RAVAGES OF THE DANES--DEATH OF ETHELRED.
"We look in vain for those old ruins now,
For the green grass waves o'er that ample floor,
And where the altar stood rank nettles grow;
None mourned its fall more than the neighbouring poor,
They passed its ruins sighing, day by day,
And missed the beadsman in his hood of gray,
Who never bade the hungry turn away."--THE OLD ABBEY.
Spring, that gives such life and beauty to the landscape, but aroused
the Danes to new aggressions, and they this time marched into the
opposite division of Mercia, crossing the Humber and the Trent, and
landing in that part of Lincolnshire which is still called Lindsey,
where they spread death and desolation wherever they passed. From north
to south they swept onward like a destroying tempest; the busy hamlet,
the happy home, and the growing harvest, all vanished beneath their
footsteps. Where in the morning sunshine, the pleasant village, and
the walled town, stood upon the high cliffs and overlooked the wild
wold and reedy marish; the dim twilight dropped down upon a waste of
smoking ruins, and blackened ashes, while such of the inhabitants as
escaped the merciless massacre, either sheltered in the gloomy wood,
where "the grey wolf of the weald" had its lair, or in the sedgy swamp
where the wild swan built, and the black water-hen went paddling onward
before her dusky and downy young ones. Wherever a church or a monastery
stood up amid the scenery, thitherward the Danes directed their steps,
for to slaughter the priest at the altar, and carry their clamorous
war-cry into the choir, where they changed the hymning of the psalter
into the groans and shrieks of agonised death, was to them a delight,
equal to that of the heaven which they hoped to inhabit hereafter. But
sack, slay, burn, and destroy, are words which but faintly describe
the ravages of these Northern pagans, that fall upon the ear with an
indistinct meaning; and it is only by following them step by step,
and bringing their deeds before the eye of the reader, that we can
throw the moving shadows of these savage sea-kings for a moment
upon our pages. Having ravaged the district of Lindsey, destroyed
the beautiful monastery of Bardney, and killed every monk they found
within its walls, they crossed the Witham, and entered that division of
Lincolnshire which is called Kesteven--here a stand was made against
them. The earl of Algar, with his two officers, Wibert and Leofric,
mustered together the inhabitants who dwelt around the wild and watery
neighbourhood of Croyland, and being joined by the forces which Osgot
the sheriff of Lincoln had collected, and aided by a monk who had once
been a famous warrior, and now cast aside his cowl to don a heavy
helmet, they sallied forth in the September of 868, and gave battle to
the Danes. After a sharp contest, in which three of the sea-kings were
slain, the men of Mercia drove the pagans into their intrenchments, nor
did they cease from assailing them in their stronghold until darkness
had settled down upon the land. But a thousand men, though backed by
so good a cause, were sure to fall at last before such a mighty and
overwhelming host as the invaders presented.
It so chanced that during the day, when the handful of brave Saxons
were victorious, the Danish forces had divided, but in the night the
division, which had been delayed by their work of destruction, entered
the camp, into which the defeated force had been driven. Thus, by
daylight, the pagan army was more than doubled. Amongst these new
comers were the two sea-kings who had taken such terrible vengeance
on Ella, for the death of their father, Ragnar. The arrival of such a
force spread great consternation amongst the little band of Saxons,
who were encamped without the Danish intrenchments, and many of the
peasants fled during the night to their homes--the brave only remained
behind to die. In the early dawn of that bygone Autumn morning, the
Danes arose and buried the three sea-kings who had fallen the day
before in battle. The Saxons looked calmly on, but moved not, until
the solemn ceremony was ended: the savage Hubba was present at that
funeral. Algar stood ready, with his little force drawn up in the form
of a wedge; he placed himself and his officers in the centre, confided
the right wing to the monk Tolius, and the left to the sheriff of
Lincoln; they planted their shields so closely together, that each one
touched its fellow; they held their strong projecting spears pointing
outward with a firm grasp, for they knew that their safety depended
upon being thus banded together, and thus, awaiting the attack, the
solid wedge-like triangle stood. Leaving behind a sufficient force to
protect their encampment, which was filled with plunder and captives,
the remainder of the Danes, headed by four kings and eight jarls or
earls, sallied forth to give battle to the Saxons. The first shock was
terrible, but it broke not the well-formed phalanx, though it jarred
along the lines like a chain that is struck; for a moment each link
swung, there was a waving motion along the ranks, then the horsemen
recoiled again, for the line was still unbroken. The Danish javelins
penetrated only the shields, the horses shrank back from the piercing
points of the Saxon spears. Savage Hubba could not get near enough to
strike with his heavy battle-axe--the morning-star, which made bright
flashes around the head of Ingwar as he wielded it, swung harmless
before that bristling forest of steel.
Upon the lonely moors and the damp marshes a dim mist began to gather,
and along the distant ridge where the wild forest stretched far away,
the evening shadows began to fall, when the Danes, wearied and enraged
at being so long repulsed, made another attack;--then wheeling round,
feigned a defeat. In vain was the warning voice of the earl of Algar
raised; in vain did the monk intreat of them, by the name of every
blessed saint in the calendar, to stand firm; it was too late--the
little band was broken--they were off in the pursuit--the Danes were
flying before them--and onward they rushed, making the air resound
again with the shouts of victory. Suddenly the Danish force turned upon
their pursuers. Hubba made a circle with his cavalry to the right; to
the left the centre came back like an overwhelming wave, and the Saxons
were surrounded. All was lost. Neither the skill of Algar nor the
bravery of Tolius were now of any avail; there was nothing left but to
stand side by side, and to fight until they fell. But few of that brave
band escaped; those who did, availed themselves of the approaching
darkness, and plunging into the adjoining forest, hastened to the
distant monastery of Croyland, to publish their own defeat.
It was the hour of matins, when, pale, weary, and breathless, two or
three of the Saxon youths who had escaped from the scene of slaughter,
rushed into the choir of the monastery with the tidings that all
excepting themselves had perished. The abbot uplifted his hand to
command silence when he saw them enter, and the solemn anthem in a
moment ceased. He then bade the monks who were young and strong,
to take a boat, and carry off the relics of the saints, the sacred
vessels, jewels, books, and charters, and all the moveable articles
of value, and either to bury them in the marshes, or sink them beneath
the waters of the lake, until the storm had passed over. "As for
myself," added the abbot, "I will remain here, with the old men and
children, and peradventure, by the mercy of God, they may take pity on
our weakness." The children were such as at that period were frequently
brought up, by the consent of their parents, in the habits of a
monastic life, and who in their early years sung in the choir:--amongst
the old monks were two whose years outnumbered an hundred. Alas! the
venerable abbot might as well have looked for mercy from a herd of
ravenous and howling wolves, that came, gaunt, grey, and hungry, from
the snow-covered wintry forest, as from the misbelieving Danes, who
were then fast approaching. All was done as he commanded; the most
valuable treasures were rowed across the lake to the island of Thorns,
and in the wood of Ancarig, those who were not brave enough to abide
the storm found shelter. One rich table plated with gold, that formed
a portion of the great altar, rose to the surface, and as they could
not sink it, it was taken back, and again restored to its place in the
monastery.
Meantime the flames which shone redly between the forest-trees, told
that the last village had been fired; every moment brought nearer the
clamour of the assailants, until at last the tramp of horses could be
distinctly heard: then the ominous banner on which the dusky raven
was depicted hove in sight, and the whole mass came up with a deep,
threatening murmur, which drowned the voice of the abbot and the monks,
and the little children, as they continued to chaunt the psalter in the
monastery. At the foot of the altar, in his sacerdotal robes, was the
abbot hewn down; the grey hairs of the venerable priests protected them
not--those who rushed out of the choir were pursued and slaughtered;
there was scarcely a slab on the floor of the sacred edifice that was
not slippery with blood. Some were tortured to make them confess where
their treasures were concealed, and afterwards beheaded, for the Danes
acted more like fiends, let loose to do the work of destruction, than
like men. There was one exception on that dreadful day--one human
life was saved by the intervention of a Dane, and but for him every
soul would have perished. The prior had been struck down early in the
massacre by the battle-axe of Hubba; as he lay dead upon the pavement,
a little boy about ten years of age clung to him and wept bitterly,
for he had been greatly attached to the prior. The slaughter was still
going on, when Sidroc, one of the sea-kings, paused with the uplifted
sword in his hand to gaze on the boy, who knelt weeping beside the dead
body of the prior. Struck by his beautiful and innocent countenance,
the Danish chief took off his cassock, and throwing it around the
little chorister, said, "Quit not my side for a moment." He alone was
saved--excepting those who had previously fled with the boat and the
treasures. Disappointed at finding neither gold nor jewels, the pagans
broke open the tombs, and scattered around the bones of the dead,
and as there was no longer any one at hand to slay, they set fire to
the monastery. Laden with cattle and plunder, they next proceeded to
Peterborough, burning and slaying, and destroying whatever they met
with on their march.
The abbey of Peterborough was considered at this time as one of the
finest ecclesiastical edifices in England. It was built in the solid
Saxon style, with strong stunted pillars, crypts, vaulted passages,
oratories, and galleries, while the thick massy walls were pierced
with circular windows, and contained the finest library which had ever
been collected together in Britain; the gift of many a pilgrim who had
visited the still proud capital of Italy. The doors of this famous
building were so strong that for some time they resisted the attacks
of the Danes, and as the monks and their retainers had resolved to
defend themselves as long as they could, neither the besieged nor the
besiegers remained idle. From the circular windows, and the lofty roof
of the abbey, the monks and their allies threw down heavy stones, and
hurled their sharp javelins at the enemy, who had hitherto endeavoured
in vain to break open the ponderous doors. At last the brother of Hubba
was struck to the earth by a stone, and carried wounded into his tent.
This act seemed to redouble the fierce energy of the Danes, and in a
few minutes after they drove in the massy gates. In revenge for the
wound his brother had received, the brutal Hubba, with his own hand,
put eighty-four monks to death;--he demanded to be the chief butcher
on the occasion, and the request was freely granted him. The child
whom Sidroc had rescued from death at Croyland stood by and witnessed
that savage slaughter, and the friend who had saved him stooped down,
and whispering in his ear, bade him not approach too near Hubba. The
boy, as we shall see, needed not a second warning. All who had aided
in defending the monastery, excepting the few who escaped at the
commencement of the attack, were put to death. The library was burnt,
the sepulchres broken open, and the abbey fired; and for nearly fifteen
days was that noble edifice burning, before it was totally consumed.
Many a deed and charter, and valuable manuscript, which would have
thrown a light on the manners and customs of that period, were consumed
in the flames.
Laden with spoil, the merciless pagans next marched towards Huntingdon.
Sidroc had charge of the rear-guard, which brought up the plunder. Two
of the cars, containing the spoil of the monastery, were overturned
in a deep pool, while passing a river, and as the sea-king lingered
behind, and was busily engaged in superintending his soldiers, and
aiding them to save all they could from the wreck, the child who had
witnessed such scenes of bloodshed took advantage of the confusion, and
escaped. Having concealed himself in a wood until the faint and far-off
sounds of the Danish army had died away, he set off across the wild
marshes alone, and in the course of a day and a night found his way
back again to Croyland. Poor little fellow! the smoking ruins and the
weeping monks, who had returned from their hiding-place in the island
of Thorns, and who were then wailing over their murdered brethren, were
the melancholy sights and sounds that greeted his return home;--a stern
school was that for a child of ten years old to be nursed in! He told
them all he had witnessed at Peterborough; they gathered around him to
listen; they ceased to throw water on the burning ruins until his tale
was ended; they left the headless body of their venerable abbot beneath
the mighty beam which had fallen across it, nor attempted to extricate
it until he had finished "his sad, eventful history." Then it was that
they again wept aloud, throwing themselves upon the ground in their
great anguish, until grief had no longer any tears, and the sobbing of
sorrow had settled down into hopeless silence. That over, they again
commenced their sad duty: the huge grave was deepened, the dead and
mutilated bodies were dragged from under the burning ruins, and placing
the abbot on the top of the funeral pile, they left them in one grave,
covered beneath the same common earth, to sleep that sleep which no
startling dream can ever disturb.
Scarcely was this melancholy duty completed, before the few monks who
had escaped from the massacre of Peterborough made their appearance.
They had come all that way for assistance, for, excepting themselves,
there were none left alive to help to bury their murdered brethren,
on whose bodies the wolves from the woods, they said, were already
feeding. With heads bent, and weeping eyes, and breaking hearts, those
poor monks had moved mournfully along, leaving the wolves to feed
upon their butchered brothers beside the blackened ruins of their
monastery, until they could find friends who would help them to drag
the half-consumed remains from beneath the burning rafters, place them
side by side, and, without distinction, bury them in one common and
peaceful grave. How clearly we can picture that grave group on their
journey! their subdued conversation by the way, of the dead, whose
good deeds they discussed, or whose vices they left untouched, as they
recalled their terrible ending; the country through which they passed,
desolate; the inhabitants, who were wont to come on holy-days to
worship, fled; a hamlet here reduced to ashes, there a well-known form,
half consumed, stretched across the blackened threshold. We can picture
the wolf stealing away until they had passed; the raven, with his iron
and ominous note, making a circle round their heads, then returning to
the mother or the infant, half hidden in the sedge beside the mere, or
with her long hair floating loose amongst the water-flags, amid which
she was stabbed as she ran shrieking, with the infant at her breast.
Wherever they turned their eyes, there would they behold desolation,
and death, and decay,--see homes which the fire had consumed, in ruins;
or where the children had escaped, witness them weeping beside the
roofless walls, fatherless, motherless, hopeless; for such was the
England of those days, over which the destroying sea-kings passed. Let
us, however, hope, that there were a few like Sidroc amongst them; that
the raven and the wolf were not their only attendants, but that the
angel of mercy, though concealed in a pillar of cloud by day, and in
a pillar of fire by night, was still there, and though unseen, many a
time stretched forth his hand to rescue. It is painful to picture such
scenes as our history presents at this period; they are all either
soaked through with the blood of the slain, or black and crackled with
the scorching flames which have passed over them. It makes us shudder
to think what they who once lived and moved as we now do, must have
endured; while, after the lapse of nearly a thousand years, we cannot
portray their sufferings without sympathizing with their sorrows, and
experiencing a low, heart-aching sensation. The grave that covers up
and buries the past, inters not all pain and sorrow with the dead,
but leaves a portion behind, that the living may feel what they once
suffered--the agonizing shriek, and the heart-rending cry, ring for
ages after upon our ears;--such sounds disturb not the silent chambers
of the dead!
The Danes now proceeded to march into East Anglia, a kingdom whose
inland barrier was marked by vast sheets of water that set in from
the Wash, and went winding away into the low marshes of Cambridge,
far away beyond Ely, over a country above an hundred miles in extent.
Along this boggy and perilous course did the pagans advance with their
plunder, their cars, and their cavalry; razing the monastery of Ely to
the ground as they passed, nor pausing until they came to the residence
of the king of East Anglia, which stood beside a river that then
divided Suffolk from Norfolk. When the Danish king came in sight of
Edmund's residence, he sent him a message, commanding him to divide his
treasures with him; also bidding the messenger to tell the East Anglian
king that it was useless to oppose a nation whom the storms of the
ocean favoured--whom the tempests served as rowers, and the lightning
came down to guide, that they might in dark nights escape the rocks.
They gave the Saxon king but little time for hesitation before they
dragged him forth, and bound him to a tree. They had no words to waste:
slaughter was their work, and they commenced it at once. They began by
shooting arrows at his limbs, without injuring the body; but finding
that they could neither get him to confess their superiority, nor show
any symptom of fear, Ingwar at last uplifted his heavy battle-axe,
and severed the head at a blow. Thus, East Anglia, like a portion
of Northumbria, became a Danish province; and Godrun, a celebrated
sea-king, whom we shall again meet during the reign of Alfred, was
placed upon the throne.
Their next step was towards Wessex; for they well knew that if they
could but once conquer that kingdom, the dominions of Mercia would
become an easy prey, as these were the only two Saxon states that
seemed able to withstand them. Wessex, as we have shown, was much
enlarged since the first formation of the octarchy, and was soon
destined to swallow up for ever the kingdom of Mercia; for Burrhed was
not competent to stand long at the helm and steer safely through such
a storm as surrounded him. Having reached Berkshire, the Northmen took
possession of Reading without opposition, when they at once sent out
a strong body of cavalry to plunder, while the remainder of the army
commenced throwing up an intrenchment to strengthen their position.
Scarcely had they time to complete this work before the West Saxons
attacked them; and though at the first they seem to have had the best
of the battle, they were in the end compelled to retreat, and leave
the invaders masters of the field. At the second attack, both Ethelred
and Alfred were present; they led up the strongest array that could be
mustered;--to every town, thorpe, and grange, war-messengers had been
despatched with the naked sword and arrow in their hands, uttering the
ancient proclamation, which none had hitherto disobeyed, and which bade
"each man to leave his house and land, and come;" the mustering ground
was near Æscesdun, or Ash-tree Hill. The Danes divided their army into
two bodies, each of which was commanded by two kings and two earls.
Ethelred followed the example they had set him, giving the command of
one division of his army to Alfred. As the Danes had been the first to
form into battle order, so did they commence the attack; and although
they had the advantage of the rising ground, Alfred, nothing daunted,
led his forces in close order up the ascent to meet them. Near the
hoar ash-tree the contending ranks closed, and there many a Dane and
Saxon fell, who never more passed that barrier until they were borne
away on the bier. Although Ethelred had heard the war-cry, and knew
that the battle had commenced, he refused to leave his tent until his
priest had finished the prayer which he was offering up, when the Danes
first charged down the hill-side. By the time it was ended, Alfred,
with his inferior force, though fighting their way foot to foot, were
slowly losing ground, and but for the timely appearance of Ethelred,
and the division under his command, he must have retreated. As it was,
however, the sudden arrival of such a strong force changed the fortune
of the day. One of the sea-kings fell; and beside him, Sidroc, who had
saved the child from the massacre of Croyland; then the Danish ranks
began to waver, for thousands of the invaders had already fallen. But
the carnage ended not here: all night long did the Saxons chase their
pagan enemies, until, towards the evening of the next day, and from
the foot of the hill where the battle was fought--far away over the
fields of Ashdown, and over the country that now lies beside Ashbury,
up to the very intrenchment at Reading--was the whole line of road
strewn with the dying and the dead;--there the massacre of Croyland
and Peterborough was revenged, and for days after the bodies of the
Danes lay blackening in the sun. But terrible as was the slaughter, and
complete the victory, a fortnight saw the Northmen again in the field,
strengthened by reinforcements, who had landed upon the coast, and by
these were the Saxons, in their turn, defeated. In the next battle that
was fought between them, Ethelred received his death wound; and Alfred
the Great ascended the throne of Wessex. Over the threshold of this
perilous period must we now pass, to the presence of one of England's
greatest kings.