AT YORK.
York city was a wonderful place as one came upon it by the old North
Road. From afar its towers rose up above the green tillage of the plain,
beyond the winding Ouse: and as the traveller drew nearer, he saw the
great high mound that encompassed the garth of houses, set with its
bristling stockade above, and parted from the fields by a water-ditch as
broad as a broad river. In the midst of this great wall was the North
gate, through which the road ran; and within were houses and houses, some
high, some low, some mean like the cottages at Cartmel, some stone-built
and grand with painting and carving: but all cheek by jowl, as one may
say, along the narrow winding streets, thronged with people and wares set
out to sell, and foul with the refuse and rubbish of a thickly inhabited
town.
Above the house-roofs rose a great building, the famous Minster: with its
towers standing high over gable and pinnacle, graceful and slender. Up
there the bells clanged above the din and hurry of the town in those dark
deep streets, like deep roaring gills and whirling torrents below.
But it was not for the Minster that Thorstein was bound, as he elbowed
through the crowd, and picked his steps over the unpaved lane that was
more gutter than path. He hardly dared question the wayfarers, such a
stoore and a stir there seemed to be. But he knew that somewhere in the
heart of the houses he should find Olaf’s palace, the new castle that had
been built after Athelstan destroyed the old Danish stronghold,—the great
hall where King Eric had sat with his witch-wife, and skald Egil the
swart had sung the lay that won him his head.
So he went forward along the streets, with a beating heart and pale lips,
towards the midmost of the city where the great towers rose. When he came
before the castle there was an open space, and the houses fell back like
trees from a green glade in the forest. But instead of coneys skipping
in the grass, here was a great crowd gathered and a tumult going on. Out
of every window round the place was a head thrust, and folk fringed the
house-roofs a-straddle on the thatch-rigging, and all shouting at once.
Stones were flying; and the shopkeepers at the corner, where Thorstein
came into the square, were scrambling their goods under cover and
shutting their shutters. It seemed as if the townsfolk of the baser sort
were trying to force the castle doors: and whoever came out of the narrow
streets, like rats out of their holes, thrust themselves on their fellows
in front and shoved and shouted; and ill luck it would have been to have
tripped in the midst of that scrimmage. Over heads and fists many a
stick was waving; and here and there an axe, and here and there a sword,
flashing in the sun-gleam, that now and then broke on the square through
the rain-showers. On they came by hundreds; aye, by thousands, swarming:
for the old books say that in those days no less than thirty thousand
souls were crammed within the narrow walls that girt the city of York;
so you may well believe there was no lack of hands in a townsfolk mote,
whether for peace or for fighting.
“What’s to do, friend?” says Thorstein to a neighbour, who by the look
of him was no Saxon, but a Dane; and a right hearty, well-to-do looking
merchant man he seemed, now that he had got his goods shifted, and
shutters up, and stood there with one hand holding his door ajar, and
with the other gripping his axe.
“What’s to do?” repeated the Dane; “why, it’s the old story. A stranger,
eh? none of the Saxon folk anyhow.” For Danes and Northmen talked the
same tongue, and foregathered among strangers.
“Nay,” said Thorstein, “no Saxon, though a traveller from over the fells.”
“No offence,” said the Dane: “but one can’t be too careful, with Southron
spies all about. Our kinsmen, thou knowest, friend, have no bed of roses
in this bonny burg.”
“I know nought,” said Thorstein. “What is forward?”
“What thou seest, and I hope they may break the castle. For if the great
doors yonder hold, they will sack the shops for want of a job. Thou hast
heard, maybe, rumour that king Olaf is dead. To-day it is assured. It
was somewhere in the North, Tyningaham I think they called the spot. Look
out, man!”
There was a rush towards the door, and stones flew. The Dane plucked
Thorstein into the house, slammed the door, and made it fast with stout
bars. Then he cast an eye on the bolts of his window, and laughed as they
stood in the shop, lit only through the cracks in the shutters.
“It is a pretty stiff bit of oak,” he said. “We shall hold out awhile,
unless they take to fire-raising, and that would risk their own kennels.
Well, as I was saying, Olaf being gone we must have a new king. Some
of these Saxon rubbish would be glad to see the Southrons in here: and
anyhow they mean to make hay while the sun shines.”
“So they are trying to plunder the king’s house?” said Thorstein.
“That’s it: but never heed them. I have seen three or four such ados in
the last few months, and one gets hardened. Though indeed if it were not
for business, I should be glad to be safe again over the seas. It’s a
fine town, is Dublin. Thou wilt not be from thereaway I reckon?”
“Nay,” said Thorstein: “but I was there a while when Olaf Guthferthson
was king, and indeed I was guested in the king’s house, and it is now for
nought else but to have speech with the queen that I am in York.”
“Then, my lad, thou art a bit late: and a good job for thee too, if those
rascals—how they shout!—get into the castle.”
“She is gone then? What, is she dead, poor thing?”
“Nay, not so bad as all that. You see it was something o’ this way. Olaf
owed a deal to Earl Orm, for without him he would never have halved
England with Eadmund. And Orm is a good business man, and looks ahead.
Says he to Olaf, If anything happens now to Eadmund, thou wilt be king of
all England: and what shall I get that helped thee thereto? Says Olaf,
What wilt have, friend? Says Orm, There’s my Aldith should be wed: queen
of York is not bad, and queen of England is better. Says Olaf, Well, says
he, king Harald Fairhair had more wives than one. Nay, nay, says the
Earl, that’s out of fashion nowadays, and I doubt if the Minster-folk
would stand it: the king of York is a good Christian now, my lord, and
behaves as such: eh? So Olaf he goes to the Irish queen and My dear, says
he, a sad unhealthy spot is York city; better go back to Ireland. Says
my dame to me,—but come in, man, and make thyself at home. Any news from
Dublin will be welcome to the mistress.”
So he brought Thorstein into the living-room behind the shop. It was
crowded up with their goods, and looked like a poor place after the great
halls of the Northmen: but everything was rich and rare. Such hangings to
the beds, such carved work in the tables and stools, such shining copper
pots and pans! And the merchant’s wife was dressed as grand as a queen,
Thorstein thought, with brooches and rings for a dozen. The children
even were finely clothed, though they would have looked but blue and wan
alongside of the applecheeked rogues from the Northmen’s homesteads.
“Dame, it’s all right; the doors are well barred, and if they break them
there is the earth-house to hide in. But see, here’s a young man has been
in Dublin.”
“Welcome, friend,” said she, “and what news of the old country?”
Thorstein could see with half an eye that the Dane’s wife was Irish, and
so he replied in the language he had learnt among the fell-folk, saying
that it was a good while since he was in Ireland, but he was now come to
speak to the queen, who had been friendly with him once. At which Master
Dane screwed up half his face and winked, and his wife shook her head at
him, and said the queen was a good body, and sorry she was for her, and
pity it was they had not gone back together with her to Ireland.
“Nay, nay,” said the Dane: “business is business. Keep your shop, say I,
and your shop will keep you.”
“Well then,” said the wife, “keep thy shop, my lad, and this young man
will take a bite, and be the readier to lend a hand if needed.”
So she set food before him, and he ate. And while he ate he turned over
in his mind the chances about Raineach. Soon he burst out, “Mistress, is
it true, as the master says, that all the queen’s folk are clean away
and out of the castle?”
“Aye,” she said, “and a burning shame it was: but better for them maybe.
They got a good ship to sail in, and good pickings. They were stinted of
nothing.”
“They would be a deal about the town before leaving York, and well known
to all?”
“Oh aye, it was always in and out; they coming to our shop and we at the
castle. Not so bad to do with, they weren’t, for king’s folk.”
“And did you happen to know a great lass, a bonny one with red hair, a
bower-may that the queen made much of, Raineach by name?”
“And what of her?” asked the dame.
“Oh, she was just one of them in Dublin.”
“Was she that? Ah, she was a sad one if ever there was. Hey, man, hark
here! The young man would have news of that great, strapping, red-haired
wench, her that the castle-folk were always fighting about.”
“The minx!” shouted the merchant from the shop. “Never heed her, lad,
wherever she is.”
“All the men were after her,” went on the dame, “and never a one would
she take. And that proud with folk, she might have been a king’s
daughter. I’ll be bound she was no good, though the queen was always
abetting her. Olaf would have let them stone her for a witch, one time,
but the queen got her off. She’ll be gone with the rest.”
It was little help he would find there, Thorstein said to himself: but
angered as he was, spoke fair: and said he would take a turn at the
look-out while the master came to his supper. But the tumult had died
down, and the rabble was dwindling as speedily as it had gathered. The
stir was over like a summer storm, and evening had come. Thorstein
asked where he could find a lodging for that night, and said he was not
penniless. The Dane merchant said he would be glad to board him, but one
might see there was little room for guests in house or shop. Nevertheless
there was close at hand a house of priests called St. Peter’s, where
travellers were lodged, and he would set the stranger on the way when all
was quiet.
So Thorstein came to St. Peter’s (the place that was afterwards called
St. Leonard’s Hospital) which Athelstan had founded not long before,
giving to the Minster priests a thrave, that is twenty sheaves, from
every plough-land in the bishopric, that they might entertain strangers
and do good to the poor and sick. There he was received, and no questions
asked: and they gave him supper in the great hall, and a place to lie
down for the night among other wanderers and wayfarers. Some of them were
decent folk, some ugly-looking enough to make Thorstein feel for the few
silver pennies he carried, and tuck his poke well into his sleeve, and
loosen his weapon in its sheath, before shutting his eyes. But he slept
safely, still seeking even in his dreams for Raineach, who was now
farther away than ever.
When day was come, and the doors were opened, the priests’ officer gave
each wayfarer a cake of bread and bade him God speed. Thorstein stood
there in the doorway with his dole in his hand, and sore doubt in his
heart which way he should turn. East or West was all one to him. The
Minster bells broke out into a chime, and pealed through the air. Sweet
and sunny it was after last night’s riot and unrest. He bethought him
that this was the Lord’s day; he could not leave York without at least
hearing a service, now that he was a Christian man once more.
People were going all one way in the streets, but quietly now, and very
unlike the crowds of yestereven. He followed them and went with the
stream into the shadow of the Minster tower and up the great steps,
gaining one at a time in the throng at the porch. Presently he was
carried through the dark door, and inside as into some sudden astonishing
turn of a dream. For it was wonderful broad and lofty in there; the
walls betwixt the arches and above the ranks of columns were inlaid with
polished marbles, painted with long processions of deep-robed saints and
emblems of glory, lit with glimmering, flower-like windows of glass,
and ceiled with canopies of carven work, with beams and bosses wrought
curiously. It was the building of archbishop Aelberht not long since
finished; the new church risen on the ruins of the old church that
Halfdan’s Danes had burnt; witness to the life and might of the faith, a
noble monument of craftsmanship. Its gilding was yet untarnished and its
rich colours were as if fresh from the hands of the artist; a marvel to
behold, even for a traveller who had been in many lands and had seen the
dwellings of great kings, and temples both of the old faith and the new.
Thorstein knelt on the paved floor, and beside him and around him knelt
the people, men and women, rich and poor: maybe among them many who last
night had been foremost in the tumult, side by side with those they had
attacked to rob and slaughter. Far off, in the twilight of the choir,
re-echoed from roof and aisles, came the sound of the singing and the
solemn voices of the priests: the very psalms and prayers that were heard
in little Cartmel church among the mountains, and in every church of
Christian folk from thence throughout the round world. Everywhere the
same, and in every age. For to think of the abidingness of it all! Kings
came and went, nations rose and fell, but the church drooped its head
only to raise it more gloriously. Year by year, while battle and plague
were raging without, within the Minster welled, as from a healing spring,
the same unending litany for peace from poor folk to the poor folk’s God.
No prayer said Thorstein as he knelt thus, while the voices from the
choir rolled forth like gathering thunder, or murmured through the
aisles uncomprehended like the wind in winter trees. It was enough
for him that he was in a holy place, in the palace of God, in the very
presence of the King of Heaven. Surely the Lord Christ there, somewhere
in the dim bewilderment of gold and gloom, amid those cloudy odours and
mysterious answerings of music, surely He was looking forth. And what was
the word? The Lord looketh at the heart. Peace, then.