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) 📗

a foe in stealthy silence; he looked around for the object, and beheld Ragnar’s forces all unconscious of their danger, not having heard the approach in their own hasty preparations for departure. Another moment of dread suspense, like that with which the gazer watches the dark thundercloud before the lightning’s flash. A moment of dread silence—during which some orders, given loudly below, forced themselves upon him:

“Fire the castle, every portion of it; fire the stables, the barns, the outbuildings; we will leave a pile of blackened ruins for Edgar when he comes; the halls where the princely Edwy has feasted shall never be his, or entertain him as guest.”

Meanwhile, the dark forces, unseen by the destroyers, were still surrounding the castle, deploying on all sides to surround it as in a net; for they saw the intention of their victims, and meant to cut off all chance of escape.

But the position of the brothers seemed as perilous as ever—for how could Edgar’s troops rescue them if the place were once on fire? Alfred gazed with pallid face upon Oswy, but met only a resigned helpless glance in return.

Yet, even at this moment of awful suspense, a voice seemed to whisper in his ear, “Stand still, and see the salvation of God.”

“Oswy,” he exclaimed, “we shall not die—I feel sure that God will save us!”

“It must be soon then,” replied Oswy; “soon, my lord, for they have already set the place on fire, just beneath us; can you not smell the smoke?”

Just at that moment came the war cry of the Mercians, and the charge we have already described.

It was during the following few minutes, while Ragnar and all his men were vainly striving to extinguish the conflagration they had raised—for the dry timber of which the hall was chiefly built had taken fire like matchwood—it was while the friends without were preparing to attack, that a sudden change came over the patient.

“Alfred, my brother!”

Alfred looked round in surprise; consciousness had returned, and the face was calm and possessed as his own.

“Elfric, my dear Elfric!”

“What does all this mean? How came I here? What makes this smoke?”

“We are in danger, great danger; prisoners in our own house, which they have set on fire.”

“I remember now—is not this our dear father’s room?”

“Yes; we are prisoners in it, they have barred the door upon us.”

“But they cannot bar us in: there is another door, Alfred; one my father once pointed out to me, but told me to keep its existence a secret, as it always had been kept. Who are without?”

“The Mercians, Edgar’s army, come to deliver us; if we can reach them, we are safe.”

“I thought they were our foes, but all seems strange now. Alfred, lift up the tapestry which conceals the recess where dear father’s armour hung.”

Alfred complied.

“Now, just where the breastplate hung you will find a round knob of wood like a peg.”

“Yes, it is here.”

“Push it hard—no, harder.”

Alfred did so, and a concealed door flew open; he stepped through it with a cry of joy, and found himself on the staircase leading up from the postern gate by which he had entered, just below the closed door which led into the gallery above.

“God be thanked! we are saved—saved. Elfric!

“Oswy, take him in your arms, quick! quick! I lead the way, and will get the boat ready—door open and boat ready.”

It was all the work of a moment; they were on the private staircase, carrying Elfric, carefully wrapt up. The smoke had entered even here; the next moment they were at the entrance. Happily the whole attention of Ragnar was concentrated on self preservation.

One more minute, and Elfric was placed in the coracle. The Mercians on the further bank now observed them, and at first, not knowing them, seemed disposed to treat them as foes; when Oswy cried aloud, “Spare your arrows; it is Elfric of Æscendune;” and they crowded to the bank joyfully, for the purpose of the attack was known to all, and now they saw its object placed beyond the reach of further risk of failure.

The coracle touched the further bank; a dozen willing hands assisted them up the slope. And amidst shouts of vociferous joy and triumph they were conducted to King Edgar, who hastened towards the scene with Siward.

“Now, let the castle burn, let it burn,” said Oswy.

“Alfred, is it you?” exclaimed the young king; “just escaped from the flames! How came you there? and this is Elfric; you have saved him.”

“God has delivered us.”

“But you have been the instrument; you must tell me all another time, get him into shelter quickly.

“Here, men, bear him to the priory, while we stay to do our duty here.

“Alfred, you must not linger.”

“One favour, my lord and king; show mercy to Ragnar, to Redwald, you know not how sad his story has been.”

“Leave that to me; he shall have all he deserves;” and Alfred was forced to be content.

At this moment, aroused by the shouts of joy, Ragnar, forgetting even his danger, rushed to the roof. There he saw a crowd surrounding some object of their joy; in the darkness of the night he could not distinguish more, but the cry, “Long live Alfred of Æscendune!” arose spontaneously from the crowd, just as the brothers departed. Faint with toil as he was, his heart beating wildly with apprehension, he rushed to the chamber through smoke and flame, for the tongues of fire were already licking the staircase. He withdrew the bars, he rushed in, the room was empty.

“It is magic, sorcery, witchcraft,” he groaned.

But the remembrance of his last words, of his scornful defiance of God, came back to him, and with it a conviction that he had indeed lifted up his arm against the Holy One. He felt a sickening feeling of horror and despair rush upon him, when loud cries calling him from beneath aroused him.

“We must charge through them; we cannot burn here; we must die fighting sword in hand, it is all that is left.”

Not one voice spoke of surrender amongst those fierce warriors, or of seeking mercy.

It was indeed high time, for all efforts to extinguish the flames had proved vain; every part of the castle was on fire; the fiery element streamed from the lower windows, and curled upwards around the towers; it crackled and hissed in its fury, and the atmosphere became unfit to breathe; it was like inhaling flame. Sparks flew about in all directions, dense stifling smoke filled every room. Not a man remained in the hall, when Redwald rushed down the gallery, holding his breath, for the hot air scorched the lungs; when, just as he arrived, the staircase fell with a huge crash, and the flames shot up in his face, igniting hair and beard, and scorching his flesh. He rushed back to the opposite end of the passage, only to meet another blast of fire and smoke—for they had ignited the hall in twenty places at once; they had done their work all too well. He rushed to the room he had left, shut the door for a moment’s respite from flame and smoke, and then, springing at the window, strove to tear the bars down, but all in vain.

“There must be some egress. How did they escape? How could they escape?” he cried; and he sought in vain for the exit, for they had closed the door again, and he knew not where to look; in vain he lifted the tapestry, he could not discover the secret; and at last, overpowered by the heat, he sprang again to the window, and drank in deep draughts of fresh cool air to appease the burning feeling in his throat.

Crash! crash! part of the roof had given way, and the whole chamber trembled; then a single tongue of flame shot up through the floor, then another; the door had caught outside. Even in that moment he beheld his men, his faithful followers, madly seeking death from the swords of the foe; they had lowered the drawbridge, and dashed out without a leader.

“Would I were with them!” he cried. “Oh, to die like this!”

“Behold,” cried a voice without, “he hath digged and graven a pit, and is fallen himself into the destruction he made for others.”

It was Father Swithin, who had observed the face at the window, and who raised the cry which now drew all the enemy to gaze upon him, for they had no longer a foe to destroy.

The flames now filled the room, but still he clung to the window, and thus protracted his torments; his foes, even the stern monk, could but pity him now, so marred and blackened was his visage, so agonised his lineaments; like, as they said, the rude pictures of the lost, where the last judgment was painted on the walls of the churches. Yet he uttered no cry, he had resolved to die bravely; all was lost now. Another moment, and those who watched saw the huge beams which supported the building bend and quiver; then the whole framework collapsed, and with a sound like thunder the roof tumbled in, and the unhappy Ragnar was buried in the ruin; while the flames from his funeral pyre rose to the very heavens, and the smoke blotted the stars from view.

“Even so,” said the monk, solemnly, “let Thine enemies perish, O Lord, but let them that love Thee be as the sun, when he goeth forth in his might.”

But those were not wanting who could not sympathise with the stern sentiment, remembering better and gentler lessons from the lips of the great Teacher and Master of souls.

“He has passed into the Hands of his God, there let us leave him,” said Father Cuthbert, who had just arrived at the moment. “It is not for us to judge a soul which has passed to the judgment seat, and is beyond the sentence of men.”

Meanwhile, they had borne Elfric first to the priory, for they judged it not well that he should yet be brought to his mother; they feared the sudden shock. Many of the good monks had studied medicine, for they were in fact the healers both of soul and body throughout the district, and they attended him with assiduous care. They put him to bed, they gave him cordials which soon produced quiet sleep, and watched by him for many hours.

It was not till the day had far advanced that he awoke, greatly refreshed, and saw Father Cuthbert and Alfred standing by him. They had allayed the fever, bound up the wound, which was not in itself dangerous, and he looked more like himself than one could have imagined possible.

And now they thought they might venture to summon the lady Edith; and Alfred broke the intelligence to her, for she knew not the events of the night.

“Mother,” he said; “we have news of Elfric, both bad and good, to tell you.”

“He lives then,” she said; “he lives!”

“Yes, lives, and is near; but he was wounded badly in the battle.”

“I must go to him,” she said, and arose, forgetting all possible obstacles in a mother’s love.

“He is near at hand, in the priory; you will find him much changed, but they say he will do well.”

She shook like an aspen leaf, and threw her garments around her with nervous earnestness.

“Come, mother, take my arm.”

“O Alfred, may I not come, too?” said little Edgitha.

“Yes, you may come too;” and they left the house.

Elfric heard them approach, and sat up in his bed, Father Cuthbert supporting him with his arm; while another visitor, Edgar himself, stood at the head of the bed, but retired to give place to the mother, as if he felt no stranger could then intrude, when the widow clasped her prodigal to her loving breast.