Now whither I went for the next two hours I cannot tell, for my mind was
heedless of time or place or direction--only full of burning hate of
all men, and of Matelgar most of all. And though that has long passed
away from me, so that I may even think of him now as the pleasant
comrade in field and feast that he once was, I wonder not at all I then
felt; for this treachery had come on me so unawares, and was so deep.
Wherever it was I wandered it took me away from men, and at last, when I
roused myself to a knowledge again of the land round me, I was hard on
the borders of Sedgemoor Waste; and the sun was low down, and near setting.
Perhaps I had not roused even then; but it came into my mind that I was
followed, and that for some time past I had heard, as in a dream, the
noise of footsteps not far behind me. Now, since I was in the glade of a
little wood, a snapping stick broke the dream, and I started and turned.
Where I stood was in the shadow, but twenty paces from me a red, level
sunbeam came past the tree trunks, and made a bright patch of light on
the new growing grass beneath the half-clad branches. And, even as I
turned, into that patch of light came two of Matelgar's men, walking
swiftly, as if here at last they would overtake me. And, moreover, that
sunlight lit on drawn swords in their hands; so that in a moment I knew
that his hate followed me yet, and that for him the Moot had been too
merciful in not slaying me then and there, so that these were on that
errand for him.
Then all earth and sky grew red before my eyes, for here seemed to me
the beginning of my revenge; and before these two knew that I had
turned, out of the dim shadow I leapt upon them, silent, with that
quarterstaff aloft. Dazzled they were with the sunlight, and thinking
least of all of my turning thus swiftly, if at all. And I was as one of
the Berserks of whom men spoke--caring not for death if only I might
slay one of those who had wrought me wrong.
Into the face of that one to the left flew the iron-shod end of the
heavy staff and he fell; and as the other gave back a pace, I whirled it
round to strike his head. He raised his sword to guard the blow, and
that fell in shivers as I smote it. Then a second blow laid him across
his comrade, senseless.
Then I stood over them and rejoiced; and part of my anger and shame
seemed to pass into the lust of revenge begun well. I knew the men as
two of Matelgar's housecarles, and that made it the sweeter to see them
lie thus helpless before me.
I knew not if they were dead yet, but I would make sure. So I leaned my
staff against a tree, and drew the sharp seax from my belt.
Then came into my mind the words of my father, who would ever tell me
that he is basest who would slay an unarmed foe, or smite a fallen man;
and hastily I put back the seax again, lest I should be tempted to
become base as men had said I was; for I hold treachery to be of the
same nature as that of which my father warned me.
I took back my staff and leant on it, thinking, and looking at those
men. They were the first I had ever met in earnest, and this was the
first proof of the skill in arms my father had spent long years in
giving me. So there crept over me a pride that I had met two and
overcome them--and I unarmed, as we count it, against mail-clad men.
Then I thought that Herewulf, my father, would be proud of me could he
see this.
And then, instantly, the shame of what had led to this swallowed up all
my pride; and with that thought of my father's loved and honoured name,
my hard heart was broken, and I leant my head against a tree, and wept
bitterly.
One of the men stirred, and I sprang round hurriedly. It was the second
man, whose sword I had broken. He had been but stunned, and now sat up
as one barely awake, and unaware of what had happened. I might not slay
him now, but quick as I could I took off my own broad leather belt and
pinioned him from behind. He was yet too dazed to resist. And then I
took his dagger from him, and bound his feet with his own belt, dragging
him away from his comrade, and setting him against a tree. There he sat,
blinking at me, but becoming more himself quickly.
Then I looked at the other man. He was dead, for the end of the
quarterstaff had driven in his forehead, so madly had I struck at him
with all my weight.
And now, seeing that I was cooler and might think more clearly, it
seemed to me that it would be bitter to Matelgar that out of his wish to
destroy me should come help to myself. I needed arms, and now I had but
to take them from his own armoury, as it were. Well armed were all his
housecarles, and this one I had slain was their captain, and his byrnie
of linked mail was of the best Sussex steel, and his helm was crested
with a golden boar, with linked mail tippet hanging to protect the neck.
And his sword--but as my eyes fell on that my heart gave a great leap
of joy--for it was my own! Mine, too, was the baldric from which it
hung, and mine was the seax that balanced it, close to the right hand in
the belt.
As I saw that I began to know more of the plans of Matelgar--for it
must be that my hall and all my goods had fallen into his hands, and
this was the reward his head man had asked and been given.
And now I minded that this man had been one of those who gave evidence
of my lonely rides and secret meetings. So he had been bought thus, for
my sword was a good one, and the hilt curiously wrought in ivory and
silver.
Then I made no more delay, but stripped the man of his armour, and also
of the stout leathern jerkin he wore beneath it, for I was clad in the
rags of feasting garb, as I have said, and hated them even as I threw
them aside. The man was of my own height and build, as it chanced, and
his gear fitted me well. So I took his hide shoes also, casting away my
frayed velvet foot coverings into the underwood.
Now once more I stood clad in the arms of a free man and how good it was
to feel again the well known and loved weight of mail, and helm, and
sword tugging at me I cannot say. But this I know, that, like the strong
man of old our old priest told me of, as I shook myself, my strength and
manhood came back to me.
But now, whereas I had been haled from my feasting a careless boy, and
had stood before my judges as an angry man, as I look back, I see that
from that arming I rose up a grim and desperate warrior with wrongs to
right, and the will and strength to right them.
So I stood for a little, and the savage thoughts that went through my
mind I may not write. Then I turned to my captive and looked at him,
though I thought nothing concerning him. But what he saw written in my
face as it glowered on him from under the helmet bade him cry aloud to
me to spare him.
And at that I laughed. It was so good to feel that this enemy of mine
feared me. At that laugh--and it sounded not like my own, even to
myself--the man writhed, and besought me again for mercy. But I had no
mind to kill him, and a thought crossed me.
"Matelgar bade you slay me," I said, "that I know. Tell me why he has
sought my life and I will spare you."
"Master," said the man hastily, "I knew not whom I was to slay. Matelgar
bade me follow Gurth yonder, and smite whom he smote."
"It would have mattered not--you would have slain me as well as any
other."
"Nay, master," the man said earnestly, "that would I not."
"You lie," I answered curtly enough; "like master like man. Tell me what
I bade you."
"Truly I lie not, Heregar," cried he, "for I love my mistress over well
to harm you."
Now at that mention of Alswythe the blood rushed into my face, for I had
held her false with the rest, and this seemed to say otherwise, unless
the plot had been hidden from such as this man. But I would fain learn
more of that, for the sake of the hope of a love I had thought true.
"What is your mistress to me?" I asked. "Ye are all alike."
I think the man could see well at what I aimed, for he spoke of the Lady
Alswythe more freely than he would have dared at other times, nor would
I have let him name her lightly.
"Our mistress has gone sadly since the day you were taken, master; even
asking me to tell her, if I could, where you were kept, thinking me one
of those who guarded you, mayhap. But I knew not till today what had
chanced to you. Men may know well from such tokens what is amiss."
Hearing that, my heart lightened within me, for I saw that the man spoke
truth. However, I would not speak more of this to such as he, and I bade
him cease his prating, and answer plainly my first question, laying my
hand on my seax as if to draw it.
"Gurth could have told you; master," he cried, "but he is dead. Matelgar
held no counsel with me. I can but tell you what the talk is among the
men."
"Tell it."
"Because Matelgar had taken charge, as he said, of your lands while you
were away, and knowing well that in your taking he had had some hand,
men say it is to get possession thereof; and the women say that, while
you were near, the Lady Alswythe would marry no other, so that he had
had you removed."
The first I had guessed by the token of the sword that I had regained.
That last was sweet to hear.
"Go on," I said. "How came Matelgar to have power to hold my lands?"
"There came one from the king, after you were taken, giving him papers
with a great seal thereon, and these he read aloud in your hall, showing
the king's own hand at the end. So men bowed thereto, and all your men
he drove out if they would not serve him, and few remained. The rest
have taken service elsewhere if they were free."
So Matelgar was in possession, and now would be confirmed in the same.
What mattered that to an outlaw? But I could have borne anything better
than to think of him sitting in my place as reward for his treachery.
This was evidence of weakness, however, in his case, that he should have
tried to have me slain.
Now I had learnt all I needed, and more, in the one thing next my heart,
than I hoped, if that were true--for still I could not but doubt the
faith of all. Only one thing more I would ask, and that was if Matelgar
bided in his own or my hall. The man told me that he kept in his own place.
"Now," said I, "I had a mind to leave you bound here for the wolves, but
you shall take a message to your master."
On that the man swore to do my bidding, or, if I would, to follow me.
"Save your oaths," I said. "I have heard a many today, and I hold them
as nothing. Take these cast rags of mine, and bear them back to your
master. Give them to him, and then say to him whatsoever you will--
either that you have slain me and these are the tokens, but that Gurth
was by me slain, and you must leave him and his arms here because of the
wolves which you feared; or else you can tell him the truth, as it has
happened, and see what he does to you. I mind how he hung up a thrall of
his by the thumbs once for two days. He will surely take good care of
one of two who were beaten by an unarmed man. But I think the lie will
come easiest to your master's man."
Thus spoke I bitterly, and cut the belt which bound the man's arms,
thinking all the while that he would never go back at all if he were
wise. But he said he would go back and tell the lie, and I laughed at him.
It was dusk now, and though I feared not the man, I would play with him
yet a little longer in my bitterness. So I bade him keep still, and stir
not till I gave him leave. His feet were yet bound, and he would need an
edge-tool to loose that binding. Telling him, then, that I would not run
the chance of his falling on me from behind, I took his dagger and the
seax they had given me, and stuck them in the ground a full hundred
yards away, and then bade him, when I was out of sight, crawl thither as
best he might and so loose himself.
The poor wretch was too glad to be spared to do aught but repeat that he
would do my errand faithfully, and thank me; and, but for the sort of
madness that was still on me, I must have been ashamed to torture him
so. I am sorry now as I think of it, and many a man who has well
deserved punishment have I let go since that day, fearing lest that old
cruelty should be on me again, perhaps.
Then I turned and walked away, and even as I passed the weapons, I heard
the low howl of a wolf from the swamp to my right. Far off it was, but
at that sound the man cast himself on hands and knees and began to crawl
in all haste to free himself.
Then I laughed again, and plunging deeper into the wood, lost sight of him.
CHAPTER III. BY BELL, BOOK, AND CANDLE.
I had never been into Sedgemoor before, and so went straight on as I
could, only turning aside from swampy places while the light lasted.
Then I must wait for the moon to rise, and I sat me down under an old
thorn tree on a little rise where I could see about me. I had come out
of the woods, and all the moor was open to the west and south so far as
I could see. I knew that the place was haunted of evil spirits, and
shunned at night time by all: but now I was not afraid of them--or
indeed of anything, save the wolves. The terror of the man I had left
had put that fear into my head, or I think that, desperate as I was,
only the sound of a pack of them in full cry would have warned me.
Still, I had heard no more since that one howled an hour ago.
Cold mists rose from the marsh, and in them I could see lights flitting.
A month or two ago I should have feared them, thinking of Beowulf, son
of Hygelac, and what befell him and his comrades from the marsh fiends,
Grendel and his dam. Now I watched them, and half longed for a fight
like Beowulf's. [iv]
At last the moon rose behind me, and I walked on. Once a vast shape rose
up in the mist and walked beside me, and I half drew my sword on it. But
that, too, drew sword, and I knew it for my own shadow on the thick
vapour. Then a sheet of water stretched out almost under my feet, and
thousands of wildfowl rose and fled noisily, to fall again into further
pools with splash and mighty clatter. I must skirt this pool, and so
came presently to a thicket of reeds, shoulder high, and out of these
rose, looking larger than natural in the moonlight, a great wild boar
that had his lair there, and stood staring at me before he too made off,
grunting as he went.
So I went on aimless. The night was full of sounds, but whether earthly;
from wildfowl and bittern and curlew, from fox, and badger, and otter;
or from the evil spirits of the marsh, I knew not nor cared. For now the
long imprisonment and the day's terrible doings, and the little food I
had had since we halted on the hill of Brent, all began to get hold of
me, and I stumbled on as a man in a bad dream.
But nothing harmed or offered to harm me. Only when some root or twisted
tussock of grass would catch my foot and hinder me I cursed it for being
in league with Matelgar, tearing my way fiercely over or through it. And
at last, I think, my mind wandered.
Then I saw a red light that glowed close under the edge of some thick
woodland, where the land rose, and that drew me. It was the hut of a
charcoal burner, and the light came from the kiln close by, which was
open, and the man himself was standing at it, even now taking out a
glowing heap of the coal to cool, before he piled in fresh wood and
closed it for the night.
When I saw the hut, it suddenly came on me that I was wearied out, and
must sleep, and so went thither. The collier heard the clank of my
armour, and turned round in the crimson light of the glowing coals to
see what came. As he saw me standing he cried aloud in terror, and,
throwing up his hands, fled into the dark beyond the kiln, calling on
the saints to protect him.
For a moment I wondered that he should thus fly me; but I staggered to
his hut, and I remember seeing his rush-made bed, and that is all.
When I woke again, at first I thought myself back in the dungeon, and
groaned, but would not open my eyes. But I turned uneasily, and then a
small voice spoke, saying:
"Ho, Grendel! are you awake?"
I sat up and looked round. Then I knew where I was--but I had slept a
great sleep, for out of the open door I saw the Quantock hills, blue
across the moor, and the sun shone in almost level. It was late afternoon.
I looked for him who had spoken, and at first could see no one, for the
sun shone in my face: but something stirred in a corner, and I looked
there.
It was a small sturdy boy of some ten years old, red haired, and
freckled all over where his woollen jerkin and leather hose did not
cover him. He sat on a stool and stared at me with round eyes.
I stared back at him for a minute, and then, from habit, for I would
always play with children, made a wry face at him, at which he smiled,
pleased enough, and said:
"Spit fire, good Grendel, I want to see."
Now I was glad to be kept off my own fierce thoughts for a little, and
so answered him back, wondering at the name he gave me, and at his request.
"So--I am Grendel, am I?"
"Aye," said the urchin, "Dudda Collier ran into village in the night,
saying that you had come out of the fen, all fire from head to foot, and
so he fled. But I came to see."
"Where is the collier then?"
"He dare not come back, he says, without the priest, and has gone to get
the hermit. So the other folk bided till he came too."
"Were not you afraid of me?"
"Maybe I was feared at first--but I would see you spit fire before the
holy man drives you away. So I looked in through a crack, and saw you
asleep. Then I feared not, and bided your waking for a little time."
"What is your name, brave urchin?' I asked, for I was pleased with the
child and his fearlessness.
"Turkil," he said.
"Well, Turkil--I am not Grendel. He fled when I came in here."
"Did you beat him?" asked the boy, with a sort of disappointment.
"Nay; but he disappeared when the hot coals went out," I said. "And now
I am hungry, can you find me aught to eat?" and, indeed, rested as I was
with the long sleep, I had waked sound in mind and body again, and
longed for food, and I think that finding this strange child here to
turn my thoughts into a wholesome channel, when first they began to stir
in me, was a mercy that I must ever be thankful for.
Turkil got up solemnly and went to the hearth. Thence he took an iron
cauldron, and hoisted it on the great round of tree trunk that served as
table in the midst of the hut.
"Dudda Collier left his supper when he fled. Wherefore if we eat it he
will think Grendel got it--and no blame to us," remarked the boy,
chuckling.
And when I thought how I had not a copper sceatta left me in the world,
I stopped before saying that I would pay him when he returned, and so
laughed back at the boy and fell to.
When we had finished, the cauldron, which had been full of roe deer
venison, was empty, and Turkil and I laughed at one another over it.
"Grendel or no Grendel," said the urchin, "Dudda will ask nought of his
supper."
"Why not?"
"By reason of what it was made of."
Then I remembered that a thrall might by no means slay the deer, and
that he would surely be in fear when he knew that one had found him out.
So I said to the boy:
"Grendel ate it, doubtless. Nor you nor I know what was in the honest
man's pot."
Turkil was ready to meet me in this matter, and looking roguishly at me,
gathered up the bones and put them into the kilns.
"Now must I go home," he said, when this was done, "or I shall be
beaten. But I would I had seen Grendel--though I love warriors armed
like you."
"Verily, Turkil, my friend," said I, "a stout warrior will you be if you
go on as you have begun."
Thereupon something stirred within me, as it were, and I took the urchin
and kissed him, for I had never thought to call one "friend" again.
Then I feared to let him go from me, lest the thoughts of yesterday
should come back, as I knew they would, did I give way to them. So I
told him to bide here with me till the village people came to drive away
Grendel, and that I would make all right for him.
Then we went out of the little hut, and sat on the logs of timber, and
he told me tales of the wood and stream and meres to which I must answer
now and then, while I pondered over what I must do and where betake myself.
My outlawry would not be known till the people had got home from Brent,
and then but by hearsay, till the sheriff's men had proclaimed me in the
townships.
This place, too, where a man could slay roe deer fearless of discovery,
must be far from notice, and I would bide here this next night, and so
make my plans well, and grow fully rested. But always, whatever I
thought, was revenge on Matelgar uppermost.
Now Turkil would see my sword, and then my seax, and try my helm on his
head, laughing when it covered his eyes, and I had almost bade him come
to my hall at Cannington and there try the little weapons I had when I
was his size, so much his ways took from me the thought of my trouble.
But that slip brought it all back again, and for a time I waxed moody,
so that the child was silent, finding no answer to his prattle, and at
last leant against me and slept. Presently, I leaned back and slept too,
in the warm sun.
I woke with the sound of chanting in my ears, and the ringing of a
little bell somewhere in the wood; but Turkil slept on, and I would not
stir to wake him, sitting still and wondering.
Then out of the wood came towards the hut a little procession, and when
I saw it I knew that I, as Grendel, was to be exorcised. But though I
thought not of it, exorcism there had been already, and that of my evil
spirit of yesterday, by the fearless hand of--a little child.
There came first an old priest, fully vested, bearing a great service
book in one hand, and in the other a crucifix, and reading as he went,
but in Latin, so that I could not know what he read. And on either side
of him were two youths, also vested, one bearing a great candle that
flared and guttered in the wind, and the other a bell, which now and
then he rang when the old priest ceased reading between the verses.
After these came the villagers. I saw the collier among the first, and
his knees shook as he walked. Then some of the men were armed with bills
and short swords, and a few with bows. All, I think, had staves. After
them came some women, and I saw one who wept, looking about her eagerly.
They did not see me, for the timber pile was next the kiln and a little
behind it; so that before they got near I was shut out from view for a
time.
While they were thus hidden from me, they stopped and began to chant
again, priest and people in turn. After that had gone on for a little
time, Turkil woke and sat up, but I bade him in a whisper to be silent,
and putting his finger in his mouth he obeyed, wide eyed.
Then the little bell gave a note or two, and the reading began, so near
that I could hear the words, or seem to remember them as I know now what
they were.
"Adjuro te maleficum Grendel vocatum diabolum--"
So far had the priest got when they turned the corner of the house, and
I stood up. There came a shout from the men, and the exorcism went no
further, for the old priest saw at once, as it seemed, that I was but a
mortal. Not so some of his train, for several turned to fly, sorely
fearing that the wrestle between the powers spiritual had begun, and, as
one might think, lacking faith in their own side, for they showed little.
But Grendel or no Grendel, there was one who thought not of her own
safety. That woman whom I had seen weeping gave a great cry and rushed
at me, seizing my little comrade from my arms, for I had lifted him as I
stood, and covering him with kisses, chided him and petted at the same
time.
It was his mother, who hearing that her darling had wandered away from
his playmates with the intention of "seeing Grendel" as he avowed, had
dared to join the rest to learn what had been his end.
The old priest looked on this with something of a smile, and then turned
to his people saying:
"Doubtless the fiend has fled, or this warrior and the child had not
been here. Search, my children, and see if there be traces left of his
presence, and I will speak to the stranger."
They scattered about the place in groups, for they yet feared to be
alone, and the priest came up to me, scanning my arms as he did so, to
guess my rank. My handsome sword and belt seemed to decide him, for
though the armour and helm were plain, they were good enough for any
thane who meant them for hard wear and not for show.
"Sir," he said, very courteously but without any servility, "I see you
are a stranger, and you meet me on a strange errand. I am the priest
whom they call the hermit, Leofwine--should I name you thane?"
I was going to answer him as I would have replied but yesterday morning
--so hesitated a little, and then answered shortly.
"No thane, Father, but the next thing to it--a masterless man."
"As you will, sir," he replied, thinking that I doubtless had my own
reason for withholding whatever rank I had. "We meet few strangers in
this wild."
"I lost my way, Father," I said, "and wandered here in the night, and,
being sorely weary, slept in this empty hut till two hours ago, waking
to find yon child here."
Now little Turkil, seeing that I looked towards him, got free from his
mother and ran to me, saying that he must go home, and that I must speak
for him, as his mother was wroth with him for playing truant.
The woman, who seemed to be the wife of some well-to-do freeman,
followed him, and I spoke to her, begging her to forgive the boy, as he
had been a pleasant comrade to me, and that, indeed, I had kept him, as
he said some folk were coming from the village.
Whereon she thanked me for tending him, saying that she had feared the
foul fiend whom the collier had seen would surely have devoured him. So
I pleased her by saying that a boy who would face such a monster now
would surely grow up a valiant man. Then Turkil must kiss me in going,
bidding me come and see him again, and I knew not how to escape
promising that, though it was a poor promise that could not be kept,
seeing that I must fly the kingdom of Wessex as soon as I might. Then
his mother took him away, he looking back often at me. With them went
the most of the people, some wondering, but the greater part laughing at
Dudda Collier's fright.
I asked the old priest where the village might be, and he told me that
it lay in a clearing full two miles off, and that the father of Turkil
was the chief franklin there, though of little account elsewhere. He had
not yet come back from the great Moot at Brent, and that was good
hearing for me, for though he must return next day, I should be far by
that time.
While we talked, the collier and two or three men came to us, telling
excitedly how that the kiln was raked out, and that the cauldron was
empty--doubtless the work of the fiend.
"Saw you aught of any fiend, good sir?" asked the priest of me.
Now I remembered the roe deer in time, and answered, "I saw nought worse
than myself"--but I think that, had the collier known my thoughts, he
would have fled me as he fled that he took me for. But that he was sore
terrified I have no doubt, for it seemed that he neither recognized me,
nor remembered what he was doing at the kiln when I came. Maybe, as
often happens, he had told some wild story to so many that he believed
it himself.
"Then, my sons," said the hermit, "the fiend finding Dudda no prey of
his, departed straightway, and he need fear no more."
However, they would have him sprinkle all the place with holy water,
repeating the proper prayers the while, which he did willingly, knowing
the fears of his people, and gladly trying to put them to rest.
Then the collier begged one after another to bide with him that night,
but all refused, having other things to be done which they said might
not he foregone. It was plain that they dared not stay; but this seemed
to be my chance.
The men had many times looked hard at me, but as I was speaking with the
priest, dared not question me as they would. So having seen this, I said:
"I am a stranger from beyond the Mendips, and lost my way last night
coming back from Brent. Glad should I be of lodging here tonight, and
guidance on the morrow, for it is over late for me to be on my way now."
That pleased the collier well enough, and he said he would take me in,
and guide me where I would go next day. The other men wanted to ask me
news of the Moot, but I put them off, saying that I had not sat thereon,
but had passed there on my way from Sherborne. So they were content, and
asking the hermit for his blessing, they went their way.
Then the old priest took off the vestments which were over his brown
hermit garb, and giving them to the youths who had acted as his acolytes
bade them depart also, having given them some directions, and so we
three, the hermit, collier, and myself, were left alone by the hut.
The hermit bade the collier leave us, and he, evidently holding the old
man in high veneration, bowed awkwardly, and went to fill and relight
his kiln fires.
And then the old priest spoke to me.
"Sir, I was brought here, as you see, to drive away an evil spirit,
which this poor thrall said had appeared to him last night, and from
which he fled. Now all men know that these fens are haunted by fiends,
even as holy Guthlac found in the land of the Gyrwa's, [v] being sorely
troubled by them. But I have seen none, though I dwell in this fen much
as he dwelt, though none so worthy, or maybe worth troubling as he.
Know you what he saw? for I seem to see that your coming has to do with
this--" and the old man smiled a little.
Then I told him how I had come unexpectedly into the firelight, and that
the man had fled, adding that I was nigh worn out, and so, finding a
resting place, slept without heeding him; and then how little Turkil had
called me "Grendel", bidding me "spit fire for him to see".
At that the old man laughed a hearty laugh, looking sidewise to see that
Dudda was at work and unheeding.
"Verily," he said, "it is as I deemed, but with more reason for the
collier to fly than I had thought--for truly mail-clad men are never
seen here, and thy face, my son, is of the grimmest, for all you are so
young. I marvel Turkil feared you not--but children see below the
outward mask of a man's face."
Now as he said that, the old man looked kindly, but searchingly, at me,
and I rebelled against it: but he was so saintly looking that I might
not be angry, so tried to turn it off.
"Turkil the Valiant called me Grendel, Father. Also I think you came out
to exorcise the same by name, for I heard it in the Latin. But that was
a heathen fiend."
The hermit sighed a little and answered me.
"They sing the song of Beowulf and love it, heathen though it be, better
than aught else, and will till one rises up who will turn Holy Writ into
their mother tongue, as Caedmon did for Northumbria. Howbeit, doubtless
those who were fiends in the days of the false gods are fiends yet, and
if Grendel then, so also Grendel now, though he may have many other
names. And knowing that name from their songs, small wonder that the
terror that came from the marsh must needs be he. And, no doubt," went
on the good priest, though with a little twinkle in his eye, "he knew
well enough whom I came to exorcise, even if the name were wrong, had he
indeed been visibly here."
So he spoke: but my mind was wandering away to my own trouble; and when
I spoke of Sherborne just now, the thought of Bishop Ealhstan and his
words had come to me, and I wondered if I would tell my troubles to this
old man as he bade me. But, though to think of it showed that I was
again more myself, something of yesterday's bitterness rose up again as
the scene at the Moot came back, and I would not.
The priest was silent for a while, and must have watched my face as
these thoughts hardened it again.
"Be not wroth with an old man, my son," he said, very gently; "but there
is some trouble on your mind, as one who has watched the faces of men as
long as I may well see. And it is bitter trouble, I fear. Sometimes
these troubles pass a little, by being told."
The kind words softened me somewhat, and I answered him quietly:
"Aye, Father--there is trouble, but not to be told. I will take myself
and it away in the morning, and so bear it by myself."
He looked wistfully at me as one who fain would help another, saying:
"Other men's troubles press lightly on such as I, my son, save that they
add to my prayers."
And I was half-minded to tell him all and seek his counsel: but I would
not. Still, I would answer him, and so feigning cheerfulness, said:
"One trouble, Father, I fear you cannot help me in. I have nought
wherewith to reward this honest man for lodging and guidance--nor for
playing Grendel on him, and eating his food to boot."
"Surely you have honest hands by whom to send him somewhat? or he will
lead you to friends who will willingly lend to you?"
And I had neither. I, who but a few weeks ago could have commanded both
by scores--and now none might aid me. None might call me friend--I
was alone. These words brought it home to me more clearly than before,
and the loneliness of it sank into my heart, and my pride fled, and I
told the good man all, looking to see him shrink from me.
But he did not, hearing me patiently to the end. I think if he had
shrunk from me, the telling had left me worse than when I kept it hid
from him.
When I ended, he laid his hand on my shoulder--even as the bishop had
laid his, and said:
"Vengeance is mine. I will repay, saith the Lord."
And I, who had never heard those words before, thought them a promise
sent by the mouth of this prophet, as it were, to me, and wondered. Then
he went on:
"Surely, my son, I believe you to be true, and that you suffer
wrongfully, for never one who would lie told the evil of himself as you
have told me. Foolish you have been, indeed, as is the way of youth, but
disloyal you were not."
I was silent, and waited for him to speak such words again. And he, too,
was silent for a little, looking out over the marsh, and rocking himself
to and fro as he sat on the tree trunk beside me.
"Watching and praying and fasting alone, there has been given me some
little gift of prophecy, my son; now and then it comes, but never with
light cause. And now I will say what is given me to say. Cast out you
are from the Wessex land, but before long Wessex shall be beholden to
you. Not long shall Matelgar, the treacherous, hold your place--but
you shall be in honour again of all men. Only must you forego your
vengeance and leave that to the hand of the Lord, who repays."
"What must I do now, Father?" I asked, in a low voice.
"Go your own way, my son, and, as you were bidden, depart from this
kingdom as you will and whither; and what shall be, shall be. Fighting
there is for you, both within and without: but the battle within will be
the sorest: for I know that the longing for revenge will abide with you,
and that is hard to overcome. Yet remember the message of forbearance."
Then I cried out that I must surely be revenged and the good man strove
with me with many and sweet words, till he had quieted the thought
within me again. Yet I longed for it.
So we talked till the sun sank, and he must go ere darkness fell. But at
last he bade me kneel, and I knelt, who had thought in my pride never to
humble myself before mortal man again, till one dealt me my death blow
and I needs must fall before him.
So he blessed me and departed, bidding me remember that at sunrise and
midday and sunset, Leofwine, the priest, and Turkil, the child, should
remember me in their prayers. And, for he was very thoughtful, he told
me that he would take such order with the collier that he would ask
nought from me, nor must I offer him anything, save thanks. And he spoke
to him in going.
I watched him go till I could see him no more, and then, calling my
host, supped with him, and slept peacefully till the first morning light.