The inhabitants of Clifton stood on the terrace in front of the hall,
gazing upon the fiery horizon, wrapped in emotions of surprise and
alarm. Living as they did in an unsettled age, and far more prepared
than we should be for such a contingency, yet the sense of the rapid
approach of a cruel and remorseless foe struck terror into many
hearts.
But they had one amongst them to whom warfare and strife were a second
nature--one in whom the qualities which form the hero were very fully
developed. He gazed with sadness, but without fear, at the coming
storm, and to their late patient the inmates of the hall turned for
advice and aid in their dread emergency.
"What shall we do?" asked Herstan, gazing with indescribable feelings
at those who clung to him for support.
"The case is clear as the day," said the prince. "The storm I foretold
in vain has broken over the land, and the levies are not ready to meet
it. Listen; you may hear the sounds of alarm from Dorchester even
here. They see their danger."
The tolling of the alarm bells, the sound of distant shouts, the
blowing of trumpets rolled in a confused flood of noise across the
intervening space--a distance of between two and three miles--and
manifested the intense alarm of the city, so cruelly aroused from
dreams of peace.
"But what shall we do?"
"Defend the place if attacked; it is well adapted for defence. You
have the river on one side, and a cliff no Dane could scale in the
face of our battle-axes; on the other side, your earthworks and
palisades keep the foe at a distance from the main building. How many
able-bodied men are present now?"
"Happily we have all our force; the feast has brought them all here.
There would be from sixty to seventy men, besides a score of boys."
"And how are you provided with weapons?"
"Each man has a battle-axe, and there are scores of spears in the
armoury."
"And arrows?"
"Whole sheaves of them; and as good yew bows as were ever bent."
"Come, we shall do; and now about provisions?"
"You see we have bounteous fare now, but it would not last many days."
"Many days we shall not want it--many days? Why, the levies must all
be out within twenty-four hours, and the Danes are not strong enough
to maintain themselves here. It is but a raid; but they might all have
been taken or slain had my father but believed me. As it is, they have
shed much innocent blood by this time."
"You think, then, our buildings are capable of defence?"
"Assuredly; it would be madness to sacrifice such a position. If the
Danes are about in the neighbourhood, it would be far more dangerous
to expose your helpless ones without the fortifications. Have you all
your people here, or are there a few sick?"
"A few sick, only."
"Let them be sought at once; the heathen will be revelling like fiends
about the country. For the present I think Dorchester and Abingdon
safe. Wallingford, if I may judge by the light over the hills, has
utterly fallen. They were probably taken unawares; and their defences
were never good. Now we must at once to work."
"Prince, you have more experience of war than I; you will be our
commander."
"I accept the post. To tell the truth, it will be a treat for me after
the illness and confinement I have gone through; the thought of the
struggle makes me feel myself again."
And so this strangely constituted man went forth and spoke to the
assembled multitude, who stood passively gazing at the distant
conflagration.
"Now, Englishmen, a few words to you all. We shall have, I hope, to
fight these Danes; and for the honour of our country must even quit
ourselves like men. Why should not the Englishman be a match for the
Dane? ay, more than a match for the cutthroat heathen? Here we stand
on a rock with our defence secure; and here we will live or die in
defence of our women and children. What say you all?"
"We will live or die with you."
"Well said, men. Now, one good hearty cheer; no, stop, I should like
them to be caught in their own traps. I know their plan. If they find
the good people of Dorchester are awake, as the noise shows, they will
swarm all over the neighbourhood like wasps after honey, to plunder
the isolated houses and farms, and carry off all they can; and this
place is too conspicuous--too much of a city on a hill--to be hidden.
Well, we will be ready for them. Now, first of all, we must set our
outposts around to give us due warning of their approach; and then
every man must arm himself as best he can, and let me see what figure
you can all make."
He was interrupted by a childish voice, and saw Herstan's little son,
a boy of twelve years, touching his garment, and looking at him with
unfeigned admiration.
"May I not fight the Danes, Prince?"
"No, you are too young; you must go and take care of your mother and
sisters."
"I don't want to be shut up with the women. I have killed a wolf. I
shot him with my bow in Newenham wood."
"Well, we will see by and by, my brave boy. We shall have work for
all; go and arm with the rest.
"Well, Alfgar?"
"Let my post be near you."
"You will fight in this quarrel, then?"
"Yes; to save Christian blood."
"Then I adopt you as an Englishman--Dane no longer. I know your
courage and coolness, and will employ it where it is wanted. Now, you
know the place; come and place the outposts where they can retire
easily."
The small sally port, as it would have been called in later times, was
opened, and two men were in each case posted together all round the
building, under cover of trees, at convenient distances. The trees
immediately around the house had been cut down a few weeks earlier, by
order of Herstan, who saw they might afford cover to an enemy, in case
the prince's prophecies were fulfilled, as proved now to be the case.
The building was large and irregular, and had been added to at various
times, the hall, looking over the river, forming its most conspicuous
portion; but it had not originally been built for purposes of defence,
and could not have endured the Danish assault for a moment, but for
external defences, utterly independent of the building, which had been
recently added; a mound, surmounted by crossed palisades, skilfully
strengthened by osier bands, and a deep outer ditch, now full of snow,
surrounded the building on three sides. The fourth was defended by the
river, which, being full owing to the late rains, rushed impetuously
along below.
"Alfgar," said Edmund, "ask Father Cuthbert to see that all the
helpless ones--women and children--are safely shut up in an inner
apartment, where no Danish arrow can find them."
This was accomplished, and Father Cuthbert cheered them all with his
calm placid manner; reassuring this one and cheering that, seeming
quite insensible to fear himself: one moment all sympathy, then all
brightness, his presence was invaluable in the crisis.
"And now," said Edmund, "to the stables; the horses and cattle must be
turned loose tonight, or the Danes will burn them in their barns and
sheds."
The farm buildings lay some little distance without, and the Etheling
and Alfgar, with two or three farm servants, carried out the task
hastily but effectually. Duties were meanwhile assigned to all the
able-bodied women and boys: some provided buckets and ladders, that,
in case the Danes attempted to kindle a flame, they might attempt in
vain; others tore up lint and prepared bandages for the wounded, while
others passed into the upper apartments to see that no lights remained
which could direct the aim of the foe.
The night had somewhat changed its character while all these things
were going on; clouds obscured the moon, and light flakes of snow
commenced to fall. The wind began to moan, as if a storm were at hand.
Alfgar visited the outposts while Edmund assigned their several
stations to the men, who were now armed in readiness for the defence.
When the former reached the post on the river's bank lower down, he
saw that the sentinel had thrown himself ear to the earth, and was
listening intently; he imitated his example.
A deep dull sound from the distance was heard, and Alfgar recognised
the tread of an approaching host.
"Let us withdraw," he said.
They fell back quietly; Alfgar, passing rapidly round, warned all the
other sentinels, and when all had entered, the gates were closed; all
was done in profound silence.
Then Edmund caused the men to fit their arrows to the string, and to
lie upon the inward slope of the earthworks, so as to be invisible; he
placed all the rest of the men at the windows and loopholes of the
building. Similarly prepared, Edmund, with Alfgar and young Hermann by
his side, waited at the window commanding the gateway, when the Lady
Bertha came up to them.
"Has not Father Cuthbert returned?"
"Returned?"
"Yes, he went to the church to bring in the sacred vessels and
vestments."
Alfgar rose instantly.
"I will go and seek him," he cried.
"Then pass out by the postern gate, on the angle nearest the church; I
fear the danger is great, but he must be told that the foe is near, or
he may fall into their hands."
Alfgar left the hall and passed to an angle of the defences where a
little gate led out towards the church; the bridge had been removed,
and he had absolutely to descend into the ditch amongst the deep snow.
Emerging, he crossed the burial yard, and found the good father
returning heavily laden with the precious vessels and other objects he
had been able to save.
"Father," he said; "the enemy is near."
"Indeed! so soon?"
"We must enter by the postern gate."
"I could hardly cross the snow burdened as I am; is it unsafe to try
the other gate? I hear no sound, see no symptom of danger."
They paused; all was so quiet that Alfgar yielded, and they passed
round the mansion. The drawbridge was up, and no danger seemed near;
the trees were in deep shadow, for the clouds, obscuring the moon,
made the night very dark.
Alfgar gave the signal, and the drawbridge was lowered; but they had
scarcely set foot upon it when dark figures rushed from the shadows
behind them. The bridge, which they both had passed, was actually
rising, when the foremost Dane leapt upon it, but was rewarded by a
blow from the battle-axe of Alfgar, which sent him tumbling into the
snow; two or three others leapt forward and clung to the edge of the
bridge, but fell into the ditch like the first; the two fugitives
entered, and the gate was closed.
Then the awful war cry of the Danes arose from earth to heaven,
chilling the very blood and, disdaining all further concealment, the
murderous warriors rushed forward, doubtless expecting to find the
place almost undefended, and to carry the defences at a rush.
But they were soon fatally undeceived, for so perfect had been
Edmund's arrangements, that a storm of arrows burst from all parts of
the building and embankment, laying nearly half the assailants dying
or wounded on the ground.
Still the survivors threw themselves into the ditch, and strove in
vain to pass the palisades, which projected over their heads, and
which were vigorously defended by spear and battle-axe.
But in one place a gigantic warrior succeeded in hewing an aperture
with his axe, wielded by giant strength, and all might have been lost
had not Edmund perceived it, and rushed to its defence, collecting by
his shout half-a-dozen followers. Several Danes strove to pass the
breach; one was already through, and Edmund attacked him; meanwhile
two others had crept through, but were cut off from their fellows, for
the English rallied in front and presented an impenetrable barrier
with their spears, while from the windows above the arrows rained upon
the assailants.
Edmund's axe had found its victim; Herstan, who was by his side, had
engaged and wounded the second; and, meanwhile, Alfgar, who was
glaring about him for a foe, discovered the third, whose aspects and
form were at once recognised by him.
"What! you, Higbald!" he cried.
"You shall escape no more," cried his late gaoler, and brought his axe
down with a mighty rush. Alfgar leapt nimbly aside, and before his
bulky but clumsy antagonist could recover his guard, passed his keen
sword beneath the left arm, through the body, and the giant staggered
and fell, a bloody foam rising to his lips, as he quivered in the
agonies of death.
All was again silent. The Danes, discomfited for the moment, having
lost half their number, had retired, probably waiting for
reinforcements, and the victor addressed Edmund.
"Look," he cried; "this man is a servant of Edric Streorn."
"Is it true, fellow?" said Edmund sternly.
"What if it is? I am dying now, and it cannot matter to me."
The last words were interrupted by a convulsive struggle.
"Art thou an Englishman or a Dane?" said the Etheling, bending over
the dying ruffian in his anxiety to learn the whole truth.
"What is that to thee?"
"Much, if thou wouldst escape death."
"Escape death! I cannot. Neither wilt thou escape Edric Streorn, and I
shall not die unavenged. Ah! young springal, thou wilt not escape
again. To think that thy puny hand should give Higbald his death blow!
Ah, I am choked!"
Alfgar's sword had pierced his lungs, and a gush of blood rushing to
the mouth stopped the breath of Higbald for ever.
"I have brought the foe upon you. We are tracked," said Alfgar. "Edric
and the Danes are in alliance."
"But they have not taken this place yet; neither shall they, by God's
help! Ha! was that lightning? Nay, it is winter."
A sudden burst of fiery light illuminated the scene, and the defenders
looked forth, in spite of their danger, from their fortifications. The
little church of St. Michael burst forth into billowing eddies of
smoke and flame.
"This is a grievous sight, to see the place we had dedicated to God
destroyed by the bloody heathen. O that He would stretch forth His
hand as in the days of old!"
"Would I had but two hundred men; I would fall upon the villains in
the rear, and leave not one," said Edmund.
"Look--the farm buildings!" cried little Hermann.
"The poor horses and oxen!" cried the Lady Bertha.
"They are safe," said Edmund. "You may hear the trampling of hoofs
even now. The fools of Danes are hunting them in all directions. I do
not think they will catch many."
Lights appeared in two or three places, and soon it became evident
that the ruthless foe had gained their object, as the barns and
stables lit up in all directions, and the manor house was surrounded
by the double conflagration, so that every object was as distinctly
visible as in open daylight.
"To your buckets! Pour water upon the roof; and, archers, look out for
the enemy; keep him as far off as you can."
The boys and women were speedily on the roof pouring water in all
directions, in case the wind should deposit the burning brands upon
the structure. Meanwhile flights of arrows came from the distance, and
settled around them; but they were spent before arrival in most cases,
for the defenders kept the ground clear for a large circle around by
their well-sustained discharges. Not a few dead bodies lying in the
glare of the fire testified to their deadly skill.
The flames passed from stable to barn, and barn to shed. The
triumphant cries of the Danes added to the horror of the scene, heard
as they were amidst the continuous roaring of the flames. Crash,
crash, went roof after roof, the fall of the little church on the
opposite side first leading the awful chorus. Life seemed the penalty
of either Englishman or Dane who dared to trust his person within the
circle of light.
The Lady Bertha was comforting her two little girls, Ostryth and
Alfreda, where they sat, cowering and terrified, in their own little
bedchamber, the window so barricaded that no arrow could enter, but
yet not sufficiently to keep out the glare of the flames.
"Mother, how light it is!" said the little Ostryth; "how dreadfully
bright!"
"It will soon be darker again."
"But is it fire? Are they burning the house?"
"No, dearest. They have set the farm on fire. It cannot hurt us."
"But the horses, and my poor little pony?"
"Are safe, dearest one. The Etheling went and let them all loose."
"Oh! how good of him. I am so glad."
"Mother, let Hermann come and sit with us!"
"Nay, he will out to the fight. He is a boy, and must learn to be a
soldier."
"Oh, but he will get hurt, perhaps killed."
"Courage, dear child; remember how often I have told you how God helps
those who trust in Him. Say your prayers, your Pater and Credo, and
ask God to take care of dear father and Hermann."
"Mother!" said a voice. She locked up and saw Hermann, his forehead
covered with blood.
"It is nothing, mother," said the spirited lad, as he wiped the blood
away; "at least only the scratch of an arrow while I was on the roof.
Father wishes you to send all the women who are strong enough to help
to carry water from the river. The well is dry, and the men cannot be
spared from the embankment. We expect another attack, and there are
great patches of blazing straw flying about in the wind."
She spoke a few words to the women, and all but two or three, who were
too weak or ill, went forth to the work. One kiss she imprinted
eagerly on his brow, and dismissed him back to his perilous task
without allowing herself one sigh.
"Now, dear ones," she said to the little girls, "keep quiet till
mother comes back. I must go."
"O mother, do not leave us!"
But she could not listen to the earnest pleadings, for she felt that
where other women exposed themselves, she too must go, and cheer by
her example.
A long line, reaching to the brink of the river, was soon formed, and
buckets were being passed from hand to hand. A loud cry, and a boy in
the line fell from an arrow, which retained just sufficient strength
to pierce his heart. Herstan and Father Cuthbert carried the corpse
reverently within, the father remembering that but that morning he had
fed with the Bread of Life, at the altar of St. Michael, this poor
lad, so soon to be called to meet the Judge who had entertained him as
a guest at His holy Table that Christmas morn. Two or three others
were soon wounded, but not seriously, and when a supply of water ready
for all emergencies had been collected on the roof, the dangerous duty
was over.
Pale and collected, the Lady Bertha was returning to her children,
when she passed the corpse. One moment, and the thought struck her
that it was Hermann, and the mother's heart gave a great leap.
Tremblingly she put aside the cloth with which they had veiled it, and
was undeceived. Repressing her feelings, she was again by the side of
her little girls, when the fearful cries of the assailants once more
rang through the air.
"Stand to your post! Quit yourselves like men! Be firm!" shouted the
stentorian voice of Edmund.
Onward came the Danes, in three parties, to attack the three sides of
the building. The arrows diminished their numbers, but stayed them
not. They left a struggling dark line upon the ground, but the wounded
had to care for themselves. Edmund rushed to command the defence at
the gate, leaving Alfgar to superintend that upon the right hand, and
Herstan on the left. They had but one moment, and they were in the
thick of the conflict.
Shouts mingled with shrieks. Sword, battle-axe, and spear did their
deadly work through and above the palisade; arrows rained down from
the roof and windows on the assailants, women and boys doing their
part in that manner, while the men did theirs with battle-axe and
sword on the bulwarks. In one or two places the palisade threatened to
give way, and at last three or four stakes were dragged out in one
spot, blow after blow of the axe was spent upon the yielding fabric,
and a breach was effected.
The Etheling perceived it, and rushed to the scene just as two or
three of the English, less used to arms, were yielding before the
ponderous weapons of the Danes. Throwing himself into the breach, his
practised arm made a desert around him. Of immense muscular strength,
his blows came down like the fabled hammer of Thor, crushing helmet
and breastplate alike before the well-tempered steel of his favourite
weapon. The foe were driven back, and for one moment he stood in the
breach alone.
Then and then only was he recognised.
"The gleeman! the false gleeman the Etheling Edmund!" in various
energetic cries, attested his fame, and the hatred of his foes.
"Yes, dogs, ye know me, and the prize ye have to win. Back, drunkards
and cannibals, back to your royal parricide with the gleeman's
greetings, and tell him Hela is waiting for him and his friend the
accursed Edric."
A shower of arrows was the only answer, but they missed the joints,
and rattled harmlessly from the well-tempered armour which Edmund
wore. Still the position was critical, and Alfgar, with gentle
violence, persuaded him to descend from his perilous position.
Here the attack was foiled, and foiled so decidedly, that the ditch
was actually half filled with corpses. Cries of distress arose from
the opposite side, but Edmund's arm restored the balance there, so
great was the influence of one man, and so great the power of physical
force in the desperate conflicts of that day.
Foiled at every point, the invaders were driven from the embankment.
It was evident that they had miscalculated the forces of the
defenders, and that they had advanced beyond their main body in
insufficient strength to take the place by assault. Could they have
supplied the place of the fallen by fresh men, until they had wearied
the defenders out, they would have succeeded, but they were evidently
not in strength to do this so they slowly yielded, until the deadly
struggle ceased, and silence resumed her empire, while the besieged
repaired the damage the defences had sustained.
"They have retired," said Herstan, wiping the sweat from his brow and
the blood from his axe.
"Ay," said Edmund, "they will not now take the place by assault--they
are not more than two to one, considering the losses they have
sustained. They have lost twice as many as we. If we were a little
stronger I would head a sally.
"Ah! what was that?"
A globe of fire traversing the arc of a circle, rose from beyond the
embers of the barns, and, sailing through the air, fell upon the roof,
which, owing to the intense heat from the conflagration which had
raged around, was in a very dry and inflammable state. Another, then
another followed, and Edmund cried aloud:
"Pass up the water to the roof, to the roof. We shall need all our
hands now!"
He rushed up himself, but charged Herstan to remain below, and see
that, whatever happened, the defences were not forsaken for one
moment.
The defenders on the roof were prompt with their remedy; and no sooner
did a flaming brand arrive than it was extinguished, provided it fell
in a spot easy of access. But at length some of the deadly missiles
fell where they could not be immediately reached, and one of these
eluded the observation of the besieged until they saw a sheet of flame
curl over the eaves beneath the roof, and play upon the surface of the
huge beams above, until they suddenly started into flame. Water was
dashed upon it, but only partially extinguished the destroying
element, which broke out in fresh places until the defenders became
desperate. And now flight after flight of arrows fell amongst them,
and many wounds were received, while the smoke and flame seemed to
find fresh fuel each moment, and to need all the energies of the
English.
It was at this inauspicious moment that the Danes charged the
palisades again with deadly fury, while the attention of all was drawn
to the flames; so fierce was the attack, that it was necessary once
more to concentrate all the strength of the besieged to repel them;
and the fire gained in strength, roared and hissed in its fury,
seizing for its prey the whole roof of the eastern wing of the
building.
And now the Danish archers, drawing nearer, sent fresh flights of
arrows on those who were labouring on the house top, and, killing
several, drove the others away. The condition of the English was
rapidly getting desperate.
Edmund threw himself into the strife, and drove the foe back from the
breach they had previously made, but even his valour could not restore
confidence.
"All is lost! all is lost!" cried some panic-stricken trembler, as he
saw the flames spread.
"To the river, to the river, to the boats!" cried others.
"Nay, nay," shouted Edmund, "we are not conquered yet; we can defend
ourselves till daylight, or we can depart in order. Alfgar, bid the
women and children prepare to leave the hall as the fire spreads; and
you, Herstan, see that if the worst comes to the worst, the retreat to
the river is made in order. We will defend the place if necessary till
the last man, and cover your retreat; but all is not lost yet. Take a
dozen stout men, mount the roof, the fire is not lower down; let them
destroy the burning portion with their axes; let the women stand
behind with the water.
"Archers, keep the Danes back. See those brutes there aiming at your
wives on the roof; bring them down; make them keep their distance.
Guard well the palisades."
But, although his orders were obeyed, the Danes grew bolder; the men
could not work on the roof in the midst of the arrows. The women and
children, emerging terror-struck from the hall, made every father's
heart sink within him.
Edmund cried aloud:
"To the gate, to the gate! the villains have got the drawbridge down."
He rushed to the spot himself, and found that some adventurous Dane
had severed the chains and lowered the bridge in the momentary
confusion of its defenders, and the gate was yielding before their
strokes.
He arrived; and that moment the gate fell. He stood in the breach
himself; one man against a dozen. He did all a hero could; but he was
already bleeding. Alfgar, ever faithful, fought like a lion by his
side. Herstan and his bravest warriors brought their aid, but all
seemed lost.
"Tell them to retreat to the river.
"Herstan, conduct the retreat; Alfgar and I can keep them out for five
minutes more."
"All is lost! all is lost!" the cry arose within.
"No; saved! saved!" cried Father Cuthbert from the roof. "What!
Englishmen, to the rescue! to the rescue!"
The Danes suddenly wavered, then turned in surprise and despair; for
from the darkness behind emerged the forms of hundreds of Englishmen,
who fell upon the Danes. The levies were out, and only just in time.
"One charge!" said Edmund; and, rushing forward, led the way into the
heart of the foe.
. . . . . .
The Danes who had attacked the house of Herstan were so far in advance
of their countrymen that they were forced to retreat instantly before
the superior force which came to the rescue of the besieged; and they
fell back, at first in some order, but shortly, owing to the darkness
and the pressure of their foes, in utter confusion.
But Edmund could pursue them no longer. His strength, having been so
lately an invalid, was utterly gone. He fell from sheer exhaustion,
and was borne back by Alfgar to the hall.
But there was no longer need for his protection. He had saved the
mansion and all its inmates, as they most readily owned. And now he
received all the loving care and attention he deserved.
Meanwhile the English continued the pursuit until a small remnant of
Danes repassed the river; only a small remnant of the party which, as
it will be easily guessed, instigated by Edric, had sallied forth to
besiege the place where Edmund had found refuge, who had so recently
provoked the bitter hostility of Sweyn.
The following day the whole army of the Danes retreated from the ruins
of Wallingford towards the south; and the next day encamped in the
village of Cholsey, which, with its priory, they utterly destroyed.
Then they continued their retreat along the slope of the downs, by
Aston, until they reached Cuckamsley hill, where they abode as a
daring boast; for it had been said that if they ever reached that spot
they should never see the sea again. Alas! the prediction was
unfulfilled {xii}.