Dorchester was at this period the most important city of the Midland
counties, for it was the seat of the great bishopric which extended
its sway over nearly the whole of Mercia.
Here the apostle of Wessex, Birinus, had converted and baptized
Cynegils, king of that country, Oswald, the saintly king of
Northumbria, being present, and receiving him fresh from the
regenerating waters as his adopted son. Here, the next year, Cuichelm,
his brother, was baptized, and from this centre Christianity was
widely diffused. The good bishop died in the year 650, and was buried
amongst the people he loved, but many years later his relics were
translated to Winchester. But the tale went forth that the cunning
canons of Dorchester had given them another body than that of the
saint, and their shrine was the object of veneration equally with the
rival shrine at Winchester.
Dorchester became successively the seat of two great bishoprics--the
one West Saxon, the other Mercian. The first, founded by Birinus, when
Wessex extended far north of the Thames, was divided seventy years
later into two sees--Winchester and Sherburne. For some years the city
was without bishops, owing to its insecure position during the strife
between Wessex and Mercia, but later it appears as the seat of the
great Mercian bishopric, retaining its jurisdiction until after the
Norman conquest, when the see was transferred to Lincoln. Therefore
Dorchester long enjoyed a wide celebrity and greater influence, than
the city, Oxenford, which, lying at a distance of ten miles, was
destined to supersede it eventually.
The day was closing on an evening of November 1006, and the sun was
sinking across the level country beyond the walls, when the people of
Dorchester might have been seen crowding the roads which led from the
eastern gate towards Bensington and Wallingford; the wooden bridge by
which the road crossed the Tame was covered with human beings, and
every eye was eagerly directed along the great high road. The huge
cathedral church towered above the masses, rude in architecture, yet
still impressive in its proportions, while another church, scarcely
smaller in its dimensions, rose from the banks lower down the stream,
below the bridge, and the wooden steeple of a third was visible above
the roofs of the houses in the western part of the city.
But, as in every other city which had once been Roman, the relics of
departed greatness contrasted painfully (at least we should think so)
with the humbler architecture around. The majesty of the churches was
indeed (as a contemporary wrote) great, but thatched roofs consorted
ill with the remains of shattered column and pedestal, and with the
fragmentary ruins of the grand amphitheatre, which were yet partly
visible, although the stones which had been brought from Bath to build
it had been employed largely in church architecture.
The light of day was rapidly fading; a light breeze brought down the
remaining leaves from the trees, or whirled them about in all
directions; winter was plainly about to assume the mastery of the
scene, as was evident from the clothing the people wore, the thick fur
and warm woollen cloaks which covered their light tunics.
At length the sound of approaching cavalry was heard, and the cry "The
King! the King!" was raised, and cheers were given by the multitude.
It was observable, almost at a glance, that they proceeded from the
young and giddy, and that their elders refrained from joining in the
cry.
About a hundred horsemen, gaily caparisoned, appeared, and in the
midst, with equal numbers of his guard preceding and following, rode
Ethelred the king. He was of middle stature and not uncomely, but
there was a look of vacillation about his face, which would have
struck even an indifferent physiognomist, while his thin lips, which
he was constantly biting (when he was not biting his nails), seemed to
indicate a tendency towards cruelty.
But by his side rode one, whose restless eyes seemed to wander to each
individual of the crowd in turn, while power and malice seemed equally
conspicuous in his glance. Little changed since we last beheld him
rode the traitor, for so all but the king accounted him, Edric
Streorn.
Amidst the shouts of the populace, who loved to look on the display,
the Bishop Ednoth {xi} and the chief magistrates of the city
received the monarch and his councillor in front of the church of Sts.
Peter and Paul, and escorted him through the streets to the palace,
which stood in what was then a central position, on the spot now
called Bishop's Court. It was spacious, built around a quadrangular
courtyard, with cloisters surrounding the lowest storey and the smooth
shaven lawn, in the centre of which a granite cross was upraised. A
gateway opened in the southern side and led to the inner court, and
the cloisters opened from either side upon it.
On the opposite side of the quadrangle was the great hall where synods
were held, and where, on state occasions, such as a royal visit, the
banquet was prepared.
Here, after the king had availed himself of the bath, and his
attendants had divested themselves of their travel-stained attire, the
throne of the king was placed at the head of the board, and a seat for
the bishop on his right hand, and for Edric on his left.
Ethelred took his place; upon his head a thin circlet of gold confined
his flowing locks already becoming scant, but, as their natural colour
was light, not otherwise showing signs of age: he was only in his
fortieth year. His tunic was finely embroidered in colours around the
neck, and was below of spotless white, secured by a belt richly
gilded, whereon was a sheath for the dagger or knife, which was used
for all occasions, whether in battle or in meal time, the haft being
inlaid with precious stones. Over the tunic a rich purple mantle was
lightly thrown, and his slippers were of dark cloth, relieved by white
wool; the tunic descended to his heels.
The attire of Edric was similar in shape, but of different colour; his
tunic was of green, edged with brown fur, his mantle of dark cloth,
and his belt of embossed leather. There was a studied humility in it
all, as if he shunned all comparison with the king.
Ednoth said grace, and the chanters responded. The canons of the
cathedral, the priests of the other churches, the sheriff of the
county, the reeve of the borough, the burgesses, all had their places,
and the banquet began; huge joints being carried round to each
individual, from which, with his dagger, he cut what he fancied and
deposited it on his plate; then wine, ale, and mead were poured
foaming into metal tankards, and lighter delicacies followed. There
was no delay; no one cared to talk until he had satisfied his
appetite.
The king, as a matter of course, opened the conversation, when the
edge of desire was gone.
"Have the levies who served in the war all been disbanded, Sheriff?"
"The last returned from the garrisons in Sussex a week ago, and are
all hoping for a quiet winter in the bosom of their families."
"Have they lost many of their number? Did the people of this hundred
suffer greatly in the war which Sweyn forced upon us?"
"Not very many; still there has been a little mourning, and much
anticipation of future evil," replied the bishop.
"That is needless," said Edric; "they may all prepare to keep their
Christmas with good cheer. The Danes are sleeping, hibernating like
bears in their winter caves."
"While they are so near as the Wight, who can rest in peace?" said
Ednoth.
"The Wight! it must be a hundred miles from here; the Danes have never
reached any spot so far from the coast as this."
"Yet there is an uneasy belief that they will attack the inland
districts now that they have exhausted the districts on the coast, and
that we must be prepared to suffer as our brethren have done."
"Before they leave their retreat again we shall be ready to meet them;
our levies will be better trained and more numerous."
"A curse seemed upon all our exertions this last year," said Ednoth,
sorrowfully. "We were defending our hearths and our homes, yet we were
everywhere outmanoeuvred and beaten. It could not have been worse had
we had spies and traitors in command."
The king slightly coloured, for he resented all imputations on his
favourite, and was about to make a sharp reply, when a voice which
made him start, replied:
"Quite right, reverend father! as you say, success was impossible
while spies and traitors commanded our forces."
All looked up in amazement; two guests had entered unbidden, and the
king, the bishop, and Edric recognised Prince Edmund.
"The unseemly interruption is a sufficient introduction to the
company. I need not, my friends, present to you my turbulent son
Edmund, or the attendant he has picked up."
"No need whatsoever, if you will first allow us to explain the reasons
of our presence here. We have somewhat startling news from the enemy."
"The enemy, by my last advices, lies quiet in the Isle of Wight," said
Edric.
"I will not dispute your knowledge, my lord Edric," replied the
Prince, "considering the intimacy you stand on with Sweyn."
"Intimacy! I would sooner own intimacy with the Evil One."
"You might own that, too, without much exaggeration, since the good
bishop will bear me witness that he is the father of lies."
"Edmund, this is unbearable," said the king.
"Pardon, my father and liege, but truth will out."
The company sat in amazement, while the hand of Edric played
convulsively with the hilt of his dagger; meanwhile Edmund ate, and
gave to Alfgar, ere he spake again.
"Stay, Edric," whispered the king; "thou art my Edric. I was never
false to thee, nor will I be now; did I not, for thy sake, look over
the death of Elfhelm of Shrewsbury, and put out the eyes of his sons?
canst thou not trust me now?"
Thus strengthened, Edric remained, and uneasy whispers passed around
the assembly.
At last Edmund looked up.
"When the flesh is weak through toil and fasting, speech is not
eloquent, but now listen, all Englishmen true, and I will speak out."
He told his tale, how he had conceived suspicions that the Danes
intended a winter descent; how he had risked his life (in the
exuberance of youthful daring) to ascertain the truth; how, trusting
to his knowledge of Carisbrooke, wherein he had spent many pleasant
days in his boyhood, he had ventured amongst the Danes as a gleeman,
in imitation of Alfred of old; how there he had assisted, unsuspected,
at a meeting of the council in the great hall, and heard it decided to
invade England, and finally how he had escaped. And then he continued:
"And in that council I heard that the Danes had a secret friend in the
English army, who ever gave them due warning of our movements, and who
caused all the miscarriage of our last campaign. Stand forth, Edric
Streorn, for thou art the man, and my sword shall prove it, if need
be."
"Edmund, thou ravest," cried the king; "produce thy witnesses."
"Alfgar, son of Anlaf, answer; whom didst thou espy talking with
Sweyn?"
"Edric Streorn."
"How didst know him?"
"Because he threatened my life on St. Brice's night, and I had often
seen him while dwelling in Mercia."
"A Dane witnessing against a free-born Englishman? Can it be endured?"
cried Ethelred. "What, here, my royal guard!--here! here! your King is
insulted--insulted, and by his son and his son's minions."
The guard rushed in, their weapons in their hands.
"Seize my son, the false Edmund."
"Here I am," quietly said the hero of the English army, for such he
was, although not recognised as such by the government of his father.
"Here I am; what Englishman will bind me?"
The men stood as if paralysed.
"Will you not obey?" shouted the weak Ethelred, and stamped in
impotent anger on the floor.
But they would not--they could not touch Edmund.
Edric whispered in the king's ear.
"I was wrong," said the king; "retire, guards.
"Edmund, come with me; tell me what you have seen. I will hear you,
and judge between you and my Edric--judge fairly."
"Wait till my return, Alfgar."
Alfgar waited. No one spoke to him; all the company seemed utterly
bewildered, as well they might be until, after the expiration of an
hour, during which time Ednoth had left the hall, and the company
broke up by degrees, an officer of the court came and whispered in his
ear that Edmund awaited him without the gates.
He left the table at once, and proceeded beyond the precincts of the
palace, following his guide.
"Where is the prince?"
"He has had a stormy interview with his father, and has just left him,
refusing to lodge in the palace, to sleep without the precincts. I am
to conduct you thither."
Leaving the palace, they were passing through some thick shrubbery,
when all at once two strong men sprang upon Alfgar. At the same moment
his attendant turned round and assisted his foes. He struggled, but he
was easily overpowered, when his captors led him away, until, passing
a postern gate in the western wall of the town, they crossed an
embankment, and came upon the river. There they placed him on board a
small boat, and rowed rapidly down the stream.
In the space of a few minutes they ran the boat ashore in the midst of
dense woods which fringed the farther bank, and there they forced him
to land, and led him upwards until, deep in the woods, they came upon
an old timbered house. They knocked at the door, which was speedily
opened by a man of gigantic stature and ruffianly countenance, by
whose side snarled a mastiff as repulsive as he.
"Here, Higbald, we have brought thee a prisoner from our lord."
The wretch looked upon Alfgar with the eyes of an ogre bent on
devouring a captive, and then said:
"The chamber where blind Cuthred was slaughtered looks out on the
woods behind where no one passes, and it is strong; it will be better
for you to take him there."
And he drew aside to let them pass.
"Here, Wolf" said the uncouth gaoler, "smell him, and see you have to
guard him."
The dog seemed to comprehend. He smelt around the prisoner, then
displayed his huge fangs, and growled, as if to tell Alfgar what his
fate would be if he tried to escape.
The poor lad turned to his captors who had brought him there, for they
seemed more humane than his new gaoler.
"For pity's sake, tell me why I am brought here--what crime I have
committed."
No reply.
"At least bear a message to one who will think I have deserted him in
his need."
Again they were silent.
They had ascended a rough staircase. At the summit a passage led past
two or three doors to one made of the strongest plank, and
strengthened with iron.
They opened it, thrust him in, showed him, by the light of their
torches, a bed of straw in the corner.
"There you can lie and sleep as peacefully as at Carisbrooke," said
one of his guards.
"And let me tell you," added Higbald, "that it will be certain death
to try to get away; for if you could escape me, my dog Wolf, who
prowls about by day and night, would tear you in pieces before any one
could help you. He has killed half-a-dozen men in his day."
Like a poor wounded deer which retires to his thicket to die, Alfgar
threw himself down upon the bed of straw. His reflections were very,
very bitter.
"What would Edmund think of him?"
"He will know I am faithful. He will not think that the lad whose life
he saved has deserted him. He will search till he find me even here."
Thus in alternate hope and despair he sank at last to sleep--nature
had its way--even as the criminal has slept on the rack.