at last. And one of his men waded carefully into the water. He got on
very well for a few steps, when suddenly he gave a plunge and
disappeared, but reappeared again in a few moments a little lower down.
Being a good swimmer he soon got out, but in a very dismal condition,
for he had to land by the muddy banks of the Yare, which the rapidly
falling tide was leaving bare. He had slipped off the gravelly bottom
of the ford, not knowing that it turned at an angle in the middle of the
stream.
"Here, blockhead!" cried Arwald, who was getting more and more savage at
the delay, "try again, and feel the bottom with the end of thy spear."
The man did as he was told, and this time he got across, after carefully
feeling the gravelly hard which formed the ford. He was then told to
cut down with his axe some withies, and stick them on the upper side of
the ford. When this was done, Arwald gave the order for all to cross.
As the leading men stepped into the water they were assailed by a
violent shower of stones, one or two of which took serious effect, for
one man lost an eye, and the others were cut about the face. Daunted by
this warm reception the men drew back, but were driven to advance again
by the fierce menaces of Arwald. The main body pressed hard upon them,
and they were urged on by the weight behind. All they could do,
therefore, was to put their shields up in front of their faces, and make
a rush for it. The effect of this blind advance was that many of the
men fell into the deeper part of the stream, and several were drowned,
while many more were severely cut about the face. They could not see
their stinging assailants, for the banks opposite were clothed with
thick bushes down to the water's edge.
When all the men had passed the ford, Arwald sent off a small party to
drive away the stone throwers, who hastily withdrew through the bushes,
without being caught. Wulfstan and Ceolwulf were with the boys, and all
of them knew the bye-paths through the gorse and scrub, so that they
were able to retire to the stockade unseen by the enemy.
Taught by bitter experience with what an active and enterprising foe he
had to deal, Arwald sent out an advanced guard, and also a party on
either flank, and thus effectually guarded himself from surprise. After
marching for about a mile, and meeting with not a sign of any human
being, Arwald began to get suspicious that all was not right.
"Where has this AElfhere betaken himself and his belongings? We may
march all night, and find nothing at this rate," was the universal
thought of the men, who were beginning to grow discontented at the
amount of marching required of them.
It was obvious they must capture some one who should act as guide, or
they would fare badly for that night. Wearily they trudged along
through the narrow track, and it was getting more and more risky,
penetrating such a bush with night coming on, and an active enemy near.
True, Arwald had every reason to believe that scarcely any men capable
of bearing arms were now left; for he knew how many had come from the
mainland, and he also knew about the numbers AElfhere could muster. Had
it not been for this knowledge, even he, headstrong and passionate as he
was, would scarcely have dared to go so far as he had done.
They had now come to a more open part of the wild land; it was a sort of
common, covered with furze and brambles, which, in most places, grew
very high and thick. The path lay through the middle of this, and the
common appeared, as far as could be seen, to extend for some distance
all round. Suddenly Arwald stopped and sniffed the air. The wind had
now nearly died away, the sun was setting, and there was that stillness
over nature which so sweetly harmonises with a lovely sunset. The light
air, which gently came from the north, brought a smell of smoke with it,
which caused Arwald to stop and look in that direction.
"The knaves are cooking over there," cried Arwald, his mouth watering as
the delicious smell of roasting meat reached his senses. "But they are
making a big fire for it," he added, as a great volume of smoke rose up
not far off. "Call in the other men. They may mean to attack us under
cover of this," he shouted.
The men came in, and all the force was drawn up ready to repel any
sudden onset. But no enemy appeared; all was as silent as the grave,
save that a sharp crackling could be heard all round, from the north to
the east side of the gorse-covered common. The common was on fire.
Volumes of smoke began to drive across their faces, the atmosphere was
stifling. Ahead of them they could see the whole common in a red blaze;
behind them the flames were bursting out. The dry gorse crackled and
blazed, and dense masses of smoke eddied round their faces. No one paid
any attention to Arwald's orders; all with one thought broke away and
tried to escape the blinding, smothering smoke. They rushed into the
gorse on their right, they tried wildly to run through it. Faster and
faster roared the flames, louder and louder crackled the gorse. The
smoke became thicker, hotter, more stifling than ever, and which way to
escape Arwald and his men, for the life of them, could not tell. The
gorse on their right was impenetrable, while everywhere else it was on
fire.
Of that well-armed, compact little band of some three hundred men,
scarcely two or three remained together. Blindly, madly, they rushed
through the tangled prickly bushes; numbers fell down; many fell into
the deep gullies which lay hid in the furze all over the common; and all
the while the fierce, glowing flames leaped, and crackled, and revelled
in their hot destruction. Swiftly the curling smoke swept over and
after the fugitives, suffocating the fallen ones; pursuing with its hot,
stifling breath, the frantic, scared Wihtwaras. Where could they fly?
The smoke was everywhere, and behind the smoke was the devouring fire.
The few men who preserved their presence of mind aimed for the corner of
the common that was nearest to the wind, and with great difficulty, and
many scratches, about a hundred managed to reach a place of safety on
the edge of the common under some old gnarled oaks; the flames rolled
away from this part and they were able to see the awful destruction of
many of their comrades. As the fierce fire swept on in its rapid
course, the charred and blackened limbs of the gorse curled and twisted
like a million tortured snakes, and the shrill squeaking of innumerable
agonised things filled the air. Here and there an awful figure writhed
and rolled on the ground, and a sharp, thin voice, shrieked tortured
cries. Some of these fearful forms rose up and ran madly a few paces,
gibbering horribly, and then fell in a column of sparks among the
smoking embers. Others sat, a shapeless heap, rocking to and fro,
moaning in unearthly sounds. The fatal element had done its ghastly
work. AElfhere's followers were well avenged.
"We must return to the ford," said Arwald, sullenly. "They shall dearly
pay for this."
Wearily the band retraced its steps, skirting the edge of the fire to
windward; and, without further attack, reached the ford, and found the
guard and the prisoners where they had left them. They then returned to
the homestead, and prepared to spend the night as well as they could.
*CHAPTER XIX.*
*"BE READY, CLAUDIO, FOR YOUR DEATH, TO-MORROW."*
The night was spent by the weary followers of Arwald in dismal plight.
They had scarcely any food, and now experienced all the hardships
Athelhune, Ceolwulf, and their party had suffered when they were cast
upon the island.
Some men had been sent to bring in food from the country behind AEscing
Down, and to hasten up reinforcements and more supplies from the west
end of the island. During the night many of the dispersed followers
came in; in fact, they kept dropping in throughout the night, so that,
when day broke, there was a large muster of men around the homestead;
but they were, many of them, wounded, burnt, and listless; all heart
seemed to have been taken out of them by the last awful event. In order
to stir them out of their lethargy, Arwald determined to have the
prisoners put to death. This was not only a matter of policy, but he
was longing to gratify his revenge and cruelty.
Some small amount of provisions having been brought in at early dawn,
they were distributed as far as they would go, many of the men having
made a hearty meal off the slaughtered horses which were lying where
they fell in yesterday's conflict.
At eight o'clock, all the men, who now numbered about two hundred and
fifty, were drawn up in the large yard of the homestead, the remainder
of the force having been either killed, placed _hors de combat_ by their
wounds, or been lost among the wild country on the other side of the
Yare, while some few had deserted.
The prisoners were seated on a few logs of trees that had been rolled
into the centre. Each man was placed some feet apart from his
neighbours, and in his long hair was twisted a couple of tough withies,
long enough for a man to hold the head steady from behind. All the men
were bare-headed, stripped to the waist, and tied together. Only the
chief prisoners were arranged in this way first; the common men were
guarded in a crowd in a space separated from the spectators, but in full
view of the ghastly proceedings.
On the right of the prisoners sat Beornwulf, next him were three of
AElfhere's chief ceorls, then came Athelhune, and next him one of the
followers of Wulf the Atheling. Outside of these sat two South Saxons.
Athelhune had suffered terrible pain from his broken leg, for no
attention whatever had been paid him, and he had been roughly carried
along with the other prisoners; but he still held up his head bravely,
and smiled contemptuously at the preparations for his death. The old
Teutonic spirit was strong in him, and he remembered how heroes had met
their death. Although deadly pale from the sharp pain of his maimed
leg, his eye was bright, and his bearing fearless. All the men
preserved the most absolute composure, and did credit to the training of
their race. Not a sigh or a regret seemed to announce their reluctance
to leave this life; on the contrary, if there were any expression but
absolute indifference to the whole proceedings, it was one of pleasure
at the thought of so soon enjoying the delights of Valhalla.
The withies entwined in their hair were intended to be held by the
thralls or slaves, who accompanied Arwald's force, so that the heads of
the victims should not twitch, or avoid the stroke of the executioner's
axe, and were long enough to allow the holders to be at a safe distance
from the blow. Behind each man stood a thrall holding the withies, and
these men were laughing and joking together.
When all was ready, Arwald and his chief eorldomen came out of the
homestead, and seated themselves on settles placed directly opposite the
victims. The Wihtwara chieftain was in high good humour: he had had an
excellent breakfast, as far as quantity went, and had washed down his
food with copious draughts of ale; for, however much his followers might
suffer, he had no intention of being uncomfortable. He came out,
therefore, with a hearty, loud laugh, as he cracked some coarse joke
with one of his eorls, and took up his seat, lolling his large fat body
in the most comfortable position he could. His little black eyes
twinkled with cruel pleasure, and his puffy red face showed amid his
large dark whiskers, beard, and hair, like a furnace against the black
night. He wore his mail-linked shirt and his battered helmet, off which
the heron's wings were shorn. His huge axe hung over his shoulder, but
in his hand he held his hunting-knife, with which he played from time to
time.
The executioner was a powerful, coarse-looking ceorl, with bare arms and
legs, and holding a formidable axe, to whose edge he was giving a
finishing touch with a sharpening stone.
The people were now all ready for the spectacle, and the interest was
very great; but the disappointment was universal, for the victims were
not apparently going to give them any sport by their cries and
lamentations.
"Is all ready?" said Arwald carelessly.
"All is ready, eorldoman," said the executioner.
"Then begin, in Woden's name," answered the chieftain, and settled
himself more comfortably for the better enjoyment of the tragedy.
The executioner advanced to the man seated on the log nearest to the
left, looked at him, poised his axe, measured his distance, nodded to
the thrall to hold the withy tight, planted his feet firmly on the
ground, swung the axe swiftly through the air, and the man's head fell
at some few paces from the body, which fell forward to the ground. The
blow had been dealt so truly and well that the whole thing passed like
an ordinary occurrence, and one could hardly realise that a man had just
suffered a violent death. No sound had broken the silence of
expectancy, only the whizz of the gleaming axe, and the dull thud of the
head as it fell on the ground, interrupted the silence.
"Was that well done, eorldoman?" asked the executioner, turning to
Arwald.
"Nothing could have been better," nodded the chieftain; "if thou doest
thy work like that I will say thou art the best headsman in England."
"I hope thou wilt do something better than that," promptly replied the
executioner. Arwald grunted an ambiguous reply, and bid him go on with
the next man.
The executioner then stepped up to the next man and went through the
ghastly preliminaries as before, performing the business as deftly as he
had previously done, only the withies which were twisted into this man's
hair were jerked out of the hands of the thrall, who was holding them,
and struck the next thrall a stinging blow in the face, which caused him
to cry out, and made all the spectators laugh.
Arwald was put into an extra good humour by this event, and he felt
inclined for a little playful conversation with the victims. So
addressing the West Saxon who was to be executed next, he asked him what
he thought of the death he was so soon to suffer.
"We must all die some day, and as I am tired of looking at thy fat
carcase, the sooner I can get away the better," answered the West Saxon
contemptuously. The nearest bystanders, who had heard the remark, began
to laugh, and Arwald became angry.
"What art thou waiting for, man?" he said to the executioner. "Let him
have his wish at once," and the man's head fell with the others.
It was now Athelhune's turn, and Arwald, deceived by his exceeding
pallor, hoped to obtain some sign of weakness from him, and asked him
whether death did not look very dreadful.
"Not so unpleasant as thou dost," was the answer; "but before I die I
would like to have a question settled."
"What is it?" said Arwald.
"We have often talked about death, and whether a man has any feeling
after his head is off," said Athelhune. "Now, give me a knife. If I
feel anything after my head is off, I will throw the knife at thee; if
it falls to the ground, it will prove I have no feeling. Now strike,
and see what will happen."
Arwald laughed, and bid a knife be given him. The executioner
approached. Athelhune held up his hand with the knife pointed at
Arwald. The executioner slowly measured his distance. Flash went the
axe, and at the same moment the knife flew from Athelhune's hand and
pierced Arwald's burly leg, causing that stout warrior to utter a yell
of pain; but Athelhune's head was on the ground, and no man could say
whether he had hurled the knife while his head was still on his
shoulders or no. The knife still quivered in Arwald's flesh, as the
headless body fell heavily to the ground, and the brave West Saxon
eorldoman was numbered with his fathers; glad enough to be away from the
pain and anguish he had been suffering from his broken leg, which now,
owing to the want of care and cruel treatment he had suffered, was
rapidly growing black, and had swollen to a great size. He knew he
never could be of any use again, and had longed for death to relieve him
for some hours past.
The brave warrior died true to the instincts and noblest teaching of his
race and ancestors. A faithful, devoted friend, a recklessly brave man,
and a skilful chief, he came on this expedition, well knowing the
desperate nature of the enterprise, without a thought which could
reflect upon his friend and king Caedwalla; his king wished him to go,
that was enough for him. It was not his business to question or discuss
the reasonableness of the wish; such an idea never crossed his mind; it
could not occur to him. His sense of duty to his chief was comprised in
those lines that so beautifully describe the whole duty of a
soldier:--His "not to make reply," his "not to reason why," his "but to
do and die." And this idea of a soldier's duty he carried out in its
entirety, both towards his king and chief Caedwalla, as well as towards
those who served under him, all of whom he tried to impress with the
same spirit of noble discipline and self-sacrifice. He died
contentedly, nay, happily; he had done all he could. If he had not
succeeded, that was no affair of his; were there not the Norns or Fates,
who ruled the affairs of men? And oftentimes, he knew, even in his own
experience, what looked like failure was only the seed of success. Did
not men put seed into the ground, and did not the seed disappear? Who
could have told that that lost seed would come out of that dry, lumpy
ground, green corn good for the food of man? The doing of one's duty,
even if it ended in failure, was the sowing of good seed, it must bear
fruit, only it might take a longer time, as some seeds took more time
than others to come up. With the noble simplicity of his character, he
also accepted implicitly the creed of his ancestors. Surely there was a
place of reward for honest men, who struggled to live and die full of
that virtue, that [Greek: andreia], that manfulness, which all men in
all ages, and of all races, have known to be the essence of a good life.
Full of this hope, he rejoiced at his departure to the new life,
grateful too that the last few hours of pain had made the longed-for
moment all the greater relief.
There was a great shout of triumph from the prisoners when they saw the
knife flying from Athelhune's hand straight for Arwald, and the
disappointment was great when it was seen that the wound was not in any
way dangerous, although the knife had plunged deep into the fleshy part
of the leg and caused the ruler of the Wihtwaras considerable pain as it
was drawn out. However, a bandage soon stopped the bleeding, and Arwald
called to the executioner to go on with his work, more irritable now
than ever.
The courage of the previous victims re-acted upon those whose turn was
now coming, and when the executioner stepped up to the next man, and was
preparing to strike him sideways, like the others, the man called out to
him to strike the blow in front.
"Many is the time I have looked death in the face without blenching, and
thou shalt see now if I flinch or no."
The executioner took him at his word; he placed the edge of the axe
against the man's neck under his chin. Took up the proper distance,
planted his feet firmly on the ground, told the man to raise his head a
little higher, swung the axe swiftly back and then struck with a swish
through the air forwards, and the headless trunk rolled over on the
ground, while the head dropped at the feet of the thrall who held the
withy. The bystanders could see no change of expression as the axe
gleamed in the act of striking, not a twitch of an eyebrow, or quiver of
an eyelid told that the man dreaded the blow.
"Well sped, brave soul," cried the spectators, whose interest was
growing deeper as each victim met his end so nobly. Five men had now
died, there remained but three more on the log, of whom Beornwulf was
the last. Beornwulf was getting weary of sitting so long, and he was
irritated with the thrall who held the withy entwined in his hair, which
was remarkably long and bushy, and of which Beornwulf was very proud.
The thrall twitched his head every time an execution took place, not
intentionally, but because he kept twisting round to get a good look at
the performance, while Beornwulf also wished to see how each man met his
death, with the result that his neck was now very stiff, and he himself
was in an impatient, irritable, frame of mind. He did not care what
became of him; he knew he would die in a few minutes, but none the less,
or rather because of that certainty, he wished to excite Arwald before
he died.
"Hi! old Wolf's head," he shouted, "thou mountain of flesh, thou!
Arwald, or whatever thy name is; how long am I to sit here and have my
head twisted off my shoulders by this lubberly thrall? Send that
head-cutting knave down this way, and let me get away from here."
As Arwald paid no attention, Beornwulf began again.
"I say, thou round knave, thou, dost thou not hear?" and he proceeded to
string together a collection of epithets considerably more apposite than
elegant, which so enraged Arwald that to stop his abuse he told the
executioner to go to him next, but Beornwulf had one more idea. He
called out--
"By Woden's beard, I am not going to have my fair hair touched by a base
knave; let one of thy eorls come here and hold my hair."
He had beautiful curly, long, fair hair, and took great care of it; and
since great respect was paid to appearance even in those rough times,
and the hair, curiously enough, in all savage tribes and races, is
always the object of great solicitude, although no other attention is
paid to the person, he was allowed to have his wish. One of the eorls
sitting by Arwald said he would do as the merry knave wanted, and
stepped up to Beornwulf. He took his position behind him, grasping
firmly the thick, bushy, curly locks. The other two prisoners moved a
little more to the left, so as to allow room for the executioner to have
full play for his axe; and the headsman prepared to perform his horrid
office. Beornwulf watched him very steadily, the proper distance was
measured, the executioner told him to sit very steady. "For," he said,
"thou art a fine young man, and I would be sorry to spoil thy beauty;"
to which Beornwulf replied, "Thank thee, poor knave; but it would take a
good deal to spoil thine." Which retort so enraged the executioner, who
was a snub-nosed, blear-eyed, red-haired man, and therefore felt the
truth of the remark, that he swung back his axe, poised it, and then
struck with all his force. There was a sharp cutting sound, a shrill
cry, and a shout of astonishment from the crowd, while a loud mocking
laugh rang out from--whom? Could it be the dead man? The crowd
strained to look. There was no doubt about it. There was Beornwulf
roaring with laughter; but instead of his head being on the ground, it
was still on his shoulders; but something was on the ground. What was
it? The crowd looked at the eorl. What was the matter with him? He
was holding up his arms. But what had happened to them? _Where were
his hands_? And then the trick dawned upon every one. And there were
loud shouts of applause at Beornwulf's cleverness, for this was just
such a joke as those rude, barbarous men could understand; and they
shouted and screamed, and roared with laughter.
"Why, Loki, the mischief lover, was nothing to him." "Let him go free."
"He ought to live," were heard on all sides. And even Arwald laughed,
so that the tears ran down his face as the splendid joke dawned upon
him.
And this is what had happened. When the executioner struck his stroke,
Beornwulf, who had been carefully watching him, ducked his head with all
his might, and with a sudden jerk. The eorl, whose hands were firmly
twisted in his luxuriant hair, was naturally pulled down; the
executioner could not stop his blow, even if he had had time to notice
the stratagem, and the wretched eorl received the full force of the
sweeping cut, with the result that both his hands were shorn off at the
wrists.[1]
[1] The greater part of the above account of these executions is taken
from Mallet's "Northern Antiquities," where the execution of the
Jomsberg Rovers is extracted from various Scandinavian sources. I have
inserted them here to give a really true picture of the wild, fierce,
brave manners of that rude epoch. The episode of the Jomsberg Rovers is
more than 200 years subsequent to the events here narrated.