EARTH TO EARTH, AND DUST TO DUST.
Although Edwy and his little troop had been successful in gaining the
main road, and in escaping into Wessex, yet few of his followers had
been so fortunate, and his broken forces were seeking safety and escape
in all directions, wanderers in a hostile country. A large number found
a refuge in the entrenched camp; but it was surrounded by the foe in
less than half-an-hour after the king’s escape, and all ingress or
egress was thenceforth impossible.
While one large body fled eastward towards the Watling Street, the
soldiers who had accompanied the king to Æscendune naturally turned
their thoughts in that direction. It was, as they had seen, capable of
a long defence—well provisioned, and already partly garrisoned; nor
could they doubt the joy with which their old companions would receive
them, either to share in the defence of the post, or to accompany them
in an honourable retreat southward.
So, not only those who survived of the fifty who had left Æscendune the
previous morning, but all whom they could persuade to join them,
actuated separately by the same considerations, made their way in small
detachments through the forest towards the hall. Redwald had thoroughly
earned the confidence of all his warriors, and they would follow him to
death or victory with equal devotion. Now, in adversity, they only
sought to put themselves once more under the rule of their talented and
daring chieftain.
Therefore it was that while Father Cuthbert was yet kneeling in the
chapel, where the body of the departed thane had been placed, the
devotions of the good priest were disturbed by the blowing of horns and
the loud shout whereby the first fugitives sought admittance into the
castle.
Redwald had also been up nearly all night pacing his room, muttering
incoherently to himself. Over and over again he regarded intently a
locket containing a solitary tress of grey hair, and once or twice the
word “Avenged” rose to his lips.
“And they little know,” said he, soliloquising, “who the avenger is, or
what have been his wrongs; little know they how the dead is represented
in the halls of his sire—blind! blind! Whichever way the victory
eventually turn, he is avenged.”
While he thus soliloquised he was aroused by the same noise which had
disturbed Father Cuthbert’s devotions, and, recognising its source,
betook himself to the gateway, where some of his own soldiers were on
guard, who, true to discipline, awaited his permission to allow their
comrades to enter: it is needless to say it was readily given.
Broken and dispirited was the little troop of ten or a dozen men, who
first appeared in this manner after the fight; their garments torn and
bloody, some of them wounded, they yet raised a shout of joy as they
saw their trusted leader.
“Whence come ye, my comrades in arms?” said he, “and what are your
news—you look like men who have fled from battle.”
“We did not fly till all was lost.”
The countenance of Redwald indicated some little emotion, though it was
transient as the lightning’s flash in the summer night.
“The king—is it well with him?”
“He has fled with a small troop to the south.”
“Saw you aught of Elfric of Æscendune?”
“He fell in the last charge of the cavalry.”
“Dead?”
“We think so.”
“How is it that you have suffered yourselves to be beaten?”
“Had you been there it might have ended differently. We became the
aggressors, and attacked a superior force, while they had all the
advantage of ground.”
“Come in. You must first have some food and wine; then you shall tell
me all. We may need your help here, and shall be glad of every
able-bodied man.”
“More are on the road.”
And so it proved, for party after party continued to fall in. The
solemn quiet, which so well befitted the house of mourning, was
banished by the presence of the soldiery in such large numbers, for
early in the day nearly a hundred and fifty were gathered together, and
accommodation threatened to fall short.
Under these circumstances the lady Edith became very anxious that
either the departure of her unwelcome guests should be hastened, or
that the loved remains should be removed at once to the priory church,
where she could bemoan her grief in quiet solitude, and be alone with
her beloved and God. There seemed no rest or peace possible in the
hall, and Redwald was apportioning all the accommodation to his
followers as they came, preserving only the private apartments of the
lady Edith from intrusion.
She was still expecting the arrival of Elfric, for Redwald had not
communicated the news he had received, and she did not even know that
King Edwy had been defeated; so absorbed was she in her grief, that she
did not note the thousand little circumstances which might have told
her as much.
But before the hour of terce, Alfred came into the room where she was
seated with her daughter, and she saw by his troubled countenance that
he had something to communicate which pained him to tell.
“Elfric!” she said—“he is well?”
“He has not come yet, my mother; and I grieve to say that we were
deceived yesterday—deceived about the battle.”
“How so?”
“The king was defeated; he has fled southward, and there has been a
great slaughter.”
“But Elfric?”
“No one can tell me anything about him,” said Alfred, wringing his
hands. “Mother, you must leave this place.”
“Leave our home—and now?”
“They talk of defending it against the forces of the Etheling Edgar,
who has been declared king; and we should all be in great danger.”
“But will they stay here against our will?”
“Yes; for they say their lives depend upon it, that the Mercians scour
all the country round about, that all the roads are now occupied and
guarded, so that they can only hope to defend this place until they can
make terms with the King of Mercia, as they call Edgar, who is likely
to be acknowledged by all north of the Thames. The curse of the Church
is, they say, upon Edwy.”
“Father Cuthbert is still here, is he not?—what does he advise? where
shall we go?”
“He says we can have the old house in which he, and the mass-thanes
xxix before him, lived while as yet the priory was incomplete or
unbuilt. It is very comfortable, and close to the church.”
“But to take him so soon from his home!”
“They will place him in God’s house, before the altar; there could not
be a better place where they or we could wish his dear remains to await
the last rites upon earth.”
At that moment Father Cuthbert entered the room unannounced.
“Pardon me, my revered lady,” he began; “but I grieve to say that your
safety demands instant action, and must excuse my intrusion; your life
and liberty are no longer safe here.”
“Life and liberty?”
“There is some foul plot to detain you all here, on pretence your
safety requires it. I have been this morning to Redwald, and he refuses
permission for any one to leave the place, asserting that thus only can
he assure your safety. Now, it is plain that if the place comes to be
besieged you would be far safer in the priory or the old priests’
house. Our own countrymen would not injure us.”
“He will not detain us by force?”
“I would not trust to that; but we must meet guile by guile. I have
pretended to be content on your behalf and he is just going to leave
the hall, with the greater part of his followers, to collect provisions
and cattle. I have told him that the Grange farm is well stocked; he
has caught the bait, and is going to superintend the work of spoliation
in person: far better, in the present need, that he should rob the
estate than that a hair of your head or of those of your children
should perish.”
“But why do you suspect him of evil?”
“I cannot tell you now. I have overheard dark, dark speeches. So soon
as he has gone, Alfred and I must summon all your own people who are in
the hall. We will then bring the body forth, and follow it ourselves;
as we shall outnumber those left behind I do not imagine they will
dare, in his absence, to interfere with our progress.”
“I will go at once,” said Alfred, “and summon the household.”
“No; you would be observed. I am older and perhaps a little more
discreet. Stay with your mother till all is ready.”
Alfred reluctantly obeyed, and Father Cuthbert went forth. So great was
their anxiety that it almost banished the power of prayer, save such
mental shafts as could be sent heavenward in each interval of thought.
At last Alfred, who was at the window, saw Redwald and his
followers—nearly a hundred in number—leave the castle and ride across
towards the forest in the direction of the farm in question. Another
moment and Father Cuthbert entered.
“Are you ready? If so, follow me.”
He took them by a private passage into the chapel, where four men
already stood by the bier, ready to head the procession, and thirty or
forty others were gathered in the chapel or about the door—their own
vassals, good and true. They all were armed.
Father Cuthbert ascended the wooden tower above the chapel, which
served as a bell cot. He looked from its windows; the party of Redwald
had disappeared behind the trees.
He came down and gave the signal. The sad procession started; they
descended the steps to the courtyard. Redwald had left some forty or
fifty men behind—men who had grown old in arms, and who, if they had
pleased, might perhaps have stopped the exit, but they were not
sufficiently in the confidence of their leader to take the initiative;
and the only man who was in his confidence, and whom he had charged to
see that no one departed, was fortunately at that moment in another
part of the building. The sentinel at the drawbridge was one of
Redwald’s troop. He menaced opposition, and refused to let the
drawbridge be peaceably lowered.
“Art thou a Christian?” said Father Cuthbert, coming forward in his
priestly attire, “and dost thou presume to interfere with a servant of
the Lord and to delay a funeral?”
“I must obey my orders.”
“Then I will excommunicate thee, and deliver thy soul to Satan.”
And he began to utter some awful Latin imprecation, which so aroused
the superstition of the sentinel that he made no further opposition,
which perhaps saved his life, for the retainers of Æscendune were
meditating instant violence, indignant at the delay and the outrage to
their lady.
They themselves let the drawbridge down and guarded the sad cortege
over the plain. Their numbers increased every moment, and before they
reached the neighbourhood of the priory they had little cause to fear
any attack, should Redwald have arrived and have been rash enough to
attempt one.
The old parsonage house, which had served for the residence of each
successive parish prior or mass-thane, was a large and commodious
building, containing all such accommodation as the family absolutely
required in the emergency, while furniture, provision and comforts of
all kinds were sent over from the priory, for the good fathers did not
forget at this hour of need that they owed their own home to the
liberality of Ella and his father.
So when they had deposited the loved remains before the altar of the
church, and had knelt a brief season in prayer, the exiled family took
possession of their temporary home. It was hard—very hard—to give up
their loved dwelling at such a season of affliction, but the dread
which Redwald had somehow inspired made it a great relief to be removed
from his immediate presence.
Yet they could give no reason for the feeling they all shared. Father
Cuthbert evidently suspected, or knew, things which he as yet concealed
from them.
“Who could have slain the husband and father?”
This was the unanswered question. Their suspicions could only turn to
Redwald or some of his crew: no marauders were known to lurk in the
forest; there was, they felt assured, not one of his own people who
would not have died in his defence. Again, it was not the lust of gold
which had suggested the deed, for they had found the gold chain he wore
untouched. What then could have been the motive of the murderer?
Father Cuthbert had found a solution, which was based upon sad
experience of the traditional feuds so frequently handed down from
father to son. Still he would not suggest further cause of disquietude,
and added no further words.
The utter uncertainty about Elfric was another cause of uneasiness.
Whether he had gone southward with the king, or had fallen on the
battlefield, they knew not; or whether he had surrendered with the
prisoners taken in the entrenched camp, and who had been all admitted
to mercy.
In the course of the morning they saw Redwald return, laden with the
spoils of the Grange farm—oxen and sheep, waggons containing corn,
driven before him. What passed within on his entrance they could not
tell; how narrow their escape they knew not—were not even certain it
had been an escape at all.
It was now determined that the interment should take place on the
morrow, and the intelligence was communicated rapidly to all the
tenantry.
Hourly they expected the forces of Mercia to appear, and exact a heavy
account from Redwald for his offences. He was supposed to be the
instigator of the expedition which had failed so utterly; it was not
likely that he would be allowed to retain Æscendune a long time. The
only surprise people felt was that he should have dared to remain at
the post when all hope of successful resistance had ceased. He had his
own reasons, which they knew not.
Under these circumstances it seemed desirable to hurry forward the
interment, lest it should be interfered with from without, in the
confusion of hostile operations against the hall.
The priory church was a noble but irregular structure, of great size
for those days. The cunning architect from the Continent, who had
designed it, had far surpassed the builders of ordinary churches in the
grandeur of his conception. The lofty roof, the long choir beyond the
transept, gave the idea of magnitude most forcibly, and added dignity
to the design. In the south transept was a chapel dedicated especially
to St. Cuthbert, where the aged Offa reposed, and the mother of Ella.
There they had removed the body to await the last solemn rites. Six
large wax tapers burned around it, and watchers were there day and
night—mourners who had loved him well, and felt that in him they had
lost a dear friend.
The wife, the son, or the daughter, were ever there, but seldom alone.
For when the monks in the choir were not saying the canonical hours, or
the low mass was not being said at one of the side altars, still the
voice of intercession arose, with its burden:
“Eternal rest give unto him, O Lord,
And let perpetual light shine upon him.”
At length the morning came, the second only after death. The
neighbouring thanes whom the troubled times did not detain at home, the
churls of the estate, the thralls, crowded the precincts of the
minster, as the solemn bell tolled the deep funeral knell. At length
the monks poured into the church, while the solemn “_Domino refugium_”
arose from their lips—the same grand words which for these thousand
years past have told of the eternity of God and the destiny of the
creature; speaking as deeply to the heart then as in these days of
civilisation.
The mourners entered, Alfred supporting his widowed mother, who had
summoned all her fortitude to render the last sad offices to her dear
lord; her daughter, a few distant relations—there were none nearer of
kin. The bier, with its precious burden, was placed in the centre
before the high altar. Six monks, bearing torches, knelt around it. A
pall, beautifully embroidered, covered the coffin, a wreath of flowers
surmounting a cross was placed upon it.
The solemn requiem mass commenced, and the great Sacrifice once offered
upon Calvary was pleaded for the soul of the deceased thane. When the
last prayer had been said, the coffin was sprinkled with hallowed
water, and perfumed with sweet incense, after which it was removed to
its last resting place. The grave was already prepared. Again the
earthly cavern was sprinkled with the hallowed water, emblematical of
the blood of sprinkling which speaketh better things than that of Abel,
and the body—the sacred dust for which Christ had died, in which God
had dwelt as in a temple—was lowered, to be sown in corruption, that
hereafter it might be raised in incorruption and joy unspeakable.
All crowded to take the last sad look. Alfred felt his dear mother’s
arm tremble as she leant on him, yet gazed firmly into that last
resting place, while the solemn strain arose:
“Ego sum resurrectio et vita. Qui credit in Me, etiam si mortuus fuerit
vivet; et omnis qui vivit, et credit in Me, non morietur in æternum.”
xxx