LOVE STRONG AS DEATH.
Meanwhile Father Swithin had gone alone and unprotected, save by his
sacred character, into the very jaws of the lion; or rather, would have
gone, had he been suffered to do so; for when he approached the hall he
found the drawbridge up, and the whole place guarded as in a state of
siege.
He advanced, nothing daunted, in front of the yawning gap where the
bridge should have been, and cried aloud—“What ho! porter; I demand
speech of my lord Redwald.”
“You may demand speech—swine may demand pearls—but I don’t think you
will get it. Deliver me your message.”
“Tell your lord, rude churl, that I, Father Swithin, of the holy Order
of St. Benedict, have come, in the name of the rightful owners of this
house, and in the power of the Church, to demand that he deliver up
Elfric of Æscendune to the safe keeping of his friends.”
“I will send your message; but keep a civil tongue in your mouth, Sir
Monk, and don’t begin muttering any of your accursed Latin, or I will
see whether the Benedictine frock is proof against an arrow.”
In a short time Redwald appeared on the roof, above the gateway.
“What dost thou require, Sir Monk?” said he; “thy words sound strange
in my ears.”
“I am come, false traitor,” said Father Swithin, waxing wroth, “to
demand the person of Elfric of Æscendune, whom thou detainest contrary
to God’s law and the king’s.”
“Elfric of Æscendune! right glad am I to hear that he is alive; my
followers have brought me word that they saw him fall in battle.”
“Nay, spare thy deceit, thou son of perdition, for well do we know that
he was brought home wounded last night. One of his bearers escaped thy
toils, even as a bird the snare of the fowler, and is now with us.”
“Assuredly the loon has lied unto you. Rejoiced should I be to see the
unhappy youth, and to know that he yet lived. I but hold this place,
faithful to his lord and mine, Edwy, King of all England.”
“Then why hast thou expelled the rightful dwellers therein from their
house and home? We know Elfric is with thee, and that thou art a
traitor, wherefore, deliver him up, or we will even excommunicate
thee.”
“Thou hadst better not begin in the hearing of the men who sit upon the
wall; for myself, excommunication cannot hurt a man who never goes to
church, and does not company over much with those who do.”
“Infidel! heretic! pagan! misbeliever! accursed Ragnar!” began the
irate monk, when an arrow, perhaps only meant to frighten him (for they
could hardly have missed so fair a mark), glanced by him.
He retreated, but still continued his maledictions.
“_Excommunicabo te, et omnes tibi adhærentes_; thou art an accursed
parricide, who hast raised thine hand against thy father’s house. _Vade
retro, Sathanas_, I will shake off the dust of my feet against
thee,”—another arrow stuck in his frock—“thou shalt share the fate of
Sodom, yea of Gomorrha; _in manus inimici trado te_;” by this time his
words were inaudible; and he departed, not having accomplished much
good, but having nevertheless informed Redwald of two great facts—the
first, that Elfric’s return was blazed abroad; the second, that his own
identity was more than suspected.
“Ragnar!” said he, “What fiend has told them that? how came they to
suspect? Confusion! it will foil all my plans, and my vengeance will be
incomplete. At least this one victim must not escape, and yet I had
sooner he should escape than any other member of the house. Poor boy!
the sins of the fathers are heavy upon the children, as these
Christians have it; but my oath, my oath taken before a dying father!
no; he must die!”
So spake the avenger of blood, a man whose heart was evidently not all
of iron; yet from childhood had he striven to restrain every tender
impulse, and had bound himself to vengeance. Long years of peace in
England had come between him and the execution of his projects, and he
had prepared himself for the task he never lost sight of, by acquiring
all the accomplishments of a knight and warrior, and even of a man of
letters, at that court of Rouen, now rapidly becoming the focus of
European chivalry, where the fierce barbarian Northmen were becoming
the refined but ruthless Normans. Then, in England, he had wormed
himself into the confidence of the future king with singular
astuteness, and at length had found the occasion he had long sought, in
a manner the most unforeseen save as a possible contingency.
And now he turned from the battlements to his own chamber, but on the
way he paused, for he passed the door of the late thane’s room, where
poor Elfric lay. He passed the sentinel and entered. The unhappy boy
was extended on the bed, in a raging fever; ever and anon he called
piteously upon his father, then he cried out that Dunstan was pursuing
him, driving him into the pit, then he cried—“Father, I did not murder
thee; not I, thy son! nay, I always loved thee in my heart. Who is
laughing? it is not Dunstan; break his chamber open, slay him: is a
monk’s blood redder than a peasant’s? O Elgiva hast thou slain my
father? See, I am all on fire; it is thy doing. Edwy, my king, Dunstan
is burning me: save me!”
Then there was a long pause, and Redwald or Ragnar as we may now call
him stood over his unhappy cousin. The fair head lay back on the
pillow, with its profusion of golden locks; the face was red and fiery,
the eyes weak and bloodshot.
“Water! water! I burn!” he said.
There was no cooling medicine to alleviate the burning throat, no
gentle hand to smooth the pillow, no mother to render the sweet offices
of maternal love, no father to whisper forgiveness to the dying boy.
“Better he should die thus,” said Ragnar, “since I cannot spare him
without breaking my oath to the dead.”
Then he left the room hastily, as if he feared his own resolution. The
sentinel looked imploringly at him, as the cries of the revellers came
from below.
“Go!” said Ragnar, “join thy companions; no sentinel is required here.
Go and feast; I will come and join you.”
So he tried to drown his new-born pity in wine.
At a late hour of the day, Alfred and his attendants arrived, bringing
news of the coming succour to Father Cuthbert and the other friends who
awaited him with much anxiety. They had contrived to account for his
absence to the lady Edith, from whom they thought it necessary to hide
the true state of affairs.
But everything tended to increase Alfred’s feverish anxiety about his
brother. The relieving force could not arrive for hours; meanwhile he
knew not what to do. No tidings were heard: Father Swithin had failed
and Elfric might perhaps even now be dead.
So Alfred, taking counsel only of his own brave, loving heart, left the
priory in the dusk, attended by the faithful Oswy, and walked towards
his former home. The night was dark and cloudy, the moon had not yet
arisen, and they were close upon the hall ere they saw its form looming
though the darkness. Neither spoke, but they paused before the
drawbridge and listened.
Sounds of uproarious mirth arose from within; Danish war songs,
shouting and cheering; the whole body of the invaders were evidently
feasting and revelling with that excess, of which in their leisure
moments they were so capable.
“It is well!” said Alfred; and they walked round the exterior of the
moat, marking the brightly lighted hall and the unguarded look of the
place; yet not wholly unguarded, for they saw the figure of a man
outlined against a bright patch of sky, pacing the leaded roof,
evidently on guard.
And now they had reached that portion of their circuit which led them
opposite the chamber window of the lamented Ella, and Alfred gazed
sadly upon it, when both he and Oswy started as they heard cries and
moans, and sometimes articulate words, proceeding therefrom.
They listened eagerly, and caught the name “Dunstan,” as if uttered in
vehement fear, then the cry. “Water! I burn!” and cry after cry, as if
from one in delirium.
“It is Elfric! it is Elfric!” said Alfred.
“It is my young lord’s voice,” said the thrall; “he is in a fever from
his wound.”
“What can we do?” and Alfred walked impatiently to and fro; at last he
stopped.
“Oswy! if it costs me my life I will enter the castle!”
“It shall cost my life too, then. I will live and die with my lord!”
“Come here, Oswy; they do not know the little postern door hidden
behind those bushes; the passage leads up to the chapel, and to the
gallery leading to my father’s chamber, where Elfric lies dying. I
remember that that door was left unlocked, and perhaps I can save him.
They are all feasting like hogs; they will not know, and if Ragnar meet
me, why, he or I must die;” and he put his hand convulsively upon the
sword which was dependent from his girdle.
“Lead on, my lord; you will find your thrall ready to live or die with
you!” said Oswy.
At the extreme angle of the building there was a large quantity of
holly bushes which grew out of the soil between the moat and the wall,
which itself was clothed with the thickest ivy; the roof above was
slanting—an ordinary timber roof covering the chapel —so that no
sentinel could be overhead. Standing on the further side of the moat,
all this and no more could be observed.
The first difficulty was how to cross the moat in the absence of either
bridge or boat. It was true they might swim over; but in the event of
their succeeding in the rescue of Elfric, how were they to bear him
back? The difficulty had to be overcome, and they reflected a moment.
“There is a small boat down at the ferry,” whispered Oswy.
It was all Alfred needed, and he and Oswy at once started for the
river. They returned in a few minutes, bearing a light boat, almost
like a British coracle, on which they instantly embarked, and a push or
two with the pole sent them noiselessly across the moat.
They landed, made fast the boat, and searched in the darkness for the
door; it was an old portal, almost disused, for it was only built that
there might be a retreat in any such pressing emergency as might easily
arise in those unsettled times; the holly bushes in front, and the
thick branches of dependent ivy, concealed its existence from any
person beyond the moat, and it had not even been seen by the watchful
eye of Ragnar.
Alfred, however, had but recently made use of the door, when seeking
bunches of holly wherewith to deck the board on the occasion of the
feast given to King Edwy, and he had omitted to relock it on his
return, an omission which now seemed to him of providential
arrangement.
He had, therefore, only to turn the rusty latch as noiselessly as might
be, and the door slowly opened. The key was in the lock, on the inside.
Entering cautiously, taking off their heavy shoes and leaving them in
the doorway, they ascended a flight of steps which terminated in front
of a door which entered the chapel underneath the bell cot, while
another flight led upwards to the gallery, from which all the principal
chambers on the first floor opened.
Arriving at this upper floor, Alfred listened intently for one moment,
and hearing only the sounds of revelry from beneath, he opened the door
gently, and saw the passage lie vacant before him.
He passed along it until he came to the door of his father’s chamber,
feeling the whole time that his life hung on a mere thread, upon the
chance that Ragnar and his warriors might remain out of the way, and
that no one might be near to raise the alarm. With nearly two hundred
inmates this was but a poor chance, but Alfred could dare all for his
brother. He committed himself, therefore, to God’s protection, and went
firmly on till he reached the door.
He opened it with trembling eagerness, and the whole scene as we have
already described it was before him. Elfric sat up in the bed, uttering
the cries which had pierced the outer air. When Alfred entered he did
not seem to know him, but saluted him as “Dunstan.” His cries had
become too familiar to the present inmates of the hall for this to
attract attention. Alfred closed the door.
“It is I, Elfric!—I, your brother Alfred!”
Elfric stared vacantly, then fell back on the pillow: a moment only
passed, and then it was evident that an interval of silence had begun,
during which the patient only moaned. The noise from those who were
feasting in the hall beneath, which communicated with the gallery by a
large staircase, was loud and boisterous as ever.
A step was heard approaching.
Alfred took Oswy by the arm, and they both retired behind the tapestry,
which concealed a small recess, where garments were usually suspended.
The heavy step entered the room, and its owner was evidently standing
beside the bed gazing upon the couch. There he remained stationary for
some minutes, and again left the room. It was not till the last sound
had died away that Alfred and Oswy ventured to leave their concealment.
The silence still continued, save that it was sometimes broken by the
patient’s moans.
“Take and wrap these clothes round him; we must preserve him from the
night air;” and they wrapped the blankets around him; then Oswy, who
was very strongly built, took the light frame of Elfric in his arms,
and they left the room.
One moment of dread suspense—the passage was clear—a minute more would
have placed them in safety, when the paroxysm returned upon the
unfortunate Elfric.
“Help, Edwy! Redwald, help! Dunstan has seized me, and is bearing me to
the fire! I burn! help, I burn!”
Alfred groaned in his agony; the shrieking voice had been uttered just
as they passed the staircase leading down to the hall. Up rushed
Ragnar, followed by several of his men, and started back in amazement
as he beheld Alfred and Oswy with their burden. Alfred drew his sword
to dispute the passage, but was overpowered in a moment. Ragnar himself
attacked Oswy, who was forced to relinquish his burden. All was lost.
Another moment and Ragnar confronted his prisoners. Elfric had been
carried back to his bed. Alfred and Oswy stood before him, their arms
bound behind them, in the great hall, while the soldiers retired at a
signal a short distance from them.
“What has brought you here?”
“To deliver my brother.”
“To share his fate, you mean. Know you into whose hands you have
fallen?”
“Yes; into those of my cousin Ragnar.”
“Then you know what mercy to expect.”
“I came prepared to share my brother’s fate.”
“And you shall share it. It must be the hand of fate which has placed
you both in my power, me, the representative of the rightful lord of
Æscendune, dispossessed by your father, and being myself the legitimate
heir.”
“We do not dispute your title; give my brother his life and liberty,
and take all; we have never injured you.”
“All would be nothing without vengeance; you appeal in vain to me. Did
I wish to spare you I could not; an oath, a fearful oath, binds me,
taken to one from whom I derived life, one whose death was far more
agonising and lingering than yours shall be.”
“Let us at least die together.”
“Do you scorn the company of your thrall in death?”
“God forbid!
“Oswy, you have given your life for us; we die in company. God protect
my poor mother, my poor childless mother! She will be alone!”
“You shall die together as you desire.”
He addressed a few words in an unknown tongue to his men; his face was
now pale as death, his lips compressed as of one who has taken a
desperate resolution.
“Retire to your brother’s chamber again. You will not compel me to use
force?”
They retired up the stairs; Ragnar followed, two or three of his men at
a respectful distance from him.
They re-entered the chamber; Ragnar followed and stood before them.
“I will grant you all that is in my power; you shall all die together,
and you may tend your brother to the last.”
“What shall be the manner of our death?” asked Alfred, who was very
calm, fearfully calm.
“You will soon discover; my hand shall not be upon you, or red with
your blood. Believe me, I am, like you, the victim of stern necessity,
although I am the avenger, you the victims.”
“You cannot thus deceive yourself, or shake off the guilt of murder;
our father’s blood is upon you. You will answer for this, for him and
for us, at the judgment seat.”
“I am willing to do so, if there be a judgment seat whereat to answer.
I had a father, too, who was condemned to a lingering death, by thirst,
hunger, and madness; I witnessed his agonies; I swore to avenge them.
You appeal to the memory of your father, who has perished a victim to
avenging justice; I appeal to that of mine. If there be a God, let Him
deliver you, and perhaps I will believe in Him. Farewell for ever!”
He closed the door, and, with the aid of his men, securely fastened it
on the outside, so that no strength from within could open it; he
descended to the hall.
“Warriors,” he said, “the moment I predicted has come; I have received
a warning that the usurper Edgar already marches against us; tomorrow,
at the latest, he will be here; before he arrives we shall be halfway
to Wessex. Let every one secure his baggage and his plunder, and let
the horses be all got ready for a forced march. We have eaten the last
feast that shall ever be eaten in these halls.”
A few moments of bustle and confusion followed, and before half-an-hour
had expired all was ready, and the men-at-arms from without announced
that every horse—their own and those of the thane, to carry their
booty, the plunder of the castle—awaited them without.
“Then,” said he, “listen, my men, to the final orders. _Fire the
castle, every portion of it; fire the stables, the barns, the
outbuildings._ We will leave a pile of blackened embers for Edgar when
he comes; the halls where the princely Edwy has feasted shall never be
his, or entertain him as a guest.”
A loud shout signified the alacrity with which his followers bent
themselves to the task; torches flashed in all directions, and in a few
moments the flames began to do their destroying work.
An officer addressed Ragnar—“There are three thralls locked up in an
outbuilding, shall we leave them to burn?”
“Nay; why should we grudge them their miserable lives; they have done
us no harm.”
At that moment a loud cry of dire alarm was heard, the trampling of an
immense body of horse followed—a rush into the hall already filled with
smoke—loud outcries and shrieks from without.
“What is the matter?” cried Ragnar.
“The Mercians are upon us! the Mercians are upon us!”
Ragnar rushed to the gateway, and a sight met his startled eyes he was
little prepared to behold.
The clouds had been driven away by a fierce wind, the moon was shining
brightly, and revealed a mighty host surrounding the hall on every
side. Every horse before the gateway was driven away or seized, every
man who had not saved himself by instant retreat had been slain by the
advancing host; without orders the majority of his men had repassed the
moat, and had already raised the drawbridge against the foe, not
without the greatest difficulty.
“Extinguish the fires which you have raised; let each man fight
fire—then we will fight the Mercians.”
It was high time to fight fire, rather it was too late.