CWICHELM'S HLAWE
It was a wild and lonely spot, eight hundred feet above sea level, the
highest ground of the central downs of Berkshire, looking northward over
a vast expanse of fertile country, as yet but partially tilled, and
mainly covered with forest.
A tumulus or barrow of huge dimensions arose on the summit, no less than
one hundred and forty yards in circumference, and at that period some
fifty feet in height; it had been raised five hundred years earlier in
the history of the country over the remains of the Saxon King Cwichelm,
son of Cynegils, and grandson of Ceol, who dwelt in the Isle of Ceol--or
Ceolseye--and left his name to Cholsey.
A wood of firs surrounded the solemn mound, which, however, dominated
them in height; the night wind was sighing dreamily over them, the
heavens were alternately light and dark as the aforesaid wind made rifts
in the cloud canopy and closed them again--ever and anon revealing the
moon wading amidst, or rather beyond, the masses of vapour.
An aged crone stood on the summit of the mound clad in long flowing
garments of coarse texture, bound around the waist with a girdle of
leather; her hair, white as snow, streamed on the wind. She supported
her strength by an ebony staff chased with Runic figures. Any one who
gazed might perchance have thought her a sorceress, or at least a seer
of old times raised again into life.
"Ah, he comes!"
Over the swelling ridges of the downs she saw a horseman approaching;
heard before she saw, for the night was murky.
The horseman dismounted in the wood, tied his horse to a tree, left it
with a huge boar-hound, as a guard, and penetrating the wood, ascended
the mound.
"Thou art here, mother: the hour is come; it is the first day of the
vine-month, as your sires called it."
"Yes, the hour is come, the stars do not lie, nor did the mighty dead
deceive me."
"The dead; call them not, whilst I am here."
"Dost thou fear them? We must all share their state some day."
"I would sooner, far sooner, not anticipate the time."
"Yet thou hast sent many, and must send many more, to join them."
"It is the fortune of war; I have had Masses said for their souls. It
might have chanced to me."
"Ha! ha! so thou wouldst not slay soul and body both?"
"God forbid."
"Well, once I believed in Priest and Mass--I, whom they call the witch
of 'Cwichelm's Hlawe': now I prefer the gods of war, of storm, and of
death; Woden, Thor, and Teu; nay, even Hela of horrid aspect."
"Avaunt thee, witch! wouldst worship Satan!"
"Since God helped me not: listen, Brian Fitz-Count. I, the weird woman
of the haunted barrow, was once a Christian, and a nun."
"A nun!"
"Yea, and verily. A few of us had a little cell, a dozen were we in
number, and we lived under the patronage--a poor reed to lean on we
found it--of St. Etheldreda.[6] Now a stern Norman like thyself came
into those parts after the conquest; he had relations abroad who 'served
God' after another rule; he craved our little home for them; he drove
us out to perish in the coldest winter I remember. The abbess, clinging
to her home and refusing to go, was slain by the sword: two or three
others died of cold; we sought shelter in vain, the distress was
everywhere. I roamed hither--I was born at the village of Hendred
below--my friends were dead and gone, my father had followed Thurkill of
Kingestun, and been killed at Senlac. My mother, in consequence, had
been turned out of doors by the new Norman lord, and none ever learned
what became of her, my sweet mother! my brothers had become outlaws; my
sisters--well, I need tell thee no more. I lost faith in the religion,
in the name of which, and under the sanction of whose chief teacher, the
old man who sits at Rome, the thing had been done. They say I went mad.
I know I came here, and that the dead came and spoke with me, and I
learned mysteries of which Christians dream not, yet which are true for
good or ill."
"And by their aid thou hast summoned me here, but I marvel thou hast not
perished as a witch amidst fire and faggot."
"They protect me!"
"Who are they?"
"Never mind; that is my secret."
"Thou didst tell me that if I came to-night I should see the
long-expected signal to arm my merrie men, and do battle for our winsome
ladie."
"Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war. Well, I told thee truly: the
hour is nigh, wait and watch with me; fix thine eyes on the south."
Dim and misty the outlines of the hills looked in that uncertain
gloaming; here and there a light gleamed from some peasant's hut, for
the hour of eight had not yet struck, when, according to the curfew law,
light and fire had to be extinguished. But our lone watchers saw them
all disappear at last, and still the light they looked for shone not
forth.
"Why does not the bale-fire blaze?"
"Baleful shall its influence be."
"Woman, one more question I have. Thou knowest my family woes, that I
have neither kith nor kin to succeed me, no gallant boy for whom to win
honour: two have I had, but they are dead to the world."
"The living death of leprosy."
"And one--not indeed the lawful child of my spouse--was snatched from me
in tender infancy; one whom I destined for my heir: for why should that
bar-sinister which the Conqueror bore sully the poor child. Thou
rememberest?"
"Thou didst seek me in the hour of thy distress, and I told thee the
child lived."
"Does it yet live? tell me." And the strong man trembled with eagerness
and emotion as he looked her eagerly in the face.
"They have not told me; I know not."
"Methinks I saw him to-day."
"Where?"
"In the person of a peasant lad--the grandson of an old man, who has
lived, unknown, in my forest, and slain my deer."
"And didst thou hang him, according to thy wont?"
"No, for he was brave, and something in the boy's look troubled me, and
reminded me of her I once called my 'Aimèe.' She was English, but
Eadgyth was hard to pronounce, so I called her 'Aimèe.'"
"Were there any marks by which you could identify your boy? Pity such a
race should cease."
"I remember none. And the grandfather claims the lad as his own. Tell
me, is he mine?"
"I know not, but there is a way in which thou canst inquire."
"How?"
"Hast thou courage?"
"None ever questioned it and lived."
"But many could face the living, although girt in triple mail, who fear
the dead."
"I am distracted with hope."
"And thou canst face the shrouded dead?"
"I would dare their terrors."
"Sleep here, then, to-night."
"Where?"
"In a place which I will show thee, ha! ha!"
"Is it near?"
"Beneath thy feet."
"Beneath my feet?"
"It is the sepulchre of the royal dead."
"Of Cwichelm?"
"Even he."
"May I see it? the bale-fire blazes not, and it is cold waiting here."
"Come."
"Lead on, I follow."
She descended the sloping sides of the mound, he followed. At the base,
amidst nettles and briars, was a rude but massive door. She drew forth a
heavy key and opened it. She passed along a narrow passage undeterred by
a singular earthy odour oppressive to the senses, and the Baron followed
until he stood by her side, in a chamber excavated in the very core of
the huge mound.
There, in the centre, was a large stone coffin, and within lay a giant
skeleton.
"It is he, who was king of this land."
"Cwichelm, son of Ceol, who dwelt in the spot they now call Ceolseye."
"And the son of the Christian King of Wessex--they mingled Christian and
Pagan rites when they buried him here. See his bow and spear."
"But who burrowed this passage? Surely they left it not who buried him?"
"Listen, and your ears shall drink in no lies. Folk said that his royal
ghost protected this spot, and that if the heathen Danes came where the
first Christian king lay, guarding the land, even in death, they should
see the sea no more. Now, in the Christmas of the year 1006, aided by a
foul traitor, Edric Streorn, they left the Isle of Wight, where they
were wintering, and travelling swiftly, burst upon the ill-fated,
unwarned folk of this land, on the very day of the Nativity, for Edric
had removed the guardians of the beacon fires.[7] They burnt Reading;
they burnt Cholsey, with its church and priory; they burned Wallingford;
they slew all they met, and left not man or beast alive whom they could
reach, save a few most unhappy captives, whom they brought here after
they had burned Wallingford, for here they determined to abide as a
daring boast, having heard of the prophecy, and despising it. And here
they revelled after the fashion of fiends for nine days and nights. Each
day they put to death nine miserable captives with the torture of the
Rista Eorn, and so they had their fill of wine and blood. And as they
had heard that treasures were buried with Cwichelm, they excavated this
passage. Folk said that they were seized with an awful dread, which
prevented their touching his bones or further disturbing his repose. At
length they departed, and each year since men have seen the ghosts of
their victims gibbering in the moonlight between Christmas and Twelfth
Day."
"Hast thou?"
"Often, but covet not the sight; it freezes the very marrow in the
bones. Only beware that thou imitate not these Danes in their
wickedness."
"I?"
"Yes, even thou."
"Am I a heathen dog?"
"What thou art I know, what thou wilt become I think I trow. But peace:
wouldst thou invoke the dead king to learn thy future path? I can raise
him."
Brian Fitz-Count was a brave man, but he shuddered.
"Another time; besides, mother, the bale-fire may be blazing even now!"
"Come and see, then. I foresee thou wilt return in time of sore need."
They reached the summit of the mound. The change to the open air was
most refreshing.
"Ah! the bale-fire!!"
Over the rolling wastes, far to the south, arose the mountainous range
now called Highclere. It was but faintly visible in the daytime, and
under the uncertain moonlight, only those familiar with the locality
could recognise its position. The central peak was now tipped with fire,
crowned with a bright flickering spot of light.
And while they looked, Lowbury caught the blaze, and its beacon fire
glowed in the huge grating which surmounted the tower, whose foundations
may yet be traced. From thence, Synodune took up the tale and told it to
the ancient city of Dorchester, whose monks looked up from cloistered
hall and shuddered. The heights of Nettlebed carried forward the fiery
signal, and blazing like a comet, told the good burgesses of Henley and
Reading that evil days were at hand. The Beacon Hill, above Shirburne
Castle, next told the lord of that baronial pile that he might buckle on
his armour, and six counties saw the blaze on that beacon height.
Faringdon Clump, the home of the Ffaringas of old, next told the news to
the distant Cotswolds and the dwellers around ancient Corinium; and soon
Painswick Beacon passed the tidings over the Severn to the old town of
Gloucester, whence Milo came, and far beyond to the black mountains of
Wales. The White Horse alarmed Wiltshire, and many a lover of peace
shook his head and thought of wife and children, although but few knew
what it all meant, namely, that the Empress Maud, the daughter of the
Beauclerc, had come to claim her father's crown, which Stephen, thinking
it right to realise the prophecy contained in his name,[8] had put on
his own head.
And from Cwichelm's Hlawe the curious ill-assorted couple we have
portrayed beheld the war beacons' blaze.
She lost all her self-possession, she became entranced; her hair
streamed behind her in the wind; she stretched out her aged arms to the
south and sang--did that crone of ninety years--
"Come hither, fatal cloud of death,
O'er England breathe thy hateful breath;
Breathe o'er castles, churches, towns,
Brood o'er flat plain, and cloud-flecked downs,
Until the streams run red with gore,
From eastern sea to western shore.
Let mercy frighted haste away,
Let peace and love no longer stay,
Let justice outraged swoon away,
But let revenge and bitter hate
Alone control the nation's fate;
Let fell discord the chorus swell,
Let every hold become a hell----
Let----"
"Nay, nay, mother, enough! Thou ravest. Every hold a hell! not at least
Wallingford Castle!"
"That worst of all, Brian Fitz-Count. There are possibilities of evil in
thee, which might make Satan laugh! Thy sword shall make women
childless, thy torch light up----"
"Nay, nay, no more, I must away. My men will go mad when they see these
fires. I must home, to control, advise, direct."
"Go, and the powers of evil be with thee. Work out thy curse and thy
doom, since so it must be!"
FOOTNOTES:
[6] See a similar instance in Thierry's _Norman Conquest_, vol. i.
[7] I have told the story of this Danish invasion in _Alfgar the Dane_.
[8] "Stephanus" signifies "a crown."