Edwy the Fair or the First Chronicle of Aescendune<br />A Tale of the Days of Saint Dunstan by A. D. Crake (books to read romance .TXT) 📗

Although Edwy and his little troop had been successful in gaining the main road, and in escaping into Wessex, yet few of his followers had been so fortunate, and his broken forces were seeking safety and escape in all directions, wanderers in a hostile country. A large number found a refuge in the entrenched camp; but it was surrounded by the foe in less than half-an-hour after the king’s escape, and all ingress or egress was thenceforth impossible.

While one large body fled eastward towards the Watling Street, the soldiers who had accompanied the king to Æscendune naturally turned their thoughts in that direction. It was, as they had seen, capable of a long defence—well provisioned, and already partly garrisoned; nor could they doubt the joy with which their old companions would receive them, either to share in the defence of the post, or to accompany them in an honourable retreat southward.

So, not only those who survived of the fifty who had left Æscendune the previous morning, but all whom they could persuade to join them, actuated separately by the same considerations, made their way in small detachments through the forest towards the hall. Redwald had thoroughly earned the confidence of all his warriors, and they would follow him to death or victory with equal devotion. Now, in adversity, they only sought to put themselves once more under the rule of their talented and daring chieftain.

Therefore it was that while Father Cuthbert was yet kneeling in the chapel, where the body of the departed thane had been placed, the devotions of the good priest were disturbed by the blowing of horns and the loud shout whereby the first fugitives sought admittance into the castle.

Redwald had also been up nearly all night pacing his room, muttering incoherently to himself. Over and over again he regarded intently a locket containing a solitary tress of grey hair, and once or twice the word “Avenged” rose to his lips.

“And they little know,” said he, soliloquising, “who the avenger is, or what have been his wrongs; little know they how the dead is represented in the halls of his sire—blind! blind! Whichever way the victory eventually turn, he is avenged.”

While he thus soliloquised he was aroused by the same noise which had disturbed Father Cuthbert’s devotions, and, recognising its source, betook himself to the gateway, where some of his own soldiers were on guard, who, true to discipline, awaited his permission to allow their comrades to enter: it is needless to say it was readily given.

Broken and dispirited was the little troop of ten or a dozen men, who first appeared in this manner after the fight; their garments torn and bloody, some of them wounded, they yet raised a shout of joy as they saw their trusted leader.

“Whence come ye, my comrades in arms?” said he, “and what are your news—you look like men who have fled from battle.”

“We did not fly till all was lost.”

The countenance of Redwald indicated some little emotion, though it was transient as the lightning’s flash in the summer night.

“The king—is it well with him?”

“He has fled with a small troop to the south.”

“Saw you aught of Elfric of Æscendune?”

“He fell in the last charge of the cavalry.”

“Dead?”

“We think so.”

“How is it that you have suffered yourselves to be beaten?”

“Had you been there it might have ended differently. We became the aggressors, and attacked a superior force, while they had all the advantage of ground.”

“Come in. You must first have some food and wine; then you shall tell me all. We may need your help here, and shall be glad of every able-bodied man.”

“More are on the road.”

And so it proved, for party after party continued to fall in. The solemn quiet, which so well befitted the house of mourning, was banished by the presence of the soldiery in such large numbers, for early in the day nearly a hundred and fifty were gathered together, and accommodation threatened to fall short.

Under these circumstances the lady Edith became very anxious that either the departure of her unwelcome guests should be hastened, or that the loved remains should be removed at once to the priory church, where she could bemoan her grief in quiet solitude, and be alone with her beloved and God. There seemed no rest or peace possible in the hall, and Redwald was apportioning all the accommodation to his followers as they came, preserving only the private apartments of the lady Edith from intrusion.

She was still expecting the arrival of Elfric, for Redwald had not communicated the news he had received, and she did not even know that King Edwy had been defeated; so absorbed was she in her grief, that she did not note the thousand little circumstances which might have told her as much.

But before the hour of terce, Alfred came into the room where she was seated with her daughter, and she saw by his troubled countenance that he had something to communicate which pained him to tell.

“Elfric!” she said—“he is well?”

“He has not come yet, my mother; and I grieve to say that we were deceived yesterday—deceived about the battle.”

“How so?”

“The king was defeated; he has fled southward, and there has been a great slaughter.”

“But Elfric?”

“No one can tell me anything about him,” said Alfred, wringing his hands. “Mother, you must leave this place.”

“Leave our home—and now?”

“They talk of defending it against the forces of the Etheling Edgar, who has been declared king; and we should all be in great danger.”

“But will they stay here against our will?”

“Yes; for they say their lives depend upon it, that the Mercians scour all the country round about, that all the roads are now occupied and guarded, so that they can only hope to defend this place until they can make terms with the King of Mercia, as they call Edgar, who is likely to be acknowledged by all north of the Thames. The curse of the Church is, they say, upon Edwy.”

“Father Cuthbert is still here, is he not?—what does he advise? where shall we go?”

“He says we can have the old house in which he, and the mass-thanes xxix before him, lived while as yet the priory was incomplete or unbuilt. It is very comfortable, and close to the church.”

“But to take him so soon from his home!”

“They will place him in God’s house, before the altar; there could not be a better place where they or we could wish his dear remains to await the last rites upon earth.”

At that moment Father Cuthbert entered the room unannounced.

“Pardon me, my revered lady,” he began; “but I grieve to say that your safety demands instant action, and must excuse my intrusion; your life and liberty are no longer safe here.”

“Life and liberty?”

“There is some foul plot to detain you all here, on pretence your safety requires it. I have been this morning to Redwald, and he refuses permission for any one to leave the place, asserting that thus only can he assure your safety. Now, it is plain that if the place comes to be besieged you would be far safer in the priory or the old priests’ house. Our own countrymen would not injure us.”

“He will not detain us by force?”

“I would not trust to that; but we must meet guile by guile. I have pretended to be content on your behalf and he is just going to leave the hall, with the greater part of his followers, to collect provisions and cattle. I have told him that the Grange farm is well stocked; he has caught the bait, and is going to superintend the work of spoliation in person: far better, in the present need, that he should rob the estate than that a hair of your head or of those of your children should perish.”

“But why do you suspect him of evil?”

“I cannot tell you now. I have overheard dark, dark speeches. So soon as he has gone, Alfred and I must summon all your own people who are in the hall. We will then bring the body forth, and follow it ourselves; as we shall outnumber those left behind I do not imagine they will dare, in his absence, to interfere with our progress.”

“I will go at once,” said Alfred, “and summon the household.”

“No; you would be observed. I am older and perhaps a little more discreet. Stay with your mother till all is ready.”

Alfred reluctantly obeyed, and Father Cuthbert went forth. So great was their anxiety that it almost banished the power of prayer, save such mental shafts as could be sent heavenward in each interval of thought.

At last Alfred, who was at the window, saw Redwald and his followers—nearly a hundred in number—leave the castle and ride across towards the forest in the direction of the farm in question. Another moment and Father Cuthbert entered.

“Are you ready? If so, follow me.”

He took them by a private passage into the chapel, where four men already stood by the bier, ready to head the procession, and thirty or forty others were gathered in the chapel or about the door—their own vassals, good and true. They all were armed.

Father Cuthbert ascended the wooden tower above the chapel, which served as a bell cot. He looked from its windows; the party of Redwald had disappeared behind the trees.

He came down and gave the signal. The sad procession started; they descended the steps to the courtyard. Redwald had left some forty or fifty men behind—men who had grown old in arms, and who, if they had pleased, might perhaps have stopped the exit, but they were not sufficiently in the confidence of their leader to take the initiative; and the only man who was in his confidence, and whom he had charged to see that no one departed, was fortunately at that moment in another part of the building. The sentinel at the drawbridge was one of Redwald’s troop. He menaced opposition, and refused to let the drawbridge be peaceably lowered.

“Art thou a Christian?” said Father Cuthbert, coming forward in his priestly attire, “and dost thou presume to interfere with a servant of the Lord and to delay a funeral?”

“I must obey my orders.”

“Then I will excommunicate thee, and deliver thy soul to Satan.”

And he began to utter some awful Latin imprecation, which so aroused the superstition of the sentinel that he made no further opposition, which perhaps saved his life, for the retainers of Æscendune were meditating instant violence, indignant at the delay and the outrage to their lady.

They themselves let the drawbridge down and guarded the