THE DRUIDESS.
A STORY FOR BOYS AND OTHERS.
BY
FLORENCE GAY.
London:
JOHN OUSELEY,
16, FARRINGDON STREET, E.C.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
PREFACE.
As this story touches upon history to a certain extent, perhaps too
much licence has been taken with Ethelbert’s movements in bringing
him as far west as the Severn Valley. The union between the Britons
and Saxons was suggested by the historical league formed between the
Britons and those Saxons who revolted against the detested Ceawlin,
and, settling in the valley of the lower Severn, took the name of
Hwiccan. The date of this league was 592--eleven years after the
destruction of Uriconium which in the following story is placed about
578. Some liberty, also, has been taken with the date of Ethelbert’s
marriage with Bertha, which took place in 584.
It seems hardly necessary to say that Banba and Fail are old bardic
names for Ireland. And that the cities Gloucester, Cirencester and Bath
were known in Roman days as Glevum, Corinium and Aque Sulio.
S. Kevin is known also as S. Coemgen.
The date of the Convocation at Druimceta is difficult to discover, but
must have been during the reign of S. Columba’s friend, King Aedh,
572-599.
DEDICATED TO MY NEPHEWS AND NIECES.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. FROM THE BRITONS’ APPEAL TO AËTIUS--COMMANDER OF THE ROMAN
ARMIES, 446 A.D. 11
II. GLÉAND DÉ 21
III. FROM THE EPISTLE OF GILDAS THE MOST ANCIENT BRITISH AUTHOR 29
IV. MANY A BRANCH OF THE RACE OF CONN IS IN THE LAND OF BANBA OF
SMOOTH GRASS (BOOK OF LECAN) 37
V. WHY ETHNE HATES THE CHRISTIANS 50
VI. THE SACRED HEART OF HIBERNIA 60
VII. INTO THE ARMS OF MOLOCH 69
VIII. ETHNE AGAIN AS LEADER 79
IX. TO THE NORTH 88
X. BARDS OF HIBERNIA 98
XI. SAINT COLUMBA 114
XII. THE FAIR 122
XIII. MAN AND WOMAN 134
XIV. LEADER OF THE KYMRY 149
XV. THE BLACK HORSE 158
XVI. ETHELBERT OF KENT 172
XVII. ETHNE’S ERROR 181
XVIII. ENGLAND’S FIRST CHRISTIAN QUEEN 189
THE DRUIDESS.
CHAPTER I.
“The barbarians drive us to the sea; the sea drives us back to the
barbarians; between them we are exposed to two sorts of death; we are
either slain or drowned.”
(From the Britons’ appeal to Aëtius--Commander
of the Roman armies 446 A.D.)
Upon a cold, spring morning in the year of Our Lord 577, the closing
scenes of a battle were being fought out on the western shore of
Britain; in that part of the country then called Damnonia; on a stretch
of low-lying land, between the two rivers--the Yeo and the Axe.
On the winning side stood the Saxons with the whole breadth of
vanquished Britain behind them--on the losing, the Britons with but a
narrow strip of land between them and the sea; that narrow strip of
flat sea-shore.
There were women on both sides. Brawny-limbed, red-skinned Saxons with
floating ruddy hair--fighting with a strength and valour worthy of
the men beside them; as much at home in that scene of blood-shed as
they were by their hearths making the trews and baking the bread of
their lords and his ceorls. British ladies reared in the refinement
and luxury that the Romans had made common in Britain; satin-skinned
and white-handed, strangers to the lightest toil--now forced, in dire
necessity, on the battle-field; but, once there, waging war with the
spirit of their ancestress, Boadicea; smaller and slighter than their
foes and untutored in the art of weapons, they were gifted with a
natural dexterity and passion that enabled them, in this hour of need,
to be of service to their lords and brothers.
One, in particular, had been conspicuous in the long three days’
fight, on account of her activity and skill. A slight, dark woman,
raven-haired and white-limbed, clad in robes of royal saffron-colour,
flashing with gold and emeralds. Often by her side was a youth, who
bore a strong likeness to her; and these two, woman and boy, commanded
the retreating Britons.
The boy was mounted on a beautiful Hibernian stallion, of a pure
jet-black, and on the banners still drooping, here and there, overhead
was the emblem of a Black Horse in opposition to the White Horse of the
Saxons.
No leader could have shown more courage and spirit than this youth. In
this last agony of defeat his example still inspired his followers;
he gave no sign of the almost mortal wounds with which his body was
pierced; his garments were red with blood, and his horse was smeared
with white, where the sweat had lathered into foam--but on that
stricken field every valiant warrior showed battle stains, and every
jaded steed was pale with foam.
Strapped on the shoulder of the boy-leader was a small image of the
Virgin, and in the ranks, behind him, were numerous emblems of the
Christian Faith.
This was not only a battle between Saxon and Briton, it was also
a battle between Christian and Heathen; and yet the woman, on the
Christian side, from time to time broke forth into the Druidical
incantations of early British days; this she did in moments of savage
passion as she stood upright in her car dealing forth death from the
sheaf of arrows at her side.
In one corner of the battle-field the mist-cloud lifted wholly for a
few minutes, and the sun shone on the thinned ranks of the Britons
showing them woefully hindered in their movements by fallen warriors
and horses; a mere sprinkling of young and strong remained; here and
there a wounded man raised himself and still tried to use his bow.
Old men and women fought on desperately. The war-dogs were still
numerous--a veritable phalanx armed with spiked collars and goaded into
savage rage, strangely horrible with their red, hanging tongues and
bloodshot eyes.
In the sudden gleam of sunshine the boy saw that the woman leader
was in extreme peril. She had driven her chariot so quickly over the
grass--slippery with dew and blood--that her horse had fallen. The boy
galloped over dead and dying to her side--as he rode he saw a javelin,
aimed at the woman, pierce the side of the struggling horse.
At a sign from his friend, the youth, with rare dexterity, harnessed
his own horse to her chariot, in place of hers. She pointed to a gap in
the ranks of a small band of Saxons; and, mounting again on his steed,
the boy galloped with her to the spot--the sharp knives of the chariots
doing desperate work among a body of Saxon soldiers through which they
ploughed.
It was the ancient method of warfare, which the woman by instinct had
followed. At just such a gap in the ranks of the foe as she had chosen
it was the custom to leap from the chariot and charge on foot; but now
she remained standing in her car and, suddenly cutting the traces, set
her companion free to charge furiously on the surprised enemy--whilst
she aided him by a quick shower of arrows. Her artifice succeeded; the
boy bounded forward causing such havoc among a little band of Saxons
that they--taken off their guard--turned and fled.
In the panic of the moment the enemy did not see that the boy’s gallant
horse had received his death-wound. With a last frantic attempt to obey
his master’s onward signal, the animal raised itself on its hinder
limbs, pawed wildly in the air, gave one long, whistling breath and,
with throat and nostrils choked with blood, fell back dead--and, in
falling, fell upon his master.
It was the last act of the long, stubborn, futile resistance. The
hovering fog-cloud swept down again upon the field as a curtain drops
at the end of a scene.
The woman stood--listening. She could hear the steps of the retreating
Saxons--but, beyond that, was another indistinct and distant clamour;
her quick sense of hearing was confused; she bent and laid her ear to
the ground. She listened intently and learnt that the main body of the
Saxon host was advancing towards them.
Flight alone remained. She looked towards the flat sea-shore; the water
only revealed itself for a stone’s throw--all beyond was fog--the
sea that was visible was sullen grey with furious, crested waves of
dead-white foam. Even in that moment’s glance she saw fugitives from
her own ranks, perish on the ocean--washed from the frail rafts they
had hastily made and set forth upon.
What of the boy lying crushed under his war-horse--was he dead?
He still breathed--but not all the strength she could summon was
sufficient to extricate him from his position, had not a larger and
stronger woman come to her aid. From her appearance the newcomer was
Saxon, rather than British; she had the same blue eyes and yellow
hair, the same strong features and heavy frame as the enemy from whom
they were fleeing! With the strength and haste of despair the two
women dragged the dead horse from the boy’s body, and carried off the
unconscious hero.
When they reached the shore they found a raft awaiting them; and in
a few seconds they were being pushed off, through the surf, by a few
remaining British slaves.
They were accompanied by two or three scores of their own countrymen;
but of these the greater number were soon washed from their rafts and
their drowned bodies cast back again upon the beach.
In a few minutes the approaching Saxons had reached the shore; some of
the more blood-thirsty dashed through the water in pursuit, but they
were either drowned or driven back by the waves.
Just as their bark had passed safely through the surf, the two women
saw a dark form swimming swiftly towards them. The fair-haired girl
gave a cry for joy, as she distinguished the head of a great war-hound
above the water; the animal had been often by the side of the youth
during the battle and now love of his master drew him, bruised and
bleeding, through the waves. The smaller woman would have beaten him
off with her oar; but the other prevented her and aided the animal
as he scrambled on to the raft, and threw himself beside the boy. The
quarrel over the animal was so violent that the bark was in danger of
foundering; the dark woman showed as much fury against the girl as she
had shown that day against the enemy.