and the half-roasted flesh was devoured with avidity. Coarse jest and
practical joke accompanied the feast, and when all were satisfied the
warriors slept round the remains of the repast. Only Caedwalla and his
two lieutenants, Wulf and Athelhune, retired to a room in the half-burnt
palace; a few of the more responsible of their soldiers were left to
guard the door in turns, with orders to rouse every one if any cause for
alarm should arise.
*CHAPTER V.*
*ST. WILFRID.*
The next morning found Caedwalla and his followers all astir at an early
hour. The scene as the sun rose was a busy one. The inhabitants were
clearing away the rubbish of their burnt dwellings, an occupation that
did not make them look with very favourable eyes on the authors of the
destruction; while the armed men of Caedwalla's party were carrying in
the dead body of Edilwalch, whose arms and shield were already stripped
off him, to become the spoils of his slayer, and were picking up the
weapons and arms of the rest of the body-guard and of their own
comrades.
Some of the leading inhabitants, anxious to be on good terms with their
future king--for most men who could forecast the future augured from his
success in the past night, and from the courage and ability he had
shown, that it would not be long before he recovered the throne of
Wessex, now occupied by his distant relative Centwine--were sending food
for the young prince and his followers.
Caedwalla himself, as he came from the palace, was thanking these men,
and inviting them to stop and share their own hospitality. The wound he
had received was slight, and the arm was bound round with a bandage.
His helmet was no longer the small steel cap he wore yesterday, but was
one of Edilwalch's that had been discovered in the palace; it was
encircled by a small wreath of oak leaves, which one of his followers
had made for him in token of his victory. The shirt of mail that he had
worn the night before was changed for another and more gorgeous one, the
rings of which were gilt. A new battle-axe hung in a gold chain across
his left shoulder, and his sword was suspended in a broad leather belt
that crossed his right; his muscular arms were bare from the elbows, and
two gold bangles adorned each wrist, inscribed with Runic characters. A
young and handsome henchman carried a new shield, Wulf and Athelhune
were on each side, and Ceolwulf came close behind him.
The moment of his appearance was the signal for all his followers to
raise a shout of triumph, clashing their weapons together. Two of the
men, who laid claim to being skalds, or poets, and whose business it was
to celebrate every great occasion by extempore verse, and who had
therefore been racking their brains all the night before to think of
what they should say on the spur of the moment, now came forward, and
the eldest of the two began in a loud voice to shout the following
verses:--
"See as the sun doth rise,
Comes he to glad our eyes,
Winner of battles' prize!
Victor Caedwalla!
Who in the shock of shields,
Keen axe or broad sword wields,
Fights till his foeman yields
More than Caedwalla?
Surely the Norns[1] have said,
Through hail of Woden reel,
Crowns shall adorn his head,
Crowned be Caedwalla!
Then, O my comrades, raise,
To the All-Father praise,
Pray for him length of days,
Long live Caedwalla!"
[1] The Norns were the Scandinavian equivalent of the Latin Parcae, or
Fates, who wove the destinies of men.
At the end of each verse the assembled warriors shouted the refrain with
wild excitement, and clashed their arms with frantic glee; and at the
last line the frenzy became so great that the other skald had no chance
of being heard; for they made a rush for Caedwalla, and, raising him on
the shield which they took from his esquire or henchman, they raised him
on their shoulders and bore him through the principal street of the
town, shouting the last verses over and over again, and every time they
reached the line "Long live Caedwalla," their enthusiasm knew no bounds;
the population of Cissanceaster were quite carried away with the
excitement, which is always infectious, and joined in the chorus. At
last they came back to the space in front of the palace, and, order
being somewhat restored, they sat down to their breakfast. The other
skald was determined not to be deprived of his turn, and had only joined
in the excitement of the others with a well-bred and _nonchalant_ air,
as much as to say, "It's not bad; but if this can evoke your enthusiasm,
wait till you hear my verses, and then see if you can keep the hair on
your heads."
But he was not destined to have his innings yet, for, directly after
breakfast was finished, Caedwalla rose, and gracefully thanked all for
their brave deeds, especially mentioning Ceolwulf, and said that the
property of those killed should be shared among the victors, and that he
would relinquish to them, in addition, the spoils of the palace, only
reserving a fit proportion for the service of the gods. He then added
that all the people of Cissanceaster and the neighbourhood might go
about their daily avocations as usual; and that they would always find
in him a jealous protector of their interests and defender of their
honour. He also added that any young men who were desirous of adventure
and wished to mend their fortunes might join his Huscarles, or
bodyguard, after being duly inspected by his brother Wulf and Athelhune;
and he would promise that it should not be long before they enjoyed the
bath of blood that Woden so well loved.
Loud shouts greeted this speech, and the skald now rose to electrify the
assembly, when he was destined to a fresh interruption.
A movement among the bystanders who were looking on at the banquet and
listening to the speeches showed that some one of importance was
approaching, and as the crowd gave way a tall and remarkable-looking
man, accompanied by two other men, who also differed very considerably
from the warriors and country people who crowded the open space in front
of the palace, advanced quietly towards the end of the table where
Caedwalla sat.
The face of the man who now interrupted the skald, in so provoking a
manner would have been remarkable at all times, both from its peculiar
power as well as a certain self-asserting kind of sweetness, if we may
use the expression, which pervaded the whole countenance. His face was
long and thin, and seamed with many furrows; his eyes were deep-set, and
were very dark and piercing; a clear-cut and slightly aquiline nose; a
thin, firm, and, at the same time, beautifully-formed mouth, sharply
defined at each corner by deep lines; a narrow chin, but broad, wrinkled
forehead, above which rose a loose and peculiarly-shaped dome-like cap,
embroidered in front with a Latin cross, worked elaborately with gold
thread. Such was the head of this celebrated man.
His dress was rich for those times, and Ceolwulf certainly had never
seen anything like it before. A large, loose, and comfortable hood
surmounted a long and handsomely adorned cloak, which was fastened below
his neck and across his chest by a large, jewelled buckle, or clasp.
This ample cloak reached down almost to his feet, and concealed a white
linen robe which he wore beneath, and which was fastened round his waist
by a silken cord. His shoes were of scarlet leather, and marked with a
black and peculiarly shaped cross. The cloak was made of a
gorgeously-coloured purple cloth, and bordered with gold thread. On his
hand he wore a large and valuable ring, and some beads, with a cross,
hung down from his girdle. A few grey hairs peeped out from under his
mitre, made of the same coloured cloth as his cloak.
Such was the celebrated St. Wilfrid, Bishop of York, and now an exile
from his see owing to the animosity of the King and Queen of
Northumbria.
Such a man in such a community was sure either to command great respect
or provoke great animosity. Driven from one kingdom to another, he at
last found refuge in the only part of England that was not yet
Christian, impelled, perhaps, by a desire to do good to his enemies; for
he had been shipwrecked on the coast of Sussex many years before, and
had nearly lost his life through the barbarity of the savage
inhabitants, whom he now came to win to the fold of the Church; but
also, perhaps, because there was really no other safe place for him in
England, seeing that the Queen of Mercia was sister to the King of
Northumbria, and the Queen of Wessex sister to the Queen of Northumbria,
while, for some reason, Theodorus, the Archbishop of Canterbury and
Metropolitan, was opposed to him, and had already helped to depose him
from the See of York. To a man of Wilfrid's disposition it was better
to be loved by Pagans than treated as an equal by Christians. His great
fault seems to have been his dislike to all authority, except the
authority of the Bishop of Rome. Whenever he found a difficulty at home
he appealed to Rome, and this may explain the opposition which he met
with from Theodorus, Archbishop of Canterbury.
The early Church in England was very nearly in the position of a
missionary establishment in a newly opened up country in our own day.
As clergymen sent out from England naturally look to the parent church
as their authority for all they do, so the missionaries sent by Gregory
the Great looked to Rome for guidance in all points of doubt; and this
natural habit the astute churchmen at Rome soon saw how to turn to their
own profit, and canons were framed which made it indispensable that
every higher functionary in the church should proceed to Rome for the
symbol of his authority. When once the simple barbarian, accustomed to
the squalor and rude manners of his own country, saw the magnificence of
the buildings, the refinement of life, and the order of the Roman ritual
existing in the everlasting city, he was soon won to its grandeur, and
henceforth believed that whatever was done at Rome ought to be done
elsewhere. This force of early habit was not easily lost; indeed, it
was only when the corruptions, the pretentions, and the extortions of
the Roman curia became unbearable, that men began to consider whether
they were not paying too high a price for an antiquated idea, and too
great a respect to the doubtful authority of the self-styled successors
of St. Peter.
It was this very claim--early recognised even by legal authority, as
expressed in Imperial edicts--to be the successors of St. Peter, that
gave them so much power; for if it was to St. Peter that our Lord gave
the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven, and if He had delegated this power to
his successors, it was difficult for the superstitious and simple mind
of a barbarian to refuse him obedience when once he had accepted this
fact.[2]
[2] For the effect of this argument, as brought forward by St. Wilfrid
in his discussion with Colman, before King Oswy, at Streaneshalch (now
Witby), A.D. 664, see Bede, book iii., c. 25.
At this period the arrogance of the Roman Pontificate had assumed
scarcely any of its objectionable features, and the tone of equality
with which St. Columban[3] addressed Boniface IV. upon the subjects in
dispute, reminding him of the peaceful intercourse of Anicetus and
Polycarp, although they could not agree upon the disputed points, shows
that men were not yet crushed into the lifeless mass of religious
formality which they subsequently became, until roused by the trumpet
call of indignation, sounded by Wickliffe, by Huss, by Savonarola, and
by Luther.
[3] St. Columban, founder of the Monastery of Bobbio, in the Apennines,
who lived from 543 to 615, must not be confounded with St. Columba,
founder of Icolmkill, who was born 521 and died 597.
Wilfrid had been early captivated by the glamour of the Roman name.
With an intense love of art, religion, and discipline, he had been
flattered and caressed at the fountain-head of all. Returning to his
native land, he had received the admiration due to his character for
holiness; and a churchman who had been held in such favour by the
foreign bishops seemed to all the most suitable to fill an English see.
Accordingly he was elected Bishop of York; but, convinced as he was that
the Irish or Scottish missionaries who had converted Northumbria were
stubborn sectaries, he refused to be ordained by them, and, crossing to
France, received a perfect ovation from the bishops there, who saw in
him a determined asserter of the rights of Rome. Returning, he was
shipwrecked on the Sussex shore, and at length reaching his own land, he
found his see occupied by one of the Scottish missionaries, the holy
Ceadda; and he retired to a monastery until called from it by Theodore,
who annulled the appointment of Ceadda, and invested Wilfrid with the
see of York, while Ceadda was consoled by the see of Lichfield. The
grandeur of Wilfrid's ideas is shown in his magnificent buildings and
the pomp of his ceremonial. It is true, it is an enemy that accuses him
of the splendour of his dress and the number of his attendants, "adorned
as they were with royal robes and weapons"; but the accusation seems
accepted by the men of his own time, and certainly Archbishop Theodore
is found subsequently among his opponents. Once more he went to Rome,
and returning with a Papal decree confirming his election to York, he
was thrown into prison, and only escaped through the superstition of his
persecutress, Queen Ercemburga, of Northumbria. And now he had taken
refuge in heathen Sussex, where all his virtues were displayed and
little of his faults. His personal life appears to have been blameless,
and his labours for the conversion and material well-being of the
heathen most unremitting. To find this great Church dignitary, the
forerunner of Dunstan, of Becket, and of Wolsey, teaching the miserable
natives to fish, himself going out with them and letting down the nets
with his own hands, contrasts refreshingly with his polemical disputes
with Colman and the Scottish monks, or his later apology before the
Synod of AEastanfeld, from whose decisions he once more appealed to
Rome. As a missionary bishop--freeing his slaves, cultivating and
improving the land, teaching useful arts, and social order, and all the
time winning souls to God--he stands as an admirable type, and as such
the thinking laymen of his own times admired and loved him. No man
received such prodigal grants of land. Edilwalch gave him all the Isle
of Selsea, and Caedwalla would have given him all the Isle of Wight, had
he not refused to accept more than the fourth part of it; truly, he
might be called the Bishop of the Isles!
As Wilfrid approached Caedwalla, the latter rose to receive him; for
although Caedwalla was a heathen, yet he was far too politic not to
recognise the great importance of securing the support of such a man as
Wilfrid. Not only was there the moral support of his great reputation
for sanctity which would react upon Caedwalla, but there was the direct
assistance to be got from Wilfrid as a landowner, and the wielder of
supernatural powers, which had already proved superior to the magic of
the local priests or sorcerers--a fact known to all in those parts at
the time of his shipwreck; for while a sorcerer was singing incantations
for the success of the attack of the wreckers, and Wilfrid was praying
for deliverance from them, a stone had killed the sorcerer, but
Wilfrid's ship had floated off, and he had sailed away in safety.
"Welcome, noble Wilfrid, welcome to our feast--make room there for the
Holy Bishop and his wise men," cried Caedwalla, and places were
instantly vacated, not without a sort of superstitious dread of contact
with such distinguished and powerful beings.
"My son, the Lord has been merciful to thee, and I pray that thou mayest
be guided aright; it is a great duty thou hast taken upon thee, and thou
wilt need much wisdom, but mayest thou be led to the Wisdom from on high
without which earthly wisdom is but dross."
"I thank thee, father, for all thy kind wishes, and doubtless since I
can have more open intercourse with thee now, I shall learn many things
I know not; but to what am I to attribute the honour of a visit so soon?
for I can hardly venture to think that it was to grace my first banquet
as successor to Edilwalch that the all-learned Wilfrid has come."
"Thou art right, my son, I came not to rejoice that Edilwalch is dead.
He has gone to God, and must give an account of his works; whether they
be good or whether they be evil, peace be with him. I come not to
condemn or to approve; he did me good, and received the cross of Christ;
how far the faith entered into his heart I know not--if his faith was to
be shown by his works, I fear not far; but in that he is dead, I trust
he is dead in the Lord. I came to ask for his body, that I may bear it
off for Christian burial."
"My father, happy am I that I can so readily and happily grant thy first
request to me as prince of this land. May it be a fair omen of our
future relations. I will see that it is duly performed, and the body
carried whithersoever thou mayest appoint."
"I thank thee, my son. I felt sure I should find in thee a generous foe
and a noble heart; such soil ought to be watered by the fount of the
spirit of the Almighty. But my presence longer now would only hinder
the merriment of these young men, and thou must have need of much rest,
after thy fatigues of the past night."
"Not so, my father; many cares I have, it is true, but I shall feel them
much lightened if I might have thy powerful and wise advice. If,
therefore, thou couldest spare the time, I would fain talk with thee in
private. And the young men can in the meanwhile amuse themselves."
"Such aid as I can give, which I feel thou prizest more than at its just
worth, is freely thine, my son. What is done cannot be undone, and if
thy right to the crown was better than that of Edilwalch--about which I
am not capable of forming an opinion, seeing I am only a stranger and a
sojourner in the land--the God of battles will uphold thy right; but if
I can in any way help to make this land happy, such services as I can
offer are thine. And I would, my son, that thou wouldest give heed to
my words, and learn of Him who was meek and lowly in heart, that thou
mightest find rest for thy soul."
"At present, my father, I have not leisure to go into such deep
questions, but when all is at peace here, then I trust I may be favoured
with thy instruction. Shall we go into the palace?"
The bishop assenting, he and Caedwalla, accompanied by the other two
churchmen, retired from the banquet, and their departure was the signal
for the free flow of merriment. The skald eyed the departing Wilfrid
with a fiery eye, but satisfaction got the better of his revengeful
feelings; for now the long-wished-for time had come, and he knew he
should win endless praise. Rising therefore to his feet, he rapped
loudly on the boards that formed the temporary table, and having
procured silence, he began, in an affected, sing-song voice, to chant
the following verses:--
"What said the God of war
He who lost arm in maw,
Wolf's maw that bit him sore,
Tyr the stouted-hearted?
What thought the mighty Thor
When he from Asgard saw
How we did yell and roar,
When we----"
but he was not destined to meet with the success he deserved, for the
last word was lost in a most unmelodious braying set up by a donkey
near. Whether it were that he was attracted by the similarity of the
tones and words of the skald to his own discordant language, or whether
he simply wished to express his approval, history knoweth not; the fact
remains, however, that the donkey continued to bray "He-haw, He-haw," in
a most pertinacious and obstinate way, and the skald, at last losing all
patience, hurled his axe, with a wild malediction on the whole race of
donkeys, at the misguided brute's head; but the axe unfortunately missed
the donkey, and buried itself in a muddy ditch, near which the donkey
was standing. This abortive attempt at revenge was greeted by loud
laughter, and one of the young men, jumping up, said he didn't see why
he shouldn't try his hand at verses, since the donkey and the skald had
been having their innings.
"Once I knew a fine skald
And he sang a lay,
But a donkey near stall'd,
Beat him with his bray.
Now which is greater poet--
The skald or donkey, tell?
When the first began the song
The latter sang as well.
Loud applause followed this doggerel outburst, which had, at least, the
merit of being impromptu, which is more than could be said for the
skald's untimely production. The skald, however, was very angry, and
shouted to the young man to sit down, for he had not finished; but the
latter was now also fired with poetical ardour; he had no idea of his
latent talent until he found how well his doggerel was received, and
attributing this to the success of his wit, and not to the amusement
caused by the discomfiture of his rival, he felt he had as much right to
be heard as the skald, and having once got on his feet he felt all the
delight of a young orator who has made a successful _debut_, and,
unfortunately for himself, does not know when to sit down. He refused,
therefore, to give way, and proceeded to string some epithets together
more forcible than elegant, the poetry of which chiefly consisted in
vigorous metaphor, but whose charms were completely lost on the skald,
who thundered back rhymes of a more classical kind, but breathing none
the less bitter scorn for this miserable upstart who dared to pollute
the pure regions of poesy, and contaminate the rich drink of Woden with
his ditch-water doggerel. The wordy war waxed fast and furious, and the
other competitor for poetical honours, the donkey, added to it from time
to time by giving vent to a self-asserting bray, which for the moment
silenced the other two completely.
"Look here," shouted Athelhune, "I am getting tired of this; if ye can't
settle it to your satisfaction this way I'll show ye another and a
better method; ye have bothered us long enough. It is only fair ye
should afford us some fun now; catch that donkey one of ye, he's the
author of all this. Now drive a stake into the centre of that clear
place there, and do ye, old skald and young skald, come out here."
All were now eager to know what Athelhune was going to do, and the two
men were inclined to refuse to come out; but the jeers of the others,
who accused them of cowardice, at last overcame their disinclinations,
and they both came up to Athelhune.
"Give me a couple of bandages," he cried; and when these were soon
brought from a neighbouring cottage, he proceeded to tie the bandages
tightly round their eyes, thus blindfolding them; he was not able to do
this, however, without assuring them that no harm would happen to them.
When they were completely blindfolded they were led up to the stake, and
each was fastened to it by one ankle with a strong cord about ten yards
long. The donkey was also made fast in the same way, and its two hind
legs were hobbled. When all these arrangements were completed, two
stout sticks were given to the rival poets, and they were told to punish
the donkey for its utterly uncalled for interruption. The one who kept
on beating longest was to have the right of finishing his
improvisation.[4]
[4] This blindfolded encounter was suggested by the account of a contest
that took place in Paris, in 1425, between four blindfolded men.
Indeed, all through the middle ages such contests were very frequent,
horse-play being greatly admired at all times.
A large crowd had by this time assembled, and Caedwalla's followers had
all risen from their feast and stood round, and with the sporting
instincts of their race were backing the three competitors: for the
donkey was to have his share in the contest, and he had been muzzled to
prevent his taking an unfair advantage of his vocal powers.
"Is all ready?" called Athelhune. "Then in the name of Woden begin."
At this order the two poets cautiously approached the spot where they
supposed the donkey was.