Alfgar the Dane or the Second Chronicle of Aescendune<br />A Tale of the Days of Edmund Ironside, A. D. Crake [best romance books of all time TXT] 📗

Now he was on the outer side of the door, and he shut it, and then locked it and tossed the key into the snow.

But which way was he to go? He could not make out the locality, but it was evident that the hill rose above him, and he knew that from its summit he could discern the bearings of places, so he resolved to ascend.

It was now about nine at night, an hour when our ancestors generally retired to rest. All Alfgar's desire and hope--O how joyful a hope!--was to see from the hill the bearings of Clifton, and to descend, with all the speed in his power, towards it. He might arrive before they had retired to rest. So he ran eagerly forward. The moon was bright, and the snow reflected so much light that locomotion was easy.

And now he became conscious that there was a strange gleam along the snow on his left hand--a strange red gleam, which grew stronger and stronger as he advanced. It seemed above and below-- to redden the skies, the frozen treetops with their glittering snow wreaths, and the smooth surface beneath alike.

Redder and redder as he ascended, until he suddenly emerged upon the open hill. Before him were earthworks, which had been thrown up in olden wars, before Englishman or Dane had trodden these coasts. He scrambled into a deep hollow filled with snow, then out again, and up to the summit, when he saw the cause of the illumination.

Before him the whole country to the southeast seemed in flames. Village after village gave forth its baleful light; and even while he gazed the fiery flood burst forth in spots hitherto dark. He stood as one transfixed, until the wind brought with it a strange and fearful cry, as if the exultation of fiends were mingled with the despairing cry of perishing human beings.

He knew whence it came by the red light slowly stealing beyond the next hill, and the fiery tongues of flame which rose heavenward, although the houses were hidden by the ground.

It was from Wallingford, a town three miles below Dorchester. He knew, too, where he was himself; and the one impulse which rushed upon him was to hasten to Clifton, where he trusted he might find Edmund, or, at least, hear of him in this dread emergency. He saw the village lying beneath in the distance, and turned to rush downward, entering the wood in a different direction.

But what sound is that which makes him start and pause?

It is the bay of the mastiff. He is pursued. He clasps his sword with desperate tenacity, in which a foe might read his doom, and rushes on, crushing through the brushwood.

Again the bay of the hound.

Onward, onward, he tramples through bush and bramble, until he sees his progress suddenly arrested by the dark-flowing river.

He coasts along its banks, keeping up stream. The bay of the dog seems close at hand, and the trampling of human feet accompanies it.

All at once he comes upon a road descending to the brink, and sees a ferry boat at the foot of the descent. He rushes towards it and enters. The pole is in the boat. He unlooses the chain, but with difficulty, and precious moments are lost. He hears the panting of the ferocious beast just as he pushes the boat, with vigorous thrust, out into the stream.

The dog, followed closely by the men, is on the bank. The men curse and swear, but the dog plunges into the chilly stream, which, being swollen, has too rapid a current to freeze. Alfgar sees the brute swimming after the boat; he ceases to use the pole, but takes his sword, kneels on the stern of the boat, and waits for the mastiff. It gains the boat, and tries to mount, when the keen steel is driven between the forepaws to its very heart. One loud howl, and it floats down the stream, dyeing the waters with its life-blood.

"Cursed Dane!" shouts Higbald. "thou shalt pay with thy own life blood."

"When you catch me; and even then you must fight for it. Meanwhile, if you be an Englishman, warn the good people of Dorchester that the Danes are upon them. Your Edric has betrayed them."

Reaching the other shore, Alfgar finds smooth meadows all covered with snow. He knows his way now. A little higher up he strikes the main road which leads to Clifton, and rushes on past field and grove, past hedgerow and forest. Behind him the heavens are growing angry with lurid light, before him the earth lies in stillness and silence; the moonbeams slumbering on placid river, glittering on frozen pool, or silvering happy homesteads--happy hitherto. He sees the lights in the hall of Herstan yet burning, and casting their reflection abroad. He is at the foot of the ascent leading up to it. One minute more and--

. . . . . .

Christmas day was almost over when the population of Herstan's village of Clifton obeyed the summons with alacrity to spend the evening in the hall in feasting and merriment. They had all duly performed the religious duties of the day, and had been greatly edified by the homily of Father Cuthbert at mass; and now innocent mirth was to close the hallowed day--mirth which they well believed was not alien to the birthday of Him who once sanctified the marriage festivities at Cana by His first miracle.

So thither flocked the young and the old: the wood rangers and hunters from the forests of Newenham, where Herstan had right of wood cutting; the men who wove baskets and hurdles of osier work from the river banks; the theows who cultivated the home farm; the ceorls who rented a hide of land here and a hide there--all, the grandfather and the grandson, accepted the invitation to feast. The rich and the poor met together, for God was the Maker of them all.

The huge Yule log burnt upon the hearth as it had done since it was lighted the night before; a profusion of torches turned night into day; the tables groaned with the weight of the good cheer; in short, all was there which could express joy and thanksgiving.

The supper was over; the wild boar roasted whole, the huge joints of mutton and beef, the made dishes, the various preparations of milk, had disappeared, the cheerful cup was handed round; after which the tables were removed, the gleemen sang their Christmas carols, and all went merry as a "marriage bell."

Father Cuthbert, seated in a corner near the Yule log, with his brother-in-law and the Etheling, forgot all his apprehensions, and shared in the universal joy around him; if his thoughts were sometimes with those who had once made Christmas bright to him-- if he thought of the bright-haired Bertric, who had been the soul of last Yuletide festivity at Aescendune, or of the desolated home there, he dismissed the subject from his mind at once, and suffered no hint to drop which could dim the mirth of his fellow guests.

Meanwhile, one of those whom he strove in vain to forget for the time drew nearer and nearer; a haggard figure, wan and worn by painful imprisonment, the garments dishevelled, the hair matted, the whole figure wild with excitement, he drew near the outer gate.

He heard the song of joy and peace within as he paused one moment before blowing the horn which hung at the outer gate.