SUNDAY BEFORE ADVENT.--
The evening, after the Vesper service in the church was over, and
darkness had closed in, we all sat down to our evening meal. The doors
were shut to keep out the storm, and I had already said grace, when
the Etheling suddenly appeared.
His manner struck us all. He looked wild and agitated, and his first
words cast a chill over us.
"Where is Alfgar?"
"Is he not with you, what has happened?" said I and Herstan, speaking
in the same breath.
"No, I have lost him. I had hoped to find him here; they must have
murdered him," he cried.
"Murdered him?"
"Yes, he was too dangerous to Edric to be suffered to live. I might
have foreseen it; and they have put him out of the way by cowardly
assassination," insisted the Etheling.
There was too much reason in his words.
"Besides," said he, "if he were well and uninjured, would he not have
come here, where he was sure of a welcome?"
"I will go to Dorchester at once," said Herstan.
"It is useless," said Edmund; but my brother, having learnt all that
the prince could tell him, mounted and rode into the town.
Meanwhile Edmund evidently needed our care; we found he had not eaten
all day.
"I have risked my life for my country," he said, "and now that I bring
tidings which ought to circulate through the land like the wind, and
rouse every man to action, I am disbelieved. Nay, it is hinted that I
drank too much Danish wine and mead, and misunderstood what I heard. I
could brain the man who dared say so to my face. I could--and would.
Meanwhile no steps are taken, no levies called out; but I will myself
alarm the country. The innocent blood shall not be on my head."
"Surely they must heed your warning," said we all together.
"Not they. The fox, Edric, pretended that it was all moonshine."
"But did you not expose his treachery?" asked I.
"I tried to do so; but he pulled out a bit of some hedge, which he
said was a holy thorn from St. Joseph's tree at Glastonbury, and that
he was there on pilgrimage when Alfgar saw him--saw him, mark you--at
the Danish camp on the borders of Sussex; and I saw men, I won't
mention names, who had more than once taken reward to slay the
innocent, look as if they would go down on their knees to this holy
thorn, which wasn't a holy thorn at all, but plucked from some hedge
hard at hand. Did not Edric mock them in his heart! I should like to
strangle him."
How I thought of those who tithed mint and rue, and all manner of
herbs, and passed over justice, mercy, and the love of God.
So, in unavailing complaints, midnight drew on, and we heard the sound
of my brother's horse.
He soon entered the room. We saw at a glance that he had laboured in
vain, and spent his strength for nought.
"No one has seen him," he said.
"Have you asked many people?" we inquired.
"Yes, scores. The sheriff, the bishop, the watchmen, the
tradesfolk--no one has seen or heard aught. I will go again tomorrow."
"Meanwhile, do the people know what passed at the banquet last night?"
"No; it has all been kept quiet," was the reply.
We could do no more, and all retired to rest. I have sat up to say my
mattins and finish this diary. It is now nearly the third hour of the
morn, and--
Monday Night, 23d Nov. 1006.--
I had written as far as the word "and," when I was alarmed by a loud
cry from the chamber next my own, which was occupied by the Etheling.
I rose, and knocked at the door, but, receiving no answer, opened it
and went in.
I saw at once that the prince was delirious; the fever, which I had
marked in his eyes and manner, but which he struggled against, had at
length overcome his brave spirit.
Just as I entered the room, bearing my torch, he sprang out of bed.
"There is a snake under my pillow."
I tried to soothe him.
"It is Edric; he is turned into a snake, and is trying to sting me.
Kill him! kill him!"
I got him into bed with some difficulty, and sat by him, after giving
him a composing draught--for I never travel without a few simples at
hand, in case of sickness amongst those to whom I minister.
He slept at last, but it was evident to me that exposure and
excitement had grievously injured his health, and that he was in
danger of prolonged sickness. Ever and anon he raved in his sleep
about Sweyn, Edric, his father, and Alfgar, mixing them up in his mind
most strangely: but the object of his abhorrence was ever Edric, while
he spoke of Alfgar, "poor Alfgar!" as a father might speak of a son.
I watched by him all through the night, and in the morning he was
evidently too ill to rise. His mind became clear for a short time, and
yet his memory was so confused that he scarcely comprehended where he
was, or how he got here.
So my return to Abingdon is indefinitely delayed, for Herstan and my
sister both insist on my staying till he is out of danger, if God
will; and indeed I know no one else to whose care I could willingly
commit him.
We think it best not to let his father or Edric know where he is, for
we know how his death would rejoice the latter, and the wish is often
father to the action. A little would turn the scale now.
Herstan has gone into Dorchester again to inquire about Alfgar, and to
ascertain whether any action has been taken consequent upon Edmund's
intelligence from Carisbrooke.
Saturday.--Vigil of St. Andrew, and Eve of Advent Sunday.--
All this week I have been watching by the sickbed of the Etheling.
I hope the crisis is past, but he is still very weak. He has been
delirious nearly the whole time, and today has but a confused idea of
things around him.
All our inquiries about Alfgar have been fruitless, but there was one
circumstance which we learned, which seemed to me to bear some
reference to the matter.
The ferryman, whose hut is situate at the bend of the river below the
Synodune hills, where people cross for Wittenham, says that late on
the night in question a boat with four people passed down the river,
and that it struck him that one only rowed, while two of the rest
seemed guarding the fourth passenger. He did not know the boat, yet he
thought he knew every boat on the river.
This he has told to Herstan and others, but no further discovery has
ensued.
But another important matter has claimed our attention. The king left
on Monday without making any efforts to profit by the Etheling's
discovery at Carisbrooke; but we could not in conscience let the
matter rest. So Herstan and I went on to Dorchester on Wednesday, and
I obtained an audience of the bishop, while he sought the sheriff.
The bishop received me very kindly, and talked to me a great deal a
bout the happy days of Dunstan, when peace and plenty ruled
everywhere; but I led the conversation to the point I aimed at, and
told him frankly how alarmed we were at Abingdon about Edmund's
tidings.
"And so was I," said he, "and I have persuaded the king to place
guards and watchers all through the coasts opposite the Wight, and
with Edric's aid we elaborated a goodly plan."
"Indeed," said I, "but I wish Edric had nought to do with it."
"So did I at first, but I feel convinced that the young Dane who
vanished so suspiciously must have deceived the prince concerning the
presence of Edric in the Danish camp, and that we have no sufficient
reason for thinking him such a child of hell as he would be could he
betray his country thus cruelly. It would be Satanic wickedness. He
is, I believe, a bad and untrustworthy man, but not quite so bad as
all that."
I tried to explain my reasons for being of a contrary opinion, and
asked what was the plan.
"Advanced guards have been placed all along the coasts of Hampshire,
beacons prepared on every hill, with constant attendants, so that the
Danes would find their coming blazed over the country at once."
"But if so, what men have we to oppose to them?"
"The sheriff has promised that the levies shall appear in case of
need."
"Does he realise the danger?"
"I hardly think he believes in it; but the beacons will give
sufficient warning."
"Who has arranged the guards and chosen the sites for the beacons?"
"Edric, of course, as general of the forces under the king."
I could say no more--it was useless--but I felt very sick at heart.
After the noon meat I left the palace, and found my brother ready to
depart for home. His interview had been the counterpart of mine.
Neither had he succeeded in convincing the sheriff that there was any
danger to be apprehended.
Well, all we can do is to prepare ourselves for the worst. I find that
no tidings have been sent by any authority to the men of this estate
to hold themselves in readiness for sudden alarm. I wonder whether the
same remissness prevails elsewhere. No one expects danger. The Danes,
they say, never fight in winter.
Advent Sunday, 1006.--
My patient was able to sit up for a short time today, but his weakness
is very pitiable to behold, and he dares not leave his room. He
inquired very earnestly after Alfgar, and I found great difficulty in
persuading him to commit the matter to God, which is all that we can
do; for although the river has been dragged, the country searched, no
tidings have yet been obtained, and we can only believe that the poor
lad has been secretly murdered and buried, or that he has been sent
away out of the country.
"I had a strange dream about him," said Edmund. "I thought that it was
midnight of Christmas Eve, and that I was attending mass, when, just
as the words were sung by the choir, 'Pax in terra,' the scene
suddenly changed, and I stood in the dark on the chalk hills which
overlook the Solent; by my side was a beacon ready laid for firing. I
thought next I saw the Solent covered with the warships of the Danes,
who were advancing towards the English shore, and that I tried to fire
the beacon, but all in vain, for the wood was wet through, and would
not burn.
"Then I had a strange sense of woe and desolation, for my country was
in danger, and I could not even warn her. All at once I heard steps
rushing towards me, and Alfgar appeared bearing a lighted torch. He
thrust it into the pile, and it fired at once. Other beacon fires
answered it, and the country was aroused. Then I awoke."
Saturday, December 5th, 1006.--
The week has again been spent mainly at Clifton. The prince is better,
but only able to rise a few hours each day, and I fear a relapse would
be fatal.
On Wednesday I visited Abingdon, and had a long conference with the
abbot about the neglected warning Edmund had given; but he seemed to
think that the beacon fires and the guards placed near the sea coast
secure us sufficiently. Like all the world, he thinks that the
Etheling has exaggerated the danger.
I have written a full account of all things to my brother at
Aescendune. Father Adhelm is still there ministering to the flock.
Saturday, December 12th, 1006.--
The week has passed monotonously enough. The Etheling is now able to
leave his room, but the stormy weather, with its torrents of rain,
makes it impossible for him to leave the house. The river has
overflowed its banks; all the country around is like a lake. We
console him by telling him that all has been done which is possible,
both to warn the people and learn the fate of Alfgar. He tries to look
contented, but if he knew how little has really been done, and that
that little has been in Edric's hands, he would not be so contented.
Saturday, December 19th, 1006.--
A very severe frost has set in this week, and there has been much
snow; the whole country is decked in her winter braveries for
Christmas. O that it may pass in peace, as the birthday of the Prince
of Peace should pass!
I intend to spend it at Clifton, after which I shall return to my
flock at Aescendune.
Edmund has been out today, but the sharp air hurt his lungs, which
have been grievously inflamed, and he was forced to return early.
He has been so patient for one of his temperament, so grateful for
attention shown him, one would hardly think the lion could be such a
lamb. He intends to receive the Blessed Sacrament of the Body and
Blood of Christ on Christmas day in the little church of St. Michael
here, and then he will leave for London in the course of the week.
We have heard nothing of Alfgar--we fear there is no hope; but the
prince clings to it, and says his dream will come true, and that
Alfgar has yet a great work to do.
Christmas Eve, 1006.--
O happy happy Christmastide! All griefs seem hushed and all joys
sanctified by the blessed mystery of the Incarnation. O that Mary's
blessed Son, the Prince of Peace, may indeed bring us peace on earth,
and good will towards men!
The weather is beautiful. The stars shine as brightly tonight as if
they were the lights about His throne; the very earth has decked
herself in her clear and spotless robe of snow in His honour. As for
the dear ones who were with us last Christmas--Bertric, Alfgar (for I
fear he is gone where I hope he keeps a happier Christmas)--they have
left the heart less lonely, for if we miss them on earth they seem to
attract us to heaven, which is yet more like home when we think of the
loved and the lost who await us there.
We sing a midnight mass in an hour in the little church, another
tomorrow at dawn, a third in the full daylight. All the good people
here will communicate, and the evening will be given up to such
merrymaking as is befitting amongst Christians. All the ceorls and
serfs will be at the Hall, and the prince will share the
entertainment. Herstan and Bertha have been very busy preparing for
it, as also their children, Hermann, Ostryth, and Aelfleda.
But I must go and assist in decking the church for the midnight
festivity.