CHAPTER II. "ALFGAR, SON OF ANLAF."
CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF ST. BRICE.
CHAPTER IV. THE DANES IN WESSEX.
CHAPTER V. THE TRACKS IN THE FOREST.
CHAPTER VI. THROUGH SUFFERING TO GLORY.
CHAPTER VII. FATHER AND SON.
CHAPTER VIII. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY.
CHAPTER IX. THE CAMP OF THE DANES.
CHAPTER X. CARISBROOKE IN THE ELEVENTH CENTURY.
CHAPTER XI. THE GLEEMAN.
CHAPTER XII. THE MONASTERY OF ABINGDON.
CHAPTER XIII. THE CITY OF DORCHESTER.
CHAPTER XIV. THE SON AND THE FAVOURITE.
CHAPTER XV. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY AT CLIFFTON.
CHAPTER XVI. THE FEAST OF CHRISTMAS.
CHAPTER XVII. FOR HEARTH AND HOME.
CHAPTER XVIII. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY.
CHAPTER XIX. THE ROYAL DEATHBED.
CHAPTER XX. THE MIDNIGHT FLIGHT.
CHAPTER XXI. EDMUND AND CANUTE.
CHAPTER XXII. SMOOTHER THAN OIL.
CHAPTER XXIII. WHO HATH DONE THIS DEED?
CHAPTER XXIV. THE ORDEAL.
CHAPTER XXV. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY.
PREFACE.
The tale now presented to the indulgence of the public is the second
of a series of tales, each complete in itself, which, as stated in the
preface to the first of the series, have been told to the senior boys
of a large school, in order to secure their interest in historical
characters, and to illustrate great epochs in human affairs by the aid
of fiction.
Yet the Author has distinctly felt that fiction must always, in such
cases, be subordinate to truth, and that it is only legitimately used
as a vehicle of instruction when it fills up the gaps in the outline,
without contradicting them in any respect, or interfering with their
due order and sequence.
Therefore he has attempted in every instance to consult such original
authorities as lay within his reach, and has done his best to present
an honest picture of the times.
The period selected on the present occasion is full of the deepest
interest. The English and the Danish invaders of their soil were
struggling desperately for the possession of England--a struggle
aggravated by religious bitterness, and by the sanguinary nature of
the Danish creed.
The reign of Ethelred the Unready, from his accession, after the
murder of his innocent brother, until the scene depicted in the
nineteenth chapter of the tale, was a tragedy ever deepening. Its
details will seem dark enough as read herein, but how utterly dark
they were can only be appreciated by those who study the contemporary
annals. Many facts therein given have been rejected by the Author as
too harrowing in their nature; and he has preferred to render the
contemplation of woe and suffering less painful, by a display of those
virtues of patience, resignation, and brave submission to the Divine
will, which affliction never fails to bring out in the fold of Christ,
whose promise stands ever fast, that the strength of His people shall
be equal to their needs.
With the death of the unhappy king, and the accession of his brave but
unfortunate son, the whole character of the history changes.
Englishmen are henceforth at least a match for their oppressors, and
the result of the long contest is the conversion of their foes to
Christianity, their king setting the example, and the union of the two
races--not the submission of one to the other. The Danish element had
been received into the English nation to join in moulding the future
national character--to add its own special virtues to the typical
Englishman of the future.
One more rude shock had yet to be sustained before the alloy of
foreign blood was complete--the Norman Conquest. This is the subject
of the Third Story of Aescendune, which has yet to be written.
One character in the tale has always puzzled historians--a character,
so far as the author knows, absolutely without redeeming trait--Edric
Streorn. It is well said that no man is utterly bad, and perhaps he
possessed domestic virtues which were thought unworthy of the
attention of the chroniclers; but as they picture him--now prompting
Ethelred to deeds of treachery against the Danes, now joining those
Danes themselves, and surpassing them in cruelty--now seeking
pretended reconciliation, only to betray his foe more surely, and in
all this aided and supported by the weak, unprincipled king--as thus
pictured there is scarcely a blacker character in history.
But more incomprehensible than the existence of so bad a man in such a
dark age is the renewed confidence ever accorded him, when, after more
than once betraying the armies of his country into the hands of their
foes, and fighting openly in the hostile cause, he is again forgiven,
nay, received into favour, and sent once more to command the men he
has already deceived, until he repeats the experiment, and when it
fails is again admitted into confidence.
To some extent the Author has endeavoured to find possible solutions
of the mystery, but mystery it will remain until the day when all
secrets are known.
The death of this unhappy man is taken, in all its main details, from
a comparison of the chroniclers, as are also all the chief historical
events herein noted.
An objection has been raised to the modern English in which the Author
has made his characters speak. He can only say in reply that the
Anglo-Saxon in which they really expressed themselves would be
unintelligible to all but the few who have made the study of our
ancient tongue their pursuit--far more unintelligible to those of
ordinary education than Latin or French. Therefore it would be mere
affectation to copy the later orthography of Chaucer, or to interlard
one's sentences with obsolete words. The only course seems to be a
fair translation of the vernacular of the period of the tale into our
own everyday English. The Author anticipated this objection in the
preface to his earlier volume. He repeats his answer for those who may
not have seen the former book. A similar rule has guided him in the
orthography of proper names; he has used the customary Latinised
forms.
In his descriptions of Dorchester and Abingdon he has been aided by
the kind information received from the present vicar of the
magnificent Abbey Church, still existing in the former ancient town,
and by the extensive information contained in the Chronicle of the
Abbey of Abingdon, edited by the Rev. Joseph Stevenson, M.A. He has
also to express his obligations to his friend Mr. Charles Walker,
editor of the "Liturgy of the Church of Sarum," for valuable
assistance in monastic lore.
The moral aim of the tale has been to depict the mental difficulties
which our heathen forefathers had severally to encounter ere they
could embrace Christianity--difficulties chiefly arising from the
inconsistencies of Christians--and to set forth the example of one
who, having found the "pearl of great price," sold all he had and
bought it, forsaking all that could appeal to the imagination of a
warlike youth--"choosing rather to suffer affliction with the people
of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season."
Yet his Christianity, like that of all other characters in the tale,
is that of their age, not of ours, and men will differ as to its
comparative merits. "Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much
be required."
The author dedicates this tale to his brother, engaged, like himself,
in that most responsible task, the education of youth, in memory of
those happy days when they pored together in rapturous delight over
old legend or romantic lore in their father's home at that very
Clifton (now Clifton Hampden) familiar to hearers or readers of the
tale as the home of Herstan, and the scene of the heroic defence of
the English dwelling against the Danes. It will be a great reward for
the Author's toil should this little volume similarly gladden many
firesides during the approaching Christmas, and perhaps cause some to
thank God for the contrast between the Christmas of 1007 and that of
1874.
A.D.C.
All Saints' School, Bloxham.
Advent, 1874.
CHAPTER I. THE DIARY OF FATHER CUTHBERT.
All Saints' Day, 1002.
Inasmuch as I, Cuthbert, by the long-suffering of the Divine goodness,
am prior of the Benedictine house of St. Wilfrid at Aescendune, it
seems in some sort my duty, following the example of many worthy
brethren, to write some account of the origin and history of the
priory over which it has pleased God to make me overseer, and to note,
as occasion serves from time to time, such passing events as seem
worthy of remembrance; which record, deposited in the archives of the
house, may preserve our memory when our bodies are but dust, and other
brethren fill our places in the choir. Perhaps each generation thinks
the events which happen in its own day more remarkable than any which
have preceded, and that its own period is the crisis of the fate of
Church or State. Yet surely no records of the past, extant, tell us of
such dark threatening clouds as hang over the realm of England at this
time; when the thousandth year since our blessed Lord's nativity
having passed, we seem to be entering on those awful plagues which the
Apocalypse tells us must precede the consummation of all things.
But we who trust in the Lord have a strong tower wherein to hide, and
we know of a land where there is no darkness or shadow of death;
therefore we will not fear though the earth be moved, and the hills be
carried into the midst of the sea.
This house of St. Wilfrid was founded by Offa, Thane of Aescendune, in
the year of the Lord 938, and completed by his son and successor Ella,
who was treacherously murdered by his nephew Ragnar, and lies buried
within these sacred walls. The first prior was Father Cuthbert, my
godfather, after whom I was named. He was appointed by Dunstan, just
then on the point of leaving England to escape the rage of the wicked
and unhappy Edwy, and continued to exercise the authority until the
year 975, the year in which our lamented king, Edgar the Magnanimous,
departed to his heavenly rest, with whose decease peace and prosperity
seemed likewise to depart.
Father Godric succeeded him, under whose paternal rule we enjoyed
peace for ten years. Truly the memory of the just is blessed. He died
in 985, and then was I chosen by the votes of the chapter to be their
prior, and my election was confirmed by the holy Dunstan, who himself
admitted me to mine office.
And truly the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places, dark
although--as I have said--the times are. The priory lies on the banks
of the glorious Avon, where the forests come nearly down to its banks.
Above us rises a noble hill, crowned with the oak and the beech,
beneath whose shade many a deer and boar repose, and their flesh, when
brought thither to gladden our festivals, is indeed toothsome and
savoury.
Our buildings are chiefly of wood, although the foundations are of
stone. The great hall is floored and lined with oak, while the
chapel--the Priory Church the people call it--excels for limning and
gilding, as well as for the beauty of its tapestry, any church in this
part of Mercia. Our richest altar cloth is made of the purple robe
which King Edgar wore at his consecration, and which he sent to the
thane Alfred of Aescendune for the Priory Church as a token of the
respect and favour he bore him. And also he gave a veil of gold
embroidery which representeth the destruction of Troy. It is hung upon
great days over the dais at the high table of the hall.
The monastery is well endowed with lands by the liberality of its
first founder, as appears in the deeds preserved in our great muniment
chest. We have ten hides of woodland, wherein none may cut wood save
for our use in the winter; five hides of arable land, and the same
extent of pasturage for cattle. Now for the care of the culture
thereof we have a hundred serfs attached to the glebe, who, we trust,
do not find us unkind lords.
There are twenty brethren who have taken the final vows according to
the rule of St. Benedict, and ten novices, besides six lay brethren,
and other our chief servitors. We keep the monastic hours, duly rising
at daybreak to sing our lauds, and lying down after compline, with the
peace and blessing of Him who alone maketh us dwell in safety.
Our daily work is not light. We preach on Sundays and festivals in the
priory church. We visit the sick. We instruct the youth in the
elements of Christian doctrine. We superintend the labours of those
who till the soil. We copy the sacred writings. In short, we have a
great deal to do, and I fear do it very imperfectly sometimes.
I will add a few words only about myself. I am the third son of
Alfred {i}, thane of Aescendune, and his wife the Lady Alftrude of
Rollrich. Elfric, my eldest brother, died young. Elfwyn is now thane,
and I, the third boy, was given to the Church, for which I had ever
felt a vocation, perhaps from my love to my godfather. We only had one
sister, Bertha, and she has married the Thane Herstan of Clifton, near
Dorchester, the seat of our good bishop Aelfhelm, and the shrine of
holy Birinus.
My father and mother both sleep the sleep of the just. They lived to
see their children happy and prosperous, and then departed amidst the
lamentations of all who had known and loved them. Taken from the evil
to come, we cannot mourn them, nor would we call them back, although
we sorely missed their loved forms. They were full of years, yet age
had not dimmed their faculties. My father died in the year 998, my
mother the following year. They rest by the side of their ancestors in
the priory church.
My brother Elfwyn married Hilda, the daughter of Ceolfric, a Thane of
Wessex, in the year 985. He has two children--Bertric, a fine lad of
twelve, and as good as he is manly; and Ethelgiva, a merry girl of
ten. His household is well-ordered and happy--nurtured in the
admonition of the Lord.
For myself I have had many offers of promotion in the brotherhood of
St. Benedict, but have refused them. I was once offered the high
office of abbot in one of our great Benedictine houses, but I wished
to be near my own people and my father's house, and here I trust I
shall stay till I seek a continuing city, whose builder and maker is
God.
And now a little about the state of the country round us. In this
neighbourhood we have as yet been preserved from the evils of war, but
for many years past the Danes, those evil men, have renewed their
inroads, as they used to make them before the great King Alfred
pacified the country. They began again in the year 980, and, with but
slight intermission, have continued year by year.
The awful prophecy which God forced from the lips of Dunstan {ii},
at the coronation of our most unhappy king, has been too sadly
fulfilled. Ah me! I fear the curse of the saints is upon him. When the
holy bishop departed this life, I was one of the few who stood round
his bed, and as he foretold of the evil to come, he bade us all bear
our portion manfully, for the time, he said, would be short in which
to endure, and the eternal crown secure.
Many of those to whom he spoke have since died the martyr's or the
patriot's death, but as yet no evil has reached us at Aescendune,
although many parts of Wessex, nay, all the sea coast and the banks of
the great rivers have been wasted with fire and sword, and the money
which has been given the barbarians has been worse than wasted, for
they only come for more.
Our armies seem led by traitors; our councils, sad to say, by fools.
Nothing prospers, and thoughtless people say the saints are asleep.
Every day we say the petition in our Litany, "That it would please
Thee to abate the cruelty of our pagan enemies, and to turn their
hearts; we beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord," and we must wait His
time, and pray for strength to submit to His will.
Around the priory live the serfs, the theows, and ceorls of the
estate, each in his own little cottage, save the domestics, who live
at the Hall, which is only half-a-mile distant.
On Sundays and Saints' days they all assemble in our minster church.
It was full this day at the high mass, and I preached them a homily
upon the Saints, great part of which I took from a sermon I once heard
the holy Dunstan preach. And he showed us how saints did not live idle
lives on this earth, but always went about, like their Lord and
Master, doing good, and that through much tribulation they entered the
eternal kingdom, which also bids fair to be our lot nowadays, although
we be all miserable sinners, and not saints.
Ah! how I thought of the dear ones we have lost when the Gospel was
read at mass, about the great multitude which no man could number, and
I almost seemed as if I could see father, mother, and Elfric there. I
would not wish them back; yet my heart is very lonely sometimes. I
wonder whether they remember now that it is All Saints' Day, and that
we are thinking of them. Yes, I am sure they must do so.
There have been few troubles from the Danes, close at hand; so few
that they seem trivial in comparison with those our countrymen suffer
elsewhere. Still we have many of the pagans living as settlers in our
neighbourhood, whose presence is tolerated for fear of the reprisals
which might follow any acts of hostility against them. Kill one Dane,
the people say, and a hundred come to his funeral. Many of these
settlers have acquired their lands peaceably, but others by the strong
arms of their ancestors in periods of ancient strife; and these have
been allowed to keep their possessions for generations, so that if
they did not retain their heathen customs we might forget they were
not Englishmen.
One of these lives near us. His name is Anlaf. Some say he boasts of
being a descendant of that Anlaf who once ravaged England, and was
defeated at Brunanburgh. He married an English girl, whose heart, they
say, he broke by his cruelty. They had one child, Alfgar by name.
The mother died a Christian. Taking my life in my hands, I penetrated
their fortalice, and administered the last sacrament to her; but they
threatened my life for entering their domains, and, perhaps, had I
been but a simple priest, and not also, small boast as it is, the son
of a powerful English thane, whom they feared to offend, I had died in
doing my duty. When the poor girl was dying she committed the boy as
well as she could to my care, begging me to see that he was baptized;
but the father has prevented me from carrying out her wishes,
asserting that he would sooner slay the lad.
But it seems as if the boy retained some traces of his mother's faith;
over and over again I have seen him hiding in some remote corner of
the church during service time, but he has always shrunk away when any
of the brethren attempted to speak to him.
I am sure he wishes to be a Christian.
I may, perhaps, find a chance of speaking to him, and a few words may
reach his heart. He knows my brother's family, and has once or twice
joined them in expeditions in the woods, and even entered their gates.
His must be a lonely life at home; there are no other children, but
from time to time hoary warriors, upon whose souls lies, I fear, the
guilt of much innocent blood, find a home there.
November 2d.--
This morning we said the office and mass for the dead, as usual on All
Souls' Day. My brother Elfwyn and his children were, of course,
present. That boy, Bertric, with all his boyish spirit and brightness,
is very pious. It was a sight which I thought might gladden their
guardian angels to see him and his sister kneeling with clasped hands
at their uncle Elfric's tomb, and when service was over, they made me
tell them the old old story about the first Elfric, the brother of my
father, and how my father rescued him when the old castle was
burnt {iii}.
When I had told them the story, I saw my brother was anxious to say a
few words to me.
"Cuthbert," he said, "have you seen the young Dane, Alfgar, lately?"
"Not very long since," I replied; "he was at mass yesterday."
"Because I believe the lad longs to be a Christian, but does not dare
speak to any one."
"He fears his stern father."
"Yes, Anlaf might slay him if he was to be baptized; yet baptized I am
sure he will be, sooner or later."
"Does the boy love his father, I wonder?" said I, musingly.
"Doubtless; it would be unnatural did he not; but perhaps he loves the
memory of his mother yet more. We both knew her, Cuthbert."
"Yes, when she was a bright-hearted merry village maiden. Poor
Kyneswith!"
"For her sake, then, let us both try to do something for the boy."
"With all my heart. I will seek an opportunity of speaking to him,
perhaps he may unburden his mind."
"Have you seen Edric the sheriff?" asked Elfwyn.
"Not lately. Has he been here?"
"He has, and there was something in connection with his visit which
troubled me. He had been telling me for a long time about the
cruelties and insolence of the Danes, when he added, in a marked
manner, that they might go too far, for hundreds of their countrymen,
like Anlaf here, were living unprotected amongst us."
"What could he mean?"
"I understood him to hint that we might revenge ourselves upon them,
and replied that whatever their countrymen might be guilty of, our
neighbours would, of course, always be safe amongst Christians."
"What did he reply?"
"He changed the subject."
Elfwyn said no more, but bade me goodbye and returned to the castle;
still I saw that he was a little discomposed by the sheriff's words. I
don't like that sheriff; he is a cruel and a crafty man; but I daresay
his words were only the expression of a passing thought.