Up to this period we have availed ourselves of extracts from the Diary
of Father Cuthbert; but the events of the following four years, as
recorded in that record, although full of interest for the antiquarian
or the lover of monastic lore, would possess scant interest for the
general reader, and have also little connection with the course of our
tale; therefore we will convey the information they contain, which
properly pertains to our subject, in few words, and those our own,
returning occasionally to the Diary.
The melancholy history of the times may be compressed, from the
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and other sources, in a few paragraphs.
Burning with revenge--for his own sister had fallen in the massacre on
St. Brice's night--Sweyn returned to England the following year
(1003). He landed in Devonshire, took Exeter by storm, and returned to
his ships laden with the spoil. Then he sailed eastward, landed again
and ravaged Dorset and Wiltshire. Here the ealdorman Elfric met him
with a large English army; but when he saw the foe he fell sick, or
feigned to be so; and then the old proverb came true, "When the
general fails, the army quails." So the English looked on with fear
and trembling, while Sweyn burnt Wilton and Salisbury, whence he
returned to the sea laden with wealth and stained with blood; yet was
not his revenge satisfied.
The following year East Anglia suffered as Wessex had suffered the
year before. Ulfketyl, the ealdorman, gave them much money, hoping to
buy peace from the merciless pagans. The result was as he might have
expected. They took the money, laughing at his simplicity, and three
weeks afterwards pillaged Thetford, and burnt it. Then Ulfketyl, who
was a brave man, got an East Anglian army together, and fought the
Danes, giving them the uncommon chastisement of a defeat, so that they
escaped with difficulty to their ships.
The following year a famine so severe visited England, that even the
Danes forebore to ravage so poor a land; but in 1006, the next year,
they overspread Wessex like locusts. Here the action of our tale is
resumed.
During this interval of four years in Aescendune there had been peace.
Alfgar had been domesticated as one of the family, and was reported
well of in all the neighbourhood. Diligent in the discharge of his
religious duties, he was equally conspicuous in all warlike sports and
exercises and in the chase, while he afforded much help to Elfwyn the
thane in the management of the estate. In short, he had won his way to
the hearts of all the family; and perhaps the report that he was the
accepted suitor of the fair daughter of Aescendune, Ethelgiva, was not
without foundation.
Ethelgiva was nearly his own age, and was a perfect type of that
beauty which has ever distinguished the women of the Anglo-Saxon race.
Her fair hair, untouched by artificial adornment, hung like a shower
of gold around her shoulders, while her eyes were of that delicate
blue which seemed to reflect the deep summer sky; but the sweet
pensive expression of her face was that which attracted nearly all who
knew her, and made her the object of general regard.
Bertric was now about sixteen--a handsome, attractive boy, full of
life and fire, yet still possessing that devotion which Father
Cuthbert had remarked in him as a boy of twelve. As the heir to the
lands of Aescendune, and the only son, he would have been in much
danger of being spoiled had he been less genuine and manly than he
was. He and Alfgar were inseparable; they seemed to revive again the
traditional love of Nisus and Euryalus, or Orestes and Pylades.
The famine, which had made Wessex too poor even to serve as a bait for
the Danes, had also afflicted Mercia, but not nearly so severely, and
the generosity of the family of Aescendune had been exerted to the
utmost on behalf of the sufferers.
But the spring of the year 1006 bade fair to atone for the past. It
was bright and balmy. May was just such a month as the poets love to
sing, and June, rich in its promise of fruit, had passed when the
events we are about to relate occurred. At this time there was some
hope amongst the people that God had at length heard the petition
breathed so often in the penitential wail of the Litany--"From the
cruelty of our pagan enemies, good Lord, deliver us"--and they forgot
that the massacre on St. Brice's night yet cried for vengeance.
It was a fine summer's evening towards the end of the month of July,
and the sun was slowly setting behind the wood-crowned range of hills
in the west, where the forest terminated the pastures of Aescendune;
the cattle were returning to their stalls; the last load of hay was
being transferred from the wain to the rick, and all things spoke of
the calm and rest of a sweet night, fragrant with the breath of
honeysuckle and wild brier, when nature herself seems to court
luxurious repose.
The priory bell was tolling for compline, and thither many of the
people, released from their labour, were wending their way. The Thane
and his children, accompanied by Alfgar, paused on their homeward
road, and when the drowsy tinkling ceased, deep silence seemed to fall
over the landscape, while the night darkened--if darkness it could be
called when the moonbeams succeeded to the fiercer light of the
glowing orb of day.
The Lady Hilda was at the window of her bower, slightly indisposed;
she had not gone down to the priory, but sat inhaling the rich
fragrance of the night as the gentle breeze wafted it from a thousand
flowers. Star after star peeped out; one sweet-voiced nightingale
began her song, trilling through the air; another enviously took up
the strain. Hilda thought the earth had never seemed so much like
heaven, and she imagined the tuneful birds sang their vesper song in
union with the monks, whose solemn and plaintive chant awoke the
echoes of the priory church. Her heart was full of solemn yet not sad
thoughts; peace, sweet peace, was the subject of her meditations, and
she thought with gratitude of Him who had hitherto preserved Mercia
from the foe, who had indeed for nearly two years ceased to molest
England.
But as she gazed, her attention was attracted to a light on the
opposite hills. It was a fire of some kind, and rose up more and more
fiercely each moment. It was but a bonfire in appearance, yet it
marred both the landscape and the meditative rest of the gazer.
The party from the hall were returning home from the church.
"Father," said Bertric, "look at that light! Is it not singular? I
never saw one there before."
But even while they looked another fire appeared in an opposite
direction, and Bertric saw his father turn grave.
"It is the beacon fire," said he seriously.
"Yes it is, and see it is answered from the hills to the north," said
Alfgar.
Then they were silent, and Bertric felt his spirits sink with a vague
kind of apprehension. They said no more till they reached home, and
the whole family met, much later than usual, at the evening meal.
"You are late," said Hilda to her lord.
"We were returning home from the meadows on the water, whence the last
load of hay has been carried, and we tarried for the compline at the
priory. The bell sounded as we were passing."
"Did you see the bonfire on the hills? It must be a large one."
"I did; and it made me uneasy."
"Why so, my Elfwyn?"
"You forget that when the last invasion of our pagan foes was over, it
was agreed in the Witan that a set of beacons should be prepared, in
readiness to fire, on the tops of the hills, and that if the Danes
appeared again, they should be fired everywhere, in which case Mercia
was to hold herself in readiness to come to the aid of Wessex or East
Anglia, whichever the foe might be harrying."
"But then that was eighteen months agone."
"Still the beacon piles remain or did remain. I saw one at the summit
of the hills which the trackway crosses between our county and
Oxfordshire, when I last returned form Beranbyrig {v}, and I think
that one gives the present alarm. It means the Danes are again in the
land."
"Now, God forbid!" said Hilda, with clasped hands.
"Amen say we all; but I fear me such will be the case, unless some
poor fool has set the pile blazing for amusement. I fancied I saw it
answered away north and west. We will go and see anon."
Supper being ended, Elfwyn rose to go out, and his example was
followed by Alfgar and Bertric, and several of the serfs, who from the
lower end of the ample board had heard with much alarm the previous
conversation.
Ascending the hill, they directed their steps towards the highest
point, where an old watchtower had once been reared, composed of
timber, and overlooking the forest.
From the summit the party gazed over three or four counties lying
dimly beneath them in the still moonlight.
The mist, slowly rising from the river and forest, partially obscured
the immediate view, and hid the valley beneath in smoke-like wreaths;
but the distant hills rose above. There three large fires immediately
caught the eye, and confirmed the apprehensions. One was on the summit
of the range culminating on the spot now known as Edgehill, lying
about ten miles south; but on the west Malvern Heights had caught the
flame, and on the far north the Leicestershire hills sent forth their
reddening fire in more than one spot.
"The country has taken the alarm," said the Thane.
"What must we do, father?"
"Summon and arm all our vassals, and await the sheriff's orders; the
king will communicate to us through him. We know not yet where the
danger is."
"Perhaps it is only a false alarm," said Bertric.
"God grant it; but I dare not hope as much."
Alfgar was very silent. Well he might be. The enemy dreaded was his
own kith and kin; and although all his sympathies were with his
English friends, from whom he had received more kindness and love than
he had ever known elsewhere, yet he seemed to feel compromised by the
deeds of his kindred, whose savage cruelty no Christianity had as yet
softened.
While they yet remained on the hill, fire after fire took up the tale
and reddened the horizon, until a score of those baleful bonfires were
in sight. Sighing deeply, Elfwyn led the way down the hill.
"What have you seen?" was the inquiry of the Lady Hilda.
"The hills flame with beacons."
"Alas for poor Wessex!"
"Alas for England! I have a foreboding that we shall not always be
exempt from the woes which affect our neighbours. Wessex scarcely
tempts the plunderer now; neither does East Anglia. Northumbria is
half Danish, and kites do not peck out kites' eyes. No; on Mercia,
poor Mercia, the blow must sooner or later fall."
"And how to avert it?"
"There is but one way; we must fight the foe in Wessex. Now we must
rest, to rise early, and await the sheriff's summons."
It was silent, deep night; the whole house was buried in slumber, when
Alfgar dreamed a strange dream. He thought he stood amidst the ruins
of his home, the home of his father Anlaf, and that he heard steps
approaching from the forest. Soon a solitary figure emerged, and
searched anxiously amongst the fallen and blackened walls, uttering
one anxious ejaculation, "My son! I seek my son!" and Alfgar knew his
father. Their eyes met, recognition took place, and he awoke with such
a keen impression of his father's presence that he could not shake it
off for a long time.
"Do the dead indeed revisit earth?" he said. "Nay, it was but a
dream."
He went to the narrow window of his chamber, and looked out. The dawn
was already breaking in the east, and even as he gazed upon the
purpling skies the birds began their matin songs of praise, and the
valley awoke. The priory bell, beneath, by the riverside, now tolled
its summons to matins, and Alfgar arose and dressed.
Never did the household of Aescendune begin the day without religious
observance, and the first thing that they did on this, as on every
day, was to repair to the priory church, where Father Cuthbert said
mass; after which he and his brother the Thane were closeted together
for a long time.
The rest of the party returned home to break their fast, and conversed
about the warnings of the preceding night.
While they were still at their meal, Bertric, who sat near a window,
cried out, "I see a horseman coming from Warwick."
The panting steed was soon reined up in front of the drawbridge, which
was down as usual; and, passing beneath the arched gate, the rider
dismounted in the courtyard.
All the household were soon assembled to hear his news. He bore a
sealed missive addressed to the Thane; but he gave the secret of the
night's alarm in a few words.
"They are in Wessex, plundering, murdering, and burning. The forces
are all to meet at Dorchester as soon as man and horse can get there."
"Where did they land?"
"The great fleet came to Sandwich, and they are advancing westward as
fast as they can come."
"Are they merciless as ever?"
"Worse."
"The fiends!" said Bertric bitterly; and then seeing Alfgar's saddened
face, said, "Oh, I beg pardon," which made matters worse.
"You are not a Dane, Alfgar; you are a Christian; no one thinks of you
as one."
Shortly Elfwyn returned from the priory, and received the messenger.
The sealed packet only contained a formal summons to the general
rendezvous of the forces, which was to take place at Dorchester, the
episcopal city of the great Midland diocese, and situated in a central
position, where Wessex and Mercia could easily unite the flower of
their youth.
All the necessary preparations for departure were shortly made--the
theows and ceorls were collected together, beasts of burden selected
to carry the necessary baggage, the wallets filled with provisions.
Before the third hour of the day all had been done which the simple
habits of the time required, and only the sorrowful leave takings
remained. Husbands had to bid the last goodbye--it might be the very
last--to their spouses, sons to their aged parents, fathers to their
children. And then there was hurrying to and fro, as of people only
half conscious of what they did; while the warriors strove to smile
and preserve their fortitude.
But alas! there were no traditions of victory to encourage them; only
gloomy remembrances of defeat; and, but for the stern call of duty
which bade them, as men and Christians, go to the succour of their
brethren, the majority would have preferred to remain at home and
abide the worst, although they knew full well that submission utterly
failed to mitigate the ferocious cruelty of their oppressors, who slew
alike the innocent babe and the grey-haired grandsire.
Alfgar had volunteered to share the perils of his adopted lord, but
was kindly told that it would be inexpedient. Indeed, by many he would
have been suspected of treachery.
"Nay, Alfgar, remain at home; to you I commend the protection of my
home, of the Lady Hilda, and our children," said Elfwyn.
Neither were Bertric's prayers to be allowed to share his father's
perils any better received. He was bidden to remain where he was, and
to be a good son to his mother--not that he had ever been otherwise.
And so the last sad words of adieu were spoken as bravely as might be,
and the little troop, about fifty in number, departed from the hall.
They crossed the rude wooden bridge, and took the southern road.
Their loved ones watched them until the last. They saw their warriors
cast many a longing lingering look behind, and then the woodland hid
them from sight; and a dread quiet came down upon Aescendune, as when
the air is still before the coming hurricane.