Chapter 2: Olaf The King.
Chapter 3: The Breaking Of London Bridge.
Chapter 4: Earl Wulfnoth Of Sussex.
Chapter 5: How Redwald Fared At Penhurst.
Chapter 6: Sexberga The Thane's Daughter.
Chapter 7: The Fight At Leavenheath.
Chapter 8: The White Lady Of Wormingford Mere.
Chapter 9: The Treachery Of Edric Streone.
Chapter 10: The Flight From London.
Chapter 11: The Taking Of The Queen.
Chapter 12: Among Friends.
Chapter 13: Jealousy.
Chapter 14: The Last Great Battle.
Chapter 15: The Shadow Of Edric Streone.
Chapter 16: By Wormingford Mere.
Notes.
Preface.
No English chronicler mentions the presence of King Olaf the Saint
in England; but the two churches dedicated to him at either end of
London Bridge, where his greatest deed was wrought, testify to the
gratitude of the London citizens towards the viking chief who
rescued their city from the Danes, and brought back the king of
their own race towards whom their loyalty was so unswerving.
The deeds of King Olaf recorded in this story of his kinsman are
therefore from the Norse "Saga of King Olaf the Holy," and the
various incidents are assigned as nearly as may be to their place
in the sequence of events given from the death of Swein to the
accession of Cnut, in the contemporary Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, which
is our most reliable authority for the period.
The place where King Olaf fought his seventh battle, "Ringmereheath
in Ulfkyl's land," is doubtful. To have localized it, therefore, on
a traditional battlefield in Suffolk, where a mound and field names
point to a severe forgotten fight in the line which a southern
invader would take between Colchester and Sudbury, may be
pardonable for the purposes of Redwald's story.
With regard to other historic incidents in the tale, some are from
the Danish "Knytlinga" and "Jomsvikinga" Sagas, which alone give us
the age of Cnut on his accession to the throne, and recount the
interception of Queen Emma by Thorkel's men on her projected
flight. In the ordinary course of history the age of the wise king
is disregarded, and the doings of the three great jarls are
naturally enough credited to him, for after the first few years of
confusion have been passed over, he takes his place as the greatest
of our rulers since Alfred, and his age is forgotten in his
wonderful policy.
The doings of Edric Streone are partly from the hints give by the
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, and partly from the accounts of later
English writers. But there is no chronicle of either English,
Danish, or Norse origin which does not hold him and his treachery
in the utmost scorn.
The account of the battle of Ashingdon follows the definite local
traditions of the place. The line of the river banks have changed
but little, and Cnut's earthworks still remain at Canewdon. The
first battlefield is yet known, and they still tell how Eadmund was
forced to fight on Ashingdon hill because his way across the ford
was barred by the Danish ships, and how the pursuit of the routed
English ended at Hockley.
Wulfnoth and his famous son Godwine are of course historic. The
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle tells us how the earl was driven into sullen
enmity with Ethelred by Streone's brother, and the Danish Sagas
record Godwine's first introduction by Jarl Ulf to Cnut after the
battle of Sherston.
As for the places mentioned in Redwald's story, the well on Caldbec
hill still has its terrors for the village folk, and the
destruction of the ancient mining village at Penhurst by the Danes
is remembered yet with strange tales of treasure found among its
stone buildings. The Bures folk still speak of the White Lady of
the Mere, and their belief that Boadicea lies under the great mound
is by no means unlikely to be a tradition of her true resting
place.
C. W. WHISTLER
STOCKLAND, Nov. 1896.
Chapter 1: The Coming Of The Vikings.
All along our East Anglian shores men had watched for long, and now
word had come from Ulfkytel, our earl, that the great fleet of
Swein, the Danish king, had been sighted off the Dunwich cliffs,
and once again the fear of the Danes was on our land.
And so it came to pass that I, Redwald, son of Siric, the Thane of
Bures, stood at the gate of our courtyard and watched my father and
our sturdy housecarles and freemen ride away down the hill and
across the winding Stour river to join the great levy at
Colchester. And when I had seen the last flash of arms sparkle from
among the copses beyond the bridge, I had looked on Siric, my
father, for the last time in this world, but no thought rose up in
my mind that this might be so.
Yet if I stand now where I stood on that day, and see by chance the
glimmer of bright arms through green boughs across the river, there
comes to me a rush of sadness that dulls the bright May sunshine
and the sparkle of the rippling water, and fills the soft May-time
wind with sounds of mourning. Now to me it seems that I was thus
sad at the time that is brought back to me. But I was not so. It is
only the weight of long years of remembrance of what should have
been had I known. At that parting I turned back into the hall
downcast, only because my father had thought me not yet strong
enough to ride beside him, and a little angry and hurt moreover,
for I was broad and strong for my sixteen years.
Little thought I that in years to come I should remember all of
that leave taking, even to the least thing that happened; but so it
is. No man may rightly be said to forget aught. All that he has
known and learnt is there, hidden up in his mind to come forth if
there is anything that shall call it again to light.
Now my father lies resting among nameless heroes who died for
England on Nacton Heath--I know not even which of the great mounds
it may be that holds his bones--but he fell before the flight began
when Thurketyl Mirehead played the craven. Neither victor nor
vanquished was he when his end came, but maybe that is the best end
for a warrior after all. Some must fall, and some may live to
boast, and some remain to mourn, but to give life for fatherland in
hottest strife is good. That is what my father would have wished
for himself, and I at least sorrow but for myself and not for him.
Now I have spoken of remembrance, and I will add this word--that
some things in a man's life can never be set aside from his memory.
Waking or sleeping they come back to him. Eight days after that
going of my father came such a time to me, so that every least
thing is clear to me today as then.
I sat plaiting a leash for my hounds on the settle before the fire
in our great hall at Bures, and I remember how the strands of
leather thong fell in my hand; I remember how my mother's spinning
wheel stopped short with a snapping of broken threads; how the
thrall who was feeding the fire stayed with the log in his hands;
how the sleepy men at the lower end of the hall sprang up with
heavy words checked on their lips before the lady's presence; how
the maidens screamed--aye, and how the draught swayed the wall
hangings, and sent a long train of sparks flying from a half-dead
torch, as the great door was thrown open and a man flung himself
into our midst, mud splashed and white faced, with hands that
quivered towards us as he cried hoarsely:
"In haste, mistress--you must fly--the Danes--" and fell like a log
at my mother's feet where she sat on the dais, neither moving nor
speaking more.
It was Grinkel, the leader of our housecarles {1}. His armour
was rent and gashed, and no sword was in the scabbard at his side,
and his helm was gone, and now as he fell a bandage slipped from
his arm, and slowly the red stream from a great wound ran among the
sweet sedges wherewith the floor was strewn.
There came a mist before my eyes, and my heart beat thick and fast
as I saw him; but my mother rose up neither screaming nor growing
faint, though through her mind, as through mine, must have glanced
the knowledge of all that this homecoming of brave Grinkel meant.
She stepped from the high place to the warrior's side and hastily
rebound the wound, telling the maidens meanwhile to bring wine that
she might revive him if he were not already sped.
Then she rose up while the old steward took the wine and tried to
force it between the close-set teeth, and she called the farm
servants to her.
"Make ready all the horses and yoke the oxen to the wains," she
said in a clear voice that would not tremble. "Send the lads to
warn the village folk to fly beyond the river. For Grinkel comes
not in this wise for nought. The Danes are on us."
Now I remember the grim faces of the men as they went, and I
remember the look on the faces of the women as they heard, and in
the midst of us seemed to lie terror itself glaring from the set
eyes of the dead warrior. And of those memories I will say
nought--I would not have them live in the minds of any by day and
night as they lived in mine for many a long year thereafter. Many
were the tales I had heard of the coming of Ingvar's host in the
days of Eadmund our martyred king, who was crowned here at Bures in
our own church, and those tales were terrible. Now the like was on
us, and I saw that what I had heard was not the half.
The old steward rose up now, shaking his head in sorrow. I think he
was too old for fear.
"Grinkel is dead, lady," he said gently, closing the wild eyes as
he spoke, and then throwing a cloak from the wall over him. But my
mother only said, "May he rest in peace. What of the Thane?"
Thereat the steward looked forthright into his lady's face, and
spoke bravely for all around to hear:
"Doubtless the levy is broken for this once, and he bides with Earl
Ulfkytel to gather a new and stronger force. The Thane has sent
Grinkel on, and he has ridden in over-much haste for a wounded man.
He was ever eager."
My mother gave back her old servant's look in silence, and seemed
to assent. Yet I, though I was but a lad of sixteen, could see what
passed in that look of theirs. I knew that surely my father had
fallen, and that need was great for haste.
Then was hurry and hustle in the house as all that was most
valuable was gathered, and I myself could but take my arms from the
wall, and don mail-shirt and helm and sword and seax {2} and
then look on, useless enough, with my thoughts in a whirl all the
time.
Presently out of their tangle came one thing clearly to me, and
that was that there were others whom I loved to be warned, besides
the villagers.
My mother came into the hall again, and stood for a moment like a
carven statue looking at the maidens who wrought at packing what
they might. She had not wept, but in her face was written sorrow
beyond weeping. Yet almost did she weep, when I stood beside her
and spoke, putting my hand on her arm.
"Mother," I said, "I must go to Wormingford and warn them also. My
horse will be ready, and I will return to you."
Then she looked at me, for as I go over these things I know that
this was the first time that I had ever said to her "I must,"
without asking her leave, in aught that I would do. And she
answered me calmly.
"Aye, that is a good thought. They will need help. Bide with them
if need is, and so join us presently on the road. We will fly to
London."
"So far, mother?" I said. "Surely Colchester will be safe."
"I will go to Ethelred the king," she answered. "He has ever been
your father's friend, and will be yours. And I was the queen's
maiden in the old days, and she will welcome me. Now go and bring
Hertha to me."
She turned to her work, and I went out across the courtyard.
Already the wains stood there, the teams of sleepy oxen tossing
their long horns in the glare of torches. The church bell was
clanging the alarm of fire to bring home the men from field or
forest if any were abroad so late, for it was an hour after sunset,
and there was no moon yet.
The gray horse that my father gave me a year agone stood ready
saddled in the stall when I came to the stables. I went and loosed
him, while a groom saw me and ran to help, and as I swung into the
saddle I saw his face marked with new lines across his forehead.
"Do you fly first, master?" he said, with strange meaning in his
voice.
"I go to Wormingford," I answered. "Likely enough, therefore, that
I fly last," and I laughed.
"Aye, let me go, master, let me go," he said. "It is like that the
Danes are on the road."
"Not yet," I said, touched by question and offer alike. "There is
many a mile between here and Ipswich, and I think that to go to
Wormingford is my work, surely."
So I rode away fast, seeing in the valley below me the lights of
the house that I sought. As I had said, the errand was indeed mine.
For at the great house just across the river below the hills lived
the one who should be my wife in the days to come--Hertha, daughter
of Osgod, the Thane of Wormingford. It was now three years since we
had been betrothed with all solemnity in our church, and that had
seemed but fit and right, for we were two children who had played
together since we could run hand in hand. And my mother had been as
a mother also to little Hertha since she was left with only her
father to tend her.
Our house and Osgod's were akin, though not near, for we both
traced our line from Redwald the first Christian king of East
Anglia, whose name I bore. Hertha was two years younger than I.
Now Osgod the Thane had ridden away to the war with my father, and
unless he had returned with Grinkel, Hertha was alone in the house
with her old nurse and the farm servants. Most surely she would
have been at Bures with us but for some spring-time sickness which
was among the village children, and from which my mother sought to
keep her free. It might be that the thane had returned, but it was
in my mind that the manner of Grinkel's coming boded ill to all of
us.
So I rode on quickly down the hill towards the river. I knew not
how near the Danes might be, but I thought little of them, until
suddenly through the dusk I saw a red point of fire flicker and
broaden out into flame on a hilltop eastward, where I knew a beacon
fire was piled against need. And then from every point along the
Stour valley beacon after beacon flashed out in answer, until all
the countryside was full of them; and I hurried on more swiftly
than before.
Our hall stood on the hill crest above church and village, beyond
the reach of creeping river mist and sudden floods, and I rode down
the track that crosses the lower road and so comes to the ford
below Osgod's place on the Essex side of the river. And when I came
to the crossing my horse pricked his ears and snorted, so that I
knew there were horsemen about, and I reined up and waited in the
lane.
I could hear the quick hoofbeats of two steeds, and all the air was
full of the sound of alarm bells, for the evening was very still.
Then up the road from eastward rode two men at an easy gallop, and
my horse's manner told me that a stable mate of his was coming, so
I feared no longer but went into the main road to meet them.
"What news?" I cried, and they halted.
"It is the young master," said one, and I knew the voice of Edred,
our housecarle. And when he was close to me I could see that he was
in almost as evil plight as had been Grinkel his comrade. The other
man I knew not, but he bore a headless spear shaft in his hand, and
Edred's shield had a great gash across it.
"Master, has Grinkel come?" Edred asked me.
"Aye, and is dead. He bade us fly, and could say no more. What of
my father?"
The men looked at one another for a moment, and then Edred said
very sadly:
"Woe is me that I must be the bearer of heavy tidings to you and
the lady your mother. But what is true is true and must be told.
Never has such a battle been fought in East Anglia, and the fortune
of war has gone against us."
The fear that I had read in my mother's eyes fell cold on me at
those words-and I asked again, longing and fearing to know the
worst:
"What of the thane, my father?"
"Master, he fell with the first," Edred answered with a breaking of
his voice. "Nor might we bring him from the place where he fell.
For the Danes swept us from the field at the last like dead leaves
in the wind, and there was nought left us but to fly. Two long
hours we fought first, and then came flight. They say one man began
it. I know not; but it was no man of ours. Now the Danes are
marching hitherwards to Colchester."
"What of Osgod of Wormingford?" I asked.
"He lies beside our lord. There is a ring of slain round them. I
would I were there also," the warrior answered.
"Then were there one less to care for our helpless ones," I said.
"All are preparing for flight at Bures. Come with me to
Wormingford, and we will warn them. There is work to do for us who
are left."
"Aye, master, that is right," he said; "we may fight again and wipe
out this business."
Then the other man, who belonged to Sudbury, five miles beyond us,
bade us farewell, and so rode on with his tale of terror, and Edred
followed me across the ford to Osgod's house, which was but a mile
from where we met. He told me that Grinkel had found a fresh horse
in Stoke village, and so had outstripped him.
Many thralls stood at the gate of Osgod's courtyard as we came
there, and they were staring at the beacon fires around us, and
listening to the wild bells that rang so strangely. There was a
fire blazing now on the green before our own house, and one on the
hill above the Wormingford mere, which men say is haunted.
"I would see your mistress," I said as they came and held my horse.
I had not been to the house for two days, as it chanced.
Then one ran and brought the house steward, and told him.
"I know not if that may be, master," he said; "but I will ask Dame
Gunnhild."
"Has the lady gone to rest?" I said, being surprised at this delay.
"She is not well" the man said; "and the dame has not suffered her
to rise today."
"Then let me have speech with the dame without delay," I said, for
this made me uneasy, seeing what need there was for speedy flight.
The steward went in, and I bade the thralls do all that Edred
ordered them, telling him to see to what was needed for flight and
so I went into the house, and stood by the hall fire waiting for
Gunnhild the nurse.
There is nothing in all that wide hall that I cannot remember
clearly, even to a place where the rushes were ill strewn on the
floor. And the short waiting seemed very long to me.
Then came Gunnhild. She was old, and I feared her, for men said
that she was a witch. But she had been in the house of Osgod the
Thane since he himself was a child, and Hertha loved her, and that
was enough for me. Nor had I any reason to think that the dame had
any but friendly feelings towards myself, though her bright eyes
and tall figure, and most of all what was said of her, feared me,
as I say. Now she came towards me swiftly, and did not wait for me
to speak first.
"What will you at this hour, Redwald?" she said.
"Nought but pressing need bade me come thus," I answered. "The levy
is broken, and the Danes are on the way to Colchester. My mother
flies to London, and you and Hertha must do likewise."
"So your father and hers are slain," she said, looking fixedly at
me, and standing very still.
"How know you that?" I asked sharply, for I had told the steward
nothing.
"By your face, Redwald," she said; "you were but a boy two days
agone, now you have a man's work on your hands, and you will do it.
Who bade you ride here?"
"No one," I said, wondering, "needs must that I should come."
"That is as I thought," she said; "but we cannot fly."
"Why not?"
"Because the sickness that your mother feared is on Hertha, and she
cannot go."
Now I was ready to weep, but that would be of no use.
"Is there danger to her?" I said, and I could not keep my voice
from shaking, for Hertha was all the sister I had, and she in time
would be nearer than that to me.
"None," answered the dame, "save she runs risk of chill. For she
has been fevered for a while."
"Which is most to be feared," said I, "chill, or risk of Danish
cruelty?"
She made no answer, but asked me what were my mother's plans. And
when I said that she would fly to Ethelred the king, the old nurse
laughed strangely to herself.
"Then you go to the very cause of all this trouble," she said.
"Truly the king's name should be 'the Unredy', for rede he has
none. It is his ill counsel that has brought Swein the Dane on us.
We have to pay for the Hock-tide slayings {3}."
"We had no share in that" I said.
"No, because half our folk are Danes, more or less, some of the men
of Ingvar and Guthrum. But Swein will not care for that--they are
all English to him."
"What will you do, then?" I asked, growing half wild that she
should stand there quietly and plan nought.
"These folk will side with Swein presently, when they find that he
is the stronger, and then the old kinship will wake in them, and
the Wessex king will be nought to their minds. Then will be peace
here, for the Danes will sweep on to Mercia and London. Do you go
to Ethelred the Unredy--and I abiding here shall be the safer in
the end, and Hertha with me."
"But peace has not come yet" I said.
"I can hide until it does come," she said. And then, for my face
must have shown all the doubt that I felt, she spoke very kindly to
me. "Trust the old witch who wishes you well, Redwald, my son; she
who has nursed Hertha for so long will care for her till the last;
safe she will be until you return to find her when the foolishness
of Ethelred is paid for."
"Where can you hide?" I asked, and urged her to tell me more, but
she would not do so.
"No man would dream of the hiding place that I shall seek," she
said, "and I will tell it to none. Then will it be the surer."
"I know all this country," I answered. "There is no place."
She smiled faintly, and paused a little, thinking.
"I will tell you this," she said at last. "You go to the king;
well--I go to the queen. That is all you may know. But maybe it
will be enough to guide you someday."
I could not understand what she meant; nor would she tell me more.
Only she said that all would be safe, and that I need fear nothing
either for Hertha or for herself.
"My forbears were safe in that place to which I go," she said; "and
I alone know where it is. When the time comes, Hertha shall tell
you of it but that must wait for the days to be."
"I fear they will be long. Let me see Hertha before I go," I said,
"for I must needs be content."
"How looked she when last you saw her?"
"Well, and bright, and happy," I answered.
"Keep that memory of her therefore," Gunnhild said. "I would not
have you see her in sickness, nor may she be waked without danger.
Tell your mother that surely if she could take Hertha with her it
should be so, but it may not be. She would be harmed by a long
journey."
The old nurse turned and left me as swiftly as she had come. And
now it is in my mind that she went thus lest she should weep. So I
was alone in the hall, and there was no more left for me to do. I
must even let things be as she would. It came into my thought that
she was right about our half-Danish folk, for though they had
fought to keep the newcomers from the land that their fathers had
won, Swein was no foreigner, and they would as soon own him as
Ethelred of Wessex, if he got the upper hand and would give them
peace. Even we Angles never forgot that the race of Ecgberht was
Saxon and not of our own kin altogether. The Dane was as near to us
as the Wessex king, save by old comradeship, and the ties that had
come with years.
So all that Edred and I could do was to bid the steward take his
orders from Gunnhild, and so ride back to Bures along the riverside
track. And when we came there the long train of flying people were
crossing the bridge, and we rode past them one by one, and the
sight of those wain loads of helpless women and children was the
most piteous I had ever seen. Many such another train was I to look
on in the years to come, but none ever wrung my heart as this, for
I knew every face so well. Yet I thought they would be safe, for
the Danes were far off yet, and there was full time to gain the
depths of the forest land on the East Saxon side.
Now, our people had gone on more quickly than the villagers by
reason of better cattle and more hands to the work, and when we had
passed the foremost of these, the road went up the hill and no man
was upon it. So we went quickly, and then came one on foot towards
the village, and just beyond him were our folk, whom he had passed
or left.
It was good Father Ailwin, our old priest, and I thought that he
sought me, or took back some word to others and I would ride back
for him.
"What is it, Father?" I cried, "I will do your errand."
"Nay, my son, you cannot," he said; "your mother drew me to fly
with her, and my weakness bade me do it for a while. But I may not
leave my place. The Danes are not all heathen as they were in
Eadmund's days, and I think that I am wrong to go. When our folk
come back they must find their priest waiting for them."
Then I strove to turn him again to flight with us, but I could not,
and at last he commanded me to desist and leave him. And so he gave
me his blessing, and I went, being sure that he would be slain, and
weeping therefore, for I loved him well. But I told him of Dame
Gunnhild's words, and begged him to seek her and speak with her,
for she might hide him also for a while if he would not leave the
place altogether.
So we left our home, and that was the last time I set eyes on our
hall at Bures. Then I caught up my mother hard by the dark wood
that is round the great solemn mound that we say is the tomb of
Boadicea, the Icenian queen of the men who fought against Rome. We
call it haunted, and none of us dare set foot in those woods, by
day even.
The beacon fires burnt all round us, and in every farmstead was
terror and hustle as the poor folk trembled to think what they
could mean, and some came now and then and asked my mother what
they should do.
"Bide in your homes till you must needs take to the woods," she
said; and that was wise counsel, and many were glad thereafter that
they took it, for the Danes passed them by.
Now I remember all that happened on our journey to London along the
great Roman road that runs from Colchester thither, but there is
little to tell thereof, for it was safe and we hardly hurried after
the first day. We rested at the house of a thane who was well known
to us on the first evening, and there my mother heard from Edred
all that had befallen. And she bore the heavy tidings well, for she
had already given up any hope that my father still lived. Yet as I
look back I know that she was never the same after that day.
So we came in safety to London, and to the court of Ethelred our
king, and there we were most kindly received, for my father was
well known to the king, and the queen loved my mother for the sake
of old days. They gave us lodging near the great house where the
court was held, and on the third day after we came, we were bidden
to the king's presence.
Then it was that I looked on Ethelred for the first time, and I had
thought that a king should have been more kingly than he. For there
was no command in his face, and he moved quickly and with little
meaning in what he did, being restless in his way. But he put his
hand on my shoulder very kindly, and looked in my face and said:
"One may know that this is the son of Siric, my friend. He is like
what the good thane was in the old days. What shall I do for him,
lady?"
Now, my mother would have answered, but I was not afraid of this
handsome, careless-looking man, and I had my own wishes in the
matter. So I spoke for myself.
"Make me a warrior, lord king. I would fain fight the Danes, and
already I can use sword and spear, and can ride."
Then my mother spoke hastily and almost weeping, being broken down
with all her trouble and the long journey.
"I would have him serve Holy Church rather, in some monastery.
Already he can read and write, my king, for I have had him taught
in hopes that this might be."
Thereat the king shook his head, and walked away to the window for
a minute. Then he came back quickly and said, not looking at my
mother:
"Holy Church will be best served by warriors who will use carnal
arms against Swein's heathen just now. The boy is right--I would
that there were more who had his spirit. We need and shall need
those who love fighting."
Then he said to me:
"Siric your father had a wondrous sword that I used to envy him;
you shall learn to use it."
"Lord king," I answered, "I must learn to win it back from the
Danes, who have it now."
I thought the king changed countenance a little at that, and he bit
his lip.
"We have been well beaten in East Anglia," he said as if to
himself. "Here is truth from this boy at least."
Now, if Ethelred did not know that our men had been so scattered by
the Danes that they could not even ask for truce to recover their
slain, it seemed plain even to me that the king was ill-served in
some way. But I could say nought; and after that he bade us
farewell for the time.
So it came to pass that he gave me a place among the thanes' sons
of his own court and there I was well trained in all that would
make me a good warrior. Soon I had many friends, and best of all I
loved the athelings, Eadmund and Eadward, who soon took notice of
me, the one because I was never weary of weapon play, and the
other, Eadward, who was somewhat younger than I, because of the
learning that our good priest of Bures had taken such pains to
teach me against my will. For above all things Eadmund loved the
craft of the warrior, and Eadward all that belonged to peace.