ELFRIC AND ALFRED.
Early in the morning our travellers arose and took their way through an
open country which abounded with British and Roman remains; no fewer
than three entrenched camps, once fortifying the frontier of the
Dobuni, lying within sight or hard by the road, which, skirting the
summit of the watershed between the Thames and the Avon, afforded
magnificent views.
About an hour after starting they came upon a singular monument of
Druidical times, consisting of sixty huge stones arranged in a circular
form, with an entrance at the northeast, while a single rock or large
stone, the largest of all, stood apart from the circle, as if looking
down into the valley beneath.xix
“What can be the origin of this circle?” said Alfred.
“It belongs to the old days of heathenesse; before the Welsh were
conquered by the Romans, perhaps before our Blessed Lord came into the
world, these stones were placed as you now see them,” replied Father
Cuthbert.
“What purpose could they serve?”
“For their devil worship, I suppose; you see those five stones which
stand at some little distance?”
“They are the Five Whispering Knights,” said Oswy.
“They are the remains of a cromlech or altar whereon they offered their
sons and daughters unto devils, and shed innocent blood, wherefore the
Lord brought the Romans upon them.”
“But the Romans were idolatrous, too.”
“Yet their religion was milder than the one it superseded. Jupiter
required no human sacrifices; and even otherwise, God has said that the
wicked man is often His sword to avenge Him of His adversaries.”
“Oswy looks as if he had a tale to tell.”
“Speak out, Oswy, and let us all hear,” said the good father.
“Well, then,” said Oswy, “these were not once stones at all, but living
men—a king, five knights, and sixty soldiers—who came to take Long
Compton, the town down there, in the valley; but it so happened that a
great enchanter dwelt there, and being out that morning he saw them
coming, muttered his spells, and while the king —that stone yonder—was
in front looking down on his prey, the five knights all whispering
together, and the sixty soldiers behind in a circle, they were all
suddenly changed into stone.”
They all laughed heartily at this, and leaving the Rholdrwyg Stones,
turned aside to the hospitable hall where they ought to have spent the
previous night. So delighted was the Thane of Rholdrwyg or Rollrich to
receive his guests that he detained them almost by force all that day,
and it was only on the morrow that he permitted them to continue their
journey.
They joined the Foss Way again after a few miles at Stow on the Wold;
the road was so good that they succeeded in reaching Cirencester, the
ancient Corinium, that night, a distance of nearly thirty miles. Here
they found a considerable population, for the town had been one of
great importance, and was still one of the chief cities of southern
Mercia, full of the remains of her departed Roman greatness, with
shattered column and shapely arch yet diversifying the thatched hovels
of the Mercians.
Two more days brought them to Bath, but the old Roman city had been
utterly destroyed, and long subsequently the English town had been
founded upon its site, so that there seemed no identity between Bath
and Aqua Solis, such as prevailed between Cirencester and Corinium.
One day’s journey from Bath brought them at eventide within an easy day
of Glastonbury, so that they paused in their journey for the last time
at a well-known hostelry, chiefly occupied by pilgrims bound for
Glastonbury, for the morrow was a high festival, or rather the
commencement of one, and Dunstan was expected to conduct the ceremonies
in person.
So crowded was the hostelry that Alfred and his revered tutor could
only obtain a small chamber for their private accommodation, while
their servants were forced to content themselves with such share of the
straw of the outbuildings as they could obtain, in company with many
others.
It was still early when they stopped at the inn, for one of their
horses, which they had purchased by the way, had broken down so
completely that they could not well proceed, and they were about to
enter a dark and dangerous forest, full of ravenous bears and wolves,
which had already cast its shade upon their path.
But this was not an uncommon feature in English travelling of that
century, when there were no horses to be hired at the inns, and
travellers could only purchase the animals they needed (if there were
any to be sold); the forest, too, was reported to be the haunt of
freebooters, and men dared to affirm that they were encouraged by the
king to prey upon the fraternity at Glastonbury.
Still the dangers of the forest did not deter Alfred, who dearly loved
woodland scenery and sport, from strolling therein when their hasty
meal had been despatched, weary of the continuous objurgations and
smalltalk of the crowded inn.
He had wandered some distance, lost in thought, when all at once he
started in some surprise, for the spot on which he was seemed familiar
to him, although he had never been in Wessex before.
Yes, he certainly knew the glade, with the fine beech trees surrounding
it: where could he have seen it before? All at once he remembered his
dream in the ruined temple, and started to discover the secret
foreknowledge he had thus possessed.
He wandered up and down the glade till it became dusk, and then shook
off the thoughts to which he had been a prey, and started to return to
the inn, when, to his dismay, he found he had forgotten in which
direction it lay.
While seeking to find the path by which he had entered the glade, he
suddenly noticed a beaten track between two huge rocks, which seemed to
point in the direction he had come, and yet which he recognised as the
path he had been bidden to follow in his dream. He hesitated not, but
committed himself to it, while darkness seemed to increase each moment.
He was beginning to fear the dangers of a night in the woods, when he
was startled by a sound as of many low voices, and at the same moment
became conscious that a light was tinging with red the upper branches
of the trees at no little distance, as if proceeding from some fire,
hidden by the formation of the ground.
At first he thought that he was in the neighbourhood of outlaws, and
tried to retire, but, as in his dream, he felt so strong an impulse to
discover the party whom the woods concealed that he persevered.
Suddenly he stopped short, for he had come to the edge of a kind of
natural amphitheatre, a deep hollow in the earth, the sides of which
were covered with bushes and trees, while the area at the bottom might
perhaps have covered a hundred square yards, and was clothed with
verdant turf. Not one, but several fires were burning, and around them
were reclining small groups of armed men, while some were walking about
chatting with each other.
Alfred gazed in much surprise, for the party did not at all realise his
conception of a body of freebooters or robbers; they all seemed to wear
the same uniform, and to resemble each other in their accoutrements and
characteristics; they rather resembled, in short, a detachment of
regular forces than a body of men whom chance might have thrown
together, or the fortune of predatory war.
While he gazed upon them, two of their number, whose attire was rich
and costly, and who seemed to be of higher rank than the rest, perhaps
their officers, attracted his attention as they walked near the spot
where, clinging to a tree, he overlooked the encampment from above.
One of them was a tall, dark warrior, whose whole demeanour was that of
the professional soldier, whose dress was plain yet rich, and who might
easily be guessed to be the commander of the party. He was talking
earnestly, but in a subdued tone, to his younger companion, whom he
seemed to be labouring to convince of the propriety of some course of
action.
Alfred watched them eagerly; the form of the younger—for so he appeared
by his slender frame—seemed familiar to him, and when at last they
turned their faces and walked towards him, the light of a neighbouring
fire showed him the face of his brother Elfric.
“My dream!” he mentally exclaimed.
They were evidently talking about some very important subject, and it
was also evident that the objections of the younger, whatever they
might be, were becoming rapidly overruled, when, as chance, if it were
chance, would have it, they paused in their circuit of the little camp
just beneath the tree where Alfred was posted.
“You see,” said the elder, “that our course is clear, so definitely
clear that we have but to do our duty to the king, while we avenge a
thousand little insults we have ourselves received from this insolent
monk—such insults as warriors wash out with blood.”
“Yet he is a churchman, and it would be called utter sacrilege.”
“Sacrilege! is a churchman’s blood redder than that of layman, and is
he not doomed as a traitor by a judgment as righteous as ever English
law pronounced! did he not keep Edwy from his throne during the
lifetime of the usurper Edred!”
“That was the sentence of the Witan, and you served Edred.”
“I did not owe the allegiance of an Englishman to either, being of
foreign birth, and so was no traitor; as for the Witan, it is well
known Dunstan influenced their decision at the death of the royal
Edmund.”
“I never heard the assertion before.”
“You have many things still to learn; you are but young as yet. But let
it pass. Does not his conduct to Queen Elgiva merit death!”
“I think it does. But still not without sentence of law.”
“That sentence has been in fact pronounced, for in such cases as these,
where the subject is too powerful for the direct action of the law to
reach him, the decision of the king and council must pass for law, and
they have decided that Dunstan must die, and have left the execution of
the sentence—to us.”
He did not add that the council in question consisted of the giddy
young nobles who had surrounded Edwy from the first, aided by a few
hoary sinners whose lives of plunder and rapine had given them a
personal hatred of the Church.
Elfric heaved a sigh, and said:
“If so, I suppose I must obey; but I wish I had not been sent on the
expedition.”
“It is to test your loyalty.”
“Then it shall be proved. I have no personal motives of gratitude
towards Dunstan.”
“Rather the contrary.”
“Rather the contrary, as you say. But what sound was that? Surely
something stirred the bush!”
“A rabbit or a hare. You are becoming fanciful and timid. Well, you
will remember that tomorrow there must be no timidity, no yielding to
what some would call conscience, but wise men the scruples of
superstition. We shall not reach the monastery till dark, most of the
visitors will then have quitted it, and we shall take the old fox in a
trap.”
“You will not slay him in cold blood!”
“No. I shall bid him follow me to the king, and if he and his resist,
as probably they will, then their blood be on their own heads. But
surely—”
At that moment a large stone, which Alfred had most inopportunely
dislodged, rolled down the bank, and made Elfric, who was in its path,
leap aside. Alfred, whose foot had rested upon it, slipped, and for a
moment seemed in danger of following the stone, but he had happily time
to grasp the tree securely, and by its aid he drew himself back and
darted into the wood.
Luckily there was moonlight enough to guide him by the track he had
hitherto followed, and he ran forward, dreading nothing so much as to
fall into the hands of the friends of his brother, and trusting that he
might prevent the execution of the foul deed he had heard meditated. He
ran for a long distance before he paused, when he became aware that
pursuers were on his track. Luckily his life had been spent so much in
the open air that he was capable of great exertion, and could run well.
So he resumed his course, although he knew not where it would lead him,
and soon had the pleasure of feeling that he was distancing his
pursuers. Yet every time he ran over a piece of smooth turf he fancied
he could hear them in his rear, and it was with the greatest feeling of
relief that he suddenly emerged from the wood upon the Foss Way, and
saw the lights of the hostelry at no great distance below him.
His pursuers did not follow him farther, probably unwilling to betray
their presence to the neighbourhood, and perhaps utterly unconscious
that the intruder upon their peace was possessed of any dangerous
secrets, or other than some rustic woodman belated on his homeward way,
who would be unable in any degree to interfere with them or to guess
their designs.
But it was not till the ardour of his flight had abated, that Alfred
could fully realise that his unhappy brother was committed to a deed of
scandalous atrocity, and the discovery was hard for him to bear. The
strong impression which his dream had made upon him—an impression that
he was to be the means of saving his brother from some great sin—came
upon him now with greater force than ever, and was of great comfort.
The identity of the scenery he had seen in dreamland with the actual
scenery he had gone through, made him feel that he was under the
special guidance of Providence.
Returning to the inn he sought Father Cuthbert, and found him somewhat
uneasy at his long absence, and to him he communicated all that he had
seen and heard.
The good father was a man of sound sense but of much affection, and at
first he could not credit that the boy he had loved so well, Elfric of
Æscendune, should have grown to be the associate of murderers, for such
only could either he or Alfred style the agents of Edwy’s wrath.
But, once fully convinced, he was equal to the emergency.
“We will not start at once, we should but break down on the road, and
defeat our own object. We must rest quietly, and sleep soundly if
possible, and start with the earliest dawn. We shall reach Glastonbury
by midday, and be able to warn the holy abbot of his danger in good
time.”
So Alfred was forced to curb his impatience and to try to sleep
soundly. Father Cuthbert soon gave good assurance that he was asleep;
but the noisy manner in which the assurance was given banished sleep
from the eyelids of his anxious pupil. At length he yielded to
weariness both of mind and body, and the overwrought brain was still.
He was but little refreshed when he heard Father Cuthbert’s morning
salutation, “_Benedicamus Domino_,” and could hardly stammer out the
customary reply, “_Deo gratias_.”
Every one rose early in those days, and the timely departure of the
party from Æscendune excited no special comment. Hundreds of pilgrims
were on the road, and Alfred expressed his conviction that there would
be force enough at Glastonbury to protect Dunstan, to which Father
Cuthbert replied—“If he would accept such protection.”
On former days their journey had been frequently impeded by broken
bridges and dangerous fords; but as they drew near Glastonbury the
presence of a mighty civilising power became manifest. The fields were
well tilled, for the possessions for miles around the abbey were let to
tenant farmers by the monks, who had first reclaimed them from the
wilderness. The farm houses and the abodes of the poor were better
constructed, and the streams were all bridged over, while the old Roman
road was kept in tolerable repair.
A short distance before they reached the city, the pilgrims, who were a
space in advance of the party, came in sight of the towers of the
monastery, whereupon they all paused for one moment, and raised the
solemn strain then but recently composed—
I.
Founded on the Rock of Ages,
Salem, city of the blest,
Built of living stones most precious,
Vision of eternal rest,
Angel hands, in love attending,
Thee in bridal robes invest.
II.
Down from God all new descending
Thee our joyful eyes behold,
Like a bride adorned for spousals,
Decked with radiant wealth untold;
All thy streets and walls are fashioned,
All are bright with purest gold!
III.
Gates of pearl, for ever open,
Welcome there the loved, the lost;
Ransomed by their Saviour’s merits;
This the price their freedom cost:
City of eternal refuge,
Haven of the tempest-tost.
IV.
Fierce the blow, and firm the pressure,
Which hath polished thus each stone:
Well the Mastermind hath fitted
To his chosen place each one.
When the Architect takes reck’ning,
He will count the work His Own.
V.
Glory be to God, the Father;
Glory to th’ Eternal Son;
Glory to the Blessed Spirit:
One in Three, and Three in One.
Glory, honour, might, dominion,
While eternal ages run.
Amen. xx
The grand strains seemed to bring assurance of Divine aid to Alfred,
and he could but imitate Father Cuthbert, who lifted up his stentorian
voice and thundered out in chorus, as they drew near the pilgrims.
Here they left the Foss Way for the side road leading to the monastery,
now only a short distance from them.