A Thane of Wessex: Being a Story of the Great Viking Raids into Somerset, - [black male authors .txt] 📗

"Spit fire, good Grendel, I want to see."

Now I was glad to be kept off my own fierce thoughts for a little, and so answered him back, wondering at the name he gave me, and at his request.

"So -- I am Grendel, am I?"

"Aye," said the urchin, "Dudda Collier ran into village in the night, saying that you had come out of the fen, all fire from head to foot, and so he fled. But I came to see."

"Where is the collier then?"

"He dare not come back, he says, without the priest, and has gone to get the hermit. So the other folk bided till he came too."

"Were not you afraid of me?"

"Maybe I was feared at first -- but I would see you spit fire before the holy man drives you away. So I looked in through a crack, and saw you asleep. Then I feared not, and bided your waking for a little time."

"What is your name, brave urchin?' I asked, for I was pleased with the child and his fearlessness.

"Turkil," he said.

"Well, Turkil -- I am not Grendel. He fled when I came in here."

"Did you beat him?" asked the boy, with a sort of disappointment.

"Nay; but he disappeared when the hot coals went out," I said. "And now I am hungry, can you find me aught to eat?" and, indeed, rested as I was with the long sleep, I had waked sound in mind and body again, and longed for food, and I think that finding this strange child here to turn my thoughts into a wholesome channel, when first they began to stir in me, was a mercy that I must ever be thankful for.

Turkil got up solemnly and went to the hearth. Thence he took an iron cauldron, and hoisted it on the great round of tree trunk that served as table in the midst of the hut.

"Dudda Collier left his supper when he fled. Wherefore if we eat it he will think Grendel got it -- and no blame to us," remarked the boy, chuckling.

And when I thought how I had not a copper sceatta left me in the world, I stopped before saying that I would pay him when he returned, and so laughed back at the boy and fell to.

When we had finished, the cauldron, which had been full of roe deer venison, was empty, and Turkil and I laughed at one another over it.

"Grendel or no Grendel," said the urchin, "Dudda will ask nought of his supper."

"Why not?"

"By reason of what it was made of."

Then I remembered that a thrall might by no means slay the deer, and that he would surely be in fear when he knew that one had found him out. So I said to the boy:

"Grendel ate it, doubtless. Nor you nor I know what was in the honest man's pot."

Turkil was ready to meet me in this matter, and looking roguishly at me, gathered up the bones and put them into the kilns.

"Now must I go home," he said, when this was done, "or I shall be beaten. But I would I had seen Grendel -- though I love warriors armed like you."

"Verily, Turkil, my friend," said I, "a stout warrior will you be if you go on as you have begun."

Thereupon something stirred within me, as it were, and I took the urchin and kissed him, for I had never thought to call one "friend" again.

Then I feared to let him go from me, lest the thoughts of yesterday should come back, as I knew they would, did I give way to them. So I told him to bide here with me till the village people came to drive away Grendel, and that I would make all right for him.

Then we went out of the little hut, and sat on the logs of timber, and he told me tales of the wood and stream and meres to which I must answer now and then, while I pondered over what I must do and where betake myself.

My outlawry would not be known till the people had got home from Brent, and then but by hearsay, till the sheriff's men had proclaimed me in the townships.

This place, too, where a man could slay roe deer fearless of discovery, must be far from notice, and I would bide here this next night, and so make my plans well, and grow fully rested. But always, whatever I thought, was revenge on Matelgar uppermost.

Now Turkil would see my sword, and then my seax, and try my helm on his head, laughing when it covered his eyes, and I had almost bade him come to my hall at Cannington and there try the little weapons I had when I was his size, so much his ways took from me the thought of my trouble. But that slip brought it all back again, and for a time I waxed moody, so that the child was silent, finding no answer to his prattle, and at last leant against me and slept. Presently, I leaned back and slept too, in the warm sun.

I woke with the sound of chanting in my ears, and the ringing of a little bell somewhere in the wood; but Turkil slept on, and I would not stir to wake him, sitting still and wondering.

Then out of the wood came towards the hut a little procession, and when I saw it I knew that I, as Grendel, was to be exorcised. But though I thought not of it, exorcism there had been already, and that of my evil spirit of yesterday, by the fearless hand of -- a little child.

There came first an old priest, fully vested, bearing a great service book in one hand, and in the other a crucifix, and reading as he went, but in Latin, so that I could not know what he read. And on either side of him were two youths, also vested, one bearing a great candle that flared and guttered in the wind, and the other a bell, which now and then he rang when the old priest ceased reading between the verses.

After these came the villagers. I saw the collier among the first, and his knees shook as he walked. Then some of the men were armed with bills and short swords, and a few with bows. All, I think, had staves. After them came some women, and I saw one who wept, looking about her eagerly.

They did not see me, for the timber pile was next the kiln and a little behind it; so that before they got near I was shut out from view for a time.

While they were thus hidden from me, they stopped and began to chant again, priest and people in turn. After that had gone on for a little time, Turkil woke and sat up, but I bade him in a whisper to be silent, and putting his finger in his mouth he obeyed, wide eyed.

Then the little bell gave a note or two, and the reading began, so near that I could hear the words, or seem to remember them as I know now what they were.

"Adjuro te maleficum Grendel vocatum diabolum --"

So far had the priest got when they turned the corner of the house, and I stood up. There came a shout from the men, and the exorcism went no further, for the old priest saw at once, as it seemed, that I was but a mortal. Not so some of his train, for several turned to fly, sorely fearing that the wrestle between the powers spiritual had begun, and, as one might think, lacking faith in their own side, for they showed little.

But Grendel or no Grendel, there was one who thought not of her own safety. That woman whom I had seen weeping gave a great cry and rushed at me, seizing my little comrade from my arms, for I had lifted him as I stood, and covering him with kisses, chided him and petted at the same time.

It was his mother, who hearing that her darling had wandered away from his playmates with the intention of "seeing Grendel" as he avowed, had dared to join the rest to learn what had been his end.

The old priest looked on this with something of a smile, and then turned to his people saying:

"Doubtless the fiend has fled, or this warrior and the child had not been here. Search, my children, and see if there be traces left of his presence, and I will speak to the stranger."

They scattered about the place in groups, for they yet feared to be alone, and the priest came up to me, scanning my arms as he did so, to guess my rank. My handsome sword and belt seemed to decide him, for though the armour and helm were plain, they were good enough for any thane who meant them for hard wear and not for show.

"Sir," he said, very courteously but without any servility, "I see you are a stranger, and you meet me on a strange errand. I am the priest whom they call the hermit, Leofwine -- should I name you thane?"

I was going to answer him as I would have replied but yesterday morning -- so hesitated a little, and then answered shortly.

"No thane, Father, but the next thing to it -- a masterless man."

"As you will, sir," he replied, thinking that I doubtless had my own reason for withholding whatever rank I had. "We meet few strangers in this wild."

"I lost my way, Father," I said, "and wandered here in the night, and, being sorely weary, slept in this empty hut till two hours ago, waking to find yon child here."

Now little Turkil, seeing that I looked towards him, got free from his mother and ran to me, saying that he must go home, and that I must speak for him, as his mother was wroth with him for playing truant.

The woman, who seemed to be the wife of some well-to-do freeman, followed him, and I spoke to her, begging her to forgive the boy, as he had been a pleasant comrade to me, and that, indeed, I had kept him, as he said some folk were coming from the village.

Whereon she thanked me for tending him, saying that she had feared the foul fiend whom the collier had seen would surely have devoured him. So I pleased her by saying that a boy who would face such a monster now would surely grow up a valiant man. Then Turkil must kiss me in going, bidding me come and see him again, and I knew not how to escape promising that, though it was a poor promise that could not be kept, seeing that I must fly the kingdom of Wessex as soon as I might. Then his mother took him away, he looking back often at me. With them went the most of the people, some wondering, but the greater part laughing at Dudda Collier's fright.

I asked the old priest where the village might be, and he told me that it lay in a clearing full two miles off, and that the father of Turkil was the chief franklin there, though of little account elsewhere. He had not yet come back from the great Moot at Brent, and that was good hearing for me, for though he must return next day, I should be far by that time.

While we talked, the collier and two or three men came to us, telling excitedly how that the kiln was raked out, and that the cauldron was empty -- doubtless the work of the fiend.

"Saw you aught of any fiend, good sir?" asked the priest of me.

Now I remembered the roe deer in time, and answered, "I saw nought worse than myself" -- but I think that, had the collier known my thoughts, he would have fled me as he fled that he took me for. But that he was sore terrified I have no doubt, for it seemed that he neither recognized me, nor remembered what he was doing at the kiln when I came. Maybe, as often happens, he had told some wild story to so many that he believed it himself.

"Then, my sons," said the hermit, "the fiend finding Dudda no prey of his, departed straightway, and he need fear no more."

However, they would have him sprinkle all the place with holy water, repeating the proper prayers the while, which he did willingly, knowing the fears of his people, and gladly trying to put them to rest.

Then the collier begged one after another to bide with him that night, but all refused, having other things to be done which they said might not he foregone. It was plain that they dared not stay; but this seemed to be my chance.

The men had