It was a long time before any news of the warriors reached home; for
in those days the agony of suspense had always to be endured in the
absence of posts and telegrams; but after a few weeks a special
messenger came from the army. He was one of the Aescendune people, and
his was the great privilege of embracing wife and family once more ere
returning to the perils of the field.
His news was brief. The forces of Mercia had been placed under the
command of Edric, formerly the sheriff of the county in which
Aescendune lay, but long since returned to court, where his smooth
tongue gained him great wealth and high rank. Gifted with a subtle
genius and persuasive eloquence, he had obtained a complete ascendency
over the mind of the weak Ethelred, while he surpassed even that
treacherous monarch in perfidy and cruelty.
Under his direction that unhappy king had again and again embrued his
hands in innocent blood. This very year they had both given a proof of
these tendencies worth recording.
Edric had conceived a hatred against the Ealdorman Elfhelm, which he
carefully concealed. He invited that unfortunate lord to a banquet at
Shrewsbury, where he welcomed him as his intimate friend. On the third
or fourth day of the feast he took him to hunt in a wood where he had
prepared an ambuscade, and while all the rest were engaged in the
chase, the common hangman of Shrewsbury, one Godwin "port hund," or
the town's hound, bribed by Edric to commit the crime, sprang from
behind a bush, and foully assassinated the innocent ealdorman. Not to
be behind his favourite in cruelty, Ethelred caused the two sons of
the unfortunate Elfhelm to be brought to him at Corsham, near Bath,
where he was then residing, and he ordered their eyes to be put out.
Such was the man to whom the destinies of the English army were now
confided, and such the king who ruled the unhappy land--cruel as he
was cowardly.
Under such leaders it is no marvel that the messenger Ulric had no
good news to tell. The army had assembled, and had marched after the
Danes, whose policy for the present was to avoid a pitched battle, and
to destroy their enemies in detail. So they were continually harassing
the English forces, but avoiding every occasion of fair fight. Did the
English march to a town under the impression the Danes were about to
attack it, they found no foe, but heard the next day that some
miserable district at a distance had been cruelly ravaged. Did they
lie in ambush, the Danes took another road. Meanwhile the English
stragglers were repeatedly cut off; and did they despatch a small
force anywhere, it was sure to fall into an ambush, and be annihilated
by the pagans.
Their repeated disasters weakened every man's heart, and gave rise to
a well-founded belief that there was treachery in their midst, and
that plans decided even in their secret councils were made known to
the Danes. What wonder, then, that they grew dispirited, and that
murmurs arose on all hands, while the army could scarcely keep
together for want of provisions?
The war was at present raging in the southern counties, but ever and
anon the marauders made a forced march, and sacked some helpless town
remote from the seat of war.
There was no prospect, Elfwyn said, of the campaign coming to an end;
the harvest must take care of itself or the women and children must
reap it. The men were all and more than all, wanted in Wessex.
There were loving messages for wife and children, and Alfgar was not
forgotten.
But there was one piece of information contained in the letter which
made Alfgar very uneasy, and reminded him of his dream.
One Boom, a retainer of Elfwyn, had been taken prisoner by the Danes,
and by a very uncommon piece of good fortune had escaped with life
from his ferocious captors. He stated that he had been closely
examined concerning his home, character of the population, and their
means of defence, especially as to the events of St. Brice's night.
Although he strove to evade their questions, yet he incautiously, or
through fear of torture, revealed that he came from Aescendune.
The name evoked immediate interest, and he was asked several further
questions about the destruction of Anlaf's house, and what became of
his son. He tried to baffle their inquiries, and thought he had
succeeded.
These facts the Lady Hilda thought of sufficient importance to justify
their communication to Alfgar. They caused her some anxiety.
The messenger returned to the army. Weeks passed away, and the women
and children, as well as the old men, were all busy in getting in the
bounteous harvest with which this year God had blessed the earth.
Alfgar and Bertric worked like the theows themselves, and slowly the
precious gifts were deposited in the garners.
Alfgar had one source of consolation in the love he bore to Ethelgiva,
a love which was fully returned. Their troth had been pledged to each
other with the full consent of Elfwyn and the Lady Hilda; and on those
fine August nights, as they walked home after the labours in the
field, or the service in the priory, they forgot all the misery of the
land, and lived only for each other.
Happy, happy days! How often they looked back to them afterwards!
A second messenger came during harvest time from the camp, now on the
borders of Sussex. His news was no better than before. The Danes were
harassing the army on every side, but no decisive battle had been
fought. The enemy still seemed to know all the plans of the English
beforehand; and the booty they had gained was enormous, while a deep
distrust of their leaders was spreading amongst the defenders of the
soil.
Elfwyn expressed his intention of seeking an early leave of absence
should events justify him in paying a short visit home. This delighted
the hearts of his wife and children, and they were happy in
anticipation.
It was a fine day in September when the thankful people of Aescendune
were called to raise the song of "Harvest Home"--for the fruits of the
earth had indeed been safely gathered in ere the winter storms by the
hands of women and children. Such joy as befitted the absence of their
lords was theirs, and Alfgar and Bertric, not to waste the holiday,
agreed to have a day's hunting in the forest, rich with all the hues
of autumn, while the feast was preparing at home.
The day was delightful. Two young theows, whose fathers had gone to
the war, but who had been left behind as being too young to share its
dangers, although in the flush of early youth, accompanied them, and
were soon loaded with the lighter game their masters had killed, while
a deer they had slain was hung in the trees, where a wolf could not
reach it, and where wayfarers were not likely to pass until the
sportsmen should return for their own. Onward they wandered until the
sun was declining, and then, having some few miles of forest to
thread, and the deer to send for, they turned on their homeward way.
No thought of any danger was on their minds that day. The Danes were
too far distant. They were more than a hundred miles from the seat of
war, and a hundred miles in those days meant more than five hundred
would mean now.
About the hour of five they rested and bathed in a tributary of the
Avon. Bertric's spirits were very high: he laughed and talked like one
whose naturally ardent temperament was stimulated by the bracing
atmosphere and the exercise. His active and handsome frame, bright
with all the attractions of youth, was equal to any amount of woodland
toil; and Alfgar, who was, as we have said, deeply attached to his
companion, felt proud of his younger brother, as he delighted to call
him, and Bertric loved to be called so. Alfgar trusted some day to
have a yet better claim to the title.
Leaving the bathing place while there was yet time to reach home
before dark, they came at last to a ford across the stream, the only
spot where it could be safely forded, and as such known to the natives
of the vicinity; when their dogs began to whine, and to run with their
noses to the ground, as if they had found something unusual to attract
their attention.
The two theows who were in front paused at the ford till their lords
came up, and then pointed to the ground with a terrified aspect.
Alfgar gazed and started, as did Bertric. There were the footmarks of
a large number of horses, evidently belonging to a body of horsemen
who must have crossed the ford since they passed it in the morning.
"Can my father have returned unexpectedly?" said Bertric. "He said he
should get an early leave of absence."
Alfgar did not answer for a moment. He was evidently very much
alarmed.
"Look," he said, "at the footmarks, where some have dismounted."
Bertric looked, and comprehended the terror of his companion. The
armed heels, which had sunk deeply into the mud, had left traces
utterly unlike the marks to which they were accustomed in similar
cases.
The stories they had both heard of predatory bands of Danes who had
wandered far from their main body, and had sought gratification for
their lust for plunder and blood in remote spots where the inhabitants
dwelt in fancied security, came to their minds, and also the inquiries
which had been made in the Danish camp concerning their home and the
circumstances of St. Brice's fatal night.
"Still, it may be our father and his men; they may have worn the
spoils of the enemy."
The spoils generally went the other way, Alfgar thought, but did not
say.
They crossed the ford in silence, intent only on reaching home. For a
long time they could follow the trail of the horsemen.
"Who can lead them?" said Bertric, as they bounded onward. "They seem
to know the country."
A sad and harrowing suspicion had filled Alfgar's mind, that these men
might be deputed to avenge the fiery death of his father--and to
avenge it, probably, on the very people who would have died to prevent
it.
But the one desire uppermost in the minds of the whole party was to
hasten home. They feared every moment that they might see the bright
flame through the trees, or that the wind might bring them the tidings
that they were all too late--too late to save those whom they loved
from outrage and death.
So they continued running, or walking when breath failed, at the
utmost speed they could command, and just as the sun set they arrived
at the crest of a hill, from which they could see the hall.
"Thank God, it yet stands!" said they both.
They descended, and plunged again into the wood which lay between them
and the goal; their theows, less perfectly trained, and perhaps less
ardent, fell slightly behind. They came upon the spot where they had
left the deer, not, however, with any intention of encumbering
themselves with the burden, as may be imagined. They looked, however,
at the tree where they had hung the carcase, and their eyes met each
other's.
"It is gone," said Alfgar, with bated breath.
They said no more, but continued their headlong course, until they had
reached an open glade by the side of a small stream. Here their dogs
became uneasy, and uttered low threatening growls.
The lads paused, then advanced cautiously, looking before and around.
Turning a corner round some thick underwood, they came suddenly upon a
sight which justified all their previous alarm.
A huge fire burned by the side of a brook, over which was roasting the
deer which they had killed. The light shone out in the gathering
darkness, and illumined the recesses of the bushes around, and the
faces of a large body of men reclining on the bank, or engaged in the
task of sharpening their arms while their supper was roasting. A
momentary glance told that they were Danes, thus advancing under the
shadow of the forest, to take their foes unawares. Their horses were
picketed around, and sentinels were evidently posted, to give the
first alarm of any danger.
Alas! they had seen the poor lads before they could withdraw into the
woods which fringed the path, and instantly prepared for pursuit.
Three or four jumped upon their horses, two or three more plunged into
the wood to cut off the retreat. It was all-important to their plans
that their presence should not be discovered; and these manoeuvres
were executed in perfect silence.
They had not seen the theows behind, but fixed all their attention on
Bertric and Alfgar, who, on their part, comprehending their danger,
turned at right angles into the wood, and ran for life. The boys were
fleet of foot, and would probably have distanced their pursuers, but
an arrow from some ambush on their left hand pierced Alfgar's thigh,
wounding an important muscle, and he could run no farther.
"Leave me, leave me, Bertric," he cried; "you are in more danger than
I."
Poor Bertric would not leave his friend. He tried to assist him, and
turned a deaf ear to all solicitations for the few moments that they
could have availed. It was soon too late, and the heavy hands of the
Danish warriors were laid upon them.
Shuddering at the contact, they yet yielded without useless and
unmanly resistance, and were at once led to the side of the fire.
It was a scene Salvator Rosa would have loved to paint: the firelight
bringing out in strong relief the huge limbs of the oak trees, the
bronzed faces of those dread warriors, which no pitiful or tender
feelings ever seemed to visit.
The theows had fortunately, being behind, taken the alarm in time, and
escaped unnoticed by the Danes.
A large athletic warrior, but yet a man of some age, rose from his
seat by the fire, and scrutinised the captives. Alfgar knew him. It
was Sidroc, an old fellow warrior of his father, who had often visited
their home near Aescendune, and he was at no loss now to comprehend
the object of their enterprise.
The warrior gazed upon him fixedly, and then spoke aloud.
"Whence your name and lineage? Your face is not of the hue of the
faces of the children of the land. Speak! who art thou?"
"Alfgar, the son of Anlaf."
"Thor and Woden be praised! We had learned that you yet lived. Boy,
thou art the object of our search. Thou, the descendant of kings,
mayst not longer dwell with slaves. Thy father is at hand."
"My FATHER!"
"Yes. Didst thou not know that he escaped on St. Brice's night,
baffling his would-be assassins, and yet lives? He thought thee dead,
and only sought vengeance, when he heard from the captured prisoner of
Elfwyn's band that thou wert yet alive, and he is come to seek thee."
Poor Alfgar!