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] 📗

that light! Is it not singular? I never saw one there before."

But even while they looked another fire appeared in an opposite direction, and Bertric saw his father turn grave.

"It is the beacon fire," said he seriously.

"Yes it is, and see it is answered from the hills to the north," said Alfgar.

Then they were silent, and Bertric felt his spirits sink with a vague kind of apprehension. They said no more till they reached home, and the whole family met, much later than usual, at the evening meal.

"You are late," said Hilda to her lord.

"We were returning home from the meadows on the water, whence the last load of hay has been carried, and we tarried for the compline at the priory. The bell sounded as we were passing."

"Did you see the bonfire on the hills? It must be a large one."

"I did; and it made me uneasy."

"Why so, my Elfwyn?"

"You forget that when the last invasion of our pagan foes was over, it was agreed in the Witan that a set of beacons should be prepared, in readiness to fire, on the tops of the hills, and that if the Danes appeared again, they should be fired everywhere, in which case Mercia was to hold herself in readiness to come to the aid of Wessex or East Anglia, whichever the foe might be harrying."

"But then that was eighteen months agone."

"Still the beacon piles remain or did remain. I saw one at the summit of the hills which the trackway crosses between our county and Oxfordshire, when I last returned form Beranbyrig {v}, and I think that one gives the present alarm. It means the Danes are again in the land."

"Now, God forbid!" said Hilda, with clasped hands.

"Amen say we all; but I fear me such will be the case, unless some poor fool has set the pile blazing for amusement. I fancied I saw it answered away north and west. We will go and see anon."

Supper being ended, Elfwyn rose to go out, and his example was followed by Alfgar and Bertric, and several of the serfs, who from the lower end of the ample board had heard with much alarm the previous conversation.

Ascending the hill, they directed their steps towards the highest point, where an old watchtower had once been reared, composed of timber, and overlooking the forest.

From the summit the party gazed over three or four counties lying dimly beneath them in the still moonlight.

The mist, slowly rising from the river and forest, partially obscured the immediate view, and hid the valley beneath in smoke-like wreaths; but the distant hills rose above. There three large fires immediately caught the eye, and confirmed the apprehensions. One was on the summit of the range culminating on the spot now known as Edgehill, lying about ten miles south; but on the west Malvern Heights had caught the flame, and on the far north the Leicestershire hills sent forth their reddening fire in more than one spot.

"The country has taken the alarm," said the Thane.

"What must we do, father?"

"Summon and arm all our vassals, and await the sheriff's orders; the king will communicate to us through him. We know not yet where the danger is."

"Perhaps it is only a false alarm," said Bertric.

"God grant it; but I dare not hope as much."

Alfgar was very silent. Well he might be. The enemy dreaded was his own kith and kin; and although all his sympathies were with his English friends, from whom he had received more kindness and love than he had ever known elsewhere, yet he seemed to feel compromised by the deeds of his kindred, whose savage cruelty no Christianity had as yet softened.

While they yet remained on the hill, fire after fire took up the tale and reddened the horizon, until a score of those baleful bonfires were in sight. Sighing deeply, Elfwyn led the way down the hill.

"What have you seen?" was the inquiry of the Lady Hilda.

"The hills flame with beacons."

"Alas for poor Wessex!"

"Alas for England! I have a foreboding that we shall not always be exempt from the woes which affect our neighbours. Wessex scarcely tempts the plunderer now; neither does East Anglia. Northumbria is half Danish, and kites do not peck out kites' eyes. No; on Mercia, poor Mercia, the blow must sooner or later fall."

"And how to avert it?"

"There is but one way; we must fight the foe in Wessex. Now we must rest, to rise early, and await the sheriff's summons."

It was silent, deep night; the whole house was buried in slumber, when Alfgar dreamed a strange dream. He thought he stood amidst the ruins of his home, the home of his father Anlaf, and that he heard steps approaching from the forest. Soon a solitary figure emerged, and searched anxiously amongst the fallen and blackened walls, uttering one anxious ejaculation, "My son! I seek my son!" and Alfgar knew his father. Their eyes met, recognition took place, and he awoke with such a keen impression of his father's presence that he could not shake it off for a long time.

"Do the dead indeed revisit earth?" he said. "Nay, it was but a dream."

He went to the narrow window of his chamber, and looked out. The dawn was already breaking in the east, and even as he gazed upon the purpling skies the birds began their matin songs of praise, and the valley awoke. The priory bell, beneath, by the riverside, now tolled its summons to matins, and Alfgar arose and dressed.

Never did the household of Aescendune begin the day without religious observance, and the first thing that they did on this, as on every day, was to repair to the priory church, where Father Cuthbert said mass; after which he and his brother the Thane were closeted together for a long time.

The rest of the party returned home to break their fast, and conversed about the warnings of the preceding night.

While they were still at their meal, Bertric, who sat near a window, cried out, "I see a horseman coming from Warwick."

The panting steed was soon reined up in front of the drawbridge, which was down as usual; and, passing beneath the arched gate, the rider dismounted in the courtyard.

All the household were soon assembled to hear his news. He bore a sealed missive addressed to the Thane; but he gave the secret of the night's alarm in a few words.

"They are in Wessex, plundering, murdering, and burning. The forces are all to meet at Dorchester as soon as man and horse can get there."

"Where did they land?"

"The great fleet came to Sandwich, and they are advancing westward as fast as they can come."

"Are they merciless as ever?"

"Worse."

"The fiends!" said Bertric bitterly; and then seeing Alfgar's saddened face, said, "Oh, I beg pardon," which made matters worse.

"You are not a Dane, Alfgar; you are a Christian; no one thinks of you as one."

Shortly Elfwyn returned from the priory, and received the messenger. The sealed packet only contained a formal summons to the general rendezvous of the forces, which was to take place at Dorchester, the episcopal city of the great Midland diocese, and situated in a central position, where Wessex and Mercia could easily unite the flower of their youth.

All the necessary preparations for departure were shortly made --the theows and ceorls were collected together, beasts of burden selected to carry the necessary baggage, the wallets filled with provisions.

Before the third hour of the day all had been done which the simple habits of the time required, and only the sorrowful leave takings remained. Husbands had to bid the last goodbye--it might be the very last--to their spouses, sons to their aged parents, fathers to their children. And then there was hurrying to and fro, as of people only half conscious of what they did; while the warriors strove to smile and preserve their fortitude.

But alas! there were no traditions of victory to encourage them; only gloomy remembrances of defeat; and, but for the stern call of duty which bade them, as men and Christians, go to the succour of their brethren, the majority would have preferred to remain at home and abide the worst, although they knew full well that submission utterly failed to mitigate the ferocious cruelty of their oppressors, who slew alike the innocent babe and the grey-haired grandsire.

Alfgar had volunteered to share the perils of his adopted lord, but was kindly told that it would be inexpedient. Indeed, by many he would have been suspected of treachery.

"Nay, Alfgar, remain at home; to you I commend the protection of my home, of the Lady Hilda, and our children," said Elfwyn.

Neither were Bertric's prayers to be allowed to share his father's perils any better received. He was bidden to remain where he was, and to be a good son to his mother--not that he had ever been otherwise.

And so the last sad words of adieu were spoken as bravely as might be, and the little troop, about fifty in number, departed from the hall. They crossed the rude wooden bridge, and took the southern road.

Their loved ones watched them until the last. They saw their warriors cast many a longing lingering look behind, and then the woodland hid them from sight; and a dread quiet came down upon Aescendune, as when the air is still before the coming hurricane.

CHAPTER V. THE TRACKS IN THE FOREST.

It was a long time before any news of the warriors reached home; for in those days the agony of suspense had always to be endured in the absence of posts and telegrams; but after a few weeks a special messenger came from the army. He was one of the Aescendune people, and his was the great privilege of embracing wife and family once more ere returning to the perils of the field.

His news was brief. The forces of Mercia had been placed under the command of Edric, formerly the sheriff of the county in which Aescendune lay, but long since returned to court, where his smooth tongue gained him great wealth and high rank. Gifted with a subtle genius and persuasive eloquence, he had obtained a complete ascendency over the mind of the weak Ethelred, while he surpassed even that treacherous monarch in perfidy and cruelty.

Under his direction that unhappy king had again and again embrued his hands in innocent blood. This very year they had both given a proof of these tendencies worth recording.

Edric had conceived a hatred against the Ealdorman Elfhelm, which he carefully concealed. He invited that unfortunate lord to a banquet at Shrewsbury, where he welcomed him as his intimate friend. On the third or fourth day of the feast he took him to hunt in a wood where he had prepared an ambuscade, and while all the rest were engaged in the chase, the common hangman of Shrewsbury, one Godwin "port hund," or the town's hound, bribed by Edric to commit the crime, sprang from behind a bush, and foully assassinated the innocent ealdorman. Not to be behind his favourite in cruelty, Ethelred caused the two sons of the unfortunate Elfhelm to be brought to him at Corsham, near Bath, where he was then residing, and he ordered their eyes to be put out.

Such was the man to whom the destinies of the English army were now confided, and such the king who ruled the unhappy land--cruel as he was cowardly.

Under such leaders it is no marvel that the messenger Ulric had no good news to tell. The army had assembled, and had marched after the Danes, whose policy for the present was to avoid a pitched battle, and to destroy their enemies in detail. So they were continually harassing the English forces, but avoiding every occasion of fair fight. Did the English march to a town under the impression the Danes were about to attack it, they found no foe, but heard the next day that some miserable district at a distance had been cruelly ravaged. Did they lie in ambush, the Danes took another road. Meanwhile the English stragglers were repeatedly cut off; and did they despatch a small force anywhere, it was sure to fall into an ambush, and be annihilated by the pagans.

Their repeated disasters weakened every man's heart, and gave rise to a well-founded belief that there was treachery in their midst, and that plans decided even in their secret councils were made known to the Danes. What wonder, then, that they grew dispirited, and that murmurs arose on all hands, while the army could scarcely keep together for want of provisions?

The war was at present raging in the southern counties, but ever and anon the marauders made a forced march, and sacked some helpless town remote from the seat of war.

There was no prospect, Elfwyn said, of the campaign coming to an end; the harvest must take care of itself or the women and children must reap it. The men were all and more