For ten minutes after the last voice was to be heard we waited, and
then, leaving two pools of water where we had lain, we crept back
to the open and sought Hilda. I feared to find her chilled with the
passage of the river; but, in some way which is beyond me, she had
made to herself, as it were, dry clothing of the cloak she had
given to Erling. What she had taken off had been carefully wrung
out, and lay near her in a bundle. She laughed a little when I told
her that I had been troubling about her wetness.
"What, with three dry cloaks ready for me?" she said. "I have fared
worse on many a wet ride."
Then we crossed the little meadow swiftly, and entered the
scattered trees of the riverside forest. After that we had no more
fear of Gymbert and his men, and went easily. In that time I heard
what had happened in the palace, and how this strange meeting had
come about.
"Offa the king has shut himself up, and will see no man," Hilda
said. "Nor will he go near the queen or suffer her to see him. He
has had guards set at the doors of the bower that she may not go
from it, so that she is a prisoner in her own apartments with her
ladies. The poor princess is ill, and has none but bitter words for
the queen; for all know by whose contrivance this has been done. I
heard that all our thanes had fled."
There she would have ended; but I had to hear more of herself, and
it was not easy for her to tell me. Only when Erling fell behind us
somewhat, out of thought for her, would she speak of what she had
gone through, after I had told her that her father was surely safe,
and maybe not far off.
"The queen turned on me when she was left a prisoner. I do not know
why, but I think my father had offended her in some way. I know
that he speaks too hastily at times when he is angry. First she
told me that he had slain our king, and seeing that I would not
believe it by any means, said that you had done the deed--that she
had hired you to do it. Thereat I was more angry yet, for the
saying was plainly false, and had no excuse. And because I was so
angry I think she knew that I--that I did think more of you than I
would have her know. After that I had no peace. I tried to send the
arrowhead to you by the little page who was left with the queen,
and I do not know if you had it. He told me that you were yet in
the palace."
"Ay, I did, and therefore I am here," I said.
"I was sorry afterward, for I did not know what you could do. The
page was not suffered to come back, I think, for I have not seen
him again. This morning the queen told me that you had fled, after
slaying a man of her household. So she went on tormenting me, until
I could forbear no longer, and told her to mind that my mother had
befriended her at her first coming to this land, and it was ill
done to treat her daughter thus.
"Thereat she turned deathly white, and she shook with rage, as it
seemed. At that time she said no word to me, but turned and left
me, and I was glad. Presently one of her ladies, who pitied me,
told me that Gymbert had done the deed, as all men knew by this
time, and that I was to be brave, for all this must have an end.
And that end came as the sun set. I was with the princess, and
Quendritha came in. First she spoke soothingly to Etheldrida, who
turned from the sight of her, being too sick at heart to answer
her; then she spoke to me, looking at me evilly, so that I feared
what was coming.
"'You minded me that your mother was one of our subjects,' she
said, in that terrible, cold voice of hers. 'Now I will see you
wedded safely, to one who is a friend of ours.
"'No,' she said sharply, for I was going to speak, 'you have no
choice. Whom I choose you shall wed. The man I have in my mind for
you is our good thane Gymbert.'
"I suppose that she sought an opportunity against me, and she had
her will. I do not rightly know what I said. The end of it was that
out of the palace I was to go, and she bade me seek you, Wilfrid.
It is in my mind that she meant it in insult, or that she deems you
far away, careless of what befalls me. And I think, too, that after
me she meant to send Gymbert."
Then she set both hands on my arm, and leaned on it, shaking. I
knew that she was weeping with the thought of what had been, and I
did not know what to say rightly. Only I was sure that the secret
of the queen's coming was at the bottom of this, as Quendritha must
have feared that Hilda knew it all, either from me or her father.
"Your father would not have fled had he not known that Selred and I
were to stay and look after you," I said, lamely enough. "Have you
not seen the good chaplain?"
She had not, and it seemed most likely that in some way he had been
prevented from leaving the palace. Afterwards I knew that Offa had
had all going out of the place stopped, hoping to take some man who
knew more of the secret of Ethelbert's end, if not Gymbert himself.
Hilda had been thrust out by a private postern hastily, and
doubtless Gymbert had been told where to seek her long before. I
believe it was no affair of the spur of the moment, but wrought in
revenge on Sighard and myself.
Now what more I said to Hilda at this time is no matter, but at the
end of the words I made shift to put together she knew that I could
wish no more than to guard her with my life, and for all my life,
and naught more was needed to be said between us. What we might do
next remained to be seen, but the first thing now was to get to the
archbishop, with whom we should be in safety no doubt. Even
Quendritha would not dare to take Hilda from his charge.
I had forgotten my fear of the old walls when we came to the ruined
villa. Maybe I thought thereof when I and Erling went in and found
the horses all safe and ready to take to the road again; for in one
corner of the wall among the grass shone a glow worm, and it
startled me, whereat Erling chuckled, and I remembered.
We made a pillion of my cloak, and lifted Hilda up behind me; and
so we set out in the moonlight to find our way to Fernlea, striking
away from the river somewhat at first, and then taking a track
which led in the right direction. And so for an hour we rode and
saw no man. The land slept round us, and the night was still and
warm, and I forgot the troubles that were upon us in the pleasure
of having Hilda here and safe with me.
Presently we came out of forest growth into the open, and passed a
little hut, out of whose yard a dog came and barked fiercely as we
passed. There was no sound of any man stirring in the hovel,
however, and we went on steadily. As the crow flies, Fernlea town
was not more than five miles from the palace; but we wandered
somewhat, no doubt, being nowise anxious to meet any men on the
way, and also wishing to come into the town from any direction but
that of the road from Sutton.
A quarter of a mile from the hut where the dog was we entered a
deep old track, worn with long years of timber hauling and
pack-horse travel, and under the overhanging trees it was dark
again.
Now we had not gone fifty yards down this lane when my horse grew
uneasy, snorting, and bidding me beware of somewhat, as a horse
will. Hilda knew what the steed meant, and took a tighter hold on
my belt, lest he should swerve or rear.
"'Tis a stray wolf or somewhat," said Erling from behind us. "The
horses have winded him."
Then out of the shadows under the trees came a great voice which
cried in bad Saxon, "Ay, a wolf indeed! Stand and answer for
yourselves!"
"Spurs!" I cried to Erling, and the great skew-bald shot forward.
Out of the darkness, from the overhanging banks, and seemingly from
the middle of the hollow road, rose with a roar a crowd of
white-clad dim figures and flung themselves at the bridles, and had
my sword arm helpless before ever I had time to know that they were
there. And all in a moment I knew that these were no men of
Gymbert's, but Welshmen from the hills spying on the doings of Offa
at Sutton. Some one had told me that they were in doubt as to what
his great gathering meant.
Now, if Hilda had not been with us, there would have been some sort
of a fight here in the dark, for I should certainly have drawn
sword first and spurred afterward. As it was, my only thought must
needs be to save Hilda from any harm.
"Hold hard!" I cried in Welsh; "this is a lady travelling."
"Yes, indeed," one of the men who had hold of my bridle answered;
"he says truly."
"A lady?" said the voice which had spoken first. "Let her bid her
men be still, and we will speak with her!"
Then Hilda answered very bravely, "So it shall be. Bid your men
free us, and we shall harm none."
The leader spoke in Welsh, and his men fell back from us. Then he
came to my side and asked what we did here so late. And as he spoke
it came to me that the best thing to do would be to tell him the
very truth. No more than himself were we friends of Offa and
Quendritha.
"To tell the truth, we are flying from Sutton," I said. "We
belonged to the train of Ethelbert of East Anglia."
"Why fly, then?"
"Have you heard nothing of what has been done?" I asked.
"No. We heard that there was a king with Offa; that is all."
Then I told him what our trouble was, and the men round me--for I spoke
in Welsh, learned when I was a child from our thralls--understood me;
and more than once I heard them speak low words of pity for the young
king. They had no unfriendliness for East Anglia.
"Then that is all that the gathering was for?" asked the leader.
And then he suddenly seemed suspicious, and said sharply, with his
hand on the neck of my horse:
"But to come hither from Sutton you had to cross the river. Your
horse is dry. He has not had time to shake the water from him yet."
"That is a longer story," I said. "But he was on this side; we had
to wade to reach him."
The chief set his hand on my leg and gripped it. Then he laughed.
"Reach down your arm," he said.
I did so, and he laughed again.
"Very wet," he said. "But the lady?"
"Very wet also," answered Hilda. "I pray you, sir, let us pass on,
if only for that reason. I would fain get to the archbishop at
Fernlea shortly."
"Why to him, lady?"
"Because even Quendritha will fear to take me thence."
"Eh, but you are flying from her! Then speed you well, lady and
good sirs. We have little love for Offa, but he is a warrior and a
man; whereas--Well, I will bid you promise to say no word of this
meeting, and you shall go."
That promise we gave freely, as may be supposed. If the Welsh chose
to swarm over the border and burn Sutton Palace, it might be but
just recompense for what those walls had seen; but I thought that,
with their fear of the gathering at an end, the man who had lit
yonder hillside fires would disband his levies for the time. So we
parted very good friends, in a way, and this chief bade one of his
men guide us for the mile or so which he could pass in safety. We
were closer then to Fernlea than I thought, and in half an hour we
were at the gates.
Where our Welshman left us I cannot say. Somewhere he slipped from
my side into the darkness, and when next I spoke to him there was
no answer.
Now we had to wait outside the town gates--for the place was, as
might be supposed, strongly stockaded against the Welsh--until one
went to the town reeve and fetched him, seeing that we had not the
password for the night. But at last they let us in, and took us to
the house of the reeve himself, for the archbishop was there. And
there is no need to say that when he heard our story he welcomed us
most kindly, promising Hilda his protection. There, too, the good
wife of the reeve cared for the maiden as if she were her own
daughter, and I saw her no more that night.
As for myself, I sat down at supper, which they had but half
finished, with the archbishop and his little train; and glad enough
I was of it, and I and Erling ate as famished men who do not know
when their next meal may be.
The archbishop watched us, smiling at first, and then grew
thoughtful. After I had fairly done, he said:
"My son, I thought you had come to me with news of the finding of
the body of your poor king. That is a matter which lies heavily on
my mind. It must be done."
"I think I can tell you within a few yards, father, where it must
needs be, for today I and my comrade have searched where it was
taken. We have found, at least, the cart Gymbert used, and it
cannot be far thence. We think that the cart was left close to the
hiding place."
Then one of the priests said eagerly:
"Father, the moon lies bright on all the meadows, and we might well
seek in the place the thane has found. This is a thing done at
night in most seemly wise, as I think."
"Ay," answered the archbishop thoughtfully. "Yet it were hard to
ask the thane to turn out once more."
"This is a quest which lies close to my heart, lord," I said,
rising. "I will go gladly if you will let me guide your folk."
"Yet you are weary, and need rest."
"I have slept for long hours in the open today," I said. "I am fed
and rested. Let us go."
For indeed, now that Hilda was in safety, the longing to end the
quest came on me, and I should have slept little that night for
thinking of it. Moreover, I should have no fear of Gymbert and his
men spying me, and thereby making fresh trouble.
So in the end the archbishop said that we might go, and with that
four of his priests and the reeve with half a dozen men made ready,
and in a very short time we rode out of the gates again in the
moonlight, on our way back toward Sutton. The river was between us
and the Welsh we had met, and they were not to be feared. The monks
were riding their sumpter mules, and the reeve and we were mounted
on horses from his own stable or lent by his friends, and his men
trotted after us, some bearing picks and spades.
Under the little hill whereon the palace stands we rode presently,
and I suppose that we were taken for a train of belated chapmen, or
that the guards saw we were headed by monks, and would not trouble
us. Maybe, however, the disorder of the palace had put an end for
the time to much care in watching, but at any rate we passed
without challenge.
And so we came to the riverside track which should lead us to the
end of our journey, and, as I hoped with all my heart, to the end
of our quest. Already I could see the trees under which the cart
stood.
Out of the southwest came one of those showers which had been about
all day, and which had not yet quite cleared off from the hills
round us. It drew across the face of the moon, which had been
sending our long shadows before us as if they were in as great
haste as we, and for a few minutes we stayed in the dark to let it
pass. And as it passed there came what men sometimes hold as a
marvel.
The rain left us, passing ahead of us like a dark wall, and the
moon shone out suddenly from the cloud's edge, and then across the
land leaped a great white rainbow, perfect and bright, so that one
could dimly see the seven colours which should be in its span. And
one end rested on the river bank close under the place where the
cart stood among the trees, and the other was away beyond the
forest, eastward somewhere.
"Lo," said the monk who had bidden us come, "yonder is the sign of
hope, leading us as it were the pillar of fire of Holy Writ!"
"Men say there is ever treasure hidden under the end of a rainbow,"
said the reeve; "but never yet did I meet with a man who had found
it. Yet I have never seen the like of this. I have heard that they
may be seen at night."
And so said another and another; for indeed men look to their feet
rather than to the sky at night, and thereby miss the things they
might see. But a strange thought came to my mind, and I spoke it.
"Under the end of that pillar does indeed lie the treasure we seek.
See, it is not on the wood, but on the river bank. We searched not
there, comrade."
"Ay, we shall find it there," Erling answered. "It is
Bifrost--Allfather's bridge. He takes his son home across it."
The rainbow faded and passed to the north and east with the rain,
and it went across the land through which Ethelbert had ridden so
gaily but a few days agone. Sometimes I love to think that its end
rested here and there on house or village or church which had been
the happier for the bright presence of the king, and betimes I
think that a strange fancy for a rough warrior like myself. Yet I
had ridden with Ethelbert, and the thoughts he set in the minds of
men are not as common thoughts. I hold that once I rode and spoke
with a very saint.
There fell a sort of awe and a silence on us after that. Silently
we went on up the riverside track, for I was leading with Erling,
and that strange belief that by the river we should find what we
sought would not leave me; and when we came below the place where
the cart was, I saw marks where its wheels had riven the soft earth
close to the water. Without a word I signed my companions to spread
abroad and search, and I dismounted, and with the bridle of my
horse over my arm, I went scanning each foot of the ground in the
moonlight.
Twenty yards, not more, from the water, where some winter flood had
left a wide patch of sand and little pebbles, I saw the marks of
the cart again. It had stopped there, and round the spot were deep
footprints of men. They went on for a few yards, and then there was
a little fresh-turned place. Out of that lapped a piece of cloth,
plain to be seen in the light of the moon, but easily overlooked in
the haste of those who had left it. And then I knew that I had
indeed found the king.
Now I lifted my hand, and the rest saw me, one by one, and came to
my side, and for a moment we stood still, not daring to disturb
that resting. Then I took the spade one man had, and gently turned
the gravel from that bit of cloth, and there was surety. They who
set him there had but covered him hastily, no doubt because they
heard our friends after them.
Little by little, and very reverently, we uncovered, and so took
him from that strange resting, and the water welled into the place
where he had lain. And as we thought, his head had been smitten
from his body, and it was that which we found first, wrapped in the
cloak whose end had betrayed his hiding. Yet had it not been for
the token of the rainbow we had hardly thought to seek here, so
near the water.
Men speak today of the finding of Ethelbert the saint by reason of
the pillar of fire which shone from where he was hidden, and they
tell the truth in a way, if they know not how that marvel came from
the heaven before our eyes who saw it. Let the tale be, for from
the heaven the sign came in our need and it is near enough, so that
it be not forgotten. There is many a man who has seen the like, but
not at such a time or as such a portent; and, again, for one man
who has seen the bow in the clouds over against the moon are mayhap
a thousand who may go through long lives and never set eyes
thereon. Whereby it happens that there are some who will not
believe that such a thing can be.
Now we wondered how to bear back this precious burden, until we
bethought ourselves of that cart which had been used before. Erling
and two of the reeve's men went to seek it, and it stood untouched
where we found it. Moreover, those who fled from it in haste left
the rough harness still hanging anywise from the shafts, and we
were able, therefore, to set one of the horses in it without
trouble. Then we made a bed of our cloaks in the bottom, and
thereon laid the body, covering it carefully; and so we went our
way toward Fernlea, silently and slowly, but with hearts somewhat
lightened, for we had done what we might.
But yet I have to tell somewhat strange of this journey, and how it
came about I do not rightly know. Nor will I answer for the truth
of it all, for part of that I must set down I did not see for
myself; only the priests told me, and they heard it from the men
who did see.
This cart was old and crazy. I think that Gymbert must have taken
it from some deserted farm, whence it would not be missed. It was
open behind, and its wheels were bad. Still it served us; and glad
enough we were of it, for the road was rough, and heavy with the
rain of the day. It pained me to see the thing jolting and lurching
as it went, knowing how little it befitted that which it was
honoured in bearing.
Presently out of the roadside rose up a man, and joined us.
"Good sirs," he said, "I am a blind man, and would fain be led to
Fernlea. May I go with you so far as the road you take lies in that
direction?"
"Truly, my son," said the eldest priest. "But you are afoot late."
"'Tis a priest speaks to me, as I hear," said the man, doffing his
cap in the direction of the voice and laughing gently. "Is it so
late, father? Well, I have thought so, for there seem to be few men
about. Yet I slept alone in a shed last night, and know not for how
long. I think I have also slept some of today, for I am out of
count of the hours. There is neither dark nor light for me."
He fell back and walked after the cart, saying no more. Now and
then I heard his stick tapping the stones of the way, and once one
of our men helped him in a rough place, and he thanked him.
Now we came to a terribly bad place in the road, and there the cart
seemed like to break down; and it was the worse for us that a cloud
came over the moon at the time, and it was very dark. Whereby the
blind man was of much help in the care for the cart, until the moon
shone out again suddenly, when he was left behind us for a few
minutes. Then we heard him calling.
"Two of you help the poor soul," said the reeve, "else he will
hardly get across that slough. He has fallen, I think."
He named two of his own men, and they went back. After a while the
blind man's voice came again, and he seemed to be shouting
joyfully. I thought it was by reason of the help that came to him.
"Thane," said the eldest priest to me just at this time, "I pray
you ride on and tell the archbishop that you have indeed found what
we sought. It is but right that all should be ready against the
time we get back. We are not more than a mile away from the gates,
and you will have time. This is slow travelling, perforce."
Erling and I rode on with the reeve, therefore, and I thought no
more of the blind man, as one may suppose, until I heard what had
happened.
When the two men went back to his help, he sat again by the side of
the road, hiding his face in his hands on his knees. And he was
trembling.
"Friends," he said, "now I know why you go so sadly, welladay! For
evil men have slain some one young and well favoured, as I learned
even now, when I helped you yonder. Tell me what has befallen, I
pray you, for I am afeard."
"Why," said one of the men, "we are honest folk, as our being with
the good fathers may be surety. The trouble is ours to bear."
But the blind man still kept his eyes hidden, and when the other
man bade him rise and come on with them he did not move.
"I know not what ails me," he said. "Even as I set my hand on him
you bear yonder, there came as it were a great flash of light
across my eyes, and needs must I fall away and hide them. I fear
that, not you, friends. I pray you, tell me what has been wrought."
"His foes have slain a bridegroom, most cruelly," one of the men
answered after a pause. "We do but bear him to Fernlea."
"What bridegroom?" he asked, in a hushed voice.
And then the pity of the thing came to him, and he wept silently.
Presently he raised his head, dashing away the tears as he did so.
"It is a many years since these eyes of mine have wept," he said.
"It seems to me that to weep for the woes of another is a wondrous
thing."
His eyes of a sudden opened widely in the moonlight, and he cried
out and clutched at the man next him.
"Brothers! brothers!" he said; "what is this?"
And again he set his hand to his eyes as if shading them, as does a
man at noontide.
"What ails you?" one of the men asked, wondering.
"I have no ailment--none. I see once more!" he cried. "Look you,
yonder is the blessed moon, and there lies a broken tree; and see,
there are fires on the hills of the Welshmen!"
Then with both hands wide before him he said:
"Now I see that I have set my hands on one who can be naught but a
saint most holy, for therefrom I have my sight again. Who is this
that has been slain?"
The men answered him, telling him. The blind man had heard, of
course, of the poor young king, and had, indeed, been brought
hither from wherever he lived that he might share in the largess of
the wedding day.
Now the men would go their way with him again, wondering, but yet
half doubting the truth of what the man said.
"It is in my mind that you have not been so blind as you would have
us think," said one, growling.
The man pointed at the cart as it went.
"Would I lie in that presence?" he said.
And with that he broke into the song I had heard. Some old chant of
victory it was, which he made to fit his case, being somewhat of a
gleeman, as so many of these wanderers are. And there the men left
him in the road, singing and careless of aught save his recovered
sight, and hastened after the party.
Yet it was not until the next day that they told the tale, and
whether the once blind man was ever found again I cannot tell; but
I have set this down as I knew of it, because it was the first of
many healings wrought by the saint we loved. I ken well that the
tale is told nowadays in a more awesome way; but let that pass.
Tales of wonder grow ever more strange as the years go on.
Men call Ethelbert a martyr now, I suppose because he was slain.
That is not quite what we mean by a martyr, for that is one who
gives up his life rather than deny his Lord. Yet Ethelbert was
indeed a witness to the faith all his life, and so the name may
stand.
So presently they brought back the body to Fernlea, and its resting
was ready in the little church which had come into the strange
dream by the riverside. And I knew, as I watched by it all the rest
of that night till the hour of prime, that this was what the vision
foreboded.