The fleet bore the troops of savage soldiery safely--too
safely--across the waters of the Solent, to the estuary formed by the
Medina, where now thousands of visitors seek health and repose, and
the towers of Osborne crown the eastern eminences. A fleet may still
generally be discerned in its waters, but a fleet of pleasure yachts;
far different were the vessels which then sought the shelter of the
lovely harbour, beautiful even then in all the adornment of nature.
There the Danes cast anchor, and the forces dispersed to their winter
quarters. The king and his favourite chieftains took up their abode at
Carisbrooke, situate about eight miles up the stream, but above the
spot where it ceases to be navigable.
Their chosen retreat was the precincts of the old castle--old even
then--for it had been once a British stronghold, commanding the route
of the Phoenician tin merchants across the island, whence its name
"Caer brooke," or the "fort on the stream."
The Romans in after ages saw the importance of the position, fortified
it yet more strongly, and made it the chief military post of the
island, which, under their protecting care, enjoyed singular peace and
prosperity--civilisation flourished, arts and letters were cultivated.
The beautiful coasts and inlets were crowded with villas, and invalids
then, as now, sought the invigorating breezes, from all parts of the
island of Britain, and even from the neighbouring province of Gaul.
The Roman power fell at last, and when the English pirates, our own
ancestors, like the Danes of our story, attacked the dismembered
provinces of the empire, its wealth and position on the coast made it
an early object of attack--happy those who fled early. The Anglo-Saxon
chronicle shall tell the story of those who remained.
"AD. 530. This year Cerdic and Cynric conquered the Isle of Wight, and
slew many people at Whitgarasbyrg" (Carisbrooke).
The conquering Cerdic died four years after, and his son Cynric gave
the island to his nephews, Stuf and Wihtgar. The latter died in 544,
and was buried in the spot he and his had reddened with blood, within
the Roman ramparts of Carisbrooke.
It is needless to say that at that early period our ancestors were
heathens, and the mode of their conquest was precisely similar to that
we are now describing under another heathen (with less excuse), Sweyn
the son of Harold.
It was a few days after the arrival of the Danes at their quarters,
and Alfgar stood on the rampart at the close of a November day; it was
St. Martin's Mass, as the festival was then called. The sun was
sinking with fading splendour behind the lofty downs in the west, and
casting his departing beams on the river, the estuary, with the fleet,
and the blue hills of Hampshire in the far distance.
Southward and westward the view was alike shut in by these lofty
downs, and eastward the hills rose again, so as to enclose the valley,
of which Carisbrooke formed the central feature.
The ramparts whereon he was standing were of Roman workmanship, built
so solidly that they had resisted every attack of man or of time;
while down below lay the ruins of a magnificent villa, once occupied
by the Roman governor of the island.
Anlaf appeared and stood beside his son.
"Alfgar," he said, "the day after tomorrow is the day of St. Brice."
He paused and looked steadfastly in the face of his son.
"And the king proposes to enrol you amongst his chosen warriors on
that day; he has marked the skill you have displayed in the mimic
contests with spear or sword, your skill as a horseman, and he wishes
to see whether in actual battle you will fulfil the promise of the
parade ground."
"And yet he knows my faith."
"Alfgar," said the old man solemnly, "you must renounce it or die; no
mercy will be shown to a Christian on St. Brice's day; that is why the
king has chosen it. Think, my son, over all I have told you; you will
decide like one who yet controls his senses, and not disgrace your
aged father."
"Father, I do think of you," said the poor lad; "at least believe
that. I do not grieve for myself. I feel I could easily die for my
faith, but I do grieve over the pain I must cause you."
The heart of the old warrior was sensibly affected by this appeal, but
not knowing the strength of Christian principle, he could not
reconcile it with facts, and he walked sadly away.
But two days, and the dread choice had to be made--the crisis in the
life of Alfgar, a crisis which has its parallel in the lives of many
around us--approached, and he had to choose between Christ and Odin,
between the death of the martyr and apostasy.
He walked to and fro upon the ramparts, after his father left him, in
the growing darkness, feebly illuminated by the light of a new moon.
Below him, in the central area, a huge fire burned, whereat the
evening meal was preparing for the royal banquet, for Sweyn and his
ferocious chieftains were about to feast together.
Escape was hopeless. Even had he not been bound by the promise given
to his father, it would have been very difficult. He felt that his
motions were watched. The island was full of foes, their fleet
occupied the Solent. No; all that was left was to die with honour.
But to bring such disgrace upon his father and his kindred! "Blood is
thicker than water," says the old proverb, and Alfgar could not, even
had he wished, ignore the ties of blood; nature pleaded too strongly.
But there was a counter-motive even there--the dying wishes of his
mother. If his father were Danish, she was both English and Christian.
Before him the alternatives were sharply defined: Apostasy, and his
ancestral honours, with all that the sword of the conqueror could
give; and on the other hand, the martyr's lingering agony, but the
hope of everlasting life after death.
He could picture the probable scene. The furious king, the scorn of
the companions with whom he had vied, nay, whom he had excelled, in
the exercises of arms, end the ignominious death, perhaps that painful
punishment known as the "spread eagle." No, they could not inflict
that on one so nobly born, the descendant of princes.
Alas! what might not Sweyn do in his wrath?
Was Christianity worth the sacrifice? Where were the absolute proofs
of its truth? If it were of God, why did He not protect His people?
The heathen Saxons had been victorious over the Christian Britons; and
now that they had become Christian, the heathen Danes were victorious
over them. Was this likely to happen if Christ were really God?
Again Odin and Frea, with their children, and the heroes sung by the
scalds, in the war songs which he heard echoing from around the fire
at that moment:
"How this one was brave,
And bartered his life
For joy in the fight;
How that one was wise,
Was true to his friends
And the dread of his foes."
Valour, wisdom, fidelity, contempt of death, hatred of meanness and
cowardice, qualities ever shining in the eyes of warlike youth.
This creed had sufficed for his ancestors for generations, as his
father had told him. Why should he be better than they? If they
trusted to the faith of Odin, might not he?
And then, if he lived, when the war was carried into Mercia, he would
save his English friends, even although forced to live unknown to
them.
"Oh! life is sweet," thought he, "sweet to one so young as I. I have
but tasted the cup; shall I throw it down not half empty?"
He was almost conquered. He had all but turned to seek his father,
when suddenly the remembrance of Bertric flashed vividly upon him.
He saw, as in a vision, the patient, brave lad enduring mortal agony
for Christ, so patiently, so calmly. Had Bertric, then, died for
nought? He felt as if the martyr were near him, to aid him in this
moment, when his faith was in peril.
"O Bertric, Bertric!" he cried, "intercede for me, pray for me."
He fell on his knees, and did not rise until the temptation was
conquered, and then he walked steadily into the great vaulted room, of
Roman construction, which served as the banqueting hall, and took his
usual place by his father's side.
Oh, how hollow the mirth and revelry that night! How he loathed the
singing, the drunken shouting, the fierce imprecation over the wine
cup--the sensuality, which now distinguished his bloodthirsty
companions. The very knives he saw used for their meals had served as
daggers to despatch the wounded or the helpless prisoner. The eyes,
now weak with debauch, had glowed with the maniacal fury of the
berserkir in the battlefield. Was this the glory of manhood? Nay,
rather of wolves and bears.
Then he looked up at Sweyn, the murderer of his father, and marvelled
that his hand was yet so steady--his head so clear. This apostate
parricide! never would he live to kiss the hand of such a man; better
die at once, while yet pure from innocent blood. This his Christianity
had taught him.
"Minstrel," cried the fierce king, "sing us some stirring song of the
days of old; plenty of the fire of the old Vikings in it."
A strange minstrel, a young gleeman, had been admitted that night--one
whose chain and robes bespoke him of the privileged class--and he sang
in a voice which thrilled all the revellers into awed silence. He sang
of the battle, of the joy of conquest, and the glories of Valhalla,
where deceased warriors drank mead from the skulls of vanquished foes.
And then he sang of the cold and snowy Niffelheim, where in regions of
eternal frost the cowardly and guilty dead mourned their weak and
wasted lives. In words of terrific force he painted their agony, where
Hela, of horrid countenance, reigned supreme; where the palace was
Anguish, Famine the board, Delay and Vain Hope the waiters, Precipice
the threshold, and Leanness the bed.
But in the innermost chamber of this awful home was the abode of
Raging Despair; and in the final verse of his terrible ode the scald
sang:
"Listen to the ceaseless wail,
Listen to the frenzied cry
Of anguish, horror, and amaze;
Would ye know from whom they come,
Tell me, warriors, would ye know?"
Here he paused, after throwing intense emphasis on the last words,
till he had concentrated the attention of all, and the king
gazed--absorbed--then he continued:
"There wave on wave of bitter woe
Overwhelms the parricide."
The king started from his seat. He was about to launch his battle-axe
through the air in search of the daring minstrel, when the same dread
expression of unutterable agony we have before mentioned passed over
his face; he trembled as an aspen, and sank, as one paralysed, into
his chair, while his glaring eyes seemed to behold some horrid
apparition unseen by all beside. The warriors now turned in their
wrath to seek the daring or unfortunate minstrel, but he was gone.
Alfgar had seen the apostate in his moment of retributive agony, and
he shuddered.
"Better death, far better," he murmured, "than a fate like this. God
keep me firm to Him."
The king had by this time recovered his usual composure, but his rage
and fury were the more awful that the outbreak was suppressed.
"Sit down, my warriors, disturb not the feast. What if your king has
been insulted in his own banquet hall? there are hands enow to avenge
him without unseemly tumult. Let us drink like the heroes in Valhalla.
Meanwhile let the minstrel be sought and brought before us, and he
shall make us sport in a different mode."
The "rista oern" whispered one in his ear.
The ferocious king nodded, and his eyes sparkled with the expected
gratification of his fierce cruelty. Meanwhile warriors were searching
all the precincts of the camp for the destined victim.
Nearly half-an-hour had passed, and the king was getting impatient,
for nearly all the chieftains were getting too drunk to appreciate the
spectacle he designed for them.
"Why do the men delay?" he cried; "let them bring in the minstrel."
Still he came not; and at length the searchers were forced, one after
the other, to confess their failure.
"It is well," said the king; "but it was the insult of a Christian,
and shall be washed out in Christian blood. Anlaf, produce thy son."
"Nay, nay, not now," cried Sidroc and others, for they saw that Sweyn
was already drunk, and consideration for Anlaf made them interfere.
"Not now; tomorrow, tomorrow."
"Nay, tonight, tonight."
"Drink first, then, and drown care," said Sidroc, and gave the brutal
tyrant a bowl of rich mead.
He drank, drank until it was empty, then fell back and reposed with an
idiotic smile superseding the ferocious expression his face had so
lately worn. Meanwhile a hand was laid upon Alfgar's shoulder, and a
keen bright eye met his own, as if to read his inmost thoughts.
"Come with me, or my father will disgrace himself."
It was Canute.
He led Alfgar forth into the courtyard.
"Thou dost not seem to fear death," said the boy prince.
"It would be welcome now."
"So some of our people sometimes say, but the motive is different;
tell me what is the secret of this Christianity?"
Just then Sidroc and Anlaf came out from the hall and saw the two
together. Sidroc seemed annoyed, and led the young prince away, while
Anlaf seized the opportunity to whisper to his son:
"My son, I can do no more for thee; I see thou wilt persist in thine
obstinacy. I release thee from thy promise given to me; escape if thou
canst, or die in the attempt; but bring not my grey hairs to contempt
on the morrow."
At this moment, Sidroc having seen Canute to the royal quarters,
returned.
"Sidroc," said Anlaf, "I cannot any longer be the jailor of my unhappy
and rebellious son. Let him be confined till the morrow. I shall ask
leave of absence from Sweyn, and now I deliver Alfgar to your care."
"I accept the charge," said Sidroc; "follow me, Alfgar, son of Anlaf."
Alfgar followed passively. He could not help looking as if to take
leave of his father; but Anlaf stood as mute and passionless as a
statue. Sidroc reached a party of the guard, and bade them confine the
prisoner in the dungeon beneath the ruined eastern tower.
"Listen to my last words, thou recreant boy; Sweyn will send for thee
early in the morning before the assembled host; it will be the day of
St. Brice; and even were he not now mad with rage, there would be no
mercy for a Christian on that day. Thou must yield, or die by the
severest torture, compared with which the death of thy late companion
under the archers' shafts was merciful. Be warned!"