donkey as to get a blow at the skald, for this he knew would amuse the
bystanders; so after he had gone a few paces he stopped and listened, in
order to judge where the others were. The skald, who was a prudent
fellow, fearing he might come upon the donkey, and so fall over it, or
get tripped over its rope, put his stick in the manner of a feeler in
front of him, and came gently groping his way towards the animal. This
latter, after a series of violent plunges and kicks, when he found
himself first made fast, had since stood perfectly still, gazing upon
the crowd in a stupid way, and was suddenly roused from his reverie by
feeling the skald's stick poke him in the ribs. Giving a squeal of
surprise he jumped to one side, and in so doing came violently against
Oswald, who, not expecting this, was instantly thrown down. The skald,
thinking the donkey was where he had poked it, rained a storm of blows
upon the empty air, and as there was no object for his blows to fall
upon, he overbalanced himself, and fell forward on his face.
[Illustration: How ye Skald, ye Yokel, and Ye Jackass strove for a prize
of poesie]
Loud shouts of "The donkey for ever; give it him, Ikey!" rose from the
crowd, who were convulsed with laughter at the ludicrous scene. Oswald
had now picked himself up, and hearing a scuffling near him, supposed it
was the donkey, and belaboured the spot where the noise came from with
hearty good will. A roar of rage greeted this manoeuvre, for Oswald's
stick fell on the miserable skald, who, burning with mortified pride and
desire for revenge, rolled over out of reach of the stick, which Oswald
continued to ply, unconscious that his victim had gone, until he was
suddenly propelled violently forward by the donkey's heels, which caught
him behind.
Vowing revenge upon the author of their misfortunes and smarting with
pain, the two luckless poets rose to their feet and groped about for the
donkey, which was lazily rubbing its head against the post. Oswald was
the first to find out where it was, and raising his stick in the air,
brought it down with tremendous force on the poor animal. Squealing at
the blow, the donkey gave a violent plunge forward and pulled the stick
out of the ground, and instantly upset both the competitors; for their
legs were made fast to it, and the sudden and unexpected jerk threw both
to the ground. Such was the terror of the animal that it dragged the
poor skalds among the crowd, overturning many of the bystanders, and
throwing the whole place into a perfect uproar. The captured skalds,
dragged in the train of their victor, clutched at the legs of the
nearest bystanders, and thus brought them down too, who, in their turn,
caught at whatever was nearest to them, until at last the excessive
strain upon the rope fortunately caused it to break, and the donkey went
off with the honours of war.
The uproar and confusion caused by this event brought Caedwalla hastily
from the palace, fearing that some cause of difference had arisen
between his men and the townspeople. It was, therefore, with relief he
saw the real state of the case; but, in order to prevent merriment from
degenerating into strife, he directed Wulf and Athelhune to call the men
together for the purpose of distributing the spoils they had won. At
Wilfrid's suggestion also, he set the idle hands among the townspeople
to clear away the wreck of the palace and to commence rebuilding it,
promising all who would take part in this work remuneration in
proportion to their services; for Wilfrid, foreseeing the advantage it
would be to the cause of Christianity to gain over this young and noble
nature, for whom there was every prospect of a bright future, had told
him that if he were in want of ready means to fit him for his position,
he would advance him the necessary funds, thus preventing the extortion
which would otherwise follow if Caedwalla had to take it by violence,
and the unpopularity which would consequently ensue. He well knew that
the warmhearted youth would never forget this assistance.
When order had been once more restored, Caedwalla gave directions to
have the funeral of Edilwalch conducted with suitable splendour, and a
procession set out in the afternoon to carry the body to the stone
church that was now rising in Selsea under the direction and from the
plans of Wilfrid, whose taste for building had already been exhibited in
the churches of Hexham and Ripon.
*CHAPTER VI.*
*EXTREMES MEET.*
A few days after the events narrated in the last chapter, Ceolwulf, or,
as AEdric and Wulfstan loved to call him, Biggun, having obtained leave
from Caedwalla, with whom he had become a great favourite, to return to
look after his young "eorls," was engaged in overhauling the boat that
had brought them to Boseham, and which had been the means of introducing
them to such stirring events.
With the inhabitants of the little settlement, Ceolwulf had become an
important personage. Caedwalla had for some time rendered his name
respected; for being at the head of a formidable band of outlaws, all
intrepid and well-disciplined men, accustomed to act together, and sure
to revenge an injury suffered by any one of their number, the population
on each side of the Andredesweald were very careful not to give any
cause for offence to so troublesome an enemy. Caedwalla, with the true
policy of all outlawed aspirants to regal dignity in semi-organised
societies, had carefully directed his followers to molest only the
immediate adherents of Edilwalch or Centwine, and as far as possible to
treat the other inhabitants bordering on the forest with courtesy. Any
man, therefore, who was in favour with Caedwalla was sure of a certain
amount of respect from the people in the immediate vicinity of the
Andredesweald.
The reputation which Ceolwulf had won on the night of the surprise of
Cissanceaster had already spread round the district, and the poor
thralls of Boseham, as well as the few ceorls or yeomen of the
neighbourhood, were eager to stand well with one who was likely to be
influential when Caedwalla established his power more firmly.
Beornwulf's wound was nearly healed, but he was still somewhat sullen
with Ceolwulf, and had not entirely given up the idea of taking revenge
on him when he was quite strong again. The conversation of the worthy
monks was not at all interesting to him, and, except when they went out
fishing, or told him stories from the Old Testament of the fights of the
Israelites and the Canaanites, life was very dull; and he was all the
more disgusted with Ceolwulf because it was owing to him that he had
been deprived of his share in the booty and the glory of the night
attack upon Cissanceaster, and he was now for the twentieth time
grumbling over this grievance. However, there was a novelty about a
boat that caused him to forget his wrongs for a short time. Born in the
neighbourhood of Deorham[1], he had never seen the sea, excepting a
distant glimpse of the Bristol Channel, until, joining the band of
discontented and landless men under Caedwalla, he had made occasional
visits to the seashore near Selsea, or to the land of the Meanwaras.
Curiously enough, the art of boat or shipbuilding appears to have fallen
into disuse very soon after the arrival of the first Angle and Saxon
invaders, arising, no doubt, from the fact that, as they had plenty to
do in conquering the Britons, the sons of the first conquerors never
learnt how to build boats, and very rapidly changed from a seafaring to
a partly agricultural, partly warlike people. One great merit of the
early monks was that they did all they could to improve the condition of
the people. They taught them gardening, building, fishing, and
agriculture, as well as imbuing them with the softening and intellectual
light of the Gospel, and by their gentle ways and purity of life they
shed a halo of refinement round them, whose brightness, from the
contrast it afforded with that dark and gross age, can scarcely be too
highly estimated.
[1] Now Derham, in Gloucestershire, where Ceawlin, the west Saxon king,
slew three British princes, "Commeail, Condidan and Fariemeiol."
"Biggun, why dost thou put so many places for oars?" asked Wulfstan.
"Because she's a heavy boat to row."
"Art thou going out in her then? And if thou art, who are going with
thee?"
"Maybe I am and maybe I am not, Wulf."
"Thou never wilt go without my going too, Biggun?"
"That is as may be," cautiously replied old Ceolwulf.
"Why, Biggun, what's the matter with thee this morning? Thou'rt as
difficult to make out as old Mother Deva was on a washing morning. Ah!
I should like to see old Deva again. What thinkest thou has become of
her?"
"That I cannot say; but I don't suppose that Arwald would do her any
harm--leastways if she kept a civil tongue in her head. No, not that
way, Beornwulf, thou art fixing that "knee" the wrong way up, seest
thou?" added Ceolwulf, testily, as Beornwulf, who really was not to
blame, seeing he had never seen a boat before this one in his life, was
fixing a three-cornered piece of wood which was intended to strengthen
the gunwale, or side of the boat, by being nailed both to it, and also
to the thwart or seat. Not understanding the object of it, he was about
to nail it on flat with the seat instead of on end and edgeways.
Brother Corman was assisting also, and gave a very intelligent hand and
eye to the work.
AEdric was lying on the bank above, stretched on a board covered with a
wolf skin, and brother Malachi and Father Dicoll were looking on; as
usual, a few children were playing around, and one or two untidy-looking
women were sitting at the doors of their cottages spinning flax and
talking gossip. The tide was nearly low, and a flock of oxy birds were
settled on the mud-banks, occasionally rising and wheeling round in
flickering flight, uttering their shrill cry, only to settle a few yards
farther on; while a solemn heron sat motionless on the edge of the
water, and from time to time stretched out its long neck and dipped its
beak in the sludge; some wild ducks were skimming the surface of the
glassy water, and the distant cry of the curlew and the bittern dreamily
piped across the creek.
At times a dull and heavy thud, followed by a distant roar, boomed upon
the silence as the ground swell of the sea outside rolled upon the
shallow beach telling of some far-off storm away down channel.
In that sequestered nook and sheltered creek all was still save for the
birds and the children, the chatter of the women, or the occasional
remarks of the men.
It was a lovely autumn day, and the warmth of the sun was considerable
on that southerly sloping bank. The golden shadows of the oak trees were
mirrored in the glass-like water, and the distorted shadow of the heron
came wavering across the channel in the eddies caused by its own beak.
No sound could be heard from the far-reaching forest behind. There all
was silent, mysterious, and profound.
There is no mystery so profound as the depth of a vast forest. The
occasional rustle of a leaf flickering to the ground, the absolute
silence, the dim glories of the misty blue vistas, athwart which a ray
of sunlight falls upon some gnarled and twisted branch. That which is
seen as well as that which is not seen alike serve to enhance the awe.
"There is one thing the Saxons can't do," said brother Corman, as he
neatly fitted a new plank into the bilge of the boat, which had become
leaky and was cracked from her heavy bumping on the Pole sand at the
entrance to the harbour.
"What's that?" said Beornwulf.
"Why, they can't make those light fishing boats which the Wealas, as
thou callest them, make. What sayest thou to a boat that one can fish
from with ease, then paddle ashore, and on getting out can put upon
one's back and carry home?"
"Oh, I wish I had a boat like that!" cried Wulfstan; "how are they made
so light? What are they made of?"
"Thou couldest make one if thou mindest to, Wulf; only patience is
needful."
"Could I? Dost really think I could? Then I could go out fishing
without asking any one!" cried Wulfstan, delighted, who already in his
imagination saw endless lines of fish coming ashore. "When shall we
make it, Corman?"
"The first thing to do is to cut down a great many withies, then wattle
them into the form of a large basket, and then thou must get a large
skin, dress it well with fat, and stretch it all over the basket-work.
Thou must make the basket rather longer than it is wide, and more
pointed at one end. Then put a stick across the middle, and thou canst
either sit in the bottom of the boat and lean back against this stick,
or thou mayst sit upon the stick itself; and then if thou needst to
carry the boat, thou must put thy head inside the basket, between the
stick and the inside, and rest the stick against the chest. In this way
it can be carried some distance without feeling much weight."
"That does sound well; let's begin making it at once; there are some
withy trees, come along, Corman," cried Wulfstan, rushing off.
But brother Corman shouted after him that he had plenty to do, and when
he had cut as many of the longest withies as he could carry, he had
better come back with them and then go and get some more. However,
several of the children of the village, with whom Wulfstan had become a
great favourite, rushed off after him, and a great cutting down of
withies instantly took place.
AEdric, who was watching all the proceedings with an amused and
interested eye, uttered a sigh of regret that he could not go with the
others, whose merry babble harmonised with the still melody of the other
peaceful sounds. AEdric had been learning a good many things during the
many hours he lay upon his couch; the kind monks seldom left him alone,
unless he were asleep, and he was gradually beginning to understand the
beauty of a life that cared nothing for itself, but gave up its whole
existence for others.
He was a very affectionate boy, and as he thought over his lost home,
and his noble father, almost certainly killed, he could not help crying
sadly to himself. If Father Dicoll were by at such times, or came in
while the sad fit was on, he would lead the conversation to the
delightful assurance of ever-lasting life which those who believed on
our Saviour had to console them. And as he talked on these solemn but
comforting subjects, AEdric would listen with wondering curiosity, and
gradually feel comforted in spite of himself.
"And after all," the worthy monk would say, "what are affections? If we
loved our Lord as He loved us, our whole thoughts would be so full of
Him, and the desire to do His work, that we should have no room to think
of earthly affections, or earthly sufferings."
"Must not I then love my father, or my brother? My mother died before I
could remember her, so I could not love her, thou knowest; but I liked
old Deva, when she was not cross, which, by the way, she was often
enough."
"Certainly, my son, thou shouldest love thy relations; and, indeed, it
is difficult enough not to do so," added Father Dicoll, with a sigh, as
he thought of his own father and mother, away in the lovely, sunny home,
near the beautiful Vale of Avoca, where he had been brought up; and the
bright eyes, and winsome smile of his sister. "But what I mean is, we
should attain to the heavenly calm which allows us to love all mankind
as brothers in the Lord, being sons of God, and heirs of the kingdom of
heaven. Sorrowing when our nearest and dearest go, or we go from them;
but not sorrowing overmuch, for we know it is but a little time and we
shall be with them. Some day I will tell thee the story of my own life,
and thou wilt then see how hard it is to die to the world when once thou
hast known its evil passions and wild affections. But, thanks be to the
Lord who giveth us the victory, even these are overcome by prayer and
fasting, and that faith without which all else is profitless.
"Who knows, my son, but that the Almighty, in His mercy, has so ordered
matters that thine accident was sent that thou mightest be plucked as a
brand from the burning, and in thy boyhood might turn to Him, and, like
the blessed Timothy, 'follow after righteousness, godliness, faith,
love, patience, meekness,' and being led by the Spirit to this
wilderness, that thou mightest learn to 'flee youthful lusts which war
against the soul.' Does the life of one who from youth devotes himself
to the Lord seem to thee, with thy roving northern instincts, devoid of
adventure? Many, far too many for thy weak strength, are the dangers
thou wilt have to encounter. Dost thou enjoy the wild pleasure of a
fierce wolf hunt? The devil goeth about as a roaring lion, seeking whom
he may devour. Attack and kill him if thou canst. Wishest thou for
weapons in the combat? The King we serve will give thee the best, and
such as have never been known to fail; there is the sword of the Spirit,
which is the word of God, the shield of Faith, the helmet of Salvation,
and the hawberk of Righteousness. Dost thou wish for a reward for thy
toilsome fight? When the day's work is over, and thou art wearied with
thy strife, a clarion call will sound, and thou wilt hear a gentle Voice
say, 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy
of thy Lord.' 'Be thou faithful unto death, and thou shalt receive the
crown of life.'"
AEdric used to listen, charmed by the flow of words, as well as by the
earnestness of the speaker; for, after all, earnestness and manifest
conviction go far more to persuade than many subtle arguments that
appeal merely to reason, and are delivered only as the cold syllogisms
of a faultless logic. Instinctively the youngest intelligence that
deserves such a name feels there is so much that can never be explained,
that facts which would stagger a mind accustomed to approach all
subjects from the standpoint of human reason are accepted without demur,
just as they know the sun gives heat and the countless stars are hung in
the firmament; but who can explain the one or know anything about the
other?
AEdric loved to hear the wonderful stories out of the Bible, all quite
new to him: the glimpses he got of other lands; the marvellous deeds of
Samson, of David, and of Gideon; the magnificence of Solomon; the weird
awfulness of the wonders of the Red Sea, and that strange land of
Ham--all came to him with the interest of novelty, and many times he
could not understand what the monks were telling him.
It took him a long time to grasp the beauty of such a sacrifice as that
of our Lord; the voluntary offering of Himself to such keen physical and
mental suffering for the sake of those who in countless numbers would
reject Him, astonished him. He could understand that no man hath
greater love than to lay down his life for his _friend_; but it was
incomprehensible that he should do so for an _enemy_.
But gradually, as the beauty of forgiveness dawned upon him, he came to
see that if one really forgives, there comes with the sense of
forgiveness a desire to benefit the forgiven one, and, the crowning
triumph of all, to make him feel one in thought and action with Him who
forgives. Slowly but surely the "Beauty of Holiness" was entering his
soul; and as the monk talked to him of the objects and duties of life,
and of how little worth was earthly wealth or station, or pleasure,
compared to the eternity of existence, and the necessity of our fitting
ourselves for it, AEdric, with the ardour of youthful impressions,
longed to consecrate his life to God, and to renounce the world, the
flesh, and the devil, in the only really earnest way that seemed
possible to the most religious minds of that age--by vowing himself
solemnly to God from his youth.
But Dicoll, to whom he one day timidly ventured to talk upon the
subject, very wisely told him he must first prove himself; he could not
tell yet whether the wish for a holy life were merely the passing
sentiment of an imaginative temperament, intensified by the physical
exhaustion of a serious wound and acted upon by the beauty of an
entirely new set of ideas; for there would be great danger to his
lasting happiness if, after solemnly dedicating himself to God, he was
then to cast longing looks at the world and sigh after its pleasures and
its vanities.
[Illustration: How they talked of many things as they mended a boat at
Boseham]
Such thoughts as these were passing through AEdric's mind as he lay on
the wolf-skin and watched the boat being mended, or listened to Wulfstan
as he chattered to the children, who were helping him carry the cut
withies to a place near brother Corman, who was going to show him how to
make his boat, or coracle as he called it.
Corman was improving the occasion, as he helped Ceolwulf and Beornwulf
to mend the boat, by telling them the story of the making of the ark, in
which his hearers were much interested.
"Why, that reminds me of what our gleeman used to tell us of Bergelmir
the giant, who, when the sons of Bor slew Ymir, and his blood drowned
all the race of Frost Giants, went on board his boat with his wife, and
so floated away when everyone else was drowned," said Ceolwulf; "but I
have heard of two larger boats than that. One was Skidbladnir, which
was built for the gods by the dwarfs, the sons of Ivaldi, and it was so
big that it could take all of them on board at once with their war
stores and weapons; and it was a very useful boat, for when it was not
wanted, Frey, for whom it was made, could fold it up like a piece of
cloth and put it in her pocket."
"That must have been a wonderful boat, truly," said Beornwulf, "and must
have had many spells and enchantments used over her, doubtless. But
what was the other boat thou saidest thou knewest of that was larger
than Bergelmir's!"
"I can't say I know much about that boat, but they call it Naglfar, and
it is made of dead men's nails; and thus if men's nails are short when
they die, the ship will take a long time to be finished, and so I was
told we always ought to keep our nails short, for we cannot tell when we
may die."
"And that's true enough, Ceolwulf," said Corman, "and the sooner thou
ceasest to believe all those old wives' tales the better thou wilt be.
'Cease to do evil, learn to do good;' make preparation with the heart
for the hour that all must pass through, and think not of the body,
excepting in so far as it may be presented faultless before its Maker,
which could never be by our means," added brother Corman.
At this moment Wulfstan ran up with a large bundle of withies, saying,
"See here, brother Corman, we have surely got enough now, haven't we?"
"Well, yes, I think thou hast, to make a beginning with, anyhow. Thou
must have a great deal of patience, or else success will not come. Now
lay the longest and stoutest withies on the ground, at about a hand's
breadth apart. That's right. A little closer those on the left; you
have not got the spaces quite regular. Now peg them all down on the
ground in the middle. Aye, that will do. But, Beate Columba! whatever
is that noise about?" broke off Corman in astonishment, as a distant
roar of men's voices, mingled with the clash of metal, was borne over
the forest from the direction of Cissanceaster.
All stopped to listen. The noise and tumult went on for some minutes,
and then gradually died away.
"_Quare fremuerunt gentes!_" murmured Father Dicoll.
"What thinkest thou it is, Ceolwulf?" asked Wulfstan.
"That I can't say, rightly speaking, but I should say that there was
something going on," oracularly replied Biggun. "But, anyhow, we had
better get on with this boat; so, Beornwulf, just help me to lift her a
bit more over on her bilge, and then I can drive in these plugs a bit
better. There, that will do."
"Look!" said AEdric, "there's brother Malachi coming round the point. I
wonder if he's caught many fish?"
"He doesn't come very fast," said Wulfstan.
"How can three logs pushed by a monk get along fast?" said Biggun
contemptuously, who, ever since the first time of their meeting, had
formed a very poor opinion of brother Malachi. He did not think much of
any of the monks, whom he regarded as poor-spirited fellows. He thought
Corman had the makings of a good sort of man in him, for he seemed to
know a few practical things, but Malachi he looked upon as not being
"all there," he appeared so dreamy and abstracted.
However, brother Malachi approached, slowly but surely carried by the
tide, which was now rising rapidly. A few fish could be seen lying on
the board in front of him, which caused Beornwulf to take much more
interest in him.