying no heed to me, 'Now, Wulfric--you will hate me
forever more, nor do I think that Lodbrok my father would be
pleased with this;' after which he spoke words so low that I caught
but one here and there, but they were somewhat of the lady Osritha,
our mistress. After that he said to me, 'Leave him horse and arms
and unbind him,' and then turned away. Yet if I had not bound you
at first, maybe they would have had to slay you."
"That is true enough," I said; "surely I should have stood between
you and the king. But what came to Ingvar to make him speak thus to
me?"
"Why, after the hot fit comes the cold, ever, though Ingvar the
King's cold rage is worse at times than his fury. But since that
day there has been somewhat strange about the king."
"I wonder not," I said; nor did I. "But how goes it with him?"
"Men say, though they dare not do so openly, that the ghost of
Eadmund will not let him rest, and that mostly does he fear him
when his rage is greatest. Many a time when the fury seemed like to
come on him, Ingvar turns white and stares suddenly beyond all
things, as though seeing somewhat beyond other men's ken, and the
sweat runs cold from his forehead. Many a man has escaped him
through this."
"Surely Eadmund holds him back thus from more cruelty," I thought.
And aloud I said:
"What think you of the matter?"
"Why, that I am glad that I was bold enough to save your dying king
from more torture--else had I seen somewhat before me day and
night. Truly I see him now betimes in my sleep, but he ever smiles
on me. Moreover, this is true, that all those seven men who shot
the arrows died in that week. Two died in Elmham Church when you
were nigh slain."
"Tell me of that," I said.
For no man knew rightly what had befallen there, save that under
the charred ruins of the roof lay Bishop Humbert and one or two of
his men.
But when he told me, it was as I thought. Those few men had fought
bravely until they were slain, themselves slaying three Danes. But
one of the bishop's men escaped, cutting through a throng at the
doorway and seizing a horse. Then was slain the bishop, who knelt
at the altar, not even turning round to face the Danes as they
came.
So I hold ever that as I lay for dead I had seen those brave ones
pass me even as they were slain. But of this I said naught to Raud,
at that time at least.
Now I asked Raud whence he had come, and he said:
"From London."
And at that I feared greatly, asking:
"Has Ingvar taken the city, therefore?"
"Not the king himself, but Guthrum went into London, taking good
ransom for peace."
"Where is Ethelred the king of England?" I said, half to myself.
"Ethelred?--he minds naught but Wessex for good reason. For Halfden
and Bagsac and the Sidracs are on one side of him, and Ingvar and
Hubba the other, waiting for him to make peace. But there is like
to be fighting. Alfred, the king's brother, has a brave heart and a
hard hand."
"Then all is quiet in London?"
"Peaceful enough; and there Guthrum the King holds court, and I
think men are well content with him."
"Of what is Guthrum king?" I asked, for I had not heard him called
by that name before. The only other king of the host beside the
three jarls was Bagsac.
"Why, of East Anglia. He holds it for Ingvar, while he tries to add
Wessex for his own to Mercia. Halfden will be king in Northumbria,
maybe, and Hubba over another of the kingdoms."
So they had already parted out the land among them beforehand! Woe
for us therefore, for unless a leader was raised up among us,
surely all England must own Danish overlords! But I had heard
Alfred the Wessex Atheling well spoken of as a warrior.
However, what was that to us of East Anglia? We had been deserted
by Wessex at our need as it seemed, and these Danes were as near
kin to us as Wessex Saxons.
"How did you come to leave Ingvar's service?" I asked, not being
willing to dwell on this matter.
"I think my face spoke to him too plainly of that which was in
Hoxne wood--and so he bade me stay with Guthrum. Nor was I loth,
for I would find you again."
Then I was touched a little by the kindness of this rough warrior,
and thanked him. After that we sat silent for a while, and the good
dame brought out food and ale for Raud, and I envied his pleasure
therein, for I took little as yet.
Now for many days past a great longing to be away from this place
had filled my mind, and now seemed to be the time.
"Take me to London, Raud," I said.
"Why, that is part of my errand here," he answered, smiling. "I
have a message to you from Guthrum the King."
"What might that be?"
"He wants to speak to you as one who is known to be friend to Dane
and Anglian alike, and being blamed by neither for friendship with
the other. So he would have you give him counsel."
"Let me get to London," I said, "and then I will answer. I cannot
now."
So Raud bided in the farm with me for a while, and now with new
thoughts and with his talk of Halfden and Osritha, I mended
quickly, for it was my troubled mind that had kept me back mostly,
as I cared for nothing.
One day I felt strong again, waking up and taking delight in the
smell of the fresh morning and in the sunlight. And I ate heartily
of the brown bread and milk they gave me, and afterwards told Raud
of what I had been long thinking.
"All things are quiet in the land now. Let us gather a few of my
people and seek the head of our king, if you fear not to go into
Hoxne woods."
Raud thought for a while before he answered me.
"I fear not, for the poor king thanked me, smiling at me. Let me go
with you."
So that day the dame sent messages by her son to some who had come
back to their places, and in the evening when he came home, there
were with him two of Bishop Humbert's monks, dressed like churls,
for they dared not wear their habits. These two and some others
would gladly come with me on my search.
Next day, therefore, they set me on a pony that was quiet, and
slowly we went towards Hoxne, coming thither in the afternoon
early, seeing no Danes anywhere, while many of our folk were back
and at work in the fields.
Then I asked Raud if these poor people were safe now.
"Surely, master," he said, for so he would call me, having heard
the farm people name me thus. "There is none so great difference
between you and us, and we Danes love to be at peace if we may. I
think there will be no more trouble here. And, anyway, we are too
wise to hinder a harvesting of that we may eat."
So too thought I, and my heart was less sad after that ride, though
there was not one place left unburnt of all that we saw.
When we came to Hoxne I told the two monks where we had bestowed
the king's body, bidding them look to see if it was not disturbed.
And they said that his bones were safely there.
Now we must seek for the head of the king, and in that Rand could
not help us, for one had ridden away with it while he was taken up
with me and my plight.
So we went towards that place where the dog had taken us, and
searched long, until I, being weak, must get from off the pony and
rest. I would ride back to the place where the king had been slain
and sit there awhile; but first, knowing that Vig remembered things
well, I sent him from me, bidding him search also, hoping that he
would not forget his last quest in this place. Yet what we most
feared was that the forest beasts had made our search vain.
There were many men from the village with us now, for they had
followed the two monks, and they spread about over the wood far and
wide, searching, while I sat at the foot of the oak tree to which
the king had been bound, leaning my arms and head against the trunk
that had been stained with his blood, and thinking and praying, as
well I might in that sacred place.
I moved my hand, and felt something sticking from the hard bark and
looked to see what it was. It was an arrowhead, such a rough iron
spike as men will use when they must make fresh arrows after
battle, in all haste, and have to use what they can first find. The
shaft was snapped close to the iron and the rawhide lashing that
held it, and I could not take it out as I would, for the young oak
was sturdy and tough; and so I left it, thinking that I would
return some day to cut it out.
That I did in after years, but the arrowhead was hidden, for the
tree had grown fast, closing on it, as I think, and I could not
find its place. So it will be there for one to find hereafter,
maybe long hence, for such a tree has many a hundred years to last
yet, if saved from mishap of wind or lightning or axe. Then I think
will men still know what that iron is, for Eadmund the King cannot
be forgotten.
Presently it seemed to me that the voices I heard in the wood, as
the searchers called to each other, drew closer together, crying:
"Where are you?"
"Here--here!"
And then was a sort of outcry, and a silence, and I hoped that
maybe they had found what they sought. So I rose up and went slowly
and limpingly to the place where they seemed to be.
I met them in a green glade. And foremost came the two monks,
bearing between them a cloak, wherein was surely that we looked
for, and after them came my dog and Raud, and then the rest. And
when they saw me they cried softly to me:
"Master, we have found the head of our king."
So they laid open the cloak before me, and I knelt and looked. And
there was indeed the head of Eadmund, seeming whole and fresh as
when I had last seen him; and his looks were very peaceful, for on
his face was still that smile with which he had greeted death at
Raud's hands.
Then, seeing that, the rough Dane was fain to turn away and lean
arms and face against a tree trunk, weeping as weeps a child that
will not be comforted.
After a little I asked how they had found the head. And one of the
villagers, speaking low and holding his cap in his hands as though
in the church, answered me.
"When I came to a certain thicket, I heard a crying, as it were,
and I turned aside and looked, and at first was sorely afraid, for
yon great wolf held the head between his paws, whining over it as
in grief. Then I called to the rest, and they came, running, and
were afraid also till the good fathers came, to whom the wolf was
gentle, suffering them to take that which he guarded. And lo! he
follows us even now, as would a dog!"
So the man spoke, not having seen such a dog as mine before, for
till more came with the host there were none like him in our land.
I told him that it was but my own dog; yet for all that, I know
that this tale of a wolf passed for the truth over all the land as
it flew from mouth to mouth, so that soon I myself heard from one
who knew me not very strange stories of that finding of ours.
Yet would that tale hardly be stranger than was the truth, that not
one of the wild creatures, either beast or bird, had harmed our
king's sacred head. And how it should be so preserved in that place
I cannot tell, but I say what I saw. Yet his body was not so
preserved in the place where we had hidden it.
These things are beyond me, nor can I tell all the thoughts that
came into my mind as I looked into the face of the king whom I had
loved, and who loved me.
Now would we take our treasure, as we must needs think it, to
Hoxne, and the monks were about to lift it again. But Raud came
forward very solemnly, begging that he might be allowed to bear it,
"Because he would make what amends he might."
And I signed to the monks to suffer him to do so, and he took it.
None else but I knew what part he had had with the other Danes in
this matter, and the monks did but think him grieving for what his
comrades had done.
So he bore it to Hoxne village, and we passed the place where the
church had been. There, amid the blackened ruins of the walls and
roof, stood the font of stone, fire reddened and chipped, yet with
the cross graven on its eastward face plain to be seen. And to that
place Raud led us, none staying him, yet all wondering.
When he came there he strode over the burnt timber until he came to
the font, and there, under the graven cross, he set down his burden
very gently, and stood up, looking in my face, and saying:
"Here will I leave the worship of Odin and cleave to that faith for
which Eadmund the King died, and for which you, Wulfric, were
willing to die both in Jutland and here by Eadmund's side. Will any
forbid me?"
Then I knew that the man was in such earnest, that none, save he
perilled his own soul, might hold him back, and I took his hand and
spoke to the elder monk, saying:
"I will answer for this man, father, as to his will. If he knows
enough of our faith, I pray you baptize him straightway."
There was rain water in the font, sparkling and clear, and without
any delay or doubt the good man came forward and stood thereby,
while I yet held Raud's hand as his godfather.
"What know you of our faith, my son?" said the monk in his gentle
voice.
Now of his own accord Raud faced to the eastward, and clasping his
hands before him, spoke the words of the Creed, slowly and
haltingly maybe, but with knowledge thereof, and all that little
company, standing hushed until he ended, answered "Amen" with one
voice.
Then again, untaught by us he turned to the west, where the sun was
even now sinking, and lifting his right hand very solemnly he put
away from him the false gods of his forefathers, and the golden
sunlight made his face very glorious, as I thought.
"It is well, my son," said the old monk.
So he was baptized, and I gave him the new name of Cyneward
{xxii}, for the memory of Eadmund the King and what he did for
him in saving him from torture as best he might. And surely he was
the first fruit of the martyrdom of him whose head he had borne.
Then when all was done he took up his burden again, softly and
reverently, saying:
"Life I took, and life has been given me. This is not the old way
of life for life, but it is better."
So he gave back the head to the monks, and they, wondering at him,
but greatly rejoicing, took it, and stood awhile pondering where we
might safely bestow it.
Then came one of the villagers, telling of a stone-walled chamber
that had been a well in days long gone by, hard by the church
porch. That we found after some labour, moving much ruin from over
it, and therein we placed the bones and head of our king, covering
it again until better days should come. And I, thinking of my
riches in the hands of Ingild, promised that when it might be done
I would see to raising the church afresh, to be over the ashes of
the king.
So our little company parted, and Cyneward, who had been Raud, and
I went back with the elder monk and the farm folk to our place,
going slowly in the warm twilight, with our hearts at rest, and
full of the wonders we had seen that day.
Only one thing would the monk and I ask Cyneward, for we wondered
how he had learned our faith so well. And that he answered gladly.
"Ever as Wulfric and I escaped from the vengeance of Ingvar towards
Hedeby I wondered that one should be strong enough to defy the Asir
and their godar for the sake of the new faith. So I sat in the
church of Ansgar among the other heathen and heard somewhat. And
again in London of late, where Guthrum will have no man harmed for
his religion, I have listened and learnt more. So when I needed
them, the words were ready. Now, therefore, both in life and death,
Wulfric, my master, I thank you."
But I was silent, knowing how much greater a part in this I might
have had. For I thought that, but for the need of proving my faith
or denying it, I should have surely been as a heathen among heathen
in those days in Jutland. Yet Beorn asked me to pray for him, and
that I had done, and it had kept me mindful when I had else
forgotten.
So began the work Humbert the Bishop foretold before he died, and
that monk of his who saved his own life at Humbert's bidding for
the work, saw it, and rejoiced.
After this, in a week's time, Cyneward and I took horse and rode
away to London, for the dame's son came back to me, having found
Ingild, bringing me messages from him, and also from Egfrid and
many more. And all was well. At that time I could not reward as I
would those good people who had thus cared for me, but I would send
presents when I might. Yet they said they needed naught from me but
to see me again at some time, which I promised, as well for my own
love of them as for their asking.
We went unharmed and unquestioned, for all the land was at peace.
Truly there were new-made huts where farmsteads had been, and at
the town gates were Danish axemen instead of our spearmen as of
old. Yet already in the hayfields Dane and Anglian wrought
together, and the townsmen stood on Colchester Hill beside the
Danish warriors, listening while gleeman and scald sang in rivalry
to please both.
Little of change was there in London town, save again the
scarlet-cloaked Danish guards and watchmen. Few enough of these
there were, and indeed the host left but small parties in the towns
behind them in our land. Yet those few could hold the country in
peace, because men knew that at their back was the might of
Ingvar's awful host, which came on a land unawares, marching more
swiftly than rumour could fly before it, so that not one might know
where the next blow would fall until suddenly the war beacons of
flaming villages flared up, and it was too late to do aught but
fly.
Yet in our land was none to fight for. No king had we to follow the
martyr. Ethelred had left us alone, and already in the hearts of
men grew up the thought that the strong hand of the Dane meant
peace.
In the house of good old Ingild, my second father, as he would have
me hold him, was rest at last. And there I found all whom I held
dear gathered to meet me on the night when I came, for they had
fled by ship, as they had hoped, and had reached London safely.