That generous foe of mine, Egil--if indeed I should not call him my
friend, as he named me once--had set two months as the time in
which I must bide in peace, and I will not say that this space
seemed likely to go over-heavily for me. We could hear little news
except from such ships as put in from along the coast, and the
first news that came was when Godwine returned from Bosham.
The Danes had taken the queen to Winchester in high honour, and
there she was living in some sort of state, which pleased her well
enough, until word came from Cnut concerning her. It was thought
that he would let her go back to Normandy, keeping the athelings as
hostages. So concerning her and them my mind was at rest.
Now Cnut was besieging London. But before he had left Wessex, there
had been a great council of bishops and clergy at Salisbury, and at
that gathering he had been chosen as king in succession to
Ethelred, whose house was not loved. There, too, he was present,
and swore to be their faithful king and to protect Holy Church in
all things.
Then into Wessex went Eadmund, ravaging and laying waste there. One
might know what hatred of him would come from that, and my heart
sank at hearing this folly.
Two days after Godwine came, we saw the sails of a great fleet
going westward, and we thought that Cnut had been beaten off from
London. But a ship that had sprung a leak in some way put into
Wulfnoth's haven at Shoreham from this fleet, and from thence we
learnt that the Danes had halved their forces, and that Cnut and
Ulf the jarl were going again into the Severn to withstand Eadmund
in Wessex, and if possible to hem him in between two forces in the
old way of the days of Alfred. London was beset straitly, but not
taken yet.
I was more content then, for I could not have reached our king, had
I returned from Normandy, as it seemed. And now it was possible
that he might make headway against the divided forces of the Danes.
I might join him yet in time to share in some final victory.
So the early summer days at Penhurst became very pleasant to me,
for I had little care that need sit heavily on my mind. Indeed, I
think that I should almost have forgotten that I had any, but for
the foolishness of Sexberga, which bid fair to turn all things to
sadness at one time.
I had spoken with her mother about my search for Hertha, telling
her plainly all that had passed between me and Ailwin, and I asked
her to tell me what she thought I must do now.
"Wait yet longer," she answered; "peace will come, and he will
bring Hertha back to Bures."
That ought to have been my own plan, but I had rather hoped to hear
her say that I was right in holding myself free to choose afresh as
I would. The thought of being bound seemed irksome to me; though
why I, landless and luckless, should have found it so, I could not
say. It mattered not at all at present. So I said:
"That is all one can do, lady; it matters not."
"What thinks Sexberga?" I asked presently.
"You have not spoken to her of your search, then?" the lady said.
"I had thought that she would ask you of it first of all."
She had asked nothing, and I had said nothing.
Then the lady said:
"She and I spoke thereof with Uldra but yesterday, and they were
both full of your praises for wishing to seek for your Hertha. They
will be glad to hear that you have done so, and sad that you have
failed to find her."
Then there came over me a wish that Uldra knew nought about it. And
that angered me with myself, because it was plain that I cared
overmuch for the company and pleasant voice and looks of this
maiden who was friendless as I.
So that was all that was said at the time, and I met Uldra in my
foolishness as if this were going to make some difference in her
way with me. Which of course it did not. Whereupon I was angrier
yet with myself for deeming that it would.
Now, there was another person who should have known of this
betrothal of mine, and that was Edred, but Sexberga never told him,
and her mother did not, for she thought that Sexberga would do so.
Of all the foolish things that a maiden can do, the most foolish is
to try to make the man who is to wed her jealous. For it is playing
with edged tools in two ways--if the man, being an honest man and
trustful, is not jealous, the maiden thinks that he cares not, and
so is herself wretched. But if he is jealous, why, then every
thought of his towards the maiden is changed and spoilt, and it
will be long, if ever, before full trust is won again between those
two.
But this seems to be good sport to some damsels, and so it was with
Sexberga. The blacker grew the young thane's looks the more she
would praise me, and the more she would choose to speak with me
rather than to him; wherefore his life was made wretched for him,
and I think he hated the sight of me. Maybe I was blind not to see
this, but I liked him well enough, save for what I thought was his
sullen temper, and I would try to joke him into better humour at
times in all good fellowship. But I think that the trouble began
before I came back, with talk of the time when I had been at
Penhurst before.
He was ever at Penhurst--I should have thought ill of him if he had
not been--for Dallington was close at hand, and he was ever
welcome.
After that talk with the lady I must needs ask Sexberga what she
thought concerning my strange betrothal, she having had so much to
say thereon before. And so one day, as I had been with Spray to see
some traps set by the bank of the Ashbourne river for otter, and was
coming back with him, bearing a great one between us on a pole, we
met Sexberga in the woodland track to the house, and Spray went on,
while I walked back with her on her way to the old village--where
we had had the fight--and talked about my baffled search.
Now her saying was that I had no need to pay any more heed to this
betrothal after what I had said to Ailwin, and that he himself
would seem to try to break it by thus taking Hertha out of my ken.
And we talked freely of the matter, and the last thing that I said
was this, coming round to what I had made up my better mind for:
"It is not much matter either way. I can think of no maiden as
things are."
Whereon we met Eldred, and his face was not pleasant to look on,
though he said nothing at that moment, and turned and walked
silently with us on the other side of the maiden.
When we came to the village I said that we would wait outside until
she came back, and thought that Eldred would go along with her. But
he stayed with me, and I looked round for a sunny seat where one
could see all the long chain of bright hammer ponds that went in
steps, as it were, down the valley before us.
"Nay," he said in a strange voice, "come over to the other side of
the valley--there is a pleasant place there."
"The lady will miss us," said I.
"We need not be long," he said. "The place I would show you is not
far. One of us can be back before she has done with these churls."
So, as I supposed that we might have to wait for half an hour,
because every woman in the place would want to tell her ailments to
the kindly young mistress most likely, we went together, passing
over the brook, and going up the steep valley side beyond it, until
we came to the rocks of the old quarry where we had rested before
the fight with the outlaws.
A pleasant place enough it was, truly, for the rocks stood round in
a little cliff, hemming in a lawn of short grass on every side but
one, and the trees that hung on the bank of the stream closed that
in. So when we were fairly within this circle of red cliff and
green trees Eldred said:
"This will do. We will see which of us is to go back to Sexberga."
"Why, you will," said I, thinking that he had some device by which
he might be free from my presence. "I spoil company for you both,
and will go back to the hall by the lower track presently."
"You have spoilt company long enough," he said, his face growing
very savage of a sudden. "Now I will end it, one way or the other."
"What is this foolishness?" I said, seeing now what he meant.
"You know well enough," he answered with a great oath. "Pluck out
that fine sword of yours and show that you can do more than talk of
using it."
"Come, Eldred," said I, "I have not deserved this."
"You deserve all that I shall give you," he answered, drawing his
sword. "Stand up like a man."
Now it seemed very hard to me that all these friendships should be
broken and spoilt by this foolish business, as they would be if
either of us was hurt; and so I tried to quiet him yet once more.
"Eldred, listen to reason," I said. "I have done you no wrong. Tell
me of what you complain."
Thereat he only cursed, bidding me draw and cease prating.
"I will not fight you thus," I said, for he was growing over wild
to fight well for himself. "Let us find some to attend us and watch
the business, that neither of us may be blamed. It is ill to slay a
man in a hidden place like this with none to say that the fight was
fair."
"You are afraid," he said sneeringly.
"You must ask Relf if that is likely," said I, for I would not be
angered by his angry words. "But I do not care to risk blame to you
or me. Nought is gained by fighting thus."
"Ask Relf, forsooth!" he snarled. "I care not to hear again how you
lay hid in the pit yonder while others fought."
"Have a care, Eldred," I said then. "You grow heedless in your
anger, and go too far. I do not think that you mean this."
"Do you need to be called nidring {12}?" he snarled at me.
Now none heard that word pass between us, and though it made me
bitterly angry I kept my wrath back. Truly I began to think that I
was foolish to argue with him; but there would be grief, lifelong,
at Penhurst if deadly harm befell either of us where none could say
that all was fairly fought out.
"Are you not going?" he said in a choking sort of way.
"No," I said, "not until I know what all this is about."
"What good in going over that again?" he answered. "You know well
enough. Let me be--you have won."
"I know," said I; "but you have not told me aught. I can only guess
that you think that I have taken your place with Sexberga."
"Aye--and now you have won it."
"I want it not," I answered. "Had you not been so angry you would
have known that, when I bid you go back and meet her without me."
Now he looked at me with a sort of doubt, and said, in a somewhat
halting way:
"I heard you just now tell her that it could not be that you could
think of her--as things are."
Then I remembered what my last words had been, and I saw that they
might easily have misled him after all the trouble he seemed to
have had.
"You heard too much or too little," said I, being minded to laugh,
though the matter was over serious to him to let me do so. "I spoke
of my own troubles, which were the less because my fortunes prevent
my thinking of any maiden, seeing that I have no home to give a
wife when I find her. You were wrong in thinking that I spoke of
Sexberga--I spoke, as you might have known, of the one whom I have
lost."
"How should I know that? I know nought of your affairs."
Then thought I to myself that I would punish Sexberga, for she had
tortured this honest lover of hers over much.
"I will not tell you that tale. Ask Sexberga, who has known it from
the first."
Then I was sorry for what I had said, for he flushed darkly.
"I have been made a fool of," he said.
"Nay; but you should have been more trustful," said I. "Now, were I
in your place, I would go home to Dallington and bide there for a
week, and the maiden will be pleased enough to see you when you
return. And if she tries to make you jealous again, seem to mind it
not. There is little sport in it for her then."
"I suppose there would not be," said he, and he began to look more
cheerful.
"Now," said I, "I was betrothed long ago--the war time has come
between me and her who should have been my wife. I have hunted for
her and cannot find her--and that is all. Now you understand. It
was Sexberga who cheered me in my search, and so I spoke to her
thereof."
"I should not have doubted you," he said frankly; "forgive me."
I held out my hand and he took it. There was nought but
friendliness in his grasp, and I could not blame him. I blamed
Sexberga wholly.
Then he laughed a little ruefully.
"I am a fool with a sword," he said. "Will you teach me somewhat? I
think I was mad when I used those evil words to you."
"I have forgotten them," I answered; and so I had. One does not
think much of what a man says in utmost rage as his. "Come, let us
go back to the village."
So we went back together, but Sexberga had gone on her way homeward
without us. Whereat Eldred was not sorry, and said that he was
going back to his own place.
"You will see me no more for a few days," he said. "I think your
plan is good."
"Mind this," I answered, "I never tried it."
"Lookers-on see best," he answered, laughing bitterly. "But think
no more of my anger with yourself, I pray you."
I told him that I would not, and so we parted good friends enough,
though I feared that he might take this matter to heart in such
wise that he would have some ill moments presently. There was
little spring in his walk as he took the path towards Dallington.
I said nought of this affair, as one might suppose, and made little
excuse to Sexberga for leaving her. We had walked too far, and had
returned too late to find her, I said. She pouted and said nothing,
but I thought that her punishment had already begun.
Next day there were ships heading in for Pevensea, and I rode away
to find out what I could, and forgot Eldred and his troubles. For
Olaf had come, and that was luck beyond what I could have looked
for.
The ten great ships slid into the haven, and I was first on the
strand to meet the king. Wulfnoth and Godwine were riding inland,
and doubtless were returning posthaste if they knew that ships had
come. But for a little while I had my kinsman to myself, and great
was his wonder to find me in this place.
"I have thought that I should have to ransom you from Cnut's hand,"
he said, "for we have heard that Thorkel's men took the queen's
ship. Were you not taken likewise?"
So when he heard of all that had brought me here, he praised Egil
highly.
"He is a Norseman, and no Dane, by birth," he said. "One may be
proud that he is so. I would that he were my man."
Then was my turn, and I wondered how Olaf had left London, for the
Thames was full of Danish ships, as I had heard.
"Aye, so it is yet," he told me. "The Danes cannot take the city,
try what they will, though they dug a great ditch round the
Southwark fort, and took ships through it above the bridge, and so
kept us shut up close enough. But walls and forts and citizens are
too much for them. Now the siege is but a blind, while the real
warfare is to be in Wessex. So I came away with the Danes, my men
being tired of unprofitable warfare where we were not wanted, and
gaining, moreover, neither gold nor honour."
"You came away with the Danes?" I cried. "Surely you made no pact
with them?"
"Not I," said he. "But they sailed with an evening tide, which was
my chance. Ten ships among four hundred or so make no odds. We took
off the dragon heads, and when it was quite dark rowed down after
them, and so caught them up at Greenwich. Then we slipped through
the fleet easily, for it was mostly of cargo ships full of men, and
no one paid any heed to us, as might be supposed. So by daylight we
led the fleet, or nearly, and when the next night came we stood
away from it, going across Channel. Then I came here to see if
Wulfnoth or Godwine would cruise with me on some other shore, as I
promised."
Then I asked him what I had better do, for with the sight of his
face came the longing to be free again.
"Come with me," he said. "I am going to win ransom from a town or
two against the time when I shall need gold wherewith to win men to
me in Norway."
I think that I should have done this in the end, though I did not
like to leave England without striking one more blow for Eadmund,
and I cannot deny that I thought that Uldra would blame me if I did
leave our land when she needed every sword that would strike for
her. I had come to think very much of what the steadfast eyes of
the brave maiden would tell me as I watched her face.
But that evening came Wulfnoth and Godwine, and they had made a
plan for themselves which might help me to reach Eadmund when my
freedom came. They had manors on the Severn, at Berkeley, and the
earl would go there to save them if possible from plunder. At
least, that is what he told me and Olaf. Whether he had any other
deeper plan I cannot say. It seemed afterwards as if that might be
so.
They brought back some strange news, too, at which both Olaf and I
wondered. There was a rumour spreading through the country from
Winchester that Cnut would wed Emma the queen.
"It is not likely," said Olaf. "She is twenty years older than he."
"If any man wants revenge on Cnut, I would counsel him to go and do
all he can to see that this marriage comes to pass," sneered the
earl, in his hatred of the Norman lady.
"What says Redwald?" asked Godwine.
"First, that the queen has little choice in the matter," said I;
"and next, that, between ourselves, I think that she would do much
to remain a queen in truth, if it must be over Denmark instead of
England; and lastly, that if Cnut weds her, he keeps the duke, her
brother, quiet, and maybe brings over more of our people to his
side."
It was only too plain now that Cnut had a party for him in England,
and I thought that he tried to strengthen it thus, if the report
were true. But it seemed hardly possible; so much so, that when I
turned the question over in speaking with Olaf presently, we
thought that no man could have invented the story, and that it must
be true.
Now Olaf and I went to Penhurst on the next day, for though he
would not stop long in England, he would see and thank these good
friends of mine for their care of me. And great was the rejoicing
when he came.
I had told him of Uldra, and presently he bade Ottar, who was with
us, sing of Leavenheath fight, and so spoke quietly with her,
sitting a little apart in the shadow of the hall, for he wished to
tell her also that he owed her thanks.
When the end of the long summer day came, and he must go back to
the ships--for he would not sleep away from them--I went with him
in order to see all that I might of him before he left, for I had
made up my mind to go westward with Godwine, seeing that my promise
to Egil was to bide in peace with Wulfnoth till the time came when
I was free.
So as we rode with no other near us, he said:
"What of Hertha, my cousin?"
"I know not," I answered. "I have heard nought, nor shall I now
till I go back to Bures."
"Shall you hold to your betrothal?"
"Aye; the ladies think that it is my part to do so."
"So you asked them? Is that why fair Sexberga is so dull and
restless?"
I laughed, for he had heard Ottar jesting about the fair maid at
Penhurst more than once.
"No," I answered. "She has been crossing her lover, and he is in
dudgeon for a while--that is all."
"I am glad," he said. "Asked you aught of Uldra?"
"I have not spoken of it to her."
"Is that so?" said Olaf, smiling. "Now she is likely to have more
than common interest in you, for one reason or another."
Then I said frankly, knowing what he meant:
"And I in her. That is partly the reason why I must go with
Wulfnoth and Godwine westward. And the rest of the reason is this,
that I would be near Eadmund. And maybe if I looked to find more
reason yet it would be to leave Sexberga to work out matters
without having me to fall back on when Eldred is to be made
jealous."
Thereat Olaf laughed long.
"You have had an ill time with the womenfolk of late," he said, and
it was true enough.
"I have," said I, "and I am tired thereof. I shall be glad to be
where byrnies and swords are more common than kirtles and
distaffs."
Yet in my mind I knew that I should not leave Uldra with much
cheerfulness. Such companionship as ours had been, strange and full
of peril, was a closer bond than even the care of me that had made
me think twice or more about Sexberga. Thoughts of her came lightly
in idleness, but when I thought of Uldra, there was comradeship
that had borne the strain of peril.
Now I knew well what that comradeship might easily ripen into, and
maybe, because I knew it, what I would not allow had begun. But
Uldra had never given me any reason to think that this was so with
her.
Olaf said that maybe I was right, and after that we talked of his
doings, wondering now when we should meet again, for we were going
different ways. Our parting was not as it had been before, when we
knew that sooner or later we should forgather in one place or the
other.
"I think, my cousin," he said, "that the time will soon come when I
shall head north again for Norway, and I long for the sign that I
must go. I am going to sail now towards Jerusalem Land, that I may
at least try to see the Holy Places before I die. It may be that I
shall reach that land, and it may be not, but when the sign comes I
must turn back and go to fight the last fight that shall be between
Christian and heathen in our country."
So he said to me before his ship sailed with the morning tide. And
I had no words in which to answer him, for his going seemed to
leave me friendless again, so much had we been at one together.
Almost had I taken up that journey to the Holy Land with him, but I
thought that if it was a good and pious thing to go on that
pilgrimage for myself, it was even more so to bide for the sake of
king and country here in the land that should be holy for all of us
who are English. And when I said that to Olaf, he smiled brightly
and answered:
"If old Norway called for me, I would say the same. You are right."
Thus we parted, and I watched his sails fade and sink into the rim
of the southern sea, and then rode back to Relf feeling as if the
time to come had little brightness for me.
I went slowly, and by the longer way, for I had much to think of,
and I cared not just yet for the light talk of the happy people in
the Penhurst hall. And so I came into the way that leads across the
woodland through Ashburnham and so by the upper hammer ponds to
Penhurst, and when I was about a mile from the hall I met Uldra
coming from a side track.
"Why, thane," she said in her bright way, "is aught amiss?"
"I have lost my kinsman, lady," I said, "and I have none other left
me. Therefore I am sad enough. But these things must be, and the
shadow of parting will pass presently."
I got off my horse and walked beside her, and I was glad that I had
met her first of all. She had been to some sick thrall, and was now
returning.
"Partings are hard," she said, "but one may always hope to meet
again."
Then I said, speaking my thoughts:
"I must go west into Wessex with the earl's ships, and I have more
partings to come therefore."
She made no answer at once, and I thought that none was needed; but
when she spoke again her voice was graver than before.
"You would be near our king if possible by doing so?"
"That is my thought," I answered. "If I wait in this pleasant place
I may be far from him when the day comes that I should stand at his
side again."
"You have six weeks--not so much by two days--yet," she said
thoughtfully. "It is not long. Then you will be fighting once
more."
"I hope so--and not in vain at last," I answered. "All our land
longs for peace."
"Aye, and they tell me that you have a search to make," she said,
looking away across the woodlands that lay down the valley to our
right. "I fear there will be sorrow if--if you fall."
"Aye, I have a search that has been made hard for me," I said
somewhat bitterly. "Truly I had not thought of falling; but it is
in my mind that little grief will be in that quarter if I do so.
Those who might have ended the search in an hour or two have kept
their charge more deeply hidden than ever from me."
"Is that the maiden's doing, think you?" she said, hesitating a
little, for the question was not an easy one for her to put, maybe.
But it was like her to make excuse for others.
"I cannot tell," said I, "but I think it likely. We were but
children, and she fears me now."
"That is to be seen," she said; "but I hope that you will find her.
What shall you do if--if she loves you not now?"
"I would let her go free, surely."
"Even if you found you loved her yet?"
"Aye. I would not hold her bound were she unwilling."
"But if it were the other way--if she would wed you willingly, and
you--well, were unwilling?"
"I would keep troth," said I; "she should not know it."
She laughed softly and answered:
"You could not hide that from her."
Then I fell silent, for I liked not this subject at any time--still
less from Uldra. And I think that she saw that I was displeased at
her questioning, for after a little while she said shyly:
"I think that I have asked you too closely about your affairs.
Forgive me--women are anxious about such matters."
"It is a trouble to me, lady," I said, hardening my heart lest I
should say too much; "but I can see no further than the coming
warfare. When that is ended there will be time for me to think more
thereof. But, as I have said, I believe that Hertha wishes that she
were not bound."
Now I had almost said "even as I wish," but I stopped in time.
"Now, whether that is so or not, she should think well of you for
your faith kept to her," Uldra said, and there was a little shake
in her voice as of tears close at hand.
Then I knew that if she kept faith with me as I with her--though
this was in a poor way enough--I must think well of her also.
Wherefore, being obliged thus to think of one another, it would be
likely enough that there would be pretence of love on both
sides--and so things would be bad. Whereupon the puzzle in my mind
grew more tangled yet, and I waxed savage, being so helpless.
And all the while those two words that came to me as I talked to
Relf grew plainer, and seemed to ring in my ears unspoken,
"Landless and luckless--landless and luckless," for that was what
it all came to.
Then Uldra looked at me and saw the trouble in my face, and took
what seemed to her to be the only way to help me.
"You cannot think of these matters now, Redwald," she said softly.
"It is well for a warrior that he has none who is bound to him so
closely that he must ever think of her. It is well for Hertha that
she knows not what peril you are in--that she cannot picture you to
herself--"
She stopped with a sob that she could not check, and stayed her
walk as if she had tripped. I turned to her, and put out my hand,
and she leant on my arm with both hers for a moment, hanging her
head down, and I thought she was faint, for my pace had quickened.
So I waited till she raised her head again, longing to help her
more and yet not daring to do so, lest I should give way altogether
and say all I would. And then I said:
"Let me set you on the horse--you are weary with keeping step with
me."
She shook her head, but she said nothing, and so I lifted her and
set her in the saddle, and the colour came back to her face.
"Thanks, thane," she said, "I am very foolish. I have been setting
myself in your Hertha's place--as if she knew aught of you now.
Aye, it is better as it is for both of you, as things must be for a
while."
And I thought to myself:
"Would that you were in Hertha's place;" and then this other
thought, "She says right--landless and luckless am I, and there is
none to trouble about me--nor shall there be."
"But I was going to tell you this, if I may," she said, "I will
pray night and day that things may be well for you and yours in the
end."
"Aye, pray therefor, Uldra," I answered, and thereafter we said no
more, for the hall gates were before us, and the dogs came out to
bid us welcome, and the thralls followed them to see who came. I
helped her from the horse, and she smiled and went in.
Now, I saw Uldra no more that night, and Sexberga was unfriendly
with me because Eldred still kept away. So I had my thoughts to
myself while Relf slept as was his wont after supper, and the lady
of the house turned her wheel as ever. I think that I would not
wish any man to have such strange and sad thoughts as mine were at
that time. There was nought of which I could be sure--save of
Uldra's friendship, and of that it were better not to think, maybe.