“VENGEANCE IS MINE, I WILL REPAY.”
When the door was finally closed upon the brothers and their faithful
thrall, Alfred did not give way to despair. The words of Ragnar, “If
there be a God, let Him deliver you,” had sunk deeply into his heart,
and had produced precisely the opposite effect to that which his cousin
had intended; it seemed as if his cause were thus committed to the
great Being in Whose Hand was the disposal of all things; as if His
Honour were at stake, Whom the murderer had so impiously defied.
“‘If there be a God, let Him deliver you,’” repeated Alfred, and it
seemed to him as if a Voice replied, “Is My Arm shortened, that It
cannot save?”
But how salvation was to come, and even in what mode danger was to be
expected, was unknown to them; nay, was even unguessed. They heard the
bustle below, which followed Ragnar’s announcement of his intended
departure from Æscendune. They heard the mustering of the horses—and at
last the conviction forced itself upon them that the foe were about to
evacuate the hall. But in that case, how would he inflict his sentence
upon his victims?
The dread truth, the suspicion of his real intention, crept upon the
minds of both Alfred and Oswy. Elfric yet lay insensible, or seemingly
so, upon the bed, lost to all perception of his danger. Alfred sat at
the head of the bed, looking with brotherly love at the prostrate form
of him for whom he was giving his life; but feeling secretly grateful
that there was no painful struggle imminent in his case; that death
itself would come unperceived, without torturing forebodings.
It was at this moment that Oswy, who stood by the window, which was
strongly barred, but which he had opened, for the night was
oppressively warm, caught the faint and distant sound of a mighty host
advancing through the forest; at first it was very faint, and he only
heard it through the pauses in the storm of sound which attended
Ragnar’s preparations for departure, but it soon became more distinct,
and he turned to Alfred.
“Listen, my lord, they come to our aid; listen, I hear the army of
Edgar.”
Alfred rushed to the window, the hope of life strong within him; at
first he could hear nothing for the noise below, but at length there
was a lull in the confusion, and then he heard distinctly the sound of
the coming deliverers. Another minute, and he saw the dark lines
leaving the shadow of the forest, and descending the hill in serried
array, then deploying, as if to surround a foe in stealthy silence; he
looked around for the object, and beheld Ragnar’s forces all
unconscious of their danger, not having heard the approach in their own
hasty preparations for departure. Another moment of dread suspense,
like that with which the gazer watches the dark thundercloud before the
lightning’s flash. A moment of dread silence—during which some orders,
given loudly below, forced themselves upon him:
“Fire the castle, every portion of it; fire the stables, the barns, the
outbuildings; we will leave a pile of blackened ruins for Edgar when he
comes; the halls where the princely Edwy has feasted shall never be
his, or entertain him as guest.”
Meanwhile, the dark forces, unseen by the destroyers, were still
surrounding the castle, deploying on all sides to surround it as in a
net; for they saw the intention of their victims, and meant to cut off
all chance of escape.
But the position of the brothers seemed as perilous as ever—for how
could Edgar’s troops rescue them if the place were once on fire? Alfred
gazed with pallid face upon Oswy, but met only a resigned helpless
glance in return.
Yet, even at this moment of awful suspense, a voice seemed to whisper
in his ear, “Stand still, and see the salvation of God.”
“Oswy,” he exclaimed, “we shall not die—I feel sure that God will save
us!”
“It must be soon then,” replied Oswy; “soon, my lord, for they have
already set the place on fire, just beneath us; can you not smell the
smoke?”
Just at that moment came the war cry of the Mercians, and the charge we
have already described.
It was during the following few minutes, while Ragnar and all his men
were vainly striving to extinguish the conflagration they had
raised—for the dry timber of which the hall was chiefly built had taken
fire like matchwood—it was while the friends without were preparing to
attack, that a sudden change came over the patient.
“Alfred, my brother!”
Alfred looked round in surprise; consciousness had returned, and the
face was calm and possessed as his own.
“Elfric, my dear Elfric!”
“What does all this mean? How came I here? What makes this smoke?”
“We are in danger, great danger; prisoners in our own house, which they
have set on fire.”
“I remember now—is not this our dear father’s room?”
“Yes; we are prisoners in it, they have barred the door upon us.”
“But they cannot bar us in: there is another door, Alfred; one my
father once pointed out to me, but told me to keep its existence a
secret, as it always had been kept. Who are without?”
“The Mercians, Edgar’s army, come to deliver us; if we can reach them,
we are safe.”
“I thought they were our foes, but all seems strange now. Alfred, lift
up the tapestry which conceals the recess where dear father’s armour
hung.”
Alfred complied.
“Now, just where the breastplate hung you will find a round knob of
wood like a peg.”
“Yes, it is here.”
“Push it hard—no, harder.”
Alfred did so, and a concealed door flew open; he stepped through it
with a cry of joy, and found himself on the staircase leading up from
the postern gate by which he had entered, just below the closed door
which led into the gallery above.
“God be thanked! we are saved—saved. Elfric!
“Oswy, take him in your arms, quick! quick! I lead the way, and will
get the boat ready—door open and boat ready.”
It was all the work of a moment; they were on the private staircase,
carrying Elfric, carefully wrapt up. The smoke had entered even here;
the next moment they were at the entrance. Happily the whole attention
of Ragnar was concentrated on self preservation.
One more minute, and Elfric was placed in the coracle. The Mercians on
the further bank now observed them, and at first, not knowing them,
seemed disposed to treat them as foes; when Oswy cried aloud, “Spare
your arrows; it is Elfric of Æscendune;” and they crowded to the bank
joyfully, for the purpose of the attack was known to all, and now they
saw its object placed beyond the reach of further risk of failure.
The coracle touched the further bank; a dozen willing hands assisted
them up the slope. And amidst shouts of vociferous joy and triumph they
were conducted to King Edgar, who hastened towards the scene with
Siward.
“Now, let the castle burn, let it burn,” said Oswy.
“Alfred, is it you?” exclaimed the young king; “just escaped from the
flames! How came you there? and this is Elfric; you have saved him.”
“God has delivered us.”
“But you have been the instrument; you must tell me all another time,
get him into shelter quickly.
“Here, men, bear him to the priory, while we stay to do our duty here.
“Alfred, you must not linger.”
“One favour, my lord and king; show mercy to Ragnar, to Redwald, you
know not how sad his story has been.”
“Leave that to me; he shall have all he deserves;” and Alfred was
forced to be content.
At this moment, aroused by the shouts of joy, Ragnar, forgetting even
his danger, rushed to the roof. There he saw a crowd surrounding some
object of their joy; in the darkness of the night he could not
distinguish more, but the cry, “Long live Alfred of Æscendune!” arose
spontaneously from the crowd, just as the brothers departed. Faint with
toil as he was, his heart beating wildly with apprehension, he rushed
to the chamber through smoke and flame, for the tongues of fire were
already licking the staircase. He withdrew the bars, he rushed in, the
room was empty.
“It is magic, sorcery, witchcraft,” he groaned.
But the remembrance of his last words, of his scornful defiance of God,
came back to him, and with it a conviction that he had indeed lifted up
his arm against the Holy One. He felt a sickening feeling of horror and
despair rush upon him, when loud cries calling him from beneath aroused
him.
“We must charge through them; we cannot burn here; we must die fighting
sword in hand, it is all that is left.”
Not one voice spoke of surrender amongst those fierce warriors, or of
seeking mercy.
It was indeed high time, for all efforts to extinguish the flames had
proved vain; every part of the castle was on fire; the fiery element
streamed from the lower windows, and curled upwards around the towers;
it crackled and hissed in its fury, and the atmosphere became unfit to
breathe; it was like inhaling flame. Sparks flew about in all
directions, dense stifling smoke filled every room. Not a man remained
in the hall, when Redwald rushed down the gallery, holding his breath,
for the hot air scorched the lungs; when, just as he arrived, the
staircase fell with a huge crash, and the flames shot up in his face,
igniting hair and beard, and scorching his flesh. He rushed back to the
opposite end of the passage, only to meet another blast of fire and
smoke—for they had ignited the hall in twenty places at once; they had
done their work all too well. He rushed to the room he had left, shut
the door for a moment’s respite from flame and smoke, and then,
springing at the window, strove to tear the bars down, but all in vain.
“There must be some egress. How did they escape? How could they
escape?” he cried; and he sought in vain for the exit, for they had
closed the door again, and he knew not where to look; in vain he lifted
the tapestry, he could not discover the secret; and at last,
overpowered by the heat, he sprang again to the window, and drank in
deep draughts of fresh cool air to appease the burning feeling in his
throat.
Crash! crash! part of the roof had given way, and the whole chamber
trembled; then a single tongue of flame shot up through the floor, then
another; the door had caught outside. Even in that moment he beheld his
men, his faithful followers, madly seeking death from the swords of the
foe; they had lowered the drawbridge, and dashed out without a leader.
“Would I were with them!” he cried. “Oh, to die like this!”
“Behold,” cried a voice without, “he hath digged and graven a pit, and
is fallen himself into the destruction he made for others.”
It was Father Swithin, who had observed the face at the window, and who
raised the cry which now drew all the enemy to gaze upon him, for they
had no longer a foe to destroy.
The flames now filled the room, but still he clung to the window, and
thus protracted his torments; his foes, even the stern monk, could but
pity him now, so marred and blackened was his visage, so agonised his
lineaments; like, as they said, the rude pictures of the lost, where
the last judgment was painted on the walls of the churches. Yet he
uttered no cry, he had resolved to die bravely; all was lost now.
Another moment, and those who watched saw the huge beams which
supported the building bend and quiver; then the whole framework
collapsed, and with a sound like thunder the roof tumbled in, and the
unhappy Ragnar was buried in the ruin; while the flames from his
funeral pyre rose to the very heavens, and the smoke blotted the stars
from view.
“Even so,” said the monk, solemnly, “let Thine enemies perish, O Lord,
but let them that love Thee be as the sun, when he goeth forth in his
might.”
But those were not wanting who could not sympathise with the stern
sentiment, remembering better and gentler lessons from the lips of the
great Teacher and Master of souls.
“He has passed into the Hands of his God, there let us leave him,” said
Father Cuthbert, who had just arrived at the moment. “It is not for us
to judge a soul which has passed to the judgment seat, and is beyond
the sentence of men.”
Meanwhile, they had borne Elfric first to the priory, for they judged
it not well that he should yet be brought to his mother; they feared
the sudden shock. Many of the good monks had studied medicine, for they
were in fact the healers both of soul and body throughout the district,
and they attended him with assiduous care. They put him to bed, they
gave him cordials which soon produced quiet sleep, and watched by him
for many hours.
It was not till the day had far advanced that he awoke, greatly
refreshed, and saw Father Cuthbert and Alfred standing by him. They had
allayed the fever, bound up the wound, which was not in itself
dangerous, and he looked more like himself than one could have imagined
possible.
And now they thought they might venture to summon the lady Edith; and
Alfred broke the intelligence to her, for she knew not the events of
the night.
“Mother,” he said; “we have news of Elfric, both bad and good, to tell
you.”
“He lives then,” she said; “he lives!”
“Yes, lives, and is near; but he was wounded badly in the battle.”
“I must go to him,” she said, and arose, forgetting all possible
obstacles in a mother’s love.
“He is near at hand, in the priory; you will find him much changed, but
they say he will do well.”
She shook like an aspen leaf, and threw her garments around her with
nervous earnestness.
“Come, mother, take my arm.”
“O Alfred, may I not come, too?” said little Edgitha.
“Yes, you may come too;” and they left the house.
Elfric heard them approach, and sat up in his bed, Father Cuthbert
supporting him with his arm; while another visitor, Edgar himself,
stood at the head of the bed, but retired to give place to the mother,
as if he felt no stranger could then intrude, when the widow clasped
her prodigal to her loving breast.