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Édition d'Élite
Historical Tales
The Romance of Reality
By
CHARLES MORRIS
_Author of "Half-Hours with the Best American Authors," "Tales from the
Dramatists," etc._
IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES
Volume IV
English
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
Copyright, 1893, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1904, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1908, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
[Illustration: WARWICK CASTLE.]
_CONTENTS_
PAGE
HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN 9
KING ALFRED AND THE DANES 19
THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA 35
THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND 49
HEREWARD THE WAKE 62
THE DEATH OF THE RED KING 77
HOW THE WHITE SHIP SAILED 86
A CONTEST FOR A CROWN 93
THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD COEUR DE LION 107
ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE 121
WALLACE, THE HERO OF SCOTLAND 136
BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN 149
THE SIEGE OF CALAIS 162
THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS 174
WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT 185
THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND 196
THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD 213
THE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART 228
LOVE'S KNIGHT-ERRANT 241
THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE 262
THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE 276
CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT 297
THE RELIEF OF LONDONDERRY 305
THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAR 315
THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES 324
TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH OF NELSON 339
THE MASSACRE OF AN ARMY 349
THE JUBILEES OF QUEEN VICTORIA 358
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
ENGLISH.
PAGE
WARWICK CASTLE _Frontispiece_.
CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL 12
AN ANGLO-SAXON KING 19
ELY CATHEDRAL 66
STATUE OF RICHARD COEUR DE LION 116
ROBIN HOOD'S WOODS 123
THE WALLACE MONUMENT, STIRLING 141
STIRLING CASTLE 153
THE PORT OF CALAIS 162
CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME, POITIERS 177
WAT TYLER'S COTTAGE 188
BATTLE IN THE WAR OF THE ROSES 196
HENRY THE EIGHTH 218
ROTTEN ROW, LONDON 235
THE ROYAL PALACE, MADRID 251
SCENE ON THE RIVER AVON 286
OLIVER CROMWELL 298
EDINBURGH CASTLE 319
THE OLD TEMERAIRE 340
NORTH FRONT OF WINDSOR CASTLE 362
_HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN._
One day, in the far-off sixth century, a youthful deacon of the Roman
Church walked into the slave-market of Rome, situated at one extremity
of the ancient Forum. Gregory, his name; his origin from an ancient
noble family, whose genealogy could be traced back to the days of the
early Cæsars. A youth was this of imperial powers of mind, one who, had
he lived when Rome was mistress of the physical world, might have become
emperor; but who, living when Rome had risen to lordship over the
spiritual world, became pope,--the famous Gregory the Great.
In the Forum the young deacon saw that which touched his sympathetic
soul. Here cattle were being sold; there, men. His eyes were specially
attracted by a group of youthful slaves, of aspect such as he had never
seen before. They were bright of complexion, their hair long and golden,
their expression of touching innocence. Their fair faces were strangely
unlike the embrowned complexions to which he had been accustomed, and he
stood looking at them in admiration, while the slave-dealers extolled
their beauty of face and figure.
"From what country do these young men come?" asked Gregory.
"They are English, Angles," answered the dealers.
"Not Angles, but angels," said the deacon, with a feeling of poetic
sentiment, "for they have angel-like faces. From what country come
they?" he repeated.
"They come from Deira," said the merchants.
"_De irâ_" he rejoined, fervently; "ay, plucked from God's ire and
called to Christ's mercy. And what is the name of their king?"
"Ella," was the answer.
"Alleluia shall be sung there!" cried the enthusiastic young monk, his
imagination touched by the significance of these answers. He passed on,
musing on the incident which had deeply stirred his sympathies, and
considering how the light of Christianity could be shed upon the pagan
lands whence these fair strangers came.
It was a striking picture which surrounded that slave-market. From where
the young deacon stood could be seen the capitol of ancient Rome and the
grand proportions of its mighty Coliseum; not far away the temple of
Jupiter Stator displayed its magnificent columns, and other stately
edifices of the imperial city came within the circle of vision. Rome had
ceased to be the mistress of the world, but it was not yet in ruins, and
many of its noble edifices still stood almost in perfection. But
paganism had vanished. The cross of Christ was the dominant symbol. The
march of the warriors of the legions was replaced by long processions
of cowled and solemn monks. The temporal imperialism of Rome had
ceased, the spiritual had begun; instead of armies to bring the world
under the dominion of the sword, that ancient city now sent out its
legions of priests to bring it under the dominion of the cross.
Gregory resolved to be one of the latter. A fair new field for
missionary labor lay in that distant island, peopled by pagans whose
aspect promised to make them noble subjects of Christ's kingdom upon
earth. The enthusiastic youth left Rome to seek Saxon England, moved
thereto not by desire of earthly glory, but of heavenly reward. But this
was not to be. His friends deemed that he was going to death, and begged
the pope to order his return. Gregory was brought back and England
remained pagan.
Years went by. The humble deacon rose to be bishop of Rome and head of
the Christian world. Gregory the Great, men named him, though he styled
himself "Servant of the servants of God," and lived in like humility and
simplicity of style as when he was a poor monk.
The time at length came to which Gregory had looked forward. Ethelbert,
king of Kentish England, married Bertha, daughter of the French king
Charibert, a fervent Christian woman. A few priests came with her to
England, and the king gave them a ruined Christian edifice, the Church
of St. Martin, outside the walls of Canterbury, for their worship. But
it was overshadowed by a pagan temple, and the worship of Odin and Thor
still dominated Saxon England.
Gregory took quick advantage of this opportunity. The fair faces of the
English slaves still appealed to his pitying soul, and he now sent
Augustine, prior of St. Andrew's at Rome, with a band of forty monks as
missionaries to England. It was the year of our Lord 597. The
missionaries landed at the very spot where Hengist the Saxon conqueror
had landed more than a century before. The one had brought the sword to
England, the others brought the cross. King Ethelbert knew of their
coming and had agreed to receive them; but, by the advice of his
priests, who feared conjuration and spells of magic, he gave them
audience in the open air, where such spells have less power. The place
was on the chalk-down above Minster, whence, miles away across the
intervening marshes, one may to-day behold the distant tower of
Canterbury cathedral.
The scene, as pictured to us in the chronicles of the monks, was a
picturesque and inspiring one. The hill selected for the meeting
overlooked the ocean. King Ethelbert, with Queen Bertha by his side,
awaited in state his visitors. Around were grouped the warriors of Kent
and the priests of Odin. Silence reigned, and in the distance the monks
could be seen advancing in solemn procession, singing as they came. He
who came first bore a large silver crucifix. Another carried a banner
with the painted image of Christ. The deep and solemn music, the
venerable and peaceful aspect of the strangers, the solemnity of the
occasion, touched the heart of Ethelbert, already favorably inclined, as
we may believe, to the faith of his loved wife.
Augustine had brought interpreters from Gaul. By their aid he conveyed
to the king the message he had been sent to bring. Ethelbert listened in
silence, the queen in rapt attention, the warriors and priests doubtless
with varied sentiments. The appeal of Augustine at an end, Ethelbert
spoke.
"Your words are fair," he said, "but they are new, and of doubtful
meaning. For myself, I propose to worship still the gods of my fathers.
But you bring peace and good words; you are welcome to my kingdom; while
you stay here you shall have shelter and protection."
His land was a land of plenty, he told them; food, drink, and lodging
should be theirs, and none should do them wrong; England should be their
home while they chose to stay.
With these words the audience ended. Augustine and his monks fell again
into procession, and, with singing of psalms and display of holy
emblems, moved solemnly towards the city of Canterbury, where Bertha's
church awaited them. As they entered the city they sang:
"Turn from this city, O Lord, thine anger and wrath, and turn it from
Thy holy house, for we have sinned." Then Gregory's joyful cry of
"Alleluia! Alleluia!" burst from their devout lips, as they moved into
the first English church.
[Illustration: CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL.]
The work of the "strangers from Rome" proceeded but slowly. Some
converts were made, but Ethelbert held aloof. Fortunately for Augustine,
he had an advocate in the palace, one with near and dear speech in the
king's ear. We cannot doubt that the gentle influence of Queen Bertha
was a leading power in Ethelbert's conversion. A year passed. At its end
the king gave way. On the day of Pentecost he was baptized. Christ had
succeeded Odin and Thor on the throne of the English heart, for the
story of the king's conversion carried his kingdom with it. The men of
Kent, hearing that their king had adopted the new faith, crowded the
banks of the Swale, eager for baptism. The under-kings of Essex and
East-Anglia became Christians. On the succeeding Christmas-day ten
thousand of the people followed the example of their king. The new faith
spread with wonderful rapidity throughout the kingdom of Kent.
When word of this great event reached Pope Gregory at Rome his heart was
filled with joy. He exultingly wrote to a friend that his missionaries
had spread the religion of Christ "in the most remote parts of the
world," and at once appointed Augustine archbishop of Canterbury and
primate of all England, that he might complete the work he had so
promisingly begun. Such is the story of the Christianizing of England as
told in the ancient chronicle of the venerable Bede, the earliest of
English writers.
As yet only Kent had been converted. North of it lay the kingdom of
Northumbria, still a pagan realm. The story of its conversion, as told
by Bede, is of no less interest than that just related. Edwin was its
king, a man of great ability for that early day. His prowess is shown in
a proverb: "A woman with her babe might walk scathless from sea to sea
in Edwin's day." The highways, long made dangerous by outlaw and
ruthless warrior, were now safe avenues of travel; the springs by the
road-side were marked by stakes, while brass cups beside them awaited
the traveller's hand. Edwin ruled over all northern England, as
Ethelbert did over the south. Edinburgh was within his dominions, and
from him it had its name,--Edwin's burgh, the city of Edwin.
Christianity came to this monarch's heart in some such manner as it had
reached that of Ethelbert, through the appealing influence of his wife.
A daughter of King Ethelbert had come to share his throne. She, like
Bertha her mother, was a Christian. With her came the monk Paulinus,
from the church at Canterbury. He was a man of striking aspect,--of tall
and stooping form, slender, aquiline nose, and thin, worn face, round
which fell long black hair. The ardent missionary, aided doubtless by
the secret appeals of the queen, soon produced an influence upon the
intelligent mind of Edwin. The monarch called a council of his wise men,
to talk with them about the new doctrine which had been taught in his
realm. Of what passed at that council we have but one short speech, but
it is one that illuminates it as no other words could have done, a
lesson in prose which is full of the finest spirit of poetry, perhaps
the most picturesque image of human life that has ever been put into
words.
"So seems to me the life of man, O king," said an aged noble, "as a
sparrow's flight through the hall when you are sitting at meat in
winter-tide, with the warm fire lighted on the hearth, while outside all
is storm of rain and snow. The sparrow flies in at one door, and tarries
for a moment in the light and heat of the fire within, and then, flying
forth from the other, vanishes into the wintry darkness whence it came.
So the life of man tarries for a moment in our sight; but of what went
before it, or what is to follow it, we know nothing. If this new
teaching tells us something more certain of these things, let us follow
it."
Such an appeal could not but have a powerful effect upon his hearers.
Those were days when men were more easily moved by sentiment than by
argument. Edwin and his councillors heard with favoring ears. Not last
among them was Coifi, chief priest of the idol-worship, whose ardent
soul was stirred by the words of the old thane.
"None of your people, King Edwin, have worshipped the gods more busily
than I," he said, "yet there are many who have been more favored and are
more fortunate. Were these gods good for anything they would help their
worshippers."
Grasping his spear, the irate priest leaped on his horse, and riding at
full speed towards the temple sacred to the heathen gods, he hurled the
warlike weapon furiously into its precincts.
The lookers-on, nobles and commons alike, beheld his act with awe, in
doubt if the deities of their old worship would not avenge with death
this insult to their fane. Yet all remained silent; no thunders rent the
skies; the desecrating priest sat his horse unharmed. When, then, he
bade them follow him to the neighboring stream, to be baptized in its
waters into the new faith, an eager multitude crowded upon his steps.
The spot where Edwin and his followers were baptized is thus described
by Camden, in his "Description of Great Britain," etc.: "In the Roman
times, not far from its bank upon the little river Foulness (where
Wighton, a small town, but well-stocked with husbandmen, now stands),
there seems to have formerly stood Delgovitia; as it is probable both
from the likeness and the signification of the name. For the British
word _Delgwe_ (or rather _Ddelw_) signifies the statues or images of the
heathen gods; and in a little village not far off there stood an
idol-temple, which was in very great honor in the Saxon times, and, from
the heathen gods in it, was then called Godmundingham, and now, in the
same sense, Godmanham." It was into this temple that Coifi flung his
desecrating spear, and in this stream that Edwin the king received
Christian baptism.
But Christianity did not win England without a struggle. After the
death of Ethelbert and Edwin, paganism revived and fought hard for the
mastery. The Roman monks lost their energy, and were confined to the
vicinity of Canterbury. Conversion came again, but from the west instead
of the east, from Ireland instead of Rome.
Christianity had been received with enthusiasm in Erin's isle. Less than
half a century after the death of St. Patrick, the first missionary,
flourishing Christian schools existed at Darrow and Armagh, letters and
the arts were cultivated, and missionaries were leaving the shores of
Ireland to carry the faith elsewhere. From the famous monastery which
they founded at Iona, on the west coast of Scotland, came the new
impulse which gave Christianity its fixed footing in England, and
finally drove paganism from Britain's shores. Oswald, of Northumbria,
became the bulwark of the new faith; Penda, of Mercia, the sword of
heathendom; and a long struggle for religion and dominion ensued between
these warlike chiefs. Oswald was slain in battle; Penda led his
conquering host far into the Christian realm; but a new king, Oswi by
name, overthrew Penda and his army in a great defeat, and the worship of
the older gods in England was at an end. But a half-century of struggle
and bloodshed passed before the victory of Christ over Odin was fully
won.
_KING ALFRED AND THE DANES._
In his royal villa at Chippenham, on the left bank of the gently-flowing
Avon, sat King Alfred, buried in his books. It was the evening of the
6th of January, in the year 878, a thousand years and more backward in
time. The first of English kings to whom a book had a meaning,--and the
last for centuries afterwards,--Alfred, the young monarch, had an
insatiable thirst for knowledge, a thirst then difficult to quell, for
books were almost as rare as gold-mines in that day. When a mere child,
his mother had brought to him and his brothers a handsomely illuminated
book, saying,--
"I will give this to that one of you four princes who first learns to
read."
Alfred won the book; so far as we know, he alone sought to win it, for
the art of reading in those early times was confined to monks, and
disdained by princes. Ignorance lay like a dismal cloud over England,
ignorance as dense as the heart of the Dark Ages knew. In the whole land
the young prince was almost alone in his thirst for knowledge; and when
he made an effort to study Latin, in which language all worthy
literature was then written, we are told that there could not be found
throughout the length and breadth of the land a man competent to teach
him that sealed tongue. This, however, loses probability in view of the
fact that the monks were familiar with Latin and that Alfred succeeded
in acquiring a knowledge of that language.
When little more than a boy Alfred became king. There was left him then
little time for study, for the Danes, whose ships had long been
descending in annual raids on England's shores, gave the youthful
monarch an abundance of more active service. For years he fought them,
yet in his despite Guthrum, one of their ablest chiefs, sailed up the
Severn, seized upon a wide region of the realm of Wessex, made
Gloucester his capital, and defied the feebly-supported English king.
It was midwinter now, a season which the Danes usually spent in rest and
revelry, and in which England gained some relief from their devastating
raids. Alfred, dreaming of aught but war, was at home with his slender
store of much-beloved books in his villa at Chippenham. With him were a
few of his thanes and a small body of armed attendants, their enjoyment
the pleasures of the chase and the rude sports of that early period.
Doubtless, what they deemed the womanish or monkish tastes of their
young monarch were objects of scorn and ridicule to those hardy thanes,
upon whom ignorance lay like a thick garment. Yet Alfred could fight as
well as read. They might disdain his pursuits; they must respect his
prowess.
While the king lay thus in ease at Chippenham, his enemies at
Gloucester seemed lost in enjoyment of their spoils. Guthrum had divided
the surrounding lands among his victorious followers, the Saxons had
been driven out, slain, or enslaved, and the brutal and barbarous
victors dwelt in peace and revelry on their new lands, spending the
winter in riot and wassail, and waiting for the spring-time budding of
the trees to renew the war with their Saxon foes.
[Illustration: AN ANGLO-SAXON KING.]
Not so with Guthrum. He had sworn revenge on the Saxons. Years before,
his father, a mighty chieftain, Ragnar by name, had fallen in a raid on
England. His sons had vowed to Odin to wash out the memory of his death
in English blood, and Guthrum now determined to take advantage of the
midwinter season for a sudden and victorious march upon his unsuspecting
enemy. If he could seize Alfred in his palace, the war might be brought
to an end, and England won, at a single blow.
If we can take ourselves back in fancy to New-Year's day of 878, and to
an open plain in the vicinity of Gloucester, we shall see there the
planted standard of Guthrum floating in the wind, while from every side
armed horsemen are riding into the surrounding space. They know not why
they come. A hasty summons has been sent them to meet their chieftain
here on this day, armed and mounted, and, loyal to their leader, and
ever ready for war, they ride hastily in, until the Danish champion
finds himself surrounded by a strong force of hardy warriors, eager to
learn the cause of this midwinter summons.
"It is war," said Guthrum to his chiefs. "I have sworn to have England,
and England shall be mine. The Saxons are scattered and at rest, not
dreaming of battle and blood. Now is our time. A hard and sudden blow
will end the war, and the fair isle of England will be the Raven's
spoil."
We may still hear in fancy the wild shouts of approval with which this
stirring declaration was heard. Visions of slaughter, plunder, and rich
domains filled the souls of chiefs and men alike, and their eagerness to
take to the field was such that they could barely wait to hear their
leader's plans.
"Alfred, the Saxon king, must be ours," said Guthrum. "He is the one man
I dread in all the Saxon hosts. They have many hands, but only one head.
Let us seize the head, and the hands are useless. Alfred is at
Chippenham. Thither let us ride at speed."
Their bands were mustered, their arms examined, and food for the
expedition prepared, and then to horse and away! Headlong over the
narrow and forest-bordered roads of that day rode the host of Danes, in
triumphant expectation of victory and spoil.
In his study sat Alfred, on the night of January 6, poring over an
illuminated page; or mayhap he was deep in learned consultation with
some monkish scholar, mayhap presiding at a feast of his thanes: we may
fancy what we will, for history or legend fails to tell us how he was
engaged on that critical evening of his life.
But we may imagine a wide-eyed Saxon sentinel, seared and hasty,
breaking upon the monarch's leisure with the wild alarm-cry,--
"Up and away, my king! The Danes are coming! hosts of them, armed and
horsed! Up and away!"
Hardly had he spoken before the hoof-beats of the advancing foe were
heard. On they came, extending their lines as they rode at headlong
speed, hoping to surround the villa and seize the king before the alarm
could be given.
They were too late. Alfred was quick to hear, to heed, and to act.
Forest bordered the villa; into the forest he dashed, his followers
following in tumultuous haste. The Danes made what haste the
obstructions in their way permitted. In a few minutes they had swept
round the villa, with ringing shouts of triumph. In a few minutes more
they were treading its deserted halls, Guthrum at their head, furious to
find that his hoped-for prey had vanished and left him but the empty
shell of his late home.
"After him!" cried the furious Dane. "He cannot be far. This place is
full of signs of life. He has fled into the forest. After him! A king's
prize for the man who seizes him."
In vain their search, the flying king knew his own woods too well to be
overtaken by the Danes. Yet their far cries filled his ears, and roused
him to thoughts of desperate resistance. He looked around on his handful
of valiant followers.
"Let us face them!" he cried, in hot anger. "We are few, but we fight
for our homes. Let us meet these baying hounds!"
"No, no," answered the wisest of his thanes. "It would be worse than
rash, it would be madness. They are twenty--a hundred, mayhap--to our
one. Let us fly now, that we may fight hereafter. All is not lost while
our king is free, and we to aid him."
Alfred was quick to see the wisdom of this advice. He must bide his
time. To strike now might be to lose all. To wait might be to gain all.
He turned with a meaning look to his faithful thanes.
"In sooth, you speak well," he said. "The wisdom of the fox is now
better than the courage of the lion. We must part here. The land for the
time is the Danes'. We cannot hinder them. They will search homestead
and woodland for me. Before a fortnight's end they will have swarmed
over all Wessex, and Guthrum will be lord of the land. I admire that
man; he is more than a barbarian, he knows the art of war. He shall
learn yet that Alfred is his match. We must part."
"Part?" said the thanes, looking at him in doubt. "Wherefore?"
"I must seek safety alone and in disguise. There are not enough of you
to help me; there are enough to betray me to suspicion. Go your ways,
good friends. Save yourselves. We will meet again before many weeks to
strike a blow for our country. But the time is not yet."
History speaks not from the depths of that woodland whither Alfred had
fled with his thanes. We cannot say if just these words were spoken, but
such was the purport of their discourse. They separated, the thanes and
their followers to seek their homes; Alfred, disguised as a peasant, to
thread field and forest on foot towards a place of retreat which he had
fixed upon in his mind. Not even to the faithfulest of his thanes did he
tell the secret of his abode. For the present it must be known to none
but himself.
Meanwhile, the cavalry of Guthrum were raiding the country far and wide.
Alfred had escaped, but England lay helpless in their grasp. News
travelled slowly in those days. Everywhere the Saxons first learned of
the war by hearing the battle-cry of the Danes. The land was overrun.
England seemed lost. Its only hope of safety lay in a man who would not
acknowledge defeat, a monarch who could bide his time.
The lonely journey of the king led him to the centre of Somersetshire.
Here, at the confluence of the Tone and the Parret, was a small island,
afterwards known as Ethelingay, or Prince's Island. Around it spread a
wide morass, little likely to be crossed by his pursuers. Here, still
disguised, the fugitive king sought a refuge from his foes.
For several months Alfred remained in this retreat, his place of refuge
during part of the time being in the hut of a swineherd; and thereupon
hangs a tale. Whether or not the worthy herdsman knew his king,
certainly the weighty secret was not known to his wife. One day, while
Alfred sat by the fire, his hands busy with his bow and arrows, his head
mayhap busy with plans against the Danes, the good woman of the house
was engaged in baking cakes on the hearth.
Having to leave the hut for a few minutes, she turned to her guest, and
curtly bade him watch the cakes, to see that they did not get overdone.
"Trust me for that," he said.
She left the room. The cakes smoked on the hearth, yet he saw them not.
The goodwife returned in a brief space, to find her guest buried in a
deep study, and her cakes burned to a cinder.
"What!" she cried, with an outburst of termagant spleen, "I warrant you
will be ready enough to eat them by-and-by, you idle dog! and yet you
cannot watch them burning under your very eyes."
What the king said in reply the tradition which has preserved this
pleasant tale fails to relate. Doubtless it needed some of the
swineherd's eloquence to induce his irate wife to bake a fresh supply
for their careless guest.
It had been Guthrum's main purpose, as we may be assured, in his rapid
ride to Chippenham, to seize the king. In this he had failed; but the
remainder of his project went successfully forward. Through Dorset,
Berkshire, Wilts, and Hampshire rode his men, forcing the people
everywhere to submit. The country was thinly settled, none knew the fate
of the king, resistance would have been destruction, they bent before
the storm, hoping by yielding to save their lives and some portion of
their property from the barbarian foe. Those near the coast crossed with
their families and movable effects to Gaul. Elsewhere submission was
general, except in Somersetshire, where alone a body of faithful
warriors, lurking in the woods, kept in arms against the invaders.
Alfred's secret could not yet be safely revealed. Guthrum had not given
over his search for him. Yet some of the more trusty of his subjects
were told where he might be found, and a small band joined him in his
morass-guarded isle. Gradually the news spread, and others sought the
isle of Ethelingay, until a well-armed and sturdy band of followers
surrounded the royal fugitive. This party must be fed. The island
yielded little subsistence. The king was obliged to make foraging raids
from his hiding-place. Now and then he met and defeated straggling
parties of Danes, taking from them their spoils. At other times, when
hard need pressed, he was forced to forage on his own subjects.
Day by day the news went wider through Saxon homes, and more warriors
sought their king. As the strength of his band increased, Alfred made
more frequent and successful forays. The Danes began to find that
resistance was not at an end. By Easter the king felt strong enough to
take a more decided action. He had a wooden bridge thrown from the
island to the shore, to facilitate the movements of his followers, while
at its entrance was built a fort, to protect the island party against a
Danish incursion.
Such was the state of Alfred's fortunes and of England's hopes in the
spring of 878. Three months before, all southern England, with the
exception of Gloucester and its surrounding lands, had been his. Now his
kingdom was a small island in the heart of a morass, his subjects a
lurking band of faithful warriors, his subsistence what could be wrested
from the strong hands of the foe.
While matters went thus in Somerset, a storm of war gathered in Wales.
Another of Ragnar's sons, Ubbo by name, had landed on the Welsh coast,
and, carrying everything before him, was marching inland to join his
victorious brother.
He was too strong for the Saxons of that quarter to make head against
him in the open field. Odun, the valiant ealderman who led them, fled,
with his thanes and their followers, to the castle of Kwineth, a
stronghold defended only by a loose wall of stones, in the Saxon
fashion. But the fortress occupied the summit of a lofty rock, and bade
defiance to assault. Ubbo saw this. He saw, also, that water must be
wanting on that steep rock. He pitched his tents at its foot, and waited
till thirst should compel a surrender of the garrison.
He was to find that it is not always wise to cut off the supplies of a
beleaguered foe. Despair aids courage. A day came in the siege in which
Odun, grown desperate, left his defences before dawn, glided silently
down the hill with his men, and fell so impetuously upon the Danish
host that the chief and twelve hundred of his followers were slain, and
the rest driven in panic to their ships. The camp, rich with the spoil
of Wales, fell into the victors' hands, while their trophies included
the great Raven standard of the Danes, said to have been woven in one
noontide by Ragnar's three daughters. This was a loss that presaged
defeat to the Danes, for they were superstitious concerning this
standard. If the raven appeared to flap its wings when going into
battle, victory seemed to them assured. If it hung motionless, defeat
was feared. Its loss must have been deemed fatal.
Tidings of this Saxon victory flew as if upon wings throughout England,
and everywhere infused new spirit into the hearts of the people, new
hope of recovering their country from the invading foe. To Alfred the
news brought a heart-tide of joy. The time for action was at hand.
Recruits came to him daily; fresh life was in his people; trusty
messengers from Ethelingay sought the thanes throughout the land, and
bade them, with their followers, to join the king at Egbert, on the
eastern border of Selwood forest, in the seventh week after Easter.
Guthrum, meanwhile, was not idle. The frequent raids in
mid-Somersetshire had taught him where his royal enemy might be found.
Action, immediate and decisive, was necessary, or Alfred would be again
in the field with a Saxon army, and the fruits of the successful
midwinter raid be lost. Messengers were sent in haste to call in the
scattered Danish bands, and a fortified camp was formed in a strong
place in the vicinity of Ethelingay, whence a concerted movement might
be made upon the lurking foe.
The time fixed for the gathering of the Saxon host was at hand. It was
of high importance that the numbers and disposition of the Danes should
be learned. The king, if we may trust tradition, now undertook an
adventure that has ever since been classed among the choicest treasures
of romance. The duty demanded was too important to trust to any doubtful
hands. Alfred determined himself to venture within the camp of the
Danes, observe how they were fortified and how arranged, and use this
vital information when the time for battle came.
The enterprise was less desperate than might seem. Alfred's form and
face were little known to his enemies. He was a skilful harper. The
glee-man in those days was a privileged person, allied to no party, free
to wander where he would, and to twang his harp-strings in any camp. He
might look for welcome from friend and foe.
Dressed in Danish garb, and bearing the minstrel's harp, the daring king
boldly sought and entered the camp of the invaders, his coming greeted
with joy by the Danish warriors, who loved martial music as they loved
war.
Songs of Danish prowess fell from the disguised minstrel's lips, to the
delight of his audience. In the end Guthrum and his chiefs heard report
of the coming of this skilled glee-man, and ordered that he should be
brought to the great tent, where they sat carousing, in hopeful
anticipation of coming victory.
Alfred, nothing loath, sought Guthrum's tent, where, with stirring songs
of the old heroes of their land, he flattered the ears of the chiefs,
who applauded him to the echo, and at times broke into wild refrains to
his warlike odes. All that passed we cannot say. The story is told by
tradition only, and tradition is not to be trusted for details.
Doubtless, when the royal spy slipped from the camp of his foes he bore
with him an accurate mind-picture of the numbers, the discipline, and
the arrangement of the Danish force, which would be of the highest value
in the coming fray.
Meanwhile, the Saxon hosts were gathering. When the day fixed by the
king arrived they were there: men from Hampshire, Wiltshire, Devonshire,
and Somerset; men in smaller numbers from other counties; all glad to
learn that England was on its feet again, all filled with joy to see
their king in the field. Their shouts filled the leafy alleys of the
forest, they hailed the king as the land's avenger, every heart beat
high with assurance of victory. Before night of the day of meeting the
woodland camp was overcrowded with armed men, and at dawn of the next
day Alfred led them to a place named Icglea, where, on the forest's
edge, a broad plain spread with a morass on its front. All day long
volunteers came to the camp; by night Alfred had an army in open field,
in place of the guerilla band with which, two days before, he had
lurked in the green aisles of Selwood forest, like a Robin Hood of an
earlier day, making the verdant depths of the greenwood dales his home.
At dawn of the next day the king marshalled his men in battle array, and
occupied the summit of Ethandune, a lofty eminence in the vicinity of
his camp. The Danes, fiery with barbaric valor, boldly advanced, and the
two armies met in fierce affray, shouting their war-cries, discharging
arrows and hurling javelins, and rushing like wolves of war to the
closer and more deadly hand-to-hand combat of sword and axe, of the
shock of the contending forces, the hopes and fears of victory and
defeat, the deeds of desperate valor, the mighty achievements of noted
chiefs, on that hard-fought field no Homer has sung, and they must
remain untold. All we know is that the Danes fought with desperate
valor, the English with a courage inspired by revenge, fear of slavery,
thirst for liberty, and the undaunted resolution of men whose every blow
was struck for home and fireside.
In the end patriotism prevailed over the baser instinct of piracy; the
Danes were defeated, and driven in tumultuous hosts to their intrenched
camp, falling in multitudes as they fled, for the incensed English laid
aside all thought of mercy in the hot fury of pursuit.
Only when within the shelter of his works was Guthrum able to make head
against his victorious foe. The camp seemed too strong to be taken by
assault, nor did Alfred care to immolate his men while a safer and surer
expedient remained. He had made himself fully familiar with its
formation, knew well its weak and strong points and its sparseness of
supplies, and without loss of time spread his forces round it, besieging
it so closely that not a Dane could escape. For fourteen days the siege
went on, Alfred's army, no doubt, daily increasing, that of his foe
wasting away before the ceaseless flight of arrows and javelins.
Guthrum was in despair. Famine threatened him. Escape was impossible.
Hardly a bird could have fled unseen through the English lines. At the
end of the fortnight he yielded, and asked for terms of surrender. The
war was at an end. England was saved.
In his moment of victory Alfred proved generous. He gave the Danes an
abiding-place upon English soil, on condition that they should dwell
there as his vassals. To this they were to bind themselves by oath and
the giving of hostages. Another condition was that Guthrum and his
leading chiefs should give up their pagan faith and embrace
Christianity.
To these terms the Danish leader acceded. A few weeks after the fight
Aubre, near Athelney, was the scene of the baptizing of Guthrum and
thirty of his chiefs. To his heathen title was added the Saxon name of
Athelstan, Alfred standing sponsor to the new convert to the Christian
faith. Eight days afterwards Guthrum laid off the white robe and
chrysmal fillet of his new faith, and in twelve days bade adieu to his
victorious foe, now, to all seeming, his dearest friend. What sum of
Christian faith the baptized heathen took with him to the new lands
assigned him it would be rash to say, but at all events he was removed
from the circle of England's foes.
The treaty of Wedmore freed southern England from the Danes. The shores
of Wessex were teased now and then by after-descents, but these
incursions were swept away like those of stinging hornets. In 894 a
fleet of three hundred ships invaded the realm, but they met a crushing
defeat. The king was given some leisure to pursue those studies to which
his mind so strongly inclined, and to carry forward measures for the
education of his people by the establishment of schools which, like
those of Charlemagne in France, vanished before he was fairly in the
grave. This noble knight died in 901, nearly a thousand years ago, after
having proved himself one of the ablest warriors and most advanced minds
that ever occupied the English throne.
_THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA._
Of all the many fair maidens of the Saxon realm none bore such fame for
beauty as the charming Elfrida, daughter of the earl of Devonshire, and
the rose of southern England. She had been educated in the country and
had never been seen in London, but the report of her charms of face and
person spread so widely that all the land became filled with the tale.
It soon reached the court and came to the ears of Edgar, the king, a
youthful monarch who had an open ear for all tales of maidenly beauty.
He was yet but little more than a boy, was unmarried, and a born lover.
The praises of this country charmer, therefore, stirred his susceptible
heart. She was nobly born, the heiress to an earldom, the very rose of
English maidens,--what better consort for the throne could be found? If
report spoke true, this was the maiden he should choose for wife, this
fairest flower of the Saxon realm. But rumor grows apace, and common
report is not to be trusted. Edgar thought it the part of discretion to
make sure of the beauty of the much-lauded Elfrida before making a
formal demand for her hand in marriage.
Devonshire was far away, roads few and poor in Saxon England, travel
slow and wearisome, and the king had no taste for the journey to the
castle of Olgar of Devon. Nor did he deem it wise to declare his
intention till he made sure that the maiden was to his liking. He,
therefore, spoke of his purpose to Earl Athelwold, his favorite, whom he
bade to pay a visit, on some pretence, to Earl Olgar of Devonshire, to
see his renowned daughter, and to bring to the court a certain account
concerning her beauty.
Athelwold went to Devonshire, saw the lady, and proved faithless to his
trust. Love made him a traitor, as it has made many before and since his
day. So marvellously beautiful he found Elfrida that his heart fell
prisoner to the most vehement love, a passion so ardent that it drove
all thoughts of honor and fidelity from his soul, and he determined to
have this charming lass of Devonshire for his own, despite king or
commons.
Athelwold's high station had secured him a warm welcome from his brother
earl. He acquitted himself of his pretended mission to Olgar, basked as
long as prudence permitted in the sunlight of his lady's eyes, and,
almost despite himself, made manifest to Elfrida the sudden passion that
had filled his soul. The maiden took it not amiss. Athelwold was young,
handsome, rich, and high in station, Elfrida susceptible and ambitious,
and he returned to London not without hope that he had favorably
impressed the lady's heart, and filled with the faithless purpose of
deceiving the king.
"You have seen and noted her, Athelwold," said Edgar, on giving him
audience; "what have you to say? Has report spoken truly? Is she indeed
the marvellous beauty that rumor tells, or has fame, the liar, played us
one of his old tricks?"
"Not altogether; the woman is not bad-looking," said Athelwold, with
studied lack of enthusiasm; "but I fear that high station and a pretty
face have combined to bewitch the people. Certainly, if she had been of
low birth, her charms would never have been heard of outside her native
village."
"I' faith, Athelwold, you are not warm in your praise of this queen of
beauty," said Edgar, with some disappointment. "Rumor, then, has lied,
and she is but an every-day woman, after all?"
"Beauty has a double origin," answered Athelwold; "it lies partly in the
face seen, partly in the eyes seeing. Some might go mad over this
Elfrida, but to my taste London affords fairer faces. I speak but for
myself. Should you see her you might think differently."
Athelwold had managed his story shrewdly; the king's ardor grew cold.
"If the matter stands thus, he that wants her may have her," said Edgar.
"The diamond that fails to show its lustre in all candles is not the gem
for my wearing. Confess, Athelwold, you are trying to overpaint this
woman; you found only an ordinary face."
"I saw nothing in it extraordinary," answered the faithless envoy. "Some
might, perhaps. I can only speak for myself. As I take it, Elfrida's
noble birth and her father's wealth, which will come to her as sole
heiress, have had their share in painting this rose. The woman may have
beauty enough for a countess; hardly enough for a queen."
"Then you should have wooed and won her yourself," said Edgar, laughing.
"Such a faintly-praised charmer is not for me. I leave her for a
lower-born lover."
Several days passed. Athelwold had succeeded in his purpose; the king
had evidently been cured of his fancy for Elfrida. The way was open for
the next step in his deftly-laid scheme. He took it by turning the
conversation, in a later interview, upon the Devon maiden.
"I have been thinking over your remark, that I should woo and win
Elfrida myself," he said. "It seems to me not a bad idea. I must confess
that the birth and fortune of the lady added no beauty to her in my
eyes, as it seems to have done in those of others; yet I cannot but
think that the woman would make a suitable match for me. She is an
earl's daughter, and she will inherit great wealth; these are advantages
which fairly compensate some lack of beauty. I have decided, therefore,
sire, if I can gain your approbation, to ask Olgar for his daughter's
hand. I fancy I can gain her consent if I have his."
"I shall certainly not stand in your way," said the king, pleased with
the opportunity to advance his favorite's fortunes. "By all means do as
you propose. I will give you letters to the earl and his lady,
recommending the match. You must trust to yourself to make your way with
the maiden."
"I think she is not quite displeased with me," answered Athelwold.
What followed few words may tell. The passion of love in Athelwold's
heart had driven out all considerations of honor and duty, of the good
faith he owed the king, and of the danger of his false and treacherous
course. Warm with hope, he returned with a lover's haste to Devonshire,
where he gained the approval of the earl and countess, won the hand and
seemingly the heart of their beautiful daughter, and was speedily united
to the lady of his love, and became for the time being the happiest man
in England.
But before the honey-moon was well over, the faithless friend and
subject realized that he had a difficult and dangerous part to play. He
did not dare let Edgar see his wife, for fear of the instant detection
of his artifice, and he employed every pretence to keep her in the
country. His duties at the court brought him frequently to London, but
with the skill at excuses he had formerly shown he contrived to satisfy
for the time the queries of the king and the importunities of his wife,
who had a natural desire to visit the capital and to shine at the king's
court.
Athelwold was sailing between Scylla and Charybdis. He could scarcely
escape being wrecked on the rocks of his own falsehood. The enemies who
always surround a royal favorite were not long in surmising the truth,
and lost no time in acquainting Edgar with their suspicions.
Confirmation was not wanting. There were those in London who had seen
Elfrida. The king's eyes were opened to the treacherous artifice of
which he had been made the victim.
Edgar was deeply incensed, but artfully concealed his anger. Reflection,
too, told him that these men were Athelwold's enemies, and that the man
he had loved and trusted ought not to be condemned on the insinuations
of his foes. He would satisfy himself if his favorite had played the
traitor, and if so would visit him with the punishment he deserved.
"Athelwold," said Edgar, in easy tones, "I am surprised you do not bring
your wife to court. Surely the woman, if she is true woman, must crave
to come."
"Not she," answered Athelwold. "She loves the country well and is a
pattern of the rural virtues. The woman is homely and home-loving, and I
should be sorry to put new ideas in her rustic pate. Moreover, I fear my
little candle would shine too poorly among your courtly stars to offer
her in contrast."
"Fie on you, man! the wife of Athelwold cannot be quite a milkmaid. If
you will not bring her here, then I must pay you a visit in your castle;
I like you too well not to know and like your wife."
This proposition of the king filled Athelwold with terror and dismay. He
grew pale, and hesitatingly sought to dissuade Edgar from his project,
but in vain. The king had made up his mind, and laughingly told him
that he could not rest till he had seen the homely housewife whom
Athelwold was afraid to trust in court.
"I feel the honor you would do me," at length remarked the dismayed
favorite. "I only ask, sire, that you let me go before you a few hours,
that my castle may be properly prepared for a visit from my king."
"As you will, gossip," laughed the king. "Away with you, then; I will
soon follow."
In all haste the traitor sought his castle, quaking with fear, and
revolving in his mind schemes for avoiding the threatened disclosure. He
could think of but one that promised success, and that depended on the
love and compliance of Elfrida. He had deceived her. He must tell her
the truth. With her aid his faithless action might still be concealed.
Entering his castle, he sought Elfrida and revealed to her the whole
measure of his deceit, how he had won her from the king, led by his
overpowering love, how he had kept her from the king's eyes, and how
Edgar now, filled, he feared, with suspicion, was on his way to the
castle to see her for himself.