Wulfhere and Egwina journeyed slowly northward over Hampshire, into
Berkshire, and thence into Wiltshire, so that it was not until the sixth
day of the Wolf month that they arrived at Chippenham.
The landscape was dreary and barren. The wind howled dismally through
the branches of the leafless trees. The sedge by the river was silvered
over by heavy rime and the frosted flag rushes seemed to cut like
swords. The gray clouds hung low in the dull leaden sky until the
summits of the hills in the distance were lost among them. The wide-open
moors and hedgeless commons showed no sign of any living thing on their
desolate wastes.
Without the gates of the city all was chill and drear, but within the
sounds of music and revelry could be heard on every hand; for it was the
twelfth night, and the feast of the Epiphany. For twelve days the yule
log had blazed on every hearth, and as soon as the last of its embers
died out life must again take on its work-a-day aspect. So loud rang the
mirth and hearty the feast of the last of the holy festival.
Chippenham held one of the strongest of the royal residences. A long,
low irregular building, it still towered above the other dwellings of
the burgh. It was brilliantly lighted, for night was fast approaching
when the wayfarers entered the gates, and Wulfhere and Egwina
immediately made their way to it.
A dense throng of poor people waited without the hall for the remnants
of the banquet which was going on within. Pushing their way through
them, the two paused just outside the portals.
"Now, child," commanded Wulfhere, "sing as thou hast never sung before.
'Tis Alfred the king who hears thee."
And with his own nerves tingling, Wulfhere swept the strings of his
harp, and they sang softly and tenderly an old ballad. The noise and the
glee within ceased with the first few notes of the melody. The sweetness
of the girl's clear soprano blended with the deep bass of the bard,
making a pleasing harmony. When they had finished the strain, the
portals were flung wide, and the voice of the warder called in ringing
tones:
"Now who be ye that bring such music from the harp?"
"Wulfhere, the Gleeman, with his daughter, Egwina the Fair."
"Enter, Wulfhere, with thy daughter; and for our good cheer give us of
thy melody. I wot that none of Alfred's harpers hath such power of the
harp. Enter and welcome!"
Well pleased, the bard and the maiden entered. The hall was a long room
whose length was disproportionate to its width, and whose vaulted roof
was blackened by the smoke of the fire which burned in its centre. In
the upper end was a dais raised a step above the rest of the building.
The walls were covered by silken hangings richly embroidered, which
served the double purpose of ornamentation and to keep the wind out. For
in those days so illy built were even the palaces of the kings that the
candles were ofttimes extinguished by the gusts of air which came
through the cracks and crevices of the buildings.
Three long tables were ranged down the length of the apartment, filled
with Alfred's gesiths or retainers. In the centre of each table was a
large boar's head with an apple in its mouth. The room was decked with
evergreens, conspicuous among them being the mistletoe, to which a
traditionary superstition attached.
The floor was covered with rushes and sweet herbs, and a number of dogs
lay thereon close to the great fire, watching greedily for some chance
tidbit, if any there were so unmannerly as to throw to them. Upon the
dais stood an oval-shaped table handsomely carved, above which was a
canopy of richly embroidered cloth.
Around this table, reserved for the king's family and guests of honor,
were gathered two ladies and three small children, one boy and two
girls. The king's chair was empty. Behind the ladies stood two youths
and a maiden of high rank, who served them with napkins and mead, and
with a start of surprise, Egwina saw that the maiden was Ethelfleda and
that one of the youths was her brother.
The tables were laden with gold and silver plate, and each person had a
knife with a jeweled hilt. Pages served the meat on spits, kneeling, and
occasionally passed bowls of water in which the fingers were dipped
before drying them on the napkins.
Wulfhere and Egwina were given seats in the lower end of the hall among
the other harpers, scops, bards, and gleemen. At their entrance every
eye was turned inquiringly toward them. The reeve who had the feast in
charge hastened to them.
"Thy music hath enchanted the household. Prithee delight us again. The
feast is deepening."
Nothing loth, Wulfhere complied readily; then, as the song was finished,
without waiting for further request, his fingers swept the strings and
he half sang, half recited, improvising as he went:
"Here Alfred of the West Saxons king, the giver of the bracelets
of the nobles,
A lasting glory won by slaughter in battle, with the edges of
swords at Ashdown.
The wall of shields he cleaved, the noble banners he hewed;
Pursuing, he destroyed the Danish people.
The field was colored with the warrior's blood.
After that--the sun on high--the greatest star
Glided over the earth, God's candle bright!
Till the noble creature hastened to her setting.
There lay soldiers many with darts struck down,
Northern men over their shields shot.
So were the Danes weary of ruddy battles.
The screamers of war he left behind; the raven to enjoy,
The dismal kite, and the black raven with horned beak, and the
hoarse toad;
The eagle afterwards to feast on the white flesh;
The greedy battle hawk, and the gray beast, the wolf in the
wood.
He has marched with his bloody sword, and the raven has followed
him.
Furiously hath he fought, and the Northmen fear his presence.
Then did the Dane seek his fleet.
And they sang as they coursed gayly along the track of the
swans:
'Not here can the Great one harm us.
The force of the storm is a help to the arms of our rowers;
The hurricane is in our service;
It carries us the way we would go.'
Then arose the king in his wisdom. Alfred, great of
understanding!
He the wise builder of ships! The giver of laws, the bestower of
bracelets!
He spake, and the timbers took shape.
Then did the raven shriek on the waters.
Red ran the blood of the Northman, as the Dragon of Wessex
pursued him.
Great, great are the deeds of Alfred! The wonder and glory of
men!"
Thunderous applause broke forth from the retainers that shook the very
rafters. Wulfhere sat down upon the settle, and glanced toward the dais
from which there now advanced the royal cup-bearer.
"Later will the king grace the feast by his presence," he said. "And
then, O minstrel, shalt thou receive fitting guerdon for thy words.
Drink hael to Elswitha, the lady" (the correct designation of the queens
of that time was "The Lady") "who sends thee cheer from her own table
and in her own cup."
He presented the cup, a golden goblet, to Wulfhere as he spoke. The old
man flushed with delight.
"Wass-hael," responded he, as he took the cup. "Wass-hael to the Lady
Elswitha."
"She bids thee welcome, thou and the maiden, and wishes ye also to sing
for her in her bower later. Meanwhile, partake of the glee and mingle as
of our own household among us."
So saying he returned to his own station on the dais.
"Granther," whispered Egwina as the youth left, "seest thou not that the
maiden, Ethelfleda, serveth the lady Elswitha? The youth also is on the
dais."
"It may be, child," answered Wulfhere. "They are guests, likely.
Methought they were gentles. But didst thou see, Egwina, that the lady
hath sent her own cup? Fortune hath favored us in sooth."
The girl looked at the cup as he wished, but ever and anon stole glances
toward the dais where were the youth and the maiden. At this moment from
one of the settles where sat the minstrels, a voice exclaimed:
"Tell me, ye wise ones, what is winter?"
"Tell us, Witlaf," shouted the reeve. "Expect not wisdom at a feast."
"It is the banishment of summer," answered the minstrel.
"Good, good! Another! Give us another."
"What is spring? The painter of the earth. What is the year? The world's
chariot. What is the sun? Quotha! Doltish are ye if none can answer."
"The splendor of the world, the beauty of heaven, the grace of nature,
the honor of day, the distributer of the hours," spoke up Wulfhere. "Now
thou, whom they have called Witlaf, answer this: What is the sea?"
Witlaf thought for a moment ere he replied, "The path of audacity, the
boundary of the earth, the receptacle of the rivers, the fountain of
showers."
"Right!" exclaimed the old bard, his spirits high, his blood coursing
warmly through his veins, for it was scenes of this kind that he loved.
"Right, sir bard! Now prithee read me this riddle. An unknown person,
without tongue or voice spoke to me, who never existed before, nor has
existed since, nor ever will be again, and whom I neither heard nor
knew."
But Witlaf shook his head.
"Thou wilt have to unravel it thyself," he said, "I know not that."
"It is a dream," answered Wulfhere, and again the rafters shook with
applause.
"Now, wanderer, read this for me if thou canst. It is a wonder. I saw a
man standing; a dead man walking who never existed," quoth Witlaf.
"It is an image in the water," replied Wulfhere quickly.
"He hath thee, Witlaf," came from the board in a merry shout. "Thou hast
met thy match."
"Nay; here is another," cried Witlaf on his mettle. "I wot that there be
few men that can unravel this: I saw the dead produce the living, and by
the living the dead were consumed."
Wulfhere smiled as sagely and answered:
"From the friction of trees fire was produced, which consumed."
So, fast and furious grew the fun, every minstrel or bard contributing
his quota to the mirth; Witlaf and Wulfhere leading, each striving to
outdo the other.
The feast thickened, and mead, pigment, and morat circled round the
board, and the tongue of the Saxon was unloosened. Then did the harp
pass from hand to hand and each sang. Even the nobles at the king's
board lifted up their voices in song. Again the cup-bearer approached
the place where the minstrels sat.
"The lady Elswitha wishes to know if thy daughter sings not alone?" said
he, addressing the bard. "Hath she not some simple lay that will charm
the ear?"
"She hath," answered the gleeman, "and gracious is the lady in the
asking. Egwina, Elswitha would hear thee sing. Thy sweetest, child! 'Tis
the Lady who asks thee."
Then timidly the maiden arose. The company hushed the noisy revel, and
listened as the sweet voice of the girl sounded through the hall. Her
voice quavered slightly when she began, but the maiden on the dais
smiled reassuringly at her, and she took courage. It grew stronger and
then pealed forth in all its strength and beauty:
"Alone sits the exile,
Alone on the plain;
And the voice of the south wind
Speaks to him in vain.
"For back hath his fancy
Flown to his lord;
When oft he had followed him
With arrow and sword.
"Again does he seem to feel
As of old his caresses;
The thought is so sweet to him.
The awakening distresses.
"No friends hath he now,
Nor lord for to follow;
Long have they been estranged,
Life seem but hollow.
"Naught doth earth hold for him;
No surcease of sorrow:
For hunger of heartache
Fails comfort to borrow.
"Cold, cold is his earth dwelling,
Care sits on his brow;
Joyless his dark abode,
Bereft is he now.
"Those he hath loved in life
The tomb now is holding;
Fain would he join them there
For rest he is needing."
The sad little strain produced a few moments of silence, and then again,
after vociferous plaudits for the maiden, the uproar broke forth. As
Egwina sat down, the maiden Ethelfleda descended from the dais, and came
to her.
"Thou art the maiden and this is thy father who were so kind to me in
Andred's Weald," she said, taking Egwina by the hand. "Often have I
wondered about thee, and hoped to see thee again. Now thou shalt stay
with me, and thou shalt, if thou wilt, teach me some of thy pretty
songs. Sweetly dost thou sing, but it hath made my heart sad to hear thy
little plaint."
"An it please thee, maiden, she shall sing another, merrier and more
suited to the feast," interposed Wulfhere, "I know not why the child
chose so sad a theme."[SYNC]
"It doth please me," said Ethelfleda. "But come! Before thou dost sing
again, thou shalt drink hael with the lady Elswitha." To the old man's
joy he saw his granddaughter led to the dais where Alfred's wife sat.
The lady graciously arose to receive the girl. With her own hand she
proffered the cup. Just as Egwina was lifting the goblet to her lips, a
great noise was heard without. There was the crash of arms, the hoarse
shout of battle, and then the portals were flung wide, and the warder
shouted:
"The Dane, the Dane!"