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   :PG.Id: 37405
   :PG.Title: A Maid at King Alfred’s Court
   :PG.Released: 2011-09-11
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Darleen Dove
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   :PG.Credits: Darleen Dove
   :DC.Creator: Lucy Foster Madison
   :MARCREL.ill: Ida Waugh
   :DC.Title: A Maid at King Alfred’s Court
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1900

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A MAID AT KING ALFRED’S COURT
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   This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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      Title: A Maid at King Alfred’s Court
      
      Author: Lucy Foster Madison
      
      Release Date: September 11, 2011 [EBook #37405]
      
      Language: English
      
      Character set encoding: UTF-8

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      \*\*\* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MAID AT KING ALFRED’S COURT \*\*\*

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      :alt: ’Twill lull thee to dreamless repose.

      “’TWILL LULL THEE TO DREAMLESS REPOSE.”

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   | :xlarge-bold:`A MAID AT KING ALFRED’S COURT`
   |
   | :smaller:`A Story for Girls`
   |
   |
   | :small:`By`
   | :large:`LUCY FOSTER MADISON`
   | :xxsmall:`Author of “A Maid of the First Century,” etc.`
   |
   | :medium:`ILLUSTRATED BY IDA WAUGH`

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   | :medium:`THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY`
   | :medium:`PHILADELPHIA MCM`

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      :small-caps:`Copyright 1900 by The Penn Publishing Company`

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   | “I bring, thy favor to attain,
   | King Alfred and his glorious reign.
   | No nobler hero could I bring
   | Than Britain’s pure and gentle king.
   | Brighter than all, his spotless name
   | Shines on his country’s scroll of fame.
   | A thousand years his bones are dust,
   | Yet men still name him as the Just.
   | A hundred kings have ruled his state,
   | Yet him alone she names—The Great.
   | To him, her noblest praise she sings,
   | As mightiest of her mighty kings.”

.. contents:: CONTENTS
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   :backlinks: entry

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   | :big:`A Maid at King Alfred’s Court`




CHAPTER I—THE MEETING IN THE FOREST
===================================


Beautiful was the month of October in
the year of our Lord 877. That part of
merrie England called Wessex was covered,
in this ancient time with a vast and extensive
wood.

Only where the broad estuary of Southampton
Water divided the tangled woodland, and along
the river Itchen, was there any break in the
forest. Formidable were the wastes of Andred’s
weald, and fortunate the traveler whose path
lay not apart from the public roads.

Hundreds of wide-spreading, broad-headed
oak trees covered the hills and valleys, and
flung their gnarled branches over the rich grassy
sward beneath. Intermingled with these, sometimes
so closely as to hide the rays of the sun,
were beeches, hollies, and copsewood of various
descriptions.

The great trees were girt round about with
mosses or wreaths of ivy that betokened their
age, and their foliage was bright with the hues
of autumn.

The leaves were falling, but through the
openings thus made wider vistas of beauty were
revealed. The rich burnished bronze of the
oak mingled with the blazing orange of the
beech. The gray branches of the graceful ash
contrasted with the fir—stately daughter of
autumn.

The sunshine streaming through the trees
caught and intensified the vivid colorings. Red
of many degrees, up to the gaudiest scarlet;
every tint of yellow, from the wan gold of the
primrose to the deep orange of the tiger lily;
purple from lightest lilac to the darkest shade
of the pansy, mingled and intermingled, until
the whole forest seemed one mass of glowing,
riotous color. Ever and anon the antlers of a
deer might have been seen as he moved restlessly
through the wold, and in the nearer glades
the hares and conies came stealing forth to sport
or to feed.

In the distance the mellow blasts of a horn
could be heard, which grew nearer and more
near until presently on the high road which
wound through the wastes of forest land from
Silchester to Winchester (or Winteceaster, as it
was then called) appeared the forms of two
people, an old man and a girl.

They moved slowly, the maiden accommodating
her steps to those of her companion.
Though not really old, for he was not much
more than sixty, both the man’s countenance
and carriage indicated age. His complexion
was fair and his cheeks ruddy; but his visage
was deeply furrowed, and his long hair, which
escaped from under his bonnet, was white as
snow, as was also his large and forked beard.
His dark blue woolen mantle was clasped on
the shoulder by a broad ouche, or brooch;
his leggins were also of blue woolen, cross-gartered
by strips of leather. Blue, too, was
the under tunic. His right arm encircled a
harp.

The girl who accompanied him was somewhere
about the age of fourteen. Her form was
enveloped in a mantle of scarlet wool, to which
was attached a hood of the same material. The
face under the hood was wondrously lovely, and
had already gained her the appellation of “The
Fair.”

“Grandfather, dearest,” she cried as she
beheld a log which lay under the overhanging
branches of a large oak, “see! here is
rest for thy weariness. I wot that thou art
tired.”

“Yes, child. The limbs of the old tire
quickly, and alack! I am not so young as
I was of yore. The way hath seemed long
to-day, and we are yet far from Winchester.
Prithee, wind the horn no longer, for
I weary of its sound; and truly if there be
any within hearing, they must know of our
coming.”

He sat down as he spake, resting his harp on
his knee. The maiden let fall the horn that
proclaimed their coming, according to the law
of the forest, threw back her hood, unfastened
the fibula that closed the mantle, and
tossed the garment on the log beside the old
man. Thus revealed, she stood forth in all her
beauty.

Her long yellow hair, bound only by a golden
band, was parted smoothly and hung in ringlets
on her shoulders. Her complexion was dazzling
in its fairness; her cheeks rosy; her eyes
sparkling, and blue as periwinkles. She wore
a tunic of blue woolen, falling to her ankles,
and bordered by a band of needlework, for
which the Anglo-Saxon women were famous.
Over this was worn a short gonna of scarlet, the
sleeves of which, reaching in long, loose folds
to the wrists, were confined there by bracelets.
The slenderness of her waist was disclosed by a
girdle, and over her shoulders hung a chain,
from which was suspended a pair of cymbals
and the horn. A picturesque figure she made
as she stood there, and one fair to look upon.
The old man’s eyes rested upon her fondly, and
then he spake:

“Art thou not cold, Egwina? The Wyn
(October) month hath bright sunshine, but his
breezes carry also the chill that foretokens the
coming of winter. Heaven forfend that thou
shouldst become ill.”

The girl laughed merrily.

“Be not irked, grandfather. The mantle
was wearisome, and I did but cast it aside for a
time. See! Lest thou shouldst needlessly fret
thy mind, I will put on the garment again, and
thou shalt tell me whither we go after Winchester.”

Donning the mantle she sat down beside
him. The grandfather looked at her tenderly.

“Egwina The Fair art thou called,” said he,
“but Egwina The Good art thou also. From
Winchester, dear child, and its market, we will
wend our way to the royal vill at Chippenham,
where the king is to winter.”

“Why to Chippenham?” asked the girl.
“It is not often, grandfather, that thou carest
to follow the king.”

“True, child; for Alfred hath scops of his
own in his court, and needeth not the glee of
Wulfhere, the harper. But even as yon oak
hath gathered the moss of years, so have sorrows
come to me, and fain am I to lay down
their burthen. Of bards there are many; but
few glee maidens there be who sing as thou dost.
For thy sake do I hope that the king will take
us under his hand.”

“But if he will not, then whither?” asked the
maiden.

“He will,” answered Wulfhere positively.
“The meanest wayfarer hath the right to bed
and board for a day and a night in any house.
Thinkest, then, that Alfred will not give shelter
and food to a gleeman and maiden? I trow
that he will.”

“Will not the court be hindrance to thee?”
questioned the girl gently. “Dear grandfather,
thou hast been so free always, I fear me much
that thou wilt mislike to be housed with one
lord.”

“Were he younger, child, Wulfhere would
have nought of it. I, and my father, and his
father’s father have always thus lived, wandering
from shire to shire; from burgh to burgh;
from mead hall to mead hall, with harp and
song and story; and none were so welcome as
they. Many lords have bestowed gifts upon
them, and fain would have kept them to sing of
their bold deeds. But all of us, from father to
son, liked better to tell of the daring of many
than the prowess of one. The song of a harp
of one string becometh in time irksome both to
hearer and singer. In sooth, ’tis a merry life
and a free. Alack and a day that ’tis past!
The Dane is abroad in the land. For a short
time hath he left us in quiet, and now winter
will still further stay his hand. Guthrum the
old is bold, and I fear that the Northmen await
only the bringing home of the summer ere falling
upon Wessex.”

“The saints forfend!” ejaculated the girl devoutly.

“So it is for thy weal, Egwina, that we seek
the king. I would not have thee die as did thy
brother, Siegbert. God wots how they could
kill the pretty lad.”

“Tell me of it,” coaxed the maiden well
knowing the tale, but thus did the old man
ease his sorrow.

“Thou wert too young to mind thee now that
it was seven years this harvest when Ubbo and
Oskitul with the tearful Danes fell upon
the abbey of Croyland. To the monks had I
sent Siegbert, for the abbot had heard his singing
and was pleased with his beauty. ‘He
shall be a second Cynewulf,’ said he, ‘when he
shall have become learned.’ I wotted not that
I was sending the boy to his death. But even
while the abbot and the priests, together with
the choir, performed the mass and were singing
the Psalter, the pagans swooped down upon them,
and none were there left to tell the tale. So
little do these heathen care for our holy religion.
In sooth, meseems that it glads their
hearts to destroy our minsters and abbeys. They
cared neither for the helplessness of the old nor
the harmlessness of childhood. Bright and
beautiful as that Baldur whom they worship,
methinks they would have spared him. But
hearken! was not that a call?”

Both listened intently, and through the clear,
crisp air there came a cry for help.

“Some mishap hath befallen a wayfarer!” exclaimed
Wulfhere rising quickly to his feet, his
weariness vanishing instantly. “Come, Egwina,
wind thy horn that he may know that help is
near.”

The maiden blew a long, loud blast and then
they hastened in the direction whence the cry
had come. Soon a turn of the road brought
them in sight of the figures of a youth and a
maiden. The girl was lying prone upon the
sward. The youth bent over her anxiously
stroking her hands. Both were clothed in the
bright-colored garments of which the Saxons
were so fond. The embroidery and richness
of adornment of their dress proclaimed them
to be of noble rank. A falcon hovered disconsolately
near them, and a spear lay on the
ground.

As soon as the lad caught sight of Wulfhere
and Egwina, he uttered an exclamation of joy.

“Be of good heart, Ethelfleda,” he cried;
“here comes a gleeman and his daughter. I
wot that they will help us.”

“Son, wherefore thy call?” queried the bard,
approaching.

“My sister hath wrenched her foot against a
stone,” replied the youth. “We stole away to
try my new falcon with the lure, and all would
have been well had not this befallen us. Wilt
thou not, good harper, hasten into Winchester
and bespeak for us a palfrey?”

“Edward,” spoke the maiden quickly, “seest
thou not that the gleeman is old? Do thou go,
my brother, and leave me with them.”

“Truly hast thou spoken, Ethelfleda,” returned
the youth, rising. “I crave forgiveness, bard,
that I saw not thy years. Quickly will I go
and as quickly come again. Irk not thyself
while I am gone, my sister.” With a bow to
Wulfhere and Egwina, and a salute for his sister
the youth hurried away.

“I hear the ripling of a rill,” remarked Egwina.
“Cooling will its waters feel to thy foot.”

“But how canst thou bring the water?” asked
the maiden, curiously. “Thou hast no bowl
either of horn or wood.”

“Nay; but I have these,” and Egwina
touched her cymbals. “Though they be shallow,
yet enough will they hold for thy ankle.”

She unloosened the shoe of the maiden as she
spoke and removed the silken leggins, marveling
much at their richness as she did so.

“There!” she said, after she had laved the foot
in the cold water. “Doth it not feel better!”

“It doth,” answered the maiden; “so well
that methinks I can stand upon it. How Edward
will wonder!”

“Do not so!” ejaculated Wulfhere, but the
girl was up before he had spoken. Only for a
moment, however. She reeled, and would have
fallen had not the gleeman caught her.

“Thou wert o’er rash,” he chided, gently
stroking her brow while Egwina fetched more
water and again bathed the ankle. The maiden
was white from the pain, but she bravely repressed
the moans that rose to her lips.

“Witless was I,” she murmured. “Now will
I lie still until help comes. O’er rashness is as
bad, I ween, as not enough boldness.”

“True,” said Wulfhere. “Thou art young,
maiden, and fearless is thy spirit. Thou hast
yet to learn that valor is not all in the doing of
brave deeds. To bear well is also valorous.”

“Methinks that thou dost speak truly,” she
returned. “Thou needst bathe the foot no
longer, maiden, for now doth it feel better.
Wilt thou not, ministrel, out of thy good
pleasure beguile the time by story?”

“What likest thou best to hear?” asked he,
well pleased, for the scop delighted in his art.

“Of the deeds of our forefathers,” she replied,
quickly. “Well do I love to hear of
them.”

“Then will I tell thee of how Hengist gained
the land for his castle. Hast heard it?”

“Nay; say on.”

“After Hengist had driven the Picts back to
the marches,” began Wulfhere, “he came to
Vortigern the king, and asked for a city or
town that he might be held in the same honor
that he was held among his own countrymen;
but Vortigern answered that he could not, as it
would be displeasing to his people. ‘Then,’
said Hengist, ‘give me only so much ground as
I can encircle by a leather thong.’ To this
Vortigern readily yielded, disdaining that which
could be enclosed within a thong. Hengist,
taking a bull’s hide, made one thong of the
whole, with which he did encircle much ground,
so that he built a fortress upon it, to which he
could go should need require. Vortigern was
wroth at being so outwitted, but Hengist called
the strong place Thancastre,” which is to say
“Thong Castle.”

Ethelfleda laughed.

“Of merry humor was Hengist,” she said.
“It is pleasing to hear such things! Wittest
thou aught else of him?”

“Wottest thou, maiden, how Vortigern was
taken captive by Rowena?”

“Yea; but even as wine groweth better by
standing, so do old tales gather wit in oft telling.
Say on.”

“When Hengist had made an end of building
his strong place he bade Vortigern come to
see it. The king was disquieted at the strength
of the castle, and, unknown to Hengist, sought
to list the men to himself. When they had
feasted and the mead glowed in the bowl,
Rowena, daughter of Hengist, came forth from
her bower bearing a golden cup full of wine
which, kneeling, she presented to the king.
‘Lord king,’ she cried, ‘wacht heil!’ ‘What doth
she mean?’ asked the king of Hengist. ‘She
but offers to drink thy health,’ was the answer.
‘Thou shouldst say, ‘Drink heil!’’ The king
did as he was told, and when the maiden drank
kissed her, and then drank also. Then so
stirred was he by her beauty that he gave to
Hengist all of Kent for her hand. Thus through
a maiden did the Saxons first get a share of
Britain for their own.”

“Quotha! that is good!” exclaimed Ethelfleda.
“I thought not of that before, and full
oft have I heard the tale. Pleasing are thy
stories! I would hear more of them. Tell on,
harper.”

Thus entreated, Wulfhere told his choicest
tales of folklore and legends, and so well was
the maiden entertained that the time did not
seem long until Edward returned with attendants
and a palfrey for her use.

“Kind have ye been to me,” said the noble
damsel, “and much do I thank ye for it.
Prithee take this ring, maiden. It is not only
a ward against the wiles of the wicca (witch),
but betokeneth purity also. Take it to keep
thee in mind of Ethelfleda.”

When she had thus spoken, her brother lifted
her before him on the palfrey, and with many
thanks for their courtesy, rode off with their
servitors.

“Sawest thou, granther, how rich were their
garments?” asked Egwina when the turn in
the road hid them from their sight.

“Yea; they are gentlefolk,” answered Wulfhere.
“Of good blood comes the maiden for
she moaned not but bore well the pain of the
wrench, though she was white from the hurt of
it.”

“And the youth! How proud in bearing he
was!”

“Yea; noble was his port. Yet methinks it
would have been more seemly to have given us
the name of their father. Now we wot not who
or what they be save that they be gentle.
Marry! I misdoubt not that the father is a
thegn. Mayhap, one of the king’s.”

“But how kind of heart the maiden was!”
mused Egwina. “How beautiful the ring
which she gave me!” She looked at it admiringly.

“It is a sapphire, and of great worth,”
said the gleeman examining it. “Now, child,
let us hasten to Winchester there to find
some mead hall; for where there is wassail,
there is welcome for the gleeman. Hasten,
Egwina.”

The two started off at a brisk walk, and were
soon lost to view in the forest.




CHAPTER II—WINCHESTER
=====================


Under Æthelwulf, Alfred’s father, Winchester
had become the chief city of England; for
while the other kingdoms went down before the
Northern pirates, Wessex still stood its ground.
It was farther off from the main points of
attack, and had the incalculable advantage
of a succession of capable kings: Egbert, Æthelwulf,
and—at the time of our story—Alfred.

As the Danish invasion pressed more and
more, Wessex grew to be the champion of all
the other kingdoms of England. For the ruin
of the north made it the sole remaining home
of the civilized life of the land. Happily for
Wessex and for England, the greatest of English
kings succeeded to the throne at the most
critical moment.

The six years that Alfred had sat upon the
throne had been troubled and restless. During
the first year, nine pitched battles were fought
with the Danes. Then Alfred was forced to
pay to the Northmen money for peace, for the
invaders occupied all of Northumbria, Mercia,
and East Anglia, and the West Saxons, deeming
the struggle hopeless, and fearful of being
brought under their rule, responded no longer
to the call to battle.

For a short time Wessex was left undisturbed.
During this interval the indefatigable Alfred
builded ships and met the pirates upon the sea,
defeating them on their own element. In 876
the peace was broken with that facility which
characterized the breaking of Danish oaths, and
it was not until the beginning of the year 877,
the time of our story, that peace was again
restored.

In that forest, before spoken of, just beyond a
circular chalk down later called St. Catherine’s
hill—where the valley was at the narrowest and
the downs sloped gently to the little river of
Ichen, stood Winchester. In the time of the
Roman, a main thoroughfare, still the High
Street of the city, bisected it from East Gate to
West Gate. At right angles with that street
ran a main intersecting road from South Gate
to North Gate. The West Saxon kings did but
follow the lead of the Roman in retaining this
division of the town, and, up the rising ground
towards the west on either side of the ancient
Roman road from the eastward gate, the houses
of the citizens were clustered into a street; with
here and there a stone-built dwelling, and the
rest of “wattle and dab” construction. In the
southeastern part of the town stood the minster
of St. Swithen strongly inclosed, and protected
on the north by the river and marsh lands.
Near this convent stood the royal vill, from
which place emanated all those plans against the
encroachments of the Danes, the school of
justice and learning, and the bulwark of
England’s defense. Near the palace were the
dwellings of the bishop and his clergy; the
residence of the wicgerefa, which was near the
site of the courts of justice, and in the centre of
the town was the market with its cross.

The day after the one on which the events
narrated in the last chapter had taken place, a
busy scene was presented in the market. Merchandise
of all sorts was exposed for sale. Stalwart
Saxons, called reeves, with the badge of
the king’s authority upon them, had charge of
the steelyards, yard measures, and bushels, and
were kept busy weighing and measuring that
each might receive his just due, and the sale be
legal according to the doom of the land. It
was the endeavor on the part of the authorities
to confine all bargaining as much as possible to
towns and walled places, so that the people
might be assured of fair dealing, and a warranty
of what the Saxon laws called unlying witnesses.

Yet not all the citizens were occupied in
trade, nor was all the market given up to traffic.
On one side, quite away from the stalls, two circular
spaces were set apart; one for bear, the
other for bull baiting. Closer to the stalls, yet
not so near as to detract from the business of the
mart, some gleemen were exercising their art.
One dexterous juggler threw three knives and
three balls alternately in the air, catching them
one by one as they fell.

Another, a short distance from the juggler,
was gravely leading a great bear to dance on its
hind legs, while his coadjutor kept time on the
flageolet. Around each of these amusements
was gathered the crowd that in every clime or
age such things attract.

The merriment was at its height when from
the upper end of the market appeared two figures
that quietly stationed themselves near one of
the stalls. It was Egwina and her grandfather.
During a momentary lull the old gleeman struck
his harp, and together he and his grandchild
lifted up their voices in song.

The excellence of the music, for Wulfhere
was a skillful harper, the sweetness of the song,
and above all the wonderful beauty of the
maiden, drew all eyes in that direction. There
was a murmur of approval, and the crowd
surged toward them, and gathered round the
two, leaving the coarser attractions of baiting
and juggling for the more refined ones of melody
and beauty.

“Marry!” ejaculated the juggler in disgust
as he found himself forsaken. “’Twere unmannerly
thus to make one forego his craft.”

“Be not disheartened, friend,” said he with
the dancing bear as he chained the animal, and
quietly stretched himself out on some straw.
“Fickle is the mind of man. Make use of thy
leisure while thou mayst. ’Twill be but a short
time ere they will come again.”

“Quotha! but the gifts will be showered upon
the maiden. And, fair though she be, Ælfric
would gather them to his own hoard.” And he
gazed moodily at the crowd which surrounded
the harper and the maiden.

Song followed song in quick succession, for
the Saxons loved to hear of the brave deeds of
the heroes of old, until at last Wulfhere declared
himself unable to sing longer, and, laden
with gifts, the two slowly wended their way from
the city. Vainly did the juggler await the
return of an audience. The balls and knives
seemed to have lost their charm for the people,
and, muttering anathemas upon the ministrel
and his daughter, he, too, left Winchester, but
in disgust.

“Well have we done, Egwina,” said Wulfhere,
pausing when they were some little distance
from the town, to conceal the gold and
other gifts about his person. “Truly, Winchester
is worthily called the first city of the
Saxons. Kingly hath it proven itself to be.
Were it not that I fear the Dane, beshrew me
if I would ask aught better than to dwell
therein.”

“But why could we not, grandfather? Then
might it be that we could behold again the youth
and the maiden whom we met in the forest.
Didst thou see aught of them?”

“No, child; and let not thy heart dwell upon
them. Not long are nobles mindful of their
words. Whilst thou may be in favor to-day,
the morrow doth full oft bring unkindness.”

“But the maiden, Ethelfleda, her brother
called her, seemed not like one to forget,” and
Egwina twirled the sapphire ring upon her
finger. “She spake as though there were truth
and well-meaning in her words.”

“And so there were for the time,” answered
Wulfhere; “but well-a-day! she is young,
and the young learn easily the lesson of forgetfulness.”

“Why could we not live in Winchester?”
asked the girl after a moment’s silence. “Methinks
that we could find some thegn to take us
under his mund. Why, grandfather, is not that
the city where the king abideth?”

She stopped short, and half turned as though
to return to the town. Wulfhere smiled.

“The king hath already sought the palace at
Chippenham,” he said. “Wottest thou not that
by the doom of the witan he cannot dwell all
the year in one burgh only? And I wish not
to seek the protection of any lord but him in
these troublesome times. Alfred hath shown
himself able to cope with the invader, and there
is surety nowhere else for life and limb. ’Tis
for thy weal, child, that I fear, and to none but
him will I commend thee. Besides, to whom
but the king doth the protection of the wanderer
belong?”

Egwina turned with a half sigh, for deep
down in her heart lurked the wish to see again
the noble maiden and the youth who had spoken
so kindly to them the day before, and in leaving
Winchester she felt that she left also the
probability of seeing them once more. But unquestioned
obedience from child to parent was
the rule in those days, and so without further
remark she trudged on, varying the monotony
of the journey by frequent blasts of the horn.
Presently the mellow notes of another horn
floated to their ears. Wulfhere glanced back
over his shoulder.

“Behold, another cometh,” he said. “Stop,
Egwina! If he choose to bear us company, the
way will not seem so long.”

They waited for him, and soon the juggler
came up with them.

“Whither away, my merry man?” cried
Wulfhere heartily, as the gleeman approached.
“Brothers we be of the same craft. Therefore,
if it seems good to thee, let us bear each other
company.”

The juggler hesitated a moment, and then answered:

“Willing am I for a short while at least; if
it so be that the girl will wind the horn while
thou and I talk by the way.”

“With right good-will will she do so,” answered
the harper. “’Tis as easily wound for
three as for two, and always doth she wind it to
save me the toil. Wulfhere is not what he once
was!”

“Wulfhere is thy name?” questioned the
other, fixing his glittering eyes upon the maiden
with such a look that she shrank from it, and
crept close to the side of her grandsire. “Ælfric
am I called in East Anglia, which is my
home; but the Danes have driven us from our
houses, or pressed into slavery our people, and I
fled into Wessex for safety.”

“Brothers we be in craft, and sibbe also in
the fact that we flee from the Dane,” remarked
Wulfhere. “Fearful is the pirate who hath so
ruthlessly destroyed the homes and laid waste
the land of our people.”

“Whither art thou going?” queried Ælfric.

“North into Berkshire and from thence into
Wiltshire,” answered the old man.

“Then together can we journey but a short
distance, for on the morrow our paths must be
sundered, as I go into Kent. But while our
roads are one tell me of the deeds which the
Northmen have done of which thou thyself
wottest, and I in turn will tell thee that which
hath happened to me.”

Then, with emotion, did Wulfhere tell of his
grief in the death of his grandson, Siegbert.

“And I,” said Ælfric, after he had expressed
his sympathy, “abode in Thetford of East
Anglia at the house of Eldred the thegn, and
was the chief of his gleemen. None was so
honored as I, and the heart of my lord clave
unto me with love. Alack! the Northman fell
upon us, and I wot not whether my lord be living
or dead. I fled from the foe. When I was
far distant, I looked back, and behold the manor
was in flames.”

“Didst thou not fight for thy lord?” queried
Wulfhere in amazement.

“Nay; why should I risk life in vain?
Naught would it have availed him. I myself
would have been slain, so I fled.”

“It was not the old custom,” remarked the
elder Saxon, “thus to abandon one’s lord.
’Twere shame to live were he slain.”

“Times are not as they once were,” returned
Ælfric hastily, avoiding the glance of the
harper. “Custom hath changed, and, I trow,
for the better. Beautiful is thy ring, maiden!
Where gottest thou it?”

“’Twas a gift,” returned Egwina, as she allowed
the man to examine the jewel, shrinking
from his touch as she did so, for she liked not
his appearance.

“A gift? I’ll warrant that thou and thy
grandfather have many such?” And there was
envy and avarice in the juggler’s look.

“There be many—” began Egwina, when
Wulfhere interrupted her:

“Wind thy horn, child, a little distance
from us that our talk be not disturbed by the
sound.”

Obediently the girl ran ahead a little, and
Wulfhere resumed the conversation with Ælfric
concerning the atrocities committed by the
Danes. The shades of evening were falling
when at last the ministrel called to the girl:

“Child, is not that a monastery that looms in
the distance?”

“Yes, granther,” and Egwina ran to his
side.

“Then there will we abide. Long have we
wayfared, and wearied am I by the journey.
Though the priests may not hearken to song, or
story, or glee-beam, yet will they shelter us for
the night.”

Quickening their steps they entered the courtyard
of the convent, which was a low building
of timber, fortified by a wall.

The dwellings of the Anglo-Saxons with the
exception of a few great nobles, were simple in the
extreme. Yet simple as were their abodes, the
monasteries were handsome, and great wealth
and possessions were held by the church. Despite
all this, learning was at the very lowest
ebb, so much so that when Alfred was atheling,
and desired to learn Latin, he could find no
one in all his father’s kingdom capable of teaching
him. There were no inns in England at this
time, and all travelers, whether on business or
pleasure, were entertained by the convents.

Wulfhere, Ælfric, and Egwina were welcomed
by the monks and refreshed by the bath, for
the Saxons were a cleanly people, and fond of
bathing; then were they called into a long, low
hall, the refectory or dining-room, and invited
to partake of supper. Cakes of barley, fish,
swine flesh, milk, eggs, and cheese, with plenty
of mead to wash it down, constituted the repast;
for even the priests of this hardy race were
hearty eaters and fond of good cheer.

The meat was passed round on spits, and each
one cut a portion for himself with his knife, and
then ate it, using the fingers to convey the
food to the mouth, as there were no forks.

After the meal, all gathered round the fire
which was built in the centre of the room,
the smoke escaping through a hole or cover in
the roof.

“It is forbidden us to listen to the songs of the
people,” said the abbot addressing Wulfhere,
“but mayhap thou canst sing to us the songs
of the Church.”

“Nay, good father,” answered Wulfhere, “I
am not skilled in sacred song.”

“Cannot thy daughter sing them?” asked the
abbot. “Truly it were ill if so fair a flower
should know naught of the songs of the
Faith.”

“I know not,” replied Wulfhere in perplexity.

“There is one that I know,” interrupted Egwina,
softly. “It was one that my mother sang.”

“Let us hear it, daughter,” said the abbot.

Without hesitation, Egwina then sang the
“Crist” of Cynewulf.

“It was well sung,” commented the abbot,
after Egwina had concluded. “Sweet is it to
Him when the voice of youth sounds His
praises. Knowest thou no more, my child?”

“Nay, I know none other,” answered Egwina.

“Thou must not think ill of us, father,” spoke
the harper hastily, “that we wot not of these
things. Our aim is to please the people, and
the mead hall cares but for the song of the
warrior or of glory.”

“True,” answered the abbot, “yet Aldhelm
used thy art to advantage. Hast thou not heard
how the good priest stood on the bridge of
Malmesbury, where the ministrels were wont to
stand, because the people would not come to
worship, and there did he sing of war and the
heroes, until attracted by the sweetness of his
voice, he had gained their attention? Then did
he change the words, and sing to them of the
Holy One and the blessed Virgin. In which
manner many were instructed in our sacred religion
and brought to the Church.”

“Sayest thou so, good father?” broke in
Ælfric, the juggler. “Marry! but well would
it please me to hear such songs! Canst thou or
thy monks sing for us any of the songs that he
sang?”

“There is one, brother, which is food for reflection.
That we will sing thee, and then after
the Te Deum. Then shall ye tell us if aught
hath happened recently from the Dane.”

Without further ado, the monks began singing
the following dismal dirge, the brief metre
sounding abruptly on the ear with a measured
stroke like the passing bell:

   | “For thee was a house built ere thou wert born,
   | For thee was a mold shapen ere thou of thy mother camest.
   | Its height is not determined, nor its depth measured;
   | Nor is it closed up, however long it may be, until I thee bring where thou shalt remain;
   | Until I shall measure thee, and the sod of the earth.
   | Thy house is not highly built; it is not unhigh and low.
   | When thou art in it, the heel ways are low, the side ways unhigh.
   | The roof is built thy breast full high;
   | So thou shalt in earth dwell full cold, dim, and dark.
   | Doorless is that house, and dark it is within.
   | There thou art fast detained, and Death holds the key.
   | Loathly is that earth house, and grim to dwell in.
   | There thou shalt dwell, and worms shall share thee.
   | Thus thou art laid, and leavest thy friends.
   | Thou hast no friend that will come to thee,
   | Who will ever inquire how that house liketh thee.
   | Who shall ever open for thee the door, and seek thee;
   | For soon thou becomest loathly and hateful to look upon.”

“The saints guard us!” ejaculated Ælfric,
crossing himself devoutly. “I like not thy
song, father, and if it were with songs like that,
it marvels me much how thy Aldhelm should
draw the people to hear him. Quotha! my
flesh creepeth to think of it! Doth not thine,
Friend Harper?”

Wulfhere’s face was inscrutable, and he made
no reply for, Saxon-like, he scorned to show that
the picture held any dread for him.

“It is indeed gloomy to think upon, son,”
said the abbot, “if that were all of death; but
the religion of our Saviour hath robbed the
grave of its terrors. We know that the soul is
beyond, and what matters the body?”

“A truce to such talk,” cried Ælfric. “Give
us the Te Deum, priest. I like not to think on
such things.”

“It shall be as thou wishest, though much I
mislike to leave the subject as I perceive that
thou art ungodly.”

Then all joined in the sublime, unmetrical
Te Deum.

“Did thy priest but sing that,” burst from
the juggler, “I would wonder not at the people
listening to him.”

The abbot smiled, well pleased.

“Thy heart is not altogether hardened, son,
if it be touched by the hymn,” he said. “Mayhap
thou wilt be willing yet to talk with me.”

After more singing, the conversation turned
upon the Danes, and the probability of a fresh
outbreak discussed. The hour was late when
the abbot, noting that Egwina’s eyes were heavy
and that it was with difficulty she kept awake,
arose.

“To bed! to bed! See ye not that the
maiden is aweary?”

So saying he conducted them to the guest
house, a building in the courtyard but without
the convent proper, and soon quiet reigned over
the monastery.




CHAPTER III—A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
================================


Soft and downy was the bed in the bower
chamber to which Egwina had been assigned,
and grateful was it to the weary maiden, who was
soon fast asleep.

It seemed to her that she had slept but a
short time when something awakened her. She
lay quite still trying to determine what it could
be, and hearing only the soughing of the wind.

Suddenly, she felt her hand taken softly, and
the sapphire ring which Ethelfleda had given
her was gently withdrawn from her finger. For
a moment the girl thought that she must be
dreaming, and quickly clasped her right hand
over the left. The ring was in truth gone. She
grew numb with fear as the fact dawned upon
her. There was a thief in the room.

Her heart almost stopped its beating, and
then began to throb fast. Was it one of the
monks? No, no; they were too good, too kind
for that! It must be, it was Ælfric the juggler,
who had joined them on their journey. Had he
not looked covetously upon the jewel? At this
moment she heard the thief moving quietly
toward the door. The sound broke the spell
that held her. It was too dark for her to
see anything, but she sprang from the bed
shrieking:

“Grandfather! grandfather! Awake! awake!”

There was a muttered ejaculation from the
intruder. He turned, bounded back toward
her and felled her, with a blow; then, as Wulfhere
ran into the room, dashed from the house.

“Egwina! Egwina!” called the harper in
alarm. “What is it? What hath befallen
thee?”

There was no response, and in trying to reach
the couch, he stumbled over the body of the
girl.

“My child! My child!” broke from his lips
in agonized accents as he recognized Egwina’s
form by the feel of her garments and hair.
“What hath happened to thee, little one?”

Still there came no reply, and almost crazed
by the darkness and the silence, Wulfhere ran
across the courtyard and began to pound with
all his might upon the portals of the convent,
calling upon the abbot as he did so.

“What hath happened?” cried the abbot from
within in response to the clamor. “Why rouse
ye reverend men from needed slumber?”

“Because,” cried Wulfhere, frantically,
“something hath befallen my child. I know
not what evil hath been wrought, but only that
she lieth dead or in a swoon. For the love of
heaven, good father, open unto me!”

There was a rattle of chains, and then the
door swung back, and the old man was surrounded
by the monks.

“What is it, son?” demanded the abbot.

“I know not,” cried Wulfhere, “save only
that Egwina cried out to me in terror. Now
lies she there, and whether she be quick or dead
I wot not. Come!”

The abbot was quick to act.

“A leech and herbs,” he commanded.
Without further parley, he ran rapidly with
Wulfhere to the guest-house, the monks following.

Egwina still lay unconscious on the floor.
The abbot and Wulfhere stroked her hands
while the leech applied various restoratives.
Soon the maiden showed signs of returning consciousness,
and the leech gave her a drink
which he prepared from the herbs. In a short
time she had so far recovered as to be able to
tell her story.

“And see, granther,” she concluded, “the
ring that the maiden gave me hath been taken.”

Wulfhere uttered an exclamation as a sudden
thought struck him, and he sprang to his feet.
“Ælfric! Where is Ælfric?”

Several of the monks started in search of him,
but no juggler could be found.

“’Tis he who hath done this!” cried Wulfhere.

“Hast thou lost aught of other treasure?”
asked the abbot. “If his purpose were robbery,
methinks that he would have deprived
thee also of booty.”

Wulfhere drew from under his tunic the
pouch that he always carried strapped about his
waist, and from it took a bag.

“By the bones of the holy Cuthbert,” he exclaimed,
“it is empty!”

And so, indeed, it proved. The gold, silver,
and copper coins, and gems which had been
given him, were all gone. With a groan the
old man let the bag fall to the floor.

“Courage, man!” cried the abbot. “Thou
hast not time to moan. Already hath the first
cock crowed for sun-rising. ’Twill be but a
short time ere morning dawns, and then we will
seek the niddering. We will loose the hounds
upon his track, and though he have a few hours
the best of us, natheless we shall o’ertake him.”

So, in the early morning, Wulfhere and a
small party of monks on palfreys set forth from
the convent. Hounds of the best English breed
so famed at this time were let loose upon the
trail. It was not until late in the afternoon
that the man-hunt was brought to a close.

Then the hounds gathered round some alders
in which Ælfric lay concealed. He was soon
dislodged from his covert, and, seeing that resistance
was useless, suffered himself to be led
back to the monastery.

“Brother,” said Wulfhere to him, more in
sorrow than in anger, “I knew not before that
a gleeman would deal with another as a pagan
might.” But Ælfric answered not a word.

A report of the matter was laid before the
sciregerefa, the reeve or sheriff of the county,
and Wulfhere, Egwina, the abbot, and such of
the monks that knew of the affair, were summoned
before him.

In the presence of this man, the bishop, and
the ealdorman, Wulfhere accused the juggler
of the theft.

“In the Lord,” said he, “do I urge this accusation
with full right, and without fiction,
deceit, or any fraud; so from me was stolen the
gold and gems which my craft had brought me,
and of this do I complain. Also from my
granddaughter was taken a ring. These things
were found again with Ælfric the juggler.”

Then the gerefa proceeded to examine the
several persons. Ælfric looked upon Egwina
with aversion as the maiden gave her simple
account of the loss of her ring and the subsequent
occurrences.

“I know no more,” concluded she, “for when
I called aloud to my grandfather, the man did
strike me, and I fell into a swound.”

“And this is the man?” inquired the gerefa.
“Marry! Is it thus that a Saxon demeans
himself?”

“Nay,” said Egwina, sweetly, “I would not
take oath that it was he, good gerefa; for it was
dark, and I could not see. Mayhap he meant
only to affright me.”

The gerefa, the ealdorman, and even the
bishop smiled at this artless attempt to shield
the fellow.

“He doth not deserve thy pity, maiden,”
said the sheriff gently. “I misdoubt not that
he is the man sith the booty was found upon
him. Thou needst say no more.”

Egwina sat down by her grandfather while
the abbot and the monks deposed. Then the
reeve turned to the juggler:

“Ælfric, by these witnesses thou hast been
proven to have taken the ring belonging to the
maiden, and the coin and gems of the bard.
Hast thou aught to answer for thyself? Why
didst thou this thing? Is it not enow for the
Northmen to pillage our people that they must
prey upon each other?”

Ælfric was silent for a moment, and then
raised his head defiantly.

“Naught can be gained by saying that I did
it not, for ye have proved it. Ælfric did rob
the old man of his gold, and the girl of her
ring. Will ye know why? They were mine
by right. Ye have dooms by which a man
must pay bot if he wrong his neighbor by theft
or feud; but no weregeld must he pay that
takes from another his trade. Yet is not that
an injury? This then have the scop and the
maiden done to me: ’twas in the market at
Winchester that I played with my balls and
knives. The people cried up the act for they
were pleased. Then, before it was time for the
giving of the gifts, did this harper and his
daughter come. They sang, and the throng
left me. Have they not robbed me? I took
that which was mine own. Had they but waited
until the distribution of gifts, naught would
have befallen them. I have said.”

He sat down as he spake, and a silence fell
upon the company. Such a plea was unusual.
There was a puzzled look upon the faces of the
ealdorman and the bishop. Soon the gerefa
spake:

“Natheless, Ælfric, the mulct must be paid.
Little did the harper and his daughter reck
that they took gifts from thee. It was but a
whim of fortune, and doth not condone thy
fault. Thou knowest the doom. Canst pay
thy weregeld?”

Ælfric shook his head sullenly.

“Then hast thou kindred who will pay it for
thee?”

But the juggler clasped his hands.

“There is none,” cried he, “that is sibbe to
me. Do to me as ye will for none is there to
pay the bot.”

“If thou canst not pay thy weregeld,” said
the reeve, “and there is no man to pay it for
thee, then must thou become a wite theow according
to the doom; for thus doth it read:
‘If anyone through conviction of theft forfeit
his freedom, and deliver himself up and his
kindred forsake him, and he know not who shall
make bot for him; let him then be worthy of
theowe-work which thereunto appertaineth;
and let the were abate from his kindred.’ Thus
shalt thou be given unto a lord for his theow,
and if any there be who choose to redeem thee,
then let him come forward before the year hath
passed; else serfdom must be thy portion for
life.”

The juggler advanced and laying down his
sword and his spear, symbols of the free, took
up the bill and the goad, the implements of
slavery, and falling on his knees placed his
head under the hand of the gerefa.

“Oh!” cried Egwina pityingly, her eyes full
of tears. “A theowe! Nay, granther, it must
not be! Prithee, give to the reeve the weregeld.
I would not that he be made a wite through us.
Is he not a gleeman?”

“True;” answered Wulfhere, “and a Saxon
also. It is just. He hath committed a crime
against the doom of the land; according to the
doom let him be judged. Come, child, put on
thy ring again, and let us be going. Too long
have we tarried already with the good monks.
The Wind month cometh on apace, and ere it
wanes, I would be in Alfred’s vill. Come!”

He arose as he spake, but, moved by an irresistible
impulse, Egwina sprang to the side of
Ælfric.

“Sorry am I and grieved,” she said, gently
laying her hand on his arm, “that we have
brought thee to this pass. Take heart! It may
be that grandfather will let me have some of the
gifts, and if so I will send them to thee to pay
thy were. We knew not in the market that
thou hadst received no gifts.”

But Ælfric shook her hand from his arm
roughly, and turned on her with hate in his
eyes.

“Thinkest thou that thy father alone could
have taken them from me? No; it is thou that
art to blame! Had it not been for thy fair face
Ælfric would have received his gifts. Wulfhere
is old! No longer hath he power to charm
by his harp and voice, so he uses thy beauty to
drive a better man from the field. Wulfhere
did it not! It is thou who hath done this!”

Egwina shrank back affrighted. Wulfhere
strode forward, his face white with passion.

“What! Tauntest thou a girl? It is best for
thy weal an thou art a theow else Wulfhere
would make thee pay thy weregeld twice over.
Wulfhere may have lost his power as harper,
but strong yet is his right arm and mighty its
stroke.”

“Marry, son,” interposed the abbot. “Be
not wroth with such as he! Thou demeanest
thyself.”

“True;” said the harper recovering himself,
“what hath Wulfhere to do with a niddering?”

At that term of reproach which no Saxon
could hear unmoved, Ælfric sprang forward, his
face convulsed with rage, his hand upraised.
The gerefa and the abbot seized him before the
blow fell.

“Niddering?” he shrieked. “Ælfric niddering!
As ye be Saxons let me at him!”

But they would not, and, as they led him
away, he called back in a loud voice:

“By all the saints, I swear that Ælfric shall
be revenged. As I am now so shall ye be!
Look to yourselves, Wulfhere, and thou, daughter
of Wulfhere! For every hour spent as
theow, ye shall have double. For every task
assigned, two shall be your portion. The rod
and the lash shall not be wanting. I swear
it! Lead on; I have spoken!”

Egwina paled and trembled at the words, but
the old man laughed.

“Heed him not,” he said. “Doth not the
beast growl when foiled? What harm can befall
us if we are in the king’s hand? Come!”




CHAPTER IV—IN THE HALL OF ALFRED
================================


Wulfhere and Egwina journeyed slowly
northward over Hampshire, into Berkshire, and
thence into Wiltshire, so that it was not until
the sixth day of the Wolf month that they arrived
at Chippenham.

The landscape was dreary and barren. The
wind howled dismally through the branches of
the leafless trees. The sedge by the river was
silvered over by heavy rime and the frosted flag
rushes seemed to cut like swords. The gray
clouds hung low in the dull leaden sky until the
summits of the hills in the distance were lost
among them. The wide-open moors and hedgeless
commons showed no sign of any living
thing on their desolate wastes.

Without the gates of the city all was chill and
drear, but within the sounds of music and
revelry could be heard on every hand; for it
was the twelfth night, and the feast of the
Epiphany. For twelve days the yule log had
blazed on every hearth, and as soon as the last
of its embers died out life must again take on
its work-a-day aspect. So loud rang the mirth
and hearty the feast of the last of the holy
festival.

Chippenham held one of the strongest of the
royal residences. A long, low irregular building,
it still towered above the other dwellings of the
burgh. It was brilliantly lighted, for night
was fast approaching when the wayfarers entered
the gates, and Wulfhere and Egwina immediately
made their way to it.

A dense throng of poor people waited without
the hall for the remnants of the banquet which
was going on within. Pushing their way
through them, the two paused just outside the
portals.

“Now, child,” commanded Wulfhere, “sing
as thou hast never sung before. ’Tis Alfred
the king who hears thee.”

And with his own nerves tingling, Wulfhere
swept the strings of his harp, and they sang
softly and tenderly an old ballad. The noise
and the glee within ceased with the first few
notes of the melody. The sweetness of the girl’s
clear soprano blended with the deep bass of the
bard, making a pleasing harmony. When they
had finished the strain, the portals were flung
wide, and the voice of the warder called in ringing
tones:

“Now who be ye that bring such music from
the harp?”

“Wulfhere, the Gleeman, with his daughter,
Egwina the Fair.”

“Enter, Wulfhere, with thy daughter; and
for our good cheer give us of thy melody. I wot
that none of Alfred’s harpers hath such power
of the harp. Enter and welcome!”

Well pleased, the bard and the maiden entered.
The hall was a long room whose length was disproportionate
to its width, and whose vaulted
roof was blackened by the smoke of the fire
which burned in its centre. In the upper end
was a dais raised a step above the rest of the
building. The walls were covered by silken
hangings richly embroidered, which served the
double purpose of ornamentation and to keep
the wind out. For in those days so illy built
were even the palaces of the kings that the
candles were ofttimes extinguished by the gusts
of air which came through the cracks and
crevices of the buildings.

Three long tables were ranged down the length
of the apartment, filled with Alfred’s gesiths or
retainers. In the centre of each table was a
large boar’s head with an apple in its mouth.
The room was decked with evergreens, conspicuous
among them being the mistletoe, to which a
traditionary superstition attached.

The floor was covered with rushes and sweet
herbs, and a number of dogs lay thereon close
to the great fire, watching greedily for some
chance tidbit, if any there were so unmannerly
as to throw to them. Upon the dais stood an
oval-shaped table handsomely carved, above
which was a canopy of richly embroidered cloth.

Around this table, reserved for the king’s
family and guests of honor, were gathered two
ladies and three small children, one boy and
two girls. The king’s chair was empty. Behind
the ladies stood two youths and a maiden of
high rank, who served them with napkins and
mead, and with a start of surprise, Egwina saw
that the maiden was Ethelfleda and that one of
the youths was her brother.

The tables were laden with gold and silver
plate, and each person had a knife with a
jeweled hilt. Pages served the meat on spits,
kneeling, and occasionally passed bowls of
water in which the fingers were dipped before
drying them on the napkins.

Wulfhere and Egwina were given seats in the
lower end of the hall among the other harpers,
scops, bards, and gleemen. At their entrance
every eye was turned inquiringly toward them.
The reeve who had the feast in charge hastened
to them.

“Thy music hath enchanted the household.
Prithee delight us again. The feast is deepening.”

Nothing loth, Wulfhere complied readily;
then, as the song was finished, without waiting
for further request, his fingers swept the strings
and he half sang, half recited, improvising as
he went:

   | “Here Alfred of the West Saxons king, the giver of the bracelets of the nobles,
   | A lasting glory won by slaughter in battle, with the edges of swords at Ashdown.
   | The wall of shields he cleaved, the noble banners he hewed;
   | Pursuing, he destroyed the Danish people.
   | The field was colored with the warrior’s blood.
   | After that—the sun on high—the greatest star
   | Glided over the earth, God’s candle bright!
   | Till the noble creature hastened to her setting.
   | There lay soldiers many with darts struck down,
   | Northern men over their shields shot.
   | So were the Danes weary of ruddy battles.
   | The screamers of war he left behind; the raven to enjoy,
   | The dismal kite, and the black raven with horned beak, and the hoarse toad;
   | The eagle afterwards to feast on the white flesh;
   | The greedy battle hawk, and the gray beast, the wolf in the wood.
   | He has marched with his bloody sword, and the raven has followed him.
   | Furiously hath he fought, and the Northmen fear his presence.
   | Then did the Dane seek his fleet.
   | And they sang as they coursed gayly along the track of the swans:
   | ‘Not here can the Great one harm us.
   | The force of the storm is a help to the arms of our rowers;
   | The hurricane is in our service;
   | It carries us the way we would go.’
   | Then arose the king in his wisdom. Alfred, great of understanding!
   | He the wise builder of ships! The giver of laws, the bestower of bracelets!
   | He spake, and the timbers took shape.
   | Then did the raven shriek on the waters.
   | Red ran the blood of the Northman, as the Dragon of Wessex pursued him.
   | Great, great are the deeds of Alfred! The wonder and glory of men!”

Thunderous applause broke forth from the
retainers that shook the very rafters. Wulfhere
sat down upon the settle, and glanced toward
the dais from which there now advanced the
royal cup-bearer.

“Later will the king grace the feast by his
presence,” he said. “And then, O minstrel,
shalt thou receive fitting guerdon for thy words.
Drink hael to Elswitha, the lady” (the correct
designation of the queens of that time was “The
Lady”) “who sends thee cheer from her own
table and in her own cup.”

He presented the cup, a golden goblet, to
Wulfhere as he spoke. The old man flushed
with delight.

“Wass-hael,” responded he, as he took the
cup. “Wass-hael to the Lady Elswitha.”

“She bids thee welcome, thou and the maiden,
and wishes ye also to sing for her in her bower
later. Meanwhile, partake of the glee and
mingle as of our own household among us.”

So saying he returned to his own station on
the dais.

“Granther,” whispered Egwina as the youth
left, “seest thou not that the maiden, Ethelfleda,
serveth the lady Elswitha? The youth also is
on the dais.”

“It may be, child,” answered Wulfhere.
“They are guests, likely. Methought they were
gentles. But didst thou see, Egwina, that the
lady hath sent her own cup? Fortune hath
favored us in sooth.”

The girl looked at the cup as he wished, but
ever and anon stole glances toward the dais
where were the youth and the maiden. At this
moment from one of the settles where sat the
minstrels, a voice exclaimed:

“Tell me, ye wise ones, what is winter?”

“Tell us, Witlaf,” shouted the reeve. “Expect
not wisdom at a feast.”

“It is the banishment of summer,” answered
the minstrel.

“Good, good! Another! Give us another.”

“What is spring? The painter of the earth.
What is the year? The world’s chariot. What
is the sun? Quotha! Doltish are ye if none
can answer.”

“The splendor of the world, the beauty of
heaven, the grace of nature, the honor of
day, the distributer of the hours,” spoke up
Wulfhere. “Now thou, whom they have called
Witlaf, answer this: What is the sea?”

Witlaf thought for a moment ere he replied,
“The path of audacity, the boundary of the earth,
the receptacle of the rivers, the fountain of
showers.”

“Right!” exclaimed the old bard, his spirits
high, his blood coursing warmly through his
veins, for it was scenes of this kind that he
loved. “Right, sir bard! Now prithee read
me this riddle. An unknown person, without
tongue or voice spoke to me, who never existed
before, nor has existed since, nor ever will be
again, and whom I neither heard nor knew.”

But Witlaf shook his head.

“Thou wilt have to unravel it thyself,” he
said, “I know not that.”

“It is a dream,” answered Wulfhere, and
again the rafters shook with applause.

“Now, wanderer, read this for me if thou
canst. It is a wonder. I saw a man standing;
a dead man walking who never existed,” quoth
Witlaf.

“It is an image in the water,” replied Wulfhere
quickly.

“He hath thee, Witlaf,” came from the
board in a merry shout. “Thou hast met
thy match.”

“Nay; here is another,” cried Witlaf on his
mettle. “I wot that there be few men that can
unravel this: I saw the dead produce the living,
and by the living the dead were consumed.”

Wulfhere smiled as sagely and answered:

“From the friction of trees fire was produced,
which consumed.”

So, fast and furious grew the fun, every minstrel
or bard contributing his quota to the mirth;
Witlaf and Wulfhere leading, each striving to
outdo the other.

The feast thickened, and mead, pigment, and
morat circled round the board, and the tongue
of the Saxon was unloosened. Then did the
harp pass from hand to hand and each sang.
Even the nobles at the king’s board lifted up
their voices in song. Again the cup-bearer
approached the place where the minstrels sat.

“The lady Elswitha wishes to know if thy
daughter sings not alone?” said he, addressing
the bard. “Hath she not some simple lay that
will charm the ear?”

“She hath,” answered the gleeman, “and
gracious is the lady in the asking. Egwina,
Elswitha would hear thee sing. Thy sweetest,
child! ’Tis the Lady who asks thee.”

Then timidly the maiden arose. The company
hushed the noisy revel, and listened as the
sweet voice of the girl sounded through the hall.
Her voice quavered slightly when she began,
but the maiden on the dais smiled reassuringly
at her, and she took courage. It grew stronger
and then pealed forth in all its strength and
beauty:

   | “Alone sits the exile,
   |   Alone on the plain;
   | And the voice of the south wind
   |   Speaks to him in vain.
   |
   | “For back hath his fancy
   |   Flown to his lord;
   | When oft he had followed him
   |   With arrow and sword.
   |
   | “Again does he seem to feel
   |   As of old his caresses;
   | The thought is so sweet to him.
   |   The awakening distresses.
   |
   | “No friends hath he now,
   |   Nor lord for to follow;
   | Long have they been estranged,
   |   Life seem but hollow.
   |
   | “Naught doth earth hold for him;
   |   No surcease of sorrow:
   | For hunger of heartache
   | Fails comfort to borrow.
   |
   | “Cold, cold is his earth dwelling,
   |   Care sits on his brow;
   | Joyless his dark abode,
   |   Bereft is he now.
   |
   | “Those he hath loved in life
   |   The tomb now is holding;
   | Fain would he join them there
   |   For rest he is needing.”

The sad little strain produced a few moments
of silence, and then again, after vociferous
plaudits for the maiden, the uproar broke forth.
As Egwina sat down, the maiden Ethelfleda
descended from the dais, and came to her.

”Thou art the maiden and this is thy father
who were so kind to me in Andred’s Weald,”
she said, taking Egwina by the hand. “Often
have I wondered about thee, and hoped to see
thee again. Now thou shalt stay with me, and
thou shalt, if thou wilt, teach me some of thy
pretty songs. Sweetly dost thou sing, but it hath
made my heart sad to hear thy little plaint.”

”An it please thee, maiden, she shall sing
another, merrier and more suited to the feast,”
interposed Wulfhere, “I know not why the
child chose so sad a theme.”[SYNC]

“It doth please me,” said Ethelfleda. “But
come! Before thou dost sing again, thou shalt
drink hael with the lady Elswitha.” To the old
man’s joy he saw his granddaughter led to the
dais where Alfred’s wife sat.

The lady graciously arose to receive the girl.
With her own hand she proffered the cup. Just
as Egwina was lifting the goblet to her lips, a
great noise was heard without. There was the
crash of arms, the hoarse shout of battle, and
then the portals were flung wide, and the
warder shouted:

“The Dane, the Dane!”




CHAPTER V—THE DEATH OF A HERO
=============================


Instantly the wildest confusion prevailed.
The Saxons, half-dazed by the suddenness of
the attack, sprang for their arms which hung
upon the walls of the hall. Such a thing as a
winter campaign had hitherto been unknown,
and they were taken completely by surprise.

Before they could collect themselves or form
any plan for defense, the Norsemen were upon
them, and then there followed an awful scene of
carnage. The clash of steel, the hoarse shouts
and cries of the Saxons, the shrieks and groans
of the women, mingled with the exultant yells
of the Danes. High above all, rose the Norse
battle song which contained a covert sneer at
the English religion:

   | “We have sung the mass of the lances.
   | It began at sunrise, and lo! the bright star hath gone to her rest,
   | And the orison is not completed.
   | Odin awaits us in Valhalla!
   | The perennial boar steams upon the festive board!
   | Hela, the death goddess, gnashes her teeth that we escape her!
   | The kite and the raven scream with joy at the feast!
   | Red runs the blood!
   | Fearful the carnage!
   | Guthrum the old hath destroyed the great one.
   | The black Raven with pointed beak
   | Hath subdued the Dragon of Wessex.”

On and on it went while the sharp-edged
swords did their work. The Saxons made a
brave but ineffectual resistance. On every side
they fell. The tables were overturned in the
strife, and mead and pigment mingled with the
blood of those who such a short time before
quaffed the cup so gayly.

Through the struggling combatants, Wulfhere
made his way somehow to the upper end of the
hall where Egwina, Ethelfleda, Elswitha, the
lady’s mother, Eadburga, the two youths and
the little ones were huddled together, terrified
at the sudden onslaught.

“Thou must not stay here,” he cried to the
Lady Elswitha. “It is no place for thee, or these
others.”

A thegn darted to them at this moment.

“Retire,” he shouted. “Retire, Lady, to thy
bower.”

“Retire!” exclaimed the lady, “and leave my
lord’s hearthstone to the invader?”

“Thou must,” cried the thegn in anguish.
“For the love of the Holy Mary, seek thy
bower. We must answer to the king for thy
safety.”

Without further remonstrance, the lady
turned to flee with her children. It was none
too soon. The Northmen pressed furiously
toward that end of the hall. The few remaining
Saxons threw themselves between the terrible
Danes and their beloved lady.

“Go, lads,” commanded the same thegn who
had before spoken, pushing the youths who
lingered towards the fleeing group; “ye can do
naught here, and your duty lies there. Go!”
and the boys obeyed him.

As quickly as possible the little party made
its way into the bower and barricaded the
entrance behind them.

“Now what?” asked the lady of Wulfhere.

“We must not stay here,” answered he.
“After the slaughter comes the flame. The
Dane will apply the torch as is his wont. Let
us to the king.”

“The king! Alack!” Elswitha cried in
sudden terror. “Where is he? I fear, oh, I
fear that he hath fallen into the hands of
Guthrum.”

“Where went he?” asked Wulfhere.

“To Malmesbury to determine the limits of
some bocland. Were he living, he would have
been here ere this. Oh, I fear, I fear!”

Moaning, she drew her little ones to her
while the others looked at her compassionately.
At this moment a mighty shout rose from
without the castle walls.

“The king! The king!”

The clash of steel, the shouts and cries which
now broke forth with renewed vigor, showed
that the king had indeed come. Elswitha sprang
to her feet, her face transfigured with joy.

“God be praised!” she cried. “It is my
lord. Now, my children, ye are in sooth safe.
O thank God! Thank God!”

But even as she spoke, the door fell inward
with a crash, and the Northmen burst into the
room. Wulfhere drew his seax, and threw
himself in front of the women and children.
The youths—Edward and the cup-bearer—ranged
themselves beside him.

“Minstrel, sheathe thy sword,” cried the foremost
of the Danes. “Arms and battle are not
for thee. It is thine to sing the praises of
warriors. Sheathe thy sword.”

“I will, an it please thee, in thy body,”
answered Wulfhere. He made a lunge, and the
Dane fell pierced through the heart.

The others sprang toward him, but the youths
received those in the fore on their swords. Then
rose the voice of Guthrum, King of the Danes,
and it rang through the hall:

“Whoso brings me the head of Alfred the
King, him will I hold dearer than a brother,
and great shall be his reward.”

The Northmen turned and ran back towards
the hall, shouting as they did so:

“Safe enow art thou, minstrel. Later will
our swords drink of thy blood.”

Elswitha started up frantically. “Come,” she
cried. “Let us to Alfred. There only is safety.”

“Thou art right. Let us be gone ere others
of the pagans come,” said the bard. “Do ye,”
to the youths, “lead, and let the women follow.
I will bring up the rear.”

The two boys went before. Elswitha and
Eadburga came next with the three children.
Egwina and Ethelfleda followed, while Wulfhere
guarded the rear. Out into the night they
went. The wind which had arisen, moaned and
sobbed as though bewailing the strife. The din
without the castle was fearful. The wailing of
women and children mingled with the clash of
swords and the cries of battle. Citizens ran to
and fro, whither they knew not, seeking loved
ones or refuge from the Danes. The darkness
of the night was broken only by the torchlights
which flitted hither and thither, or were suddenly
extinguished as the bearers fell pierced by
sword or arrow.

Hesitating only for a moment, the boys turned
in the direction of the sound of the conflict.
They had gone but a short distance, when there
was a great shout, and the Saxons—warriors,
citizens, women and children—went flying
past them.

“Fly, men of Wessex,” they cried as they ran.
“Fly, and save yourselves!”

It was impossible to stem the living current.
The little party was obliged to turn and go with
the surging, seething mass of humanity.

And now the torch was applied to finish the
awful work. Soon the ruddy flames leaped high
in the air, lighting up the sky with a lurid glare,
and bathing the landscape in a crimson glow.

A wail went up from the fleeing Saxons, for
they knew that the light was from their dwellings,
and that they were homeless. Full of anguish
they redoubled their speed, and ran on,
breathless and in terror, for the cries in the rear
showed that the Northmen were still in pursuit;
still slaying those who were unfortunate enough
to fall into their hands.

In every direction ran the fugitives. It was
cold, for it was midwinter; but though the chill
wind pierced to the very marrow, the people
thought only of life for themselves and dear
ones, and heeded it not. The terror-stricken inhabitants
of the villages into which they fled
could afford them no asylum for they knew that
but a few short hours must elapse ere they would
suffer a like fate. So they, too, joined the fugitives
and the crowd became a multitude.

At first our little band had no difficulty in
keeping together, but as the numbers were increased,
they pressed closer one to another, and
called aloud frequently.

It was just the hour before the dawn, when
the flames of the burning villages had died
down and a thick darkness had settled over the
earth, that a cry went up from those in front
that the Danes were coming from that direction
also. Panic-stricken, the throng knew not
which way to turn. They became confused in
the darkness and made a sudden dash in opposite
directions, shouting and crying as they did
so. The party was swept asunder by the rush.

Egwina called frantically to Ethelfleda, but
the noise was so great that she could scarcely
hear the sound of her own voice. Carried
onward by the crowd, she did not know where
she was going, or if the Danes had really fallen
upon them.

At last morning dawned. With the rising of
the sun—the distributor of God’s blessed light—the
stricken people revived somewhat from their
terrors which the darkness had augmented, and
proceeded more quietly. Now, too, each began
to search for his relatives. To the girl’s joy,
her grandfather was soon found.

“Dost know what became of the others?” he
inquired.

“No, granther. The maiden was carried from
my side when the shout went up that the Danes
were coming. Alack! where can they be?”

“I wot not,” answered Wulfhere moodily.
“I fear, child, that this is the end. None know
whether Alfred be fallen or taken prisoner. If
either be true naught is left for us but loss of
life or slavery.”

With the morning the people scattered into
the different villages in search of rest and sustenance.
Wulfhere and Egwina did likewise.
As they were resting in the thatched cottage of
a ceorl, there came through the village one riding
hotly on a palfrey. He bore an arrow in
one hand and a naked sword in the other.
When he reached the centre of the hamlet he
stopped and called in a loud voice:

“What, ho, Saxons! Listen to the words
of the king. Alfred would have aid against
the Dane. Let every man that is not niddering,
whether in a town or out of a town, leave
his house and come.”

Never before had the old national proclamation,
which no Saxon capable of bearing arms
had ever resisted, been published to such deaf
ears. Wulfhere sprang up with a shout: “God
be praised! The king lives!”

But the mass of the people responded not
but murmured among themselves that resistance
was useless. If they submitted, they would be
allowed to till the soil, and to live in their homes
even as their brethren in Mercia and East
Anglia were doing; while opposition meant
death, loss of homes and loved ones.

So the message fell upon deaf ears, and the
messenger swept on to other villages with the
summons. Wulfhere’s shout met no answering
one of gladness. The old man sat down amazed
and despairing.

“What hath become of the spirit of the
Saxons?” he asked fiercely. “Now shall we
be conquered by the Dane, even as our forefathers
conquered the Britons. The Saxons
serfs? Out, I say! To what have the descendents
of Woden fallen that they should
submit without a blow to the pagan?”

“Friend,” spoke a ceorl near by, “have a
care to thy words. The land hath been ravaged
by the invader for years. No rest can be obtained
either by resistance or by gifts and money.
We are weary of strife. Serfdom and life are
better than freedom and death. Marry, let us
have peace!”

“Come, Egwina,” and Wulfhere rose, his form
dilated, his lip curled with scorn. “Theowes
already be these men. I would be no more
among them. Come!”

Obediently the girl followed him. There
were some mutterings from those who heard his
words, but they were allowed to depart without
molestation. They had not gone far from the
village when they saw in the distance a party of
Danes approaching on horseback. As the Danes
caught sight of the man and the maiden, they
spurred their horses and came up to the two on
a run.

“A scald and a scald maiden,” cried they in
delight. “Now let song and dance be our portion.
Weary are we of the fray. Let us have
song.”

They flung themselves from their palfreys
and surrounded the two. Egwina shrank close
to her grandfather.

“No song, even for thy life, girl,” commanded
the old man sternly.

“Strike up, old scald! Is thy harp mute
that thou dost not sweep it?” spoke the leader.

“A song! A song in praise of Guthrum!
Guthrum the bold!”

But Wulfhere folded his arms across his harp
and remained silent.

“Silent art thou?” demanded he who seemed
to be the chief.

“’Tis fear that whitens his face and makes his
tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth,” laughed
a youth mockingly.

“Haco, take the harp,” commanded the jarl.
“Do thou sing for us. Then will the old man
be stirred to obey. He seems to forget that we
war not against gleemen.”

The youth stepped toward Wulfhere and
reached out his hand for the instrument. Still
silent, the bard drew his seax and cut the strings
with one blow.

“What!” cried the chief in fury. “What
doest thou?”

“No harp of mine shall sing in praise of
Guthrum,” responded Wulfhere sternly.

“But thy tongue shall,” declared the other.
“Sing, scald, else it shall be torn from the roof
of thy mouth, and never shalt thou lift thy
voice in praise of any other.”

“Rather than it should sing in praise of the
Northmen I would tear it out myself,” declared
the bard with energy.

“Bold art thou,” cried the leader, “or it may
be that thou believest that we will be niggardly
with our gifts. See! Hath the Saxon done so
well?”

He tore from his arms some massive gold
bracelets which were held in great esteem by
the Danes, and cast them at the ministrel’s feet.
The gleeman thrust them aside contemptuously
with his foot.

“I scorn both your gifts and your threats,”
he cried. “But listen! Ye shall hear a song.”

Believing that he was really intimidated
despite his words, the Danes stayed their hands
and composed themselves to listen, well knowing
that there was time enough to avenge the insult
to their gifts. Then Wulfhere drew Egwina
back from them a little and began:

   | “What shall the minstrel sing by the fireside?
   | What hero shall he laud to the young?
   | When the nights have grown cold and chill whistles the wind in the tree tops,
   | Close gather they to the fireside.
   | Then call they for the harper.
   | He sings, and he sings of the Northman.
   | Great was the feast of the raven
   | When Guthrum swept over the land.
   | Wild shrieked the kite and the eagle;
   | And hoarse croaked the toad that was horned
   | Up rose the Dragon of Wessex!
   | Up then rose the Deliverer!
   | Up rose Alfred the wise one!
   | Maker of ships and of laws!
   | Guthrum and Danes floe before him!
   | Guthrum the old and the aged!
   | Guthrum in fear of the great one!”

With cries of fury the Danes set upon him.
Wulfhere received the onslaught with a grim
smile, and lunging at the nearest one, chanted
on:

   | “Fast flee the Norseman before him.
   | Stark fall they upon their bucklers!
   | Under the clash of the steel of Alfred.
   | Alfred, the great one! The wise one!
   | Maker of ships and of—”

He fell, pierced through and through by their
swords.

“Grandfather!” shrieked Egwina, flinging
herself down beside him. “Grandfather, speak
to me!”

And Wulfhere opening his eyes, smiled, and
chanted in a loud voice: “Maker of ships and
of laws!” and expired.

With a cry of anguish the girl fell unconscious
on the body.




CHAPTER VI—THE WOLVES’ CONCERT
==============================


When Egwina recovered consciousness, two
priests were bending over her. The Danes
were gone, and only the pitying faces of the
presbyters were in sight. Half dazed, she
stared at them stupidly, and then, as her eyes
fell upon the body of Wulfhere, the remembrance
of what had happened returned with
full force.

“Granther! Oh, granther!” she sobbed.
One of the priests leaned over her, and lifted
her up gently.

“Daughter, be comforted. He is at rest. No
longer is he beset by Dane or foe of any kind.
Calm thy grief, and be with us while we give
him Christian burial. Our time is short, and
we know not how soon the pagans will return.
That thou wert left alive is a mercy of God.”

Egwina controlled herself by a great effort.
The priests, taking turns, dug a grave with
Wulfhere’s seax. Then they approached the
remains. With loving hands, the maiden herself
re-arranged the garments of the dead man,
taking the bag of valuables from his person.

“Take this for the soul sceat,” she said, giving
it into the hands of the priests.

“But, daughter, it is too much,” and the
priests looked at each other, wondering at the
amount. “Keep part for thine own use.”

“I want it not,” answered she, weeping softly.
“Let it bring him as many prayers as it will,
good fathers.”

Reverently the body was laid within the excavation,
and then Egwina brought his harp.

“Bury it with him,” she said.

“Nay, daughter; it savors too much of
heathenism,” said one much scandalized. “Do
not the pagans so, and the bard was a Christian?”

“True,” said the girl through her tears.
“True, good fathers, but granther loved it so.
I could not bear that other than he should use
it. And if it so be, as ye tell us, that we will
sing praises in the heavenly land then will he
have need of it.”

The priests were touched, yet still they hesitated.
It savored so much of the heathenish
custom of the Danes they were loth to consent
to the act; yet did they mislike to deprive the
maiden of this small comfort.

“See,” said the girl showing them the mutilated
strings. “When they would have taken
it from him to use it in praise of Guthrum, he
cut the strings rather than have it so defiled. If
the harp be left, we wot not but that some of the
Northmen may find it and use it. Grandfather
could not rest if that were to happen. Always
it hath been with him. It was his friend, his
glee-beam. I know that he will be lonely
without it.”

“Brother,” said one to the other, “what sayest
thou?”

“Do as the child wisheth,” replied the second
one. “It will comfort her, and doth not bewray
the church at such a time. Besides ’twere pity
that the Northman should get the harp sith the
bard hath given his life so nobly.”

So, to Egwina’s relief, the harp was interred
with the gleeman. Prayers were said over the
grave, and then the priests turned to the girl.

“Now, daughter, respect hath been shown to
the dead, and now is our duty to the living.
Whither goest thou? Where are thy friends?”

“Alack!” returned she, bravely checking her
tears, “I wot not. None but granther did I
have.”

“But were ye not under some lord’s hand?”

“Nay, ye know the custom of the wandering
gleemen. From mead hall to mead hall did we go,
and we have always done so. At Chippenham,
we came to put ourselves under the hand of the
king for fear of the Danes; but now—”

“Now,” said the elder priest, “thou art like
others of people and priests. No friends, no
home; thou hast nowhere to go. God help and
comfort thee and us in our affliction.”

“We would best take her to the abbess Hilda
at the priory,” said the second one.

“Yea; we will take her there, brother,
though thou wottest that it may not be safe for
the maiden. Even Christ’s altar is not safe
from the defilement of these pagans. Methinks
they are fiercer towards priests and monks, and
ravage the churches and convents with greater
fury than elsewhere, if that be possible where no
mercy is shown to any. But eat and drink,
child. Thou art weary.”

For Egwina suddenly felt spent and faint.
A sense of forlornness that she was unable to
control was taking possession of her.

“I feel no desire for food, holy father,” she
said weakly.

“Natheless thou must eat, daughter. Keep
up thy heart. Be not troubled or concerned for
thyself. Thou art in God’s hands. Whatever
he sends is for the best. Eat these.”

He took from the pouch which he carried
under his chasuble some barley cakes, and Egwina
ate of them obediently. When she had
finished they took up their staffs, and declared
themselves ready to take her to the priory. Thus
did they journey.

It was late in the day when the priests joyously
announced to the maiden that there was
but little further to go.

“Then shalt thou find peace and rest for thy
weariness, child,” said they comfortingly to her.

But as they drew near to the building, their
ears were greeted with cries and screams of
terror.

“The Northmen!” ejaculated the priests with
pale faces. “Stay thou here, daughter, while
we see if aught can be done.”

They went forward, leaving Egwina in the
copse. Time passed. The priests did not return,
and finally, unable to endure the suspense
longer, the girl crept forward.

In an open glade of the forest stood the
priory. Egwina’s terror-stricken eyes saw
naught but the forms of the slaughtered nuns
whose bodies lay everywhere in the courtyard,
and even beyond it. In front of the gates were
the corpses of her two late companions—the
priests.

A party of the Northmen were busied in carrying
out the treasures of the priory ere setting
fire to the building. The girl gazed on the
scene with horror. Was there no safety, no retreat
from these barbarians anywhere? Her
blood congealed in her veins. A numbness of despair
crept over her. Forgetting that she might
be heard, a gasping cry escaped her lips. Some
of the Danes paused in their work to listen.

“Heard ye not a sound?” asked one.

“’Twas naught,” responded another impassively,
as he placed some golden vessels on the
ground. “Didst thou think that a nun had
escaped? By Odin, no! Careful were we that
not one should live to say mass.”

“Many masses have we sung under Guthrum,”
laughed another. “But a short time and
no priest, monk, or nun shall be left of all the
English. Joyously doth the death cry of such
fall upon my ear. No music is sweeter than the
prayer that priest or nun utter at the point of
the sword.”

The conversation roused the girl from the
stupor into which she was falling. With an
effort she shook off the lethargy that was numbing
her faculties, and stole away into the wold.
When out of hearing of the Norsemen, she
broke into a run, and did not stop until forced
by sheer exhaustion to do so.

Deep into the wood had she penetrated. There
was no sound save the sighing of the wind
through the leafless boughs. Where should she
go? What should she do? She knew not. On
every side was the Dane. No safe shelter was
to be found in hut or abbey, even if she had
known where to go to find either. In the wold
lurked the wild beasts, and the chill of the
winter. Death was on every hand. If not from
the Dane, then from cold or brute of the forest.

In agony of mind she buried her face in her
hands and groaned aloud.

The sun set and the twilight threw among the
trees long, dark shadows that caused the girl to
cower in fear.

“Blessed Heaven aid me,” was her agonized
appeal, “for I know not what to do.”

Even as she strove to find comfort in prayer
there sounded upon the air the dismal howl of a
wolf. It was answered by another and then
another until the whole forest resounded with
their yells.

Egwina bounded to her feet, her heart beating
wildly, her eyes dilated with terror. Now
she could hear the soft pat, pat of their feet as
they came closer, and soon the bushes round
about seemed filled with a thousand gleaming
eyes. With an energy born of despair, the girl
began to climb the tree under which she had
been crouching.

It was an oak with low-spreading branches.
Into these she clambered and ensconced herself
on one of the boughs. It was not a moment too
soon. Snarling and howling, emboldened by
the shadow of the deepening twilight, a whole
pack bounded into the space under the tree.
The girl clung desperately to the bough, watching
in terror the attempts of the animals to
reach her, and shuddering at the glare of their
ferocious eyes.

.. figure:: images/illus-086.jpg
   :align: center
   :width: 75%
   :alt: She began striking the cymbals together.

   SHE BEGAN STRIKING THE CYMBALS TOGETHER.

One, bolder than the rest, made a great spring
and narrowly escaped touching one of the lower
branches.

Egwina started with fear and the start jarred
the cymbals that were attached to the chain worn
across her shoulder and breast. The instruments
gave forth a musical sound. Instantly
the tumult below ceased. The wolves fell back
and looked up inquiringly. Hope arose in the
girl’s heart.

Passing one of her arms around the branch
to keep herself from falling, she grasped the
cymbals and began striking them together.
The effect was magical. The animals settled
themselves on their haunches to enjoy the music.

Never had she performed to so attentive an
audience and never had she done so well. On
and on she played until her arms ached, and
she would fain have stopped but that at the least
cessation of the music the wolves began their
leaping and snarling again.

It grew darker and darker. The shadowy
outlines of their bodies became indistinct and at
last melted into the darkness, and only the fiery
gleam of their eyes told the girl that they were
still below.

Would she be obliged to pass the night thus?
she asked herself. Could she hold out until
morning, or would she become so wearied that
she would finally lose her hold and fall into
that savage pack? Resolutely she put such
thoughts from her, for they took the courage
out of her heart and sapped the strength of
her body.

How long she played she did not know, but
after what seemed to her a very long time she
heard the winding of a horn drawing near.
Presently through the woods came the flickering
glow of torches.

With a cry of gladness Egwina called loudly:

“For the love of Heaven, who ever ye be,
succor me, I pray you.”

“What have we here?” shouted a voice in
reply, and a man ran forward. “Where are ye
that called?”

“Here, here!” cried the girl joyfully. “In
the tree.”

The wolves, as the music ceased, began howling
again, and, as a party of men with dogs
dashed among them, attacking them with clubs,
the most of the pack took to their heels, while
the remaining few ceased their yells and in
sullen silence let the ceorls club them to death.
As the last one was dispatched, the trembling
girl descended from the tree. No sooner had
she reached the ground than she fell into a
passion of weeping.

“There! there!” said one with gruff kindness.
“Thou art safe now. The wolves cannot harm
thee.”

But nature had been too severely tried, and
Egwina sobbed on. The ceorls, seeing that she
could not control herself, wisely left her alone,
and presently when her sobs had subsided she
looked up.

“’Tis unmannerly, I wot,” she said sweetly,
“but I could not keep back the tears. I thank
ye all for your kindness. Had ye not come
when ye did, I fear that I should not have held
out much longer.”

“Fleest thou from the Dane?” asked one.

The girl nodded, her heart swelling at the
thought of her grandfather, and then she told
them of the attack on the palace at Chippenham
and all that had followed.

The men listened in silence until she had
finished, and then one said, “Where is the king?
What hath become of him?”

“I know not,” answered Egwina. “I trow
that he liveth, for when granther and I rested in
one of the villages, his messenger of war passed
through. But the Saxons would not hearken to
the summons.”

“Sayest thou so?” exclaimed he who seemed
to be the spokesman. “Sayest thou so? Then,
are we in sore straits in sooth. Alfred is a wise
king and would drive out the Dane if the
Saxons would follow him. But what is the
throne without men? Of himself he can do
naught. Evil hath surely come on the land.
But thou art cold, little one!”

Egwina was in truth very cold. She trembled
in every limb for she was chilled to the
marrow and faint from weakness.

The ceorl wrapped her in his mantle and
lifted her in his arms.

“Nay,” he said with good-natured raillery
as she remonstrated; “a Saxon maiden who
can keep a whole pack of wolves enthralled by
her music must be treated gently.”

The others laughingly assented and thus was
the girl borne to the ceorl’s home.




CHAPTER VII—THE COMING OF A STRANGER
====================================


The party of Saxons who had so opportunely
come to the rescue of Egwina proved to be
swineherds, returning from their day’s work in
the forest. Deep into the woodland did they
go. At last a light shone through the darkness,
and towards it the ceorl who bore Egwina walked
rapidly.

With hearty farewells the others left him, and
each wended his way to his own home, promising
to meet betimes on the morrow. The light
came from a rude cottage, and soon the swineherd
reached it. He knocked loudly on the
door. It was opened quickly, and the shrill
voice of a woman exclaimed:

“’Tis time thou wert coming, Denewulf!
For a long while hath thy supper been
waiting. Cold is it as the home of the
Northman. Complain not if it be not to thy
taste.”

“Nay, Adiva; I will not grumble,” returned
the Saxon as he entered. “Full well do I know
that the hour is later than its wont; but much
hath happened to hinder me.”

“Holy Cuthbert of blessed memory!” ejaculated
the woman. “What have we here?”

Denewulf unfolded the mantle from the girl
as he answered:

“I have brought thee a daughter for thy loneliness,
Adiva.”

“But where gottest thou her?” demanded the
dame in astonishment. “I wot that I have not
seen so fair a maiden in many a day.”

The Saxon laughed.

“Serve us the meat, good mother, and while
we sup, I will tell thee all. Sit, maiden.”

Egwina sat down upon one of the rude
benches, and looked about her. The good woman
still muttering in her surprise, bestirred herself
about the supper.

The cottage was low and mean. It was made
of turf and sticks, and thatched with rushes.
The furniture was of the simplest. A broad,
low bench back in one corner was covered by a
tick or sack filled with straw. A goat’s skin
was thrown over it. This served for a bed. A
loom and distaff were on one side, with great
bunches of yarn beside them. The seats were
but crude settles of wood. A square table was
drawn up near the fire which blazed genially in
the centre of the room. The dog immediately
stretched himself before it. From the roof were
suspended the sides and hams of meat—the
bucon or bacon of the Anglo-Saxon—and numerous
bunches of herbs. The walls and rafters
were blackened by the smoke which escaped
through a cover in the roof.

Through the doorway the maiden caught a
glimpse of another room. These two were all
that the cottage contained. The one they were
in served as a bed-room, sitting-room, kitchen,
and dining-room, all in one. Simple and homely
as it was, there was an air of warmth and comfort
in it that stole over her senses gratefully.

Soon the supper smoked on the table, and
Adiva pressed her hospitably to sit up, and to partake
of it. Broiled eels, swine meat, honey and barley
cakes, and the inevitable mead, constituted
the repast. Adiva served the meat on spits, and
each cut for himself slices with his own knife
into trenchers of wood. The mead was drunk
from horns which were filled from a tankard.

The color came to the girl’s face as she ate
and drank, and was warmed by the fire. There
were no vessels filled with water for the fingers,
nor napkins to dry them on, nor table-cloth on
the table, such as were used in the halls of the
nobles; but there was kindness and good-will,
and a homely hospitality that made amends for
what was lacking in accessories. Not a word
would the dame allow them to say until hunger
was appeased. Then she looked up and said:

“Now, Denewulf, be thou the first to speak
and tell how and where thou didst find the
maiden. Then shall she tell what happened
before.”

“Well,” said Denewulf quaffing a huge
draught of mead, “as I and the others were coming
through the wold with our hounds, what should
we hear but the sound of music. Wondering
much, we wound not our horns but stopped to
listen. It ceased, and the howling of wolves
smote our ears. Beshrew me, if I thought not that
the wiccas were holding a conclave in the forest.
Again the music started, and the howls ceased.
We wound our horns again for our own comfort,
for we wotted not but that the Norns were weaving
our fates—”

“Out upon thee, Denewulf,” interrupted the
dame. “Have done with thy heathenish talk,
and tell thy tale more simply.”

The Saxon laughed, drank again from his
horn, and resumed:

“Then heard we a cry for help. We ran
forward with our hounds. May I be bewrayed,
but there in a tree was this maiden, who was
performing to a whole pack of wolves below.
Scold an’ thou wilt, Adiva, but methought at
first that it was Jamvid and her sons.”

Again the wife interrupted him, crossing herself
devoutly as she spake.

“Wilt never forget thy foster mother’s superstitions,
man? Marry, thou art more Dane than
Saxon now! What would the priest say to thy
heathenism?”

“Be not wroth, Adiva,” laughed Denewulf.
“Thou wottest that at heart I am as good a
Christian as thyself. I trow the Dane would
think so.”

“Well-a-day, have done with thy witless
talk and go on with thy tale,” cried the wife
impatiently.

“Whether she were Jamvid or no,” went on
the swineherd, “we set upon the brutes with
our clubs, and such as did not take to their
heels are left out under the tree. Then the
maiden descended, and we found that she was
not the hag of the Iron Wood, but a Saxon girl
fleeing from the Dane.”

“From the Dane?” ejaculated the dame.
“Poor lamb! would the Dane bother such as
ye? Tell me of it.”

Thus adjured, Egwina in turn told her story,
beginning with the desire of herself and grandfather
to place themselves under the protection
of Alfred, and continuing until the time that
Denewulf had found her in the tree playing to
the wolves.

“Dear heart!” burst from the motherly
woman hurrying round to the girl. “I’ll warrant
thou art tired and spent. To think of a
girl going through all that! But thou art safe
here.”

“Why, will not the Danes come here?”
queried Egwina in amaze.

“They cannot, child. None but Saxons can
penetrate into these wolds and fens,” spoke up
the swineherd quickly. “And not even Saxons
if they be not accustomed to it. I and others
of my kind can go through the fastnesses as
easily as thou canst follow a path; because we
wot of them, but the Northmen would become
weary and wander aimlessly about, unwitting
whither to go until they would perish in the
forest.”

“It glads my heart to hear it,” breathed
the maiden. “I want no more to see them.
They are so fearful! None do they spare,
neither youth nor age. I would, oh, I would that
the king were here. Then would he be safe
from them.”

Denewulf and Adiva both laughed long and
loud.

“The king!” cried the swineherd when he
could check his merriment. “The king?
Quotha! I should like well to see the king in
the hut of a swineherd. I must tell that to
the others to-morrow.” Again he gave vent to
a peal of laughter.

“Out upon thee, man! Seest thou not that
thou dost tease the maiden?” chid the wife.

“Nay; I wonder not at his mirth,” said the
maiden gently. “’Twould be a rare sight, I wot,
if the king would dwell here; yet I would that
he were here. I like not to think of him slain
or in the hands of the Dane. My grandfather
said the land depended upon Alfred.”

“It may be,” returned Denewulf. “Come
Saxon or Dane, it matters not here. But I
would also that the king were here, for I would
see him. Never have I seen a king. Hast
thou?”

“Once,” said Egwina, “when I was seven,
grandfather and I were in Sherborne when King
Ethelred passed through. Methought that he
was handsome and noble in appearance, but
granther said that I was too young to know
much about it, that the atheling, Alfred, was
handsomer by far and that the land would be
better when he was king; not only for his
talents, but also because our holy father, the
pope, had crowned him king in Rome.”

“Well! Drink hael to the king’s coming,”
and the swineherd tossed off another horn of
mead.

At this moment footsteps were heard outside,
the hound arose from his place before the fire
with a low growl. There came a loud knock at
the door.

“Who goes there?” cried the Saxon striding
to the entrance, fitting an arrow to his bow as
he did so.

“A wanderer in search of food and shelter.
Open as ye be Saxons.”

“The king has come,” laughed Denewulf,
turning round with a broad wink at them.
“Your best mead, Adiva.”

Then throwing wide the door, he called
heartily, for the Saxons were very hospitable:

“Enter, wanderer! Thou art welcome to
such as we have. Enter and find rest for thy
weariness, and food for thy hunger.”

Into the room there came a man whose manner
was so commanding and his form so stately
that he might in truth be king. He was tall,
and his long hair of ruddy auburn fell in ringlets
from under his bonnet on his shoulders.
When the firelight fell upon it, it shone like
burnished gold. His eyes were blue, very
bright and penetrating in their glance. His
countenance fair and at present pale from fatigue.
His brow was high, noble, and thoughtful.
In short, his mien was so august, his port
so noble that Adiva and Egwina both gazed
upon him with awe.

Not so Denewulf. The simple-hearted Saxon
found something in the stranger that answered
to himself, for he smiled graciously upon him,
and seated him near the fire.

“Sit here, stranger, and warm thyself while
the wife prepares the meat for thee. Sorry am
I that thou didst not come sooner, for the meat
was hot, and it would have pleased us well to
have had thy company.”

The stranger smiled a sweet, grave smile as
he answered:

“It matters not if the meat be cold. Trouble
not thyself, good dame. He who hath fasted
since yesterday will not find fault though the
food lack heat.”

“Dear heart!” exclaimed the dame bustling
about. “And hast thou taken nought since
yesterday? Marry, but it must be piping hot
for thee, man. Thou shalt have a good supper.”

In a short time the stranger sat down to the
table and partook of the repast. Egwina could
not but notice the difference in his manner of
eating and that of their hosts, who, kind people
though they were, still lacked refinement. When
the stranger’s hunger was appeased, Denewulf
filled a horn from the tankard, and passing it to
him, said:

“Drink hael, man! ’Twill warm thee, and
chill blows the wind in the forest.”

“Wass hael,” responded the guest, courteously
including Egwina and the wife in the health.
“To ye both, good dame and gentle maiden, and
to thee also, ceorl, for thy kindness,” and he
quaffed the horn. When Denewulf would have
replenished the cup, he shook his head.

“Nay,” he said. “I care not for more.”

“Then,” said the swineherd, “tell of thyself,
and how thou art alone in the weald. Didst
lose thy way? I trow that thou didst, for
few there be who dwell not among the fens
that can find the way out when once within
its depths.”

“Is it so impenetrable?” inquired the stranger.

“So much so,” replied the swineherd with a
chuckle, “that if the whole Danish army were
lost in its fastnesses, they would die before finding
their way out; unless some Saxon were
niddering enow to show it.”

“Then I would that the Danes were within
its depths,” ejaculated the stranger with fervor.
“Vain have been the efforts of the Saxons to
resist them, and it would be a happy ending of
the matter.”

“Thou fleest, then, from the Dane?” queried
Adiva.

“Yes; they are ravaging the whole of Wessex.”

“Good stranger, knowest aught of the king?”
cried Egwina. “I hope that he is safe.”

“I trow that he is,” returned the stranger,
smiling sweetly at her.

“She was wishing that the king were here
with us when thou didst knock at the door,”
chuckled Denewulf.

“Why fearest thou for the king? Dost
know him?”

“No; but if the king be safe then is there
hope for the land. Doth he not carry the hearts
of the people with him?”

“I trow not, maiden. Hadst thou seen him
as I saw him last, thou wouldst know that he
did not. Forsaken and alone, Alfred hath gone
none knows whither.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl, the tears coming to
her eyes, “sayest thou so? The king forsaken!
How could they leave him, so noble, so good is
he! Is not their allegiance his? Methinks
that were I a man naught but death could make
me unleal to the king. As it is, I am but a
girl and can do naught but pray for him every
day that he be kept safe, and that the people
will rally around him again.”

“Do so, child! Thy pure prayers may accomplish
that which the king hath not the
power to do. If all Saxons were like thee the
Dane would seek another land to ravage.”

“The maiden hath cause to pray for the
king,” broke in the dame, who had remained
silent as long as she could.

“What cause hath she?”

“Well—but what shall I call thee?” demanded
Adiva.

“Call me Wilfred.”

“Well, Wilfred, I will tell thee her tale, and
then Denewulf shall tell thee how he found the
child.” And the good dame related the maiden’s
story. Then Denewulf told again of the wolves,
and Egwina listened blushingly to their praises.

“Of brave heart art thou, maiden,” said Wilfred
with compassion in his look and voice.
“Brave was thy grandfather in his death. ’Twas
such that a Saxon might be proud of. ’Tis pity
that the king knew not of it.”

“My grandfather would like best to know
that the king were safe,” returned Egwina.

“And what art thou called, child?” asked
Adiva.

“Egwina.”

“Egwina, and I shall call thee ‘the fair’ also,”
said the dame.

“And I, Jamvid, mother of wolf sons,”
laughed the swineherd; “for so I found her.”

“And I, noble heart,” said Wilfred. “With
maidens like thee to grow into wives and mothers,
the land could survive the ravaging of a
thousand Guthrums.”

Egwina flushed rosy red with pleasure.

Then cried Denewulf, “Let us to bed, good
people! With the breaking of morn must I to
the forest.”

The men drew their coats around them and
lay down by the fire on the floor, while the
dame and the maiden reposed on the tick of
straw.




CHAPTER VIII—ADIVA GROWS ANGRY
==============================


Life in the cottage was simple in the extreme.
Each morning Denewulf looked after his nets
and traps, and then repaired to the forest where
he tended the swine. The stranger exerted
himself in the chase and proved to be very proficient
in woodcraft and the lore of the forest.

Adiva took Egwina at once into her heart,
and taught her all the simple housewifely arts
that she knew. The girl soon became an expert
in the use of spindle and distaff, and busily did
the shuttles fly through the long winter evenings.

“Howsomever did I do without thee, child?”
she would say as Egwina flitted about singing at
her tasks. “Dark will be the day that thou
dost leave me. I pray that it will never come.”

One day the girl was in the cottage busily
spinning when Wilfred the stranger entered.
He threw some fagots on the fire and sitting
before it, drew from within the folds of his tunic
a little book which he perused intently, as was
his wont. The maiden observed him with interest.
Presently he turned toward her with a
smile.

“Why dost thou watch me so, Egwina?”

“I was wondering what the book contained
that thou dost read in it so much,” returned the
maiden in some confusion.

“It holds much that is full of solace,”
answered he. “Tell me, Egwina, dost know
how to read?”

“To read? No; why should I?” asked the
girl in surprise. “Granther knew not how; nor
does Denewulf, nor Adiva; nor any of the
gentles. In truth, none I have ever known,
save thee, have known how. Why should they?
There was no need. Granther said that it was
only for priests or monks. The gleemen need
it not for singing or the harp. The ceorl needs
it neither for ploughing, or for sowing, or for
tending his herds. And how would it help the
gentle in hunting or any of his pastimes?
Weaving and embroidery for women, sports and
war for men. There is no need of reading.”

Wilfred smiled and sighed as he answered:
“As thou speakest so do most think. In
truth, I misdoubt if there are not priests even
of thy way of thinking. Few are they south
of the Humber who can translate their daily
prayers into English. Yet once in all Gaul
could not be found the learning of our land.
Alack! that Bede, Alucin, and Aldhelm were
not now alive. Yet, perchance, it is better so.
Mayhap they would not have flourished had
they lived at this time. Dark, dark is the outlook.”

He relapsed into a moody silence. Egwina
timidly approached him.

“I meant not to offend thee, good Wilfred,”
she spake, gently.

“Nay, little one; thou hast not offended me.
I thought not of thy words, but only of the decay
of that learning for which we were once so
famed.”

“Dost thou think so much of learning?” inquired
she. “Prithee show me the book, that
I may see what it is that so charms thee.”

She took the book, and looked at it intently
before handing it back to him.

“I see naught in it,” she remarked, with a
sigh; “that would hold me for hours as it doth
thee. What is its spell? It sings not, neither
does it speak, nor is it illuminated.”

“But it does speak, Egwina. Listen, and
thou shalt hear something that it says: ‘Go
now, ye brave! where the lofty way of a great
example leads you. Why should you, inert, uncover
your backs? The earth, when conquered,
gives us the stars.’”

“Does it truly say that?” cried Egwina, in
delight. “Show me, Wilfred.”

Wilfred placed his finger on the page, and
said: “Art sure that thou understandest, little
one?” The girl nodded her head sagely.

“I cannot just tell it,” she said; “but it is
like this: should the king do some noble thing
his example would incite others to follow where
he would lead.”

“True, maiden. Thou hast given the thought
in mine own mind. Bright art thou, and methinks
would prove an apt pupil. Wouldst like
for me to teach thee to read, Egwina?”

“Dost think that I could learn, Wilfred?”

“Of a surety. Long years had passed over
my head ere I knew. Methinks that it was in
my twelfth year that my mother called her children
to her, and, showing a pretty book brightly
illuminated, said: ‘Sons, that one of you who
first learns to read in this book, he shall possess
it.’ ‘Shall he really have it for his own,
mother?’ I said. ‘For his very own,’ she answered,
well pleased at the question. My brothers
cared not for it, so full were they of the
chase and sports, but I learned the verses contained
therein, and she gave it me.”

“Is this it?” asked Egwina, with interest.

“Nay; it is at—” Wilfred checked himself,
and then resumed. “So thou seest that thou
canst learn if a dullard such as I could. Thou
hast an apter mind than I. But thou must not
care if it prove tedious?”

“I will not care, and I will learn,” said Egwina,
with determination. “It may be that I shall
then know many things of which now I do not
dream.”

“Thou wilt, thou wilt!” cried Wilfred, in delight.
“Forget not, dear child, that ‘The earth,
when conquered, gives us the stars.’”

“I will not forget,” said Egwina, thoughtfully.
“How beautiful the idea! I shall never
see the stars again that I will not think of it.”

And so it came about that each evening thereafter
the time was spent by Egwina and Denewulf
also in learning to read. Adiva would
have none of it for herself, and muttered grumblingly
that it was nonsense, and of no use to any
but priests.

When the lesson was over Egwina would sing
for them, and the hut would ring with laughter
and merriment. Wilfred, the stranger, listened
eagerly to the songs, and soon proposed that the
maiden should teach them to the others.

“Alack! gladly would I do so, but what are
they without a harp?” and Egwina looked
sad.

Consternation seized on the little household
the next morning after this remark was made
to find the stranger gone. Denewulf and Egwina
were loud in their lamentations at his departure.
Adiva grumbled openly, but secretly
missed him as well as they. On the third day
thereafter he returned bearing a harp. The cottagers
received him with acclamations of joy.
He seemed touched by their greetings, but
offered no explanation of his absence or where
he had obtained the harp.

Egwina wondered much at the instrument, for
it was of the finest workmanship. She soon
taught him all the songs that she knew, and
already was he skilled in the use of the
harp.

“Thou dost well,” she said, “but I wish that
thou couldst have heard granther. Thou
shouldst have seen his sweep. There! that is
something like,” as Wilfred, after some trials,
executed it to suit her.

So the time passed until at last the Length
month (March) came. One day Egwina went
forth to see if she could find some sprout-kele
for broth. Enticed by the beauty of
the day, she stayed longer than she had intended,
and hurried back to the house, for
the dame was very busy. As she drew near
the cottage she heard the voice of Adiva raised
high in anger.

“Drat the man! Never to turn the loaves
when thou seest them burning. I’ll warrant
that thou wilt be ready enow to eat them when
they’re done.”

“I crave thy forgiveness, dame.” The tones
of Wilfred were contrite and full of humility.
“I thought not once of them.”

“Couldst thou not smell them when they lay
at thy very feet?” demanded the dame.

“Nay; I noted naught,” returned the
stranger.

“Good mother, be wroth with him no longer,”
cried Egwina entering. “His mind is full of
graver matters than woman’s work.”

“Graver matters!” echoed Adiva, who was
evidently in a bad way. “Graver matters! I
wot that they fall not heavily upon him at meal
time. ’Tis pity that a body can’t leave the
house for a minute without a wite’s letting the
loaves burn.”

“Thou speakest truly,” said the stranger
humbly. “He who eats should also work.
That I have not done, but I will mend my ways,
good dame.”

“There! it may be that I spake too quickly.”
Adiva was somewhat mollified by his evident
contrition. “After all, there’s no great harm
done, and thou hast truly a good heart. I
should have known better than to trouble
thee. Thou hast brought us many a fine
buck, and marry, that is man’s work more
than this.”

“Natheless, I will be more careful another
time,” said Wilfred, reseating himself, and all
went as before.

Shortly after this, Egwina was much troubled
about a strange dream that she had. In some
confusion and much distress of mind, for, like
every one of the time, she was superstitious, she
unfolded it to Adiva.

“Good mother, I fear I know not what, so
queer a dream had I.”

“Tell it, child. Once I could unravel the
meaning of night fancies, but it hath been long
since I tried my skill. The young care more
for such things. Denewulf looks with awe
upon a Morthwytha, but he laughs to scorn a
reader of dreams. But dear heart! Here do I
let my tongue run on and thou hast not yet
spoken thy dream. Say on, child.”

“I dreamed,” said Egwina, “that I was in a
lofty hall. Around me were silken hangings,
and the tables and chairs were carved with fine
workmanship. Many were my thegns, and
they served me from vessels of silver and gold.
As I feasted many came and bowed down before
me. All at once a great light, that shone glorious
as the sun, burst from my body. The eyes
of all men were uplifted toward it, and they
were dazzled by its radiance.”

Adiva raised her hands.

“May the blessed mother preserve us, child!
What a wonderful dream.”

“Canst thou tell what it doth portend, Adiva?”
questioned the maiden eagerly.

“Child, child, I dare not tell thee that which
I think; but if thou wilt say naught before the
stranger or Denewulf, thou and I will go to
Gunnehilde. She is a Dane, Denewulf’s foster-mother,
and a wicca.”

“I like not the fact that she be Dane,” and
Egwina shrank back a little, for the Northmen
held a painful place in her memory.

“Tut, child! She is more Saxon than Dane,
though I tell not that to Denewulf. She came
with her husband years ago when Egbert, the
present king’s grandfather, was on the throne.
No Christian is she, but a good woman, though
she hath been a vala in her own country.
Denewulf hath she reared from a lad. Her
husband brought him home a Saxon boy of
tender years, whose father fell fighting the
Welsh and whose mother died soon after. She
will tell thee all that thou wishest to know of
things to come. I countenance not Denewulf
when he speaks of her foretellings, for it is not
wisdom to humor a man in aught that savors of
heathenism. She reads the runes for me often,
though he wots not of it.”

“If it be not wrong then, Adiva, and thou
thinkest best I will go with thee.”

“Then to-morrow will we go,” said the dame,
and so it was planned.




CHAPTER IX—WOULD YOU STRIKE YOUR KING?
======================================


Early the next day Adiva and Egwina
started for the cottage of the foster-mother of
Denewulf, Gunnehilde, the Danish woman.

It was not without misgivings that Egwina
accompanied the dame, but the latter laughed
away her fears.

“Wicca is Gunnehilde in truth,” she said,
“but pleasant spoken. Fair will be her greeting,
and I wot that thou wilt like her.” So
calming her fears, Egwina fell in with the mood
of her companion, and a brisk walk soon brought
them to the dwelling of the woman.

It was built in the centre of a knoll in a
glade of the forest, and seemed in appearance
not unlike the rude huts occupied by the swineherds,
except that it was more compact. The
turf was not intersected with twigs, as were
those of the Saxons, but placed compactly
against a firm foundation of board. Adiva
knocked on the door while Egwina devoutly
crossed herself.

“Enter,” said a voice as the door was thrown
open. “Enter, Adiva! Greetings to thee, and
to the stranger, also, whom thou bringest with
thee. With the rise of the sun knew I that
thou wouldst come, and bring the maiden with
thee.”

Again the maiden crossed herself. Adiva
went into the dwelling without hesitation, and
the girl followed, although with fear and
trembling. But there was naught displeasing
to the eye, nor anything that would inspire awe
in the room. The woman who welcomed them
was tall and commanding in appearance. Her
hair was dark as the raven’s wing. Her brow
was thoughtful, and her eyes, dark also, shone
with the calm, steady light of a student. In her
right hand she carried a wand, the seid-staff of
Scandinavian superstition.

“Sit thee here, wife of Denewulf,” she said
to the dame. “And thou, maiden, be seated
upon this bench, where the light may fall upon
thy brow. I would see where the Fylgia (tutelary
divinity), whom Alfadur gave thee, leads
thee. Thou hast come to consult the runes?”

She made the statement more as a declaration
than a question. Without waiting for a reply
she went on:

“I knew that ye would be here. When the
sun rose I awoke and placed all things in readiness
for ye.”

“Gunnehilde,” spake Adiva, “the maiden
hath had a dream. Thou wottest that it is
somewhat in my ken to unravel such, but I
feared to give what it seemed to me to portend.”

“Dreams are oracles more potent than wicca
can charm with wand or rune,” spake Gunnehilde.
“Unfold it, and let me read the rede.
Prophetic are the visions of the night.”

Timidly Egwina told the dream. The Danish
woman listened, leaning her head on her staff,
her eyes never leaving the maiden’s face. When
she had finished there was silence for a few moments,
and then the wicca raised her head, and
her eyes glowed strangely.

“Maiden, no runes have I graven for thee on
the bark of elm, nor Scinlaeca (spirits of the
departed) have I called from the graves of the
dead; but easy is it to read thy rede. Listen!
for Skulda hath passed into the soul of her
servant, and fast doth thy fate run from her
lips. Thy vision portendeth great honors to
thee. None greater than thou shall live in the
land. Retainers many shall be thine, with
honor and riches also. After thee shall thy
son come, and he shall be more glorious than
thou. All men shall look up to him and bow
before him for his greatness and wisdom.
Dangers will be thine, many and dire; but the
web of thy fate is spun. Heed well; speed
well. And forget not the bode of the wicca.
Thou shalt truly come to thy glory. Hail
to thee! Hail to thee! Gunnehilde hath
spoken.”

She arose and bowed thrice before the trembling
maiden.

“But what dost thou mean?” inquired the
girl when she could command her voice. “What
glory is it that shall be mine? I fear that I do
not understand.”

“Thou hast no further need of galdra or witchcraft.
Bright is the woof of thy fate. The
skein of thy life is interwoven with those who
are great. No need is there for thee to consult
the runes. Ask no more of the wicca. Glorious
will be thy last hours.”

Egwina dared ask no more. Gunnehilde
brought forth meat and drink and placed it
before them.

“Eat and drink,” she said, “ere ye go back
to your abode. Busy will ye be from this on,
and ye shall both have need of your strength.
Many they be who come to your dwelling.”

“Dear heart!” cried Adiva in some anxiety.
“Howsomever I can manage with more, I cannot
see!”

“Adiva, thou hast not asked me to read the
runes for thee, but I have done so. Give
greeting to Denewulf, and hail, thrice hail to
the stranger whom ye have harbored.”

“Tell me, good wicca,” said the dame, “who
is he? Of gentle blood, I dare say, for he hath
the port of such. Denewulf hath become
wrapped up in him, and Egwina is no better.
Tell me of him.”

The woman looked at the maiden with a
curious, intent glance, and then said abruptly:

“Through him will thy fate change. ’Tis for
the weal of thy house, Adiva, that thou hast
sheltered him. Ere the set of sun, shalt thou
know who and what he is. Even now, do
friends seek him in thine abode.”

“Marry!” ejaculated Adiva. “In my dwelling
at this moment, sayest thou? Egwina,
’twere best that we were going.”

She rose as she spoke, and Gunnehilde rose
also. An arch smile parted Egwina’s lips.

“I thought that thou didst intend staying
longer,” she said.

“Nay, child; ’tis high time we were going.
Besides, if any there be at the cottage, I should
be there to give them greeting.”

The smile on Egwina’s face was reflected on
Gunnehilde’s, but the Danish woman offered no
remonstrance to their departure. The two were
soon on their way back.

“Thinkest thou that there will in truth be
guests at the cottage?” asked Egwina of the
dame.

“Did not Gunnehilde say so?” returned
Adiva; “and is she not a wicca? I wot that it
will be even as she hath said. Child, then
thou canst not help but believe in thy rede. Was
it not wonderful what she told thee?”

“Yes; but—” Egwina looked a little troubled.

“But what, child?”

“I did not understand clearly just what she
meant. She seemed to mislike questions else I
would have asked further.”

“She told thee all she would without questions,”
returned the dame. “Often do I consult
her, and always hath it been as she hath
said. But Denewulf wots not of it.”

“Tell me of her,” said Egwina. “Hath she
always been a wicca? There seemed to me to
be much of the noble about her, and she spake
not as do the ceorls.”

“A vala was she in her own land,” returned
Adiva. “A vala, honored by chiefs and revered
by the nation, who foretold the future to
heroes. Even the king of her land hath led
her to the high seat in the hall where he wished
to consult her. Now doth she read the runes
and consult her galdra for the vulgar. But of
all that e’er I met, Gunnehilde reads truest the
wizard’s lore.”

Soon they drew near the cabin of Denewulf.
When within a short distance of the hut, the
hum of voices floated out upon the air. The dame
turned a triumphant look upon the maiden.

“Did I not tell thee? True are the words of
Gunnehilde. Now shall we know who the
stranger be. ‘’Ere set of sun,’ she said, and
that is not far distant. And guests many! I
wonder who they are? Come, let us hasten!”

She quickened her steps, and the maiden
must perforce do the same. In haste, Adiva
threw open the door, and paused at the sight
which met her gaze.

A half dozen Saxons were grouped about the
deal table in easy attitudes. Wilfred, the
stranger, sate a little apart attentively observant
of them. Denewulf was busily serving the
guests with mead. By the costly fur-lined gonnas
and the golden-hilted swords, Adiva knew
them to be nobles.

“By my troth!” cried one of the youths
merrily as the dame and the maiden entered,
“I have not seen so fair a face in days.
Mickle and sore would it repent me should I
leave it without a kiss. A mancus, fair maiden,
for such favor.”

Egwina drew back from the doorway.

“Fear not, little one,” spoke the deep voice of
Wilfred. “Enter in peace. Niddering is he
who speaketh so to a maiden. Fill not the ears
of a child with such trifling,” he added sternly
to the youth.

“And who be ye, good sir, that tells me what
to do? Wot ye not that I am Ethelred of
Mercia?”

“I care not who ye be,” answered Wilfred
calmly. “Thy words are unmeet for a maiden’s
ear. Therefore thou shalt say no more of
them.”

“Shalt not?” The youth was on his feet instantly,
and flashed his sword from its scabbard.
“Draw, man! I wish not to strike thee as thou
sittest.”

“Foolish boy, sheathe thy sword!” The
stranger surveyed him with a deep intense look
of power. “Thinkest thou that I would draw
against thee? Thou didst merit the reproof;
profit by it.”

There was so much of command in his manner
as he spake that the youth hesitated, not
wishing to be thought deficient in courage by
his comrades and yet unable to proceed against
this calm stranger.

“Abide by his words, Ethelred,” cried one of
the others. “Thou wert in truth too bold in
thy speech, and hast thou not partaken of their
hospitality? Out, man!”

Sullenly the one called Ethelred sheathed his
sword, resumed his seat, and soon the episode
passed from the minds of the party. Egwina
slipped into a seat on the other side of Wilfred.
The dame joined the swineherd in the serving
of mead, and preparing meat for the guests.
Soon the hut rang with their glee.

“How bear the people the rule of the
Northmen?” asked Wilfred during a lull in
the mirth.

“Hardly,” spake one who was a man about
his own age. “Those who lived near the coasts
have crossed into Gaul or other countries for the
succour which they obtained not in their own
land. Others seek by submission to mitigate
the ferocity of the pagans. Others still, seek to
retain part of their property by the sacrifice of
a portion. Others again, seek refuge and
safety in the recesses of the forest. All groan
under the rule of the oppressors, and none there
be to oppose them sith the king is gone.”

“None?” shouted the youth Ethelred, springing
to his feet. “None, sayest thou? None!
Nay; here is one!”

“And here is another,” and another Saxon
flashed his sword in the air.

“And another!” “And another!” shouted
each and every one of the party, until all were
on their feet.

“Let us seek the king, and form an army!”
shouted Ethelred. “Then, with him as leader,
will the Northman make food for the raven.
Drink hael to the death of the Dane.”

All drank. Another cried:

“Drink hael to the king!” “Drink hael to
the king!” All drank but Wilfred.

“Marry, man! Drinkest thou not to the
king?” cried Ethelred in wrath. “Drink to
the king, else thou shalt answer to me.”

But Wilfred touched not the mead.

“Drink,” shouted all together as their swords
flashed in the air. “Drink or defend thyself.”

Even Denewulf and Adiva looked inquiringly
at the stranger who stood so calmly in
their midst, and still drank not to the king.
Egwina crept close to his side, fearful of his
safety.

“Drink,” cried the Saxons again, “drink,”
and they made a dash at him.

“Back! Would ye strike your king?”

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   :alt: Back! Would you strike your king?

   “BACK! WOULD YOU STRIKE YOUR KING?”




CHAPTER X—EGWINA GOES AS A MESSENGER
====================================


“The king!” The Saxons fell back, their
swords still half-suspended, and looked at him
incredulously. Denewulf stood aghast. Adiva
sank on a bench near her, while Egwina’s face
lighted up in joyful amazement.

“The king!” cried the youth, Ethelred.
“How wot we that thou art the king?”

“Know ye the signet ring of the king?”
The stranger drew a ring from his finger. It
was of massive gold, the bezel being engraved
with a dove within an olive wreath.

“I know it!” cried the one called Athelnoth.
“Once the king’s gerefa came to me as I abode
in mine house at Taunton with commands for a
palfrey for his lord. He bore with him the
royal signet ring, and this is it.” He knelt before
the stranger.

“The king! The king! It is in sooth the
king!” The glad cry went up with a shout as
the Saxons pressed round him. They knelt before
him, kissing his hands in their joy. Alfred
turned to Denewulf:

“Old friend, hast thou naught to say? Well
have ye done for your king when ye thought
that he was but a poor wayfarer. Is he less
welcome because he is a king?”

“No!” cried Denewulf, recovering himself.
“By all the saints, no! That thou hast honored
my dwelling by thy presence when in Wessex
there were many so much more worthy,
gives pleasure to my heart.”

“But none more leal,” returned Alfred, gazing
on him kindly.

Denewulf pressed the king’s hand again and
again, while over Adiva’s face came a curious
look. It was a blending of triumph at the
thought of having sheltered no less a personage
than the king, awe at his presence, and fear of
the sharp words which she had more than once
addressed to him.

“My lord,” she cried, “thou wilt not hold
against a poor woman the sharpness of her
tongue, wilt thou? Thou wottest how pointed it
becomes when the temper is overwrought. And
to think that I asked thee to mind the loaves.
Ah, me!”

The king laughed.

“Fear naught, dame. I should have heeded
the bread. That was the task assigned me, and
he who would do well in great things must look
after the little ones.”

“True; but thou must have had much upon
thy mind, and then to be pestered with woman’s
work.”

“As thou thyself said, ‘Cares of state burthened
not my mind at mealtime,’” laughed
Alfred. “Nay, nay,” as Adiva grew red in her
confusion, “heed not the sport, good dame.
Kind hast thou shown thyself, and thy king
holds thee in tender affection.”

The good woman swelled with pride. Just
then one of the Saxons cried: “The sun is setting!
Come! let us away, and proclaim that
we have found the king.”

Adiva started, and turned to Egwina. “Child,”
she whispered, “did not the wicca say that we
should know who he was ’ere set of sun? And
it is the king! Well-a-day! I knew that he
was gentle. But listen!”

“No,” the king was saying, “go not yet,
dear friends. There is much that I would say,
and if these kind people will bear with us, I
would that ye should remain the night. Much
discourse would I have with ye.”

“Use my poor hut as thou wilt,” said Denewulf,
heartily. “It is thine, my king.”

Alfred smiled at him a smile full of sweetness.

“Then, by thy good pleasure, they stay.
Come join us, friend Denewulf, and help us by
thy counsel, for thou art ready of wit and wise
in the lore of the forest.”

So saying, the king sat down by the fire, and
the others sat with him. When Egwina would
have withdrawn, he hindered her.

“Stay, little one, at thy accustomed place.
Am I not still thy friend?”

Thus adjured, the maiden sat by his side as
was her wont, while the king turned to the
Saxons.

“Ye have said that the people murmur at the
oppression of the Danes,” he said. “Think ye
that they would rise against them?”

“When the people know of thy whereabouts,”
returned the oldest of the group, whom the
others called Athelnoth, “naught can prevent
them from rising. Oft have they wondered what
had become of thee, and some mourned thee as
dead. It will glad their hearts to know that
thou art alive.”

“Yet they came not at my summons,” mused
the king. “And I must hide, perforce, lest any,
knowing of my whereabouts, should bewray me
to Guthrum.”

“Think not too hardly of them, my lord and
king,” cried Athelnoth eagerly. “Fruitless
seemed the task of resistance. Their brethren
in Mercia and East Anglia dwelt among the
Northmen in seeming peace. Now they see that
‘Death is preferable to the shame of servitude.’”

“I think not less of them,” said the noble
Alfred, “but only how best to relieve them of
their bondage. I think it not wise that ye
should spread broadcast the news that I live
and meditate an uprising, lest it reach the ears
of the Dane. Everything depends upon secrecy
and the suddenness of attack.”

“What then shall we do?” queried Athelnoth.

“Have any of ye aught to suggest?” Alfred
glanced at the group around him. “Ethelred,
thou art quick to think, what sayest thou?”

Ethelred had remained silent since the king
had declared himself, and beyond the greeting
given to him had said nothing.

“Naught, my lord,” he now replied. “Why
shouldst thou heed the words of him who hath
twice this day drawn sword on his king?”

“Marry, boy! ’Twas but the hot-headiness
of youth. That thou art leal to the king was
shown when thou wouldst have slain him who
refused to drink to him. I trust thee, Ethelred.
Thy quickness in a few short years will be replaced
by maturity of judgment. The one precedes
the other. Think not ere the down on
thy chin hath given place to one of manlier
fashion that thou wilt have the wisdom of a
sage. Sit up, man, and help us.”

“Then,” said the youth, mollified, “I would
advise, my lord and king, that the people be not
yet told of thy whereabouts. Tell only those
ealdormen and others whom thou mayest need
who can be trusted. In this way can we know
those who are leal, and if aught can be done.”

“Well and wisely hast thou spoken,” declared
the king. “If the Saxons will rally round my
standard as of yore, the Dragon will sweep the
Raven from the land. But there should be
some place of meeting—some spot to become
ready.”

“My king,” spoke Denewulf, “if I may be
so bold as to suggest something. Not far from
here, at the meeting of the Thone and the
Parret, there lies an island surrounded by
morasses. A whole army might lie concealed
in its fens and none be the wiser.”

“Denewulf, thou, too, art wise, and hast
spoken well. To-morrow will we wend to this
island, and see it for ourselves.”

Long into the night did the little band confer.
Bright and early the next morning the whole
party traversed the woods until they came to the
island spoken of by Denewulf.

On the eastern boundary of the forest, on
rising ground, was the isle, surrounded by
dangerous marshes formed by the little rivers,
Thone and Parret. The marshes were not fordable,
but Denewulf brought from the rushes a
little coracle, capable of bearing four, and soon
the entire party stood on the island itself and
examined it.

It contained about two acres covered with vast
brakes of alder bush filled with deer and other
game.

“The marshes are fordable only in summer,
my king,” said Denewulf, “and then only by
those who know the secret.”

“’Tis an ideal place for a fortress,” returned
Alfred, his keen eye taking in every detail.
“Athelney will I call it. See, Denewulf, here
will I build my fort. Then when the spring
hath set in truly, will we sally forth.”

Thus planning, the party returned to the
cottage, and then with hearty farewells the
Saxons started off to tell the glad news to those
who were trustworthy.

During the days of waiting, matters at the
hut went on as before. The lessons were resumed,
and, though Adiva did not soon recover
from her awe in the presence of the king,
Egwina regarded him with a loving reverence.

One day he laid down the manual which he
was conning with a sigh.

“What is it, my king?” asked Egwina.
“What is it troubles thee? Dost think that the
Saxons tarry too long in their coming?”

“Nay, child. I thought not of them, but of
my family. Long hath it been since I have
seen them, and I fain would know how they
fare.”

“The Lady Elswitha was with granther and
me at Chippenham,” remarked Egwina. “She
was borne from us by the press of the throng
during the night. She and the maiden whom
they call Ethelfleda, and Edward the youth.”

“Egwina, sayest thou so?” cried the king in
surprise. “Why, child, thou hast never spoken
of this before!”

“Have I not?” and the maiden was surprised
in turn. “When we left the palace we were with
the lady and her children.” Then she proceeded
to give an account of the matter, closing with,
“Oft have I wondered what became of them.”

“I can tell thee that,” answered the king.
“When morning dawned, as I searched for them,
fearing that they might have been slain by the
Dane, a bode came running with the tidings
that they had taken refuge in the house of a
ceorl in one of the villages. Quickly did I
hasten to them, and then sent them into Somersetshire
where they could dwell in safety. ’Twas
not well for me to be with them, for thus would
they be exposed to danger. Once only have I
heard from them. That was by chance when I
obtained the harp. I would send them some
bode, but that I know not if the Saxons who
come can be trusted, and Denewulf must be here.
None know the secrets of the forest as he.”
He sighed again.

“My king,” Egwina spake timidly.

“Yes, child.”

“Why not send me? Much have I learned
of the forest since I have been here, and can
thread my way through its mazes in safety. In
burghs I am still safe, for gleemen and gleemaidens
are welcomed everywhere. Let me go
to them.”

“Thou, little one?” Alfred laid down his book
in surprise. “Child, I could not send thee.”

“Thou canst trust me. Thou wottest that life
itself should be given ere I would bewray thee,”
spoke the girl earnestly. “Prithee let me be
thy bode, my king.”

“Child, thou art leal and true. I will send
thee as thou wishest. Take this jewel; among
Saxons it will pass thee without question from
any if they be true to the king.”

He gave her a jewel of gold as he spake.
It was elaborately carved, and bore the inscription
on one side, “Alfred had me made.”
Egwina took it reverently, and placed it in the
folds of her tunic.

“Have no fear, my king,” she said. “I shall
reach them in safety.”

With many misgivings on the part of the
king, Egwina set forth on her journey.

Meanwhile, the Saxons were gathering at the
cottage, and Alfred began to prepare Athelney
for them. Spaces were cleared, and huts soon
dotted the surface of the island. Under the
eye of the king men raised strong fortifications,
for these were to be made so that no Norseman
could penetrate through them. Nerved by the
hope of regaining liberty, the people worked
cheerfully, spurred on by the example of their
chief. Trusty messengers were sent to others
of their countrymen, and each new accentuation
of their numbers was hailed with acclamations,
and the Saxons thus coming were greeted as
brothers.

And while axes rung merrily in the woods,
the people were not idle without. The smiths
welded new and strong weapons; or, leaving
those at home which they had, erected new
forges on the island, and there, with no fear of
the Dane, applied themselves to the task of supplying
arms for the army.

The Northmen were conscious of something
going on, but believing the king dead or his
whereabouts unknown, connected not the stir
among the people with him. While the hides
were tanned for shields, and the iron melted for
the swords, Adiva brought Gunnehilde to her
dwelling, and there the two women spun a standard
of pure white on which shone the golden
dragon of Wessex. Many a spell did Adiva
bid the wicca weave within its web that should
bring victory to the royal Alfred. The Danish
woman foreseeing the advantages that would
accrue to her foster child, Denewulf, should the
Saxon be victorious, read her runes and wove
her spells as the dame wished.

Now it was drawing near Easter which fell
upon the twenty-fifth day of March of that year,
and Alfred, in order to facilitate access to the
island, ordered a communication to be made
with the land by means of a bridge, the entrance
of which he secured by a fort.

Food was procured by hunting and fishing,
and sallies forth upon the Danes who grew
troubled as the inroads of this new foe became
more frequent.

And the king uneasily awaited the return of
Egwina.




CHAPTER XI—SOME DANISH TALES
============================


The knowledge that Egwina had gained of
forest lore during her residence in the cottage
of Denewulf, now stood her well in hand.
With it she was enabled to thread her way
through the intricate mazes of the great wood.
At last, emerging from its eastern border,
with brave heart the intrepid girl struck
boldly into Wessex, now overrun by the
Danes.

Stopping at the houses of ceorl and thegn
alike for shelter and refreshment, she gave her
merriest smile and sang her gayest songs. But
the Saxons were in no mood for festivity.
Willingly they succored her, and listened to
her songs; but grave were their faces and
heavy their hearts, for the rule of the invader
bore heavily upon them. Everywhere the
maiden heard the wail of the oppressed people:
“Oh, that King Alfred were here!”

Often and often was she tempted to tell them
the glad news that Alfred lived and was even
then endeavoring to gather those to his standard
who were willing to peril life for liberty.

Restraining her ardor, however, for she knew
not whom to trust, with a heart burthened by
the sorrows of the people, she went on her way.

One day, it was drawing near the evening
and Egwina was trying to find some place of
shelter for the night, she was overtaken by a
Danish man and a young woman.

“Whither away, maiden?” queried the man,
as they came up with her.

“I am a gleemaiden seeking shelter for the
night,” returned Egwina boldly. “Who are
ye, and whither do ye wend your way?”

“Sigurd the skald am I,” answered the man,
“and this is Gyda, my daughter, who is a seid
woman. A gleemaiden, thou sayest, in search
of shelter? Then hie with us to the dwelling
of Hakon the jarl who hath a feast to-night.
Much glee will there be, for Gyda doth tell
each and every one his fate.”

“What would a Saxon gleemaiden in the
halls of Hakon the jarl?” cried Egwina, knowing
not how to be rid of her companions.

“It will be music to his heart,” answered the
skald. “Little doth he reck whether thou beest
Saxon or Dane so that thou dost make merry.
Join us, for sibbe are all gleemen and maidens
whether they be skalds of the Norseman, bards
of the Welsh, or scops or gleemen of the Saxon.
But thou art alone, girl? Why travelest thou
so?”

“There is naught else to do,” answered she.
Then, continuing after a slight pause, “My
grandfather and I for many years wandered the
length and breadth of the land. Now doth he
lie dead, and alone do I follow the harp.”

“Thy grandfather! Alack! He was old
then?” Sigurd declared rather than questioned.
“’Tis pity that Hela the death goddess comes
to us all. Methinks the Æsir should have bestowed
the apples of Iduna upon man that he
might eat and be young again.”

“Iduna? The apples?” Egwina looked bewildered.
“Be not wroth, good Sigurd, but I
understand not what thou meanest.”

“Hast not heard of Iduna?” asked the skald
in surprise.

“Is she not a Saxon?” sneered Gyda, the seid
woman, speaking for the first time. “And are
not the Saxons Christians? She hath been too
busy with mass and priest to have heard of
Iduna.”

“Then shall she be enlightened,” cried Sigurd,
while Egwina looked hastily away from the
coal-black eyes of the seid woman. Their gaze
filled her with a sort of nameless terror. Inviting
she was not in aspect, as was Gunnehilde in
the forest, and involuntarily the girl crossed
herself. The woman’s eyes glittered as she saw
the action, but she made no comment.

“Iduna,” went on the skald, “lived in Asgard,
the city of the Æsir. To her care was
given the apples of youth, which gave strength
again to the body, and color and light to face
and eyes. She kept them in a casket and
never were they renewed. When the Æsir had
need of them, she drew forth from the case the
apples which were small as peas until her hands
touched them. Others took the place of those
taken out, so that the casket was never empty.
Always was it filled, and none knew whence
they came.

“But Thyassi Jötun looked with covetous eyes
upon the apples of Iduna, and sought how to get
them. Once Odin, together with Loki the evil
one, and Hoenir, went from Asgard over the
mountains to an uninhabited land, and it was
not easy for them to get food to eat. When they
came down into a valley they saw a herd of oxen,
took one of them and prepared it for the fire.
When they thought it was cooked they took it
off, but it was not cooked. A second time, after
waiting a little, they took it off, and it was not
cooked. They considered what might be the
cause of this. Then they heard a voice from the
tree above them which said that he who sat
there caused this. They looked up, and a large
eagle sat there. The eagle said:

“‘If thou wilt give me my fill of the ox, it
shall be cooked.’

“They assented. The bird came slowly down
from the tree, sat on the hearth, and at once ate
up the four shoulder pieces of the ox. Loki
got angry, took a large pole, and with all his
strength struck the eagle. At the blow the
eagle flew into the air. The pole adhered to its
body, and the hands of Loki to one end of it.
The eagle flew so that Loki’s feet touched
the rocks, the stone heaps, and the trees. He
thought his hands would be torn from his
shoulders.

“He shouted eagerly, asking the bird to spare
him, but it answered that he would never get
loose unless he promised to make Iduna leave
Asgard with her apples. Loki promised this,
got loose, and went home.

“At the appointed time, the evil one enticed
Iduna to go to a wood out of Asgard, by saying
that he had found some apples which she would
prefer to her own, and asked her to take her
apples with her to compare them. Iduna went
with him willingly, for he was one of the Æsir.
As she left the walls of Asgard behind, a fear
seized upon her, and she would have returned,
for now it came to her that Bragi, her husband,
the wise and the eloquent, had told her never to
leave the city. Even as the fear seized upon
her, Thyassi Jötun came in eagle’s shape,
took Iduna, and flew away to his abode in
Jötunheim.

“The Æsir were much grieved at the disappearance
of Iduna, and soon became gray-haired
and old for the apples of youth had gone from
them. Hela the death goddess came from
Niflheim, and abode among them also. Then
did the Æsir grieve more for the apples of
Iduna. They held a Thing (the parliament of
the Norsemen is so called), and asked each
other for news of her. Then was it made
known that she was last with Loki. Odin, the
fierce one, ordered Loki before him, and declared
that if he did not return Iduna, he should be
put to death or torture.

“Then did the evil one fear, and consented to
bring Iduna from Jötunheim if Freyga would
lend him the hawk skin which she owned.
When he got it, he flew north to Jötunheim,
and one day came to Thyassi Jötun who was sea-fishing.
Iduna was at home alone. At first,
she had been glad when her bond maidens were
always smiling; but soon she discovered that
they had no souls, and could not sympathize
with her in her sorrow.

“Often did Thyassi Jötun try to get the apples,
but when he would touch them they disappeared,
and he could not. Angrily had he threatened
Iduna if she gave him not them, and now, full
of wrath at her refusal, he had gone sea-fishing.
So Loki found her alone.

“He changed her into a nut, held her in
his claws, and flew away as fast as he could.
But Thyassi Jötun in the form of an eagle pursued
them. The Æsir saw the hawk flying
with the nut and the eagle pursuing, and
they went to the Asgard wall, and carried
thither bundles of plane shavings. When the
hawk flew into the burgh, it came down at the
wall.

“The Æsir set fire to the shavings, but the
eagle could not stop when it lost the hawk, and
the fire caught its feathers and stopped it. The
Æsir were near, and slew Thyassi Jötun which
was a very famous deed. So did they have again
the apples of youth.

“For my own part, I would that men might
partake of them, for I like not to get old.”

“’Tis a pretty tale,” remarked the maiden
who had listened with interest.

“Thinkest thou so?” cried the skald, much
pleased. “Once such tales were heritage of
Saxon as well as Dane; but now have they
turned aside from the old gods, and taken up
with mass and rood until their strength has
waned, and no longer have they courage in the
strife. Truly, to the followers of Odin doth the
victory come.”

“It hath not been so always,” cried Egwina,
stung out of caution. “I trow that King Alfred
hath borne the victory often from thee. What
he hath done, that will he do again.”

“Maiden, what knowest thou of the king?
Bracelets the most massive, many gifts, and a
place on the high seat would Guthrum give thee
for tidings of Alfred. Speak!”

“Naught, naught,” answering the girl, realizing
her mistake. “I speak only a Saxon’s
hope. Is it unseemly that we should wish our
king victorious in place of thine?”

“Nay; ’tis natural,” returned Sigurd. “But
methought that thou didst speak as if thou wert
ware of the king’s doings.”

“I would that I were,” answered the maiden
with fervor. “What should a simple maiden
wot of the king?”

“Speaketh she the truth?” demanded Sigurd
of his daughter.

“In seeming, but not in deed,” returned the
seid woman. “Be patient, my father. This
night in the hall of Hakon the jarl will Gyda
perform the seid. Then shalt thou know all
that lieth in the maiden’s heart.”

“Sainted mother be with me!” murmured the
girl under her breath.

“Knowest thou the fate songs, maiden?”
asked Gyda.

“Nay; I am a Christian,” answered the
maiden simply.

“Then will I teach thee,” remarked Gyda.
“If thou hast a good voice thou couldst he useful
to me in singing the spell songs; for few
they be that know them. Listen, and thou
shalt hear one now.”

“Nay; rather let me hear more of thy tales,”
and Egwina looked appealingly at the skald.
“Well dost thou tell them, and I wonder not
that thou art welcome where there is glee.”

“Thou shalt hear them then,” cried Sigurd,
flattered by her words. “Later, daughter,
canst thou use her for thy art. Now let her
listen to mine, for I have need to refresh my
memory. Wise is she in the lore of our craft;
for a daughter of a skald, and a skald maiden
is she. Then knowest thou, maiden, how
Skadi, the daughter of Thyassi Jötun, came to
Asgard to avenge her father?”

“No; I know but the tales of my own people,”
said Egwina, rejoiced that she was not
obliged to listen to the spell songs of the seid
woman.

“Listen then! All Asgard rejoiced at the
death of Thyassi Jötun, when Skadi, his daughter,
took helmet and brynja (shield), and a complete
war dress, and came to Asgard to avenge
her father. The Æsir offered her reconciliation
and a weregeld, but first that she might
choose from among them a husband. Then
was the heart of Skadi made glad, for a live
husband is better than a dead father; so she
consented to the reconciliation.

“The Æsir could not agree among themselves
as to which one she should take, so they made
Skadi choose from among them, not seeing more
than the feet. They stood behind a large curtain,
and only their feet could be seen below it.
Now Skadi wished very much to have Baldur,
the beautiful, for a husband, so she looked very
carefully at the feet, and chose the most beautiful
pair, saying, ‘This one I choose. Few
things can be ugly in Baldur.’

“But it was not Baldur at all, but Njord, the
old one, whom she had chosen. Then did the
Æsir laugh and exult. Skadi was angry, but
she was fain to abide by her choice, for she
alone had done the choosing.”

Egwina laughed, interested in spite of her fears.

“Methinks I would rather choose by the
countenance than the feet,” she cried merrily.
“Men’s looks reflect their deeds, and a clear eye
doth oft show a kind heart as well as a brave
one.”

“True, child. Much wisdom is there in thy
speech. Remember well thy words, and when
Skulda doth mingle another’s golden thread
with thine, look well to face and heart as well
as strength of arm, and well-shaped feet.”

“Already is the web of her fate woven,” declared
the seid woman. “Skulda hath already
interwoven with hers the warp and woof of
greatness.”

“How dost thou know?” cried Egwina.
“Thou canst not know such things. I believe
it not. Little care I for my fate until I
come to it, and I wot that my life depends
not on thy tongue roots.”

The ghost of a smile flitted over the face of
the woman.

“Thus didst thou not speak when the vala
unraveled for thee thy dream. To-night thou
shalt know more of thy future, and we shall know
more of thee. Thy design and what of import
that is which thou dost carry in thy bosom.”

Involuntarily the maiden’s hand went to the
bosom of her tunic, for there did she carry the
jewel that the king had given her. A light
flashed into Gyda’s eyes, and again did the
maiden cross herself.

“Here are we come at last to the dwelling of
Hakon the jarl,” said Sigurd, turning into the
courtyard of a large wooden dwelling which
had belonged to a Saxon thegn. “Here do we
dwell for the night.”

“I will pass on,” said Egwina, trying to
speak calmly. “I see in yon distance the
house of a ceorl. Happier far will I be to
abide with mine own people. I thank ye both
for sweet and gracious entertainment, and bid
ye God-speed.”

So saying, she started onward, but the seid
woman was by her side instantly.

“Too gracious hath been thy company,
maiden,” she cried with glittering eyes, “for
us now to be deprived of it. Besides, hath not
my father entertained thee with tales of our people?
Now them must listen to the spell songs
of Gyda.”

“Prithee insist not upon it,” entreated the
girl. “I would go onward.”

“Be with us for the night, maiden,” spoke
Sigurd. “Naught of harm shall befall thee if
thy intent be good. Darkness hath begun to
settle over the earth, and it is not meet for
maiden to be out alone. Thou art of my craft,
and Sigurd will ask of thee only thy songs and
glee. Unless it so be that thou hast some
mission to perform and must be on thy way, I
entreat thee to stay with us.”

So much against her wish, Egwina was forced
to enter the dwelling of Hakon the jarl.




CHAPTER XII—THE MAGIC SLEEP
===========================


The great mead hall was crowded with Danes,
feasting and drinking, and on the high seat sat
Hakon the jarl. Merrily did they greet the
skald and the maiden, but the seid woman they
welcomed with words of respect. Hakon himself
came from his high seat, took her by the
hand, and led her to the place which had been
prepared for her, and asked her to run her eyes
over the household and over himself that he
might know the fates of them all.

Then did they set before her porridge made
with goat’s milk, and a dish made of the hearts
of all kinds of animals. She had a spoon of
brass, and a knife of brass, and whatever she
called for the same was brought to her. All
feasted. Egwina ate and drank but little for
she was afraid. Anxiously she felt of the jewel
to see if it were safe, and uneasily did she await
coming events.

After the feast Hakon the jarl called for the
skalds, and many there were who sang of his
deeds and his bounty. When all had sung,
the jarl cried:

“Methinks I see a skald maiden who hath
not yet sung? Norse doth she look but Saxon
is her dress.”

“Right art thou, O Hakon,” cried Sigurd.
“Keen as the eagle’s are the eyes of Odin’s son
that see afar off. The maiden is fair enow
for Norse, but is a Saxon. A skald maiden is
she, and I misdoubt not knoweth well many
songs.”

“I would hear thy harp,” said the jarl, and
Egwina stood forth and sang a quaint little
Norse song that her grandsire had taught her.

“Good, good,” cried the jarl delighted.
“Sweet is thy harp, fair maid, but not so sweet
as the voice that accompanies it. Come nearer.”

Egwina advanced hesitatingly toward the
high seat.

“Wondrously wrought is thy harp. Where
would skald maiden get so beautiful a one? It
might be gift from royal hand.”

“It is the gift of a king,” came from the
seid woman.

Hakon looked at the maiden.

“It is true, O jarl,” she said in answer to
the look. “’Tis the custom of the Saxon thus
to reward those who make glee for them.”

“’Tis custom in all lands,” said Hakon with
a smile, taking from his neck a chain of gold.
“Take this, maiden; as thou playest on the
harp of a king, it is fitting that thou shouldst
receive royal gifts. ’Tis a chain of gold that
hath never known alloy. Behold, from its
centre hangs an amulet that ever faithful
guards the wishes of the wearer.”

“My thanks I give thee, Hakon,” murmured
the girl as the jarl threw the chain over her
shoulders.

“I’d hear thy harp again,” said he, “but sing
of Saxon and Dane. Canst give us a song of
victory of Dane over Saxon?”

Then the heart of the maiden swelled within
her as she thought of that dear grandfather who
had given his life because he would not so
sing, and her soul grew strong and she spake
boldly:

“I am a Saxon, Jarl Hakon, and niddering
would I be to sing of my country’s shame.
Willing am I to make glee for thee if aught in
my harp or voice doth please thee. Many are
the skalds that can sing for thee thy countrymen’s
victories. Gracious hath been thy gift;
gracious thy present to the skald maiden;
but take it back and ask not this thing of
her.”

“Keep thy bauble,” and the jarl thrust it
back upon her. “Would that our maidens
would prove so true to their land. Sing not so,
maiden, if thou dost not wish, but something
Saxon. One that is true to his own land never
bewrays another.”

The Danes watched the affair in surprise.
Jarl Hakon was an austere man, and never had
he been known before to countenance the least
crossing of his wishes. Egwina thanked him
gratefully, and then, as he desired, swept the
strings and sang. She chose the song of The
Phœnix, a subject very popular with the Saxon
poets; the mystic life, death, and resurrection of
the fabled bird.

Her thoughts flew to the little hut in the
woods where the king of the Saxons lay concealed.
Should he, like the phœnix, rise above
the funeral pyre of the dead hopes of his people,
and again rule the land as king? A
quaver crept into her voice, and then, as she
recalled his words, “The earth, when conquered,
give us the stars,” hope swelled her bosom. No
matter the difficulties, the dangers that beset his
path, Alfred would reign again. God’s chosen
king was he, anointed by the holy pope himself.
Her voice burst into the triumphant refrain as
the assurance came home to her. [#]_

   | “Lo, from the airy web,
   |   Blooming and brightsome,
   | Young and exulting, the
   |   Phoenix breaks forth.
   |
   | “Round him the birds troop
   |   Singing and hailing;
   | Wings of all glories
   |   Engarland the king.
   |
   | “Hymning and hailing,
   |   Through forest and sun-air,
   | Hymning and hailing
   |   And speaking him ‘king.’
   |
   | “Hymning and hailing,
   |   And filling the sun-air
   | With music and glory
   |   And praise of the king.”

.. [#] Bulwer Lytton’s versification. By some this poem is
   placed in the tenth century. Morley puts it in the eighth.

Silence fell upon the retainers as they listened.
The seid woman’s eyes glittered strangely.

”Well hast thou done, child,” and Hakon
took from his arm a massive bracelet.

“Thou hast already given me sufficient,” said
Egwina, modestly refusing the gift.

“Tut! Refuse naught that is offered thee.
Not always wilt thou find me so generous. I
liked the spirit of thy song.”

“’Twas filled with thought of the king,”
came from the seid woman. “Nourish not a
viper, Jarl Hakon. Seek from the maiden the
whereabouts of the king whom ye seek. Uncertain
is the tenure of the Northman unless the
Dragon of Wessex be put down. Ask of the
maiden the whereabouts of King Alfred.”

The jarl turned to Egwina.

“Is this true that thou dost know where thy
king is?”

“Gracious wert thou, O jarl, when thou didst
say that I sing not against my country! Gracious
be in this also. I could not sing the shame
of my country, Hakon; neither can I bewray
my king.”

Hakon knitted his brows, and became
thoughtful.

“Thou needst not to ask aught of the girl,”
spoke Gyda again. “Hath the seid woman
power to tell thee that which thou wishest?
Quotha! Let the incantation be prepared.”

“It shall be as thou sayest,” said the jarl,
rousing himself. Then did he order some young
men to bring a large flat stone which was placed
upon four posts set in the centre of the room before
the high seat.

Upon the platform the volva took her place.
Women formed a circle round it, and sang the
fate song. When these were finished, the seid
woman began to mutter and gesticulate violently
as the revelations came to her.

“I see thee, Jarl Hakon,” she cried.

   | “On the broad heath thy bow strings twang,
   | While high in air the arrows sang;
   | Thy iron shiner brings to flight
   | The warder of great Odin’s shrine,
   | Thou, the long haired son of Odin’s line,
   | Raises the voice which gives the cheer,
   | First in the track of wolf or bear.”

She writhed upon the stone ghastly pale, and
burst forth again.

   | “In battle storm ye seek no lee,
   | With skulking head and bending knee,
   | Behind the hollow shield.
   | With eye and hand ye fend the head,
   | Courage and skill stand in the stead
   | Of panzer, helm and shield
   | In Hild’s bloody field.”

“Tell me, Gyda, that of which ye spake,”
said the jarl. “Tell me of the Saxon King
Alfred. Lives he yet?”

   | “Westward doth the gray wolf run,
   | Westward toward the setting sun;
   | Follow fast and seek ye him
   | In the forest dank and dim.”

“Then he doth live!” and the jarl turned to
his followers. “Heed well the words of the
volva. Heed well and fasten them upon your
hearts, for to-morrow do we seek for the Saxon
king.” He threw a gold ring on the high seid
platform, and said, “Knowest the maiden
aught of the hiding place of the king?”

   | “Well knows the maiden
   | Where Alfred lies hidden.
   | By that in her bosom
   | Is she forth on his bidding.”

Hakon started towards the maiden, who nervously
clasped her harp to her breast. At this
moment the voice of the vala rose high in a
shriek and the jarl ran back to hear the frenzied
utterances. Egwina felt her hand touched, and
a voice whispered:

“Start not, maiden, nor tremble. I am Ethelred,
the youth who beheld thee in the forest
with King Alfred. Be of good courage. Thou
hast one friend here.”

Egwina turned her head for the moment, and
when she did she beheld near her the form of
what appeared to be a young Dane. He looked
towards her and smiled slightly, and then did she
see that it was indeed the Saxon youth. Now
hope infused into her heart, and, with better
courage, she listened to the ravings of the seid
woman.

   | “’Ware, ’ware of the forest, Jarl Hakon,
   |   The dragon steals forth from his lair,
   | He tears thee and thy people asunder,
   |   And leaves ye as food for the bear.
   |
   | “Then take from the vala a warning;
   |   Seek not the Saxon’s great king;
   | The forces of Wessex are gathering,
   |   The dragon of Wessex will spring.”

She ceased, and no more came from her lips.
In vain did the jarl throw gifts upon the platform.
Whatever the power of the volva, it had
left her, and she lay motionless on the stone.

Finding that it was useless to inquire further,
the jarl turned to the hall and called loudly for
four cups of mead.

“The cup of vows do I drink,” he said. “To
Odin, who giveth the victory; to Frey and
Nïord, for a good year and peace, and to Bragi.
I vow by these drinks that I have drunk to the
Æsir that I will do some great deed that shall
be worthy the song of the skald. And that deed
shall be the hunting of Alfred. If it so be that
Odin hath sent the choosers of the slain to bear
me to Valhalla, then welcome will be the warrior’s
death. Who pledges with me the Valkyrie?”

“I!” “I!” shouted the Northmen, leaping to
their feet, each lifting a horn of mead to his lips.

“To Hela, who will mourn in Niflheim, that
she is robbed of her prey!”

Again they drank.

“To-morrow will we set forth to seek the
Dragon in his lair, the king in his hole. The
Raven hath driven the Dragon from his throne.
Shall he not tear him in pieces? Who goes with
me to hunt King Alfred?”

Again the hoarse shouts of the retainers filled
the hall.

“Whether she will or no, the maiden shall
lead us,” cried the jarl. “Sweet will her songs
come to us as, wearied by the march, we tarry
for rest.”

But Egwina was silent, a resolve growing in
her heart that, though death might be her portion,
or, worse yet, the severest torture, she
would not lead these men to Alfred’s hiding
place.

The seid woman came down from the platform
and glided through the Danes, who, now
that they had pledged themselves to Odin, began
to hold high revelry, to the side of the
maiden.

“Within thy breast there rests a jewel,” she
said, in a low tone, to the girl. “It is wondrously
wrought, and Gyda wants it. Give it
to her and she will help thee to escape from
Hakon.”

“I cannot. It is the—” began the girl, and
paused.

“Yea; the king’s. I know, maiden, the word
that thou wouldst speak. Well do the runes
read for Alfred the king. Let me but have his
jewel and thou shalt go free.”

But Egwina shook her head.

“Wondrous will be thy fate, maiden. Dost
wish to know it? Gyda will tell thee, and will
help thee on that mission on which thou art
bent.”

“Why dost thou wish for the jewel of Alfred
the king? Saxon thou art not. Why dost
thou wish it?”

“It bringeth good fortune to him who carries
it. Wisdom and all the magic of galdra will
be mine if but I possess the jewel of Alfred.
Long, long ago, the runes told me that but one
thing I lacked, and then all things would unfold
to my view. That was something belonging
to a Saxon king of the line of Cerdic who
should be driven from his throne by my people.
Give it me, maiden. All thy fate will I unfold,
and more. I will compel Guthrum to extend
his frith (peace) over thee so that thou mayest
find those whom thou seekest in safety.”

“No;” said Egwina boldly. “Let me know
of my fate only as it comes to me. I will not
aid thee in thy wicked art. Naught of King
Alfred’s should be used in so base a cause; and
not this jewel while I hold it.”

“Have a care, girl,” hissed the woman. “If
thou wilt not give it me, then will I obtain it
by guile. Think not that Gyda hath no
art.”

“I will seek Hakon the jarl. He will take
me under his hand,” and Egwina rose to her
feet.

“Do so,” sneered the other. “His frith will
he give thee, if thou wilt but lead him to the
king’s hiding place. Choose ye.”

The maiden hesitated. It was even as the
witch woman said. Helplessly she looked for
Ethelred. He had disappeared from the hall.
In despair she sank back upon her seat, and
leaned her head upon her harp.

“Look at me, thou Saxon maid,” commanded
the wicca.

Almost without knowing what she did,
Egwina looked at the woman.

“Heed, maiden, my words. Listen to the
song of the witch woman, Gyda. Heed the
words which she sings to thee, and sleep,
maiden, sleep.”

She made some passes over the maiden’s head
singing a low crooning song as she did so.
Vainly Egwina made the sign of the cross. In
vain did she strive to hold the sapphire ring
which Ethelfleda had given her before her
vision. The crooning song repeated its rhythmical
measures in her ears. The eyes of the seid
woman blazed. Living sparks seemed to leap
from them to the eyes of the girl. They burned
into her brain. She felt her senses reeling,
going.

Faintly the voice of one of the Northmen
sounded in her ear:

“Gyda, the seid woman, hath caused the
maiden to fall into the magic sleep.”

Faint and far off as a whisper they reached
her, and sounded in her ears, “The magic
sleep,” and she knew no more.




CHAPTER XIII—VICTORY SITS WITH THE SAXONS
=========================================


When Egwina awoke from her sleep, the sun
was shining, and she did not know where she
was. She was lying on a tick of straw which
seemed to be moving under her. To her amazement,
on sitting up, she found that she was in a
rude cart with two Danish women and some
children. As the memory of the events of the
night before rushed upon her mind, she felt for
the jewel of the king. It was gone. A torrent
of bitterness gashed into her soul.

“Where is Gyda?” she demanded of the
women fiercely.

“She went with Sigurd the skald we know
not whither,” answered one of them. “To thee,
maiden, she bade us say that as she had obtained
the jewel, she had kept her word, and sent thee
from the hand of Hakon Jarl, so that thou
mightst not have to lead him to thy king. Also
she bade us say to thee that naught else of thine
adornment was touched save the jewel only.
Behold the chain which the jarl gave thee; the
bracelet, and thy other ornaments are untouched.”

“Tell me where we are and whither we go?”
cried the girl eagerly.

“We go into Devonshire to join Hubba, who
hath wintered in Demetia, and now cometh into
the land of the Saxon from the west. It draws
near the time for the feast of the spring. Then
will the Northman sweep over the whole of the
land, and finish that which he hath so well begun.”

Egwina groaned. And none was there to
warn the king.

“See,” she said to the women taking from
her throat the chain which the jarl had given
her; “here is this, and the bracelet also. Both
are of much value. Ye shall have them if ye
will let me go from ye unmolested.”

The women shook their heads, and the one
who had done the speaking spake again:

“We durst not let thee from us. Of that did
the seid woman bid us beware. Neither doth it
lie in our power so to do, for the Northmen are
on every hand. See for thyself.”

Egwina looked, and her heart sank as she beheld
the long line of horsemen and men on foot
before and behind. Many carts were there filled
with women and children, and the supplies of the
Danes. Everything gave evidence of preparations
for a long march. Burying her face in her
hands, Egwina resigned herself to the inevitable.

The march was long and of several days’
duration. At last they came to the extreme
western part of Devonshire. Here they were
greeted by another large party of Norsemen
under the renowned Hubba, one of the sons of
Ragnar Lodbrock. The Saxons fled in terror
at their approach. Some few, taking their wives
and children with them, repaired to the castle of
Kynwith.

The Danes followed after these last rapidly,
and, seeing that the castle was impregnable,
would not risk an attack upon it, but sat down
before it in a camp, hoping thus to make the
Saxons surrender either from famine or want of
water; for there was no spring near the castle.

Vainly did Egwina seek to join the Saxons in
the castle. Her every movement was watched,
and she was forced to abandon the idea. Listlessly
she mingled with them, listening apathetically
to their songs. Often did they try to force
her to join in their mirth and gladden their
hearts by music, but she looked at them with
unsmiling face and would not sing.

Thus the days passed. The pagans waiting
only for the surrender of the castle which they
thought must come soon through the dire necessity
of the Christians.

Early one morning, just as the first faint
streaks of dawn were tinting the sky, Egwina
was awakened from slumber by the shouts of
men and the clash of steel. In alarm, the
Danes sprang to their arms, but the Saxons had
surprised them too completely for anything but
a furious resistance. From the first they cut
down the Northmen in great numbers, for they
were filled with the inspiration of despair, deeming
death inevitable and preferring to fall in battle
rather than by starvation.

The trembling maiden prayed fervently in
her tent for the success of her people. While
she was thus engaged, the flap was pushed rudely
aside, and two men entered. They seized her
before she was aware of their intention, and
dashed out of the tent and into the thick of the
fray where Hubba their king was.

“Take this for thy shield, Hubba,” cried one,
thrusting the maiden before the Danish king.

“If, then, thou art slain it must be through
the body of the girl. They will not slay one
of their own maidens.”

But Hubba haughtily put the girl aside, making
the sign of Thor as he did so.

“Am I not strong in mine own strength? Why
should I use a living buckler when mine own is
better? Sköfnung (the name of his charmed
sword) hath already drunk the blood of many
who cannot find relief from its life stein. Besides,
stand I not under the magical banner
woven by my sisters in a single day? I need no
maid for protection.”

Proudly he turned from them and hastened
again into the conflict. But the Norsemen stood
looking at the magical standard, and suddenly
they cried out, “Behold the raven lieth motionless!
No longer doth he flap his wings in
token of victory. We are doomed.”

A wail of anguish went up from the ranks as
they beheld the motionless raven. Above it
came the voice of Hubba:

“If die we must, then die as sons of Odin
should. The one-eyed one prepareth the feast
of Shaehrimnir the boar. Fast floweth the mead
from the goat. Welcome awaits us in Valhalla.
Welcome and good cheer! But take with ye
many of the Saxon warriors. Thus doth the
Alfadur bid ye.”

Roused to further exertions, the Danes raised
their war chant and rallied round the fatal
standard. Those who had brought Egwina to
the combat now left her standing, and joined
the others.

The bewildered girl stood, not knowing what
to do or which way to turn. Everywhere Saxon
and Dane mingled together in battle. The
Norse women and children had withdrawn to
one side. The women screamed or shouted encouragingly
to husbands or fathers, or chanted
the battle songs of their land. In the midst of
the contest, the skalds’ voices could be heard
reciting the deeds of heroes and inciting the
Norsemen to greater achievements.

The girl stood an unwilling, fascinated spectator,
with no thought of danger to self. Bravely
and fiercely fought the Dane. Bravely and
fiercely fought the Saxon. True sons of Wodan
they, and to the fighting blood of the old Norse
heroes was added the lofty exaltation of striking
for home and country.

Suddenly one of the Danish women caught
sight of Egwina standing there in the midst of
the battle. With a cry of fury she dashed
toward her, and seizing her by the hair began
dragging her back to where the women and
children were.

Egwina cried out at the assault, and strove to
tear herself from the grasp of the woman. At
her cry, some of the Saxons turned. One, a
youth, left the others and bounded toward
the two.

“Unhand the girl,” he commanded.

“Nay,” cried the woman; “she shall serve
as an offering to Odin. The battle goeth against
us, and the fierce one demandeth a victim.
Away!”

The youth grasped the woman by the wrists.
“Release thy hold,” he shouted; “or, by St.
Peter of blessed memory, I will forget that thou
art a woman.”

“Forget it, then! Strike if thou durst! Strike,
and upon thy head fall the curse of Odin.”

“I care not for Odin’s curses,” cried the
Saxon, “but I war not with women. Unhand
the girl!”

The woman only tightened her grip the more
on the long beautiful hair of Egwina.

“There is but one way, maiden.” The youth
let go one of the woman’s wrists to draw his
seax. The woman thought that he meant to
cut off her hands. Egwina was of the same
opinion, and suffering though she was, exclaimed,
“For the love of Heaven, maim not
the woman!”

There was a grim smile on the youth’s face.
He raised the seax and the stroke fell. With
a scream the woman let the bright hair of the
maiden fall, and fled to the others.

“Oh, didst thou hurt her?” cried Egwina, as
the young man assisted her to her feet.

“No;” and he held up two fair locks of her
hair. “I meant only to sever thy hair from
thy head.”

“And thou didst not intend to cut off her
hands?” cried Egwina, relieved.

“Am I not a Christian? Do Christians treat
others so?” demanded the youth. “Come, let
us to the Saxons, for the battle is ended.”

.. figure:: images/illus-174.jpg
   :align: center
   :width: 75%
   :alt: He raised the seax and the blow fell.

   HE RAISED THE SEAX AND THE BLOW FELL.

It was true. Elated by their triumph, the
Saxons pursued the flying Danes, and great
was the slaughter. Great also was the booty
they obtained from the camp, and, among other
things, the magical banner of Hubba, under
which the chief lay dead.

“Now,” said the youth to Egwina, “the
slaughter is done. Great will be the joy of
Alfred when he hears of this day’s prowess. A
bode am I to thee from the king. Mickle and
sore doth he repent having let thee go from his
sight as bode for him to his family. He bids
me, with others, to accompany thee on thy
journey, and bring thee back in safety to him.”

“Oh, hast thou seen him?” cried Egwina.
“Heavy was my heart that I could not warn him
of Hakon’s intended search. Heavy did it lie in
my breast when I knew that Hubba was to
come from the west to overrun the land. I
feared that the king’s hopes were vain.”

“That was the reason, maiden, that I left
thee in the house of Hakon the jarl,” said Ethelred.
“Niddering did it seem to leave thee, a
girl, in the hands of the foe, unwitting what
might befall thee. But in the king lieth all
our hopes. ’Twere better that thou shouldst
perish than that the king be not warned.”

“Thou didst right,” declared the girl, warmly.
“What am I to be thought of in comparison
with the king? Better, oh, better a thousand
such as I should perish than Alfred.”

“Thou art a true Saxon, and so I deemed
thee,” cried the youth. “Would that thegn
and coerl were filled with thy spirit, and the
Dane would no longer uprear his raven standard
in the land. But to tell thee all: Hakon
went forth with a goodly company. Alfred,
who had been joined by numbers of the Saxons,
sallied forth, took the jarl by surprise, and the
bones of him and all his company lie whitening
on the field.”

“Dost thou not remember what the seid
woman said?” asked Egwina in awe-struck
tones:

   | “‘’Ware, ’ware of the forest, Jarl Hakon,
   |   The dragon steals forth from his lair;
   | He tears thee and thy people asunder,
   |   And leaves ye as food for the bear.’

“Dost thou suppose, Ethelred, that the vala
doth really see what the future holds?”

“I wot not. There are many things that I
understand not, but this do I know, that ’tis a
heathenish practice, and little use have the
good priests for it,” and he crossed himself
piously.

“True; but oft have I wondered whence
came the power that seemed to belong to them.”

“Think not of it,” answered the youth,
hastily. “Whatever of power they may have,
’tis of evil. Concern not thyself with such
pagan doings, for unseemly doth it become a
Christian. Come, let us to the castle. Bode
must be sent to the king to tell him of this
victory. Then thou, and I, and others will
wend us to the depths of Somerset, where the
king’s family abide, and then back to Athelney.”

And Egwina accompanied him to the castle.




CHAPTER XIV—A PLEASANT SURPRISE
===============================


Somersetshire was the only county that had
remained true to Alfred. Throughout all Devonshire
the news of the victory of the Saxons at
the castle of Kynwith brought great rejoicing.
While everywhere the Saxons were open in their
manifestations of delight, it was not deemed wise
to precipitate matters by letting them know that
the king was preparing to issue forth from his
hiding place. Somerset alone was considered
worthy to be trusted, and here the secret was told,
and many left their homes to go to Athelney.

In the heart of Somerset, at the abode of the
thegn, Oswald, a trusted and tried retainer of the
king, the family of Alfred was hidden. With
light heart did Egwina now go on the journey,
for it was shared by Saxons true to the king,
and hope had made glad their hearts.

“Dost know the family of the king?” inquired
Ethelred of the maiden as they neared
the dwelling of the thegn.

“I have met the lady Elswitha, and I saw her
mother and children the night of the attack
on Chippenham,” answered Egwina. “Hast
thou?”

“Nay;” replied the youth. “My father was
of the royal family of Mercia, and, when the
pagans overran the country, perished by the
sword. With him I should have attended the
great Witan at Winchester this Easter, and thus
have seen the king, and mayhap his family also.
Tell me of the lady Elswitha.”

“She is fair and beautiful. Right worthy is
she to be the noble Alfred’s wife, for bravely did
she bear herself on the night of the assault.”

“Often have I seen Eadburga, her mother,”
remarked Ethelred, “and her father also, Athelred
the Large, for they were of Mercia. Elswitha
I have not seen, for she married the king—he
was the atheling then—before I was old enough
to remember. Much have I heard of the present
atheling and his sister. Marry, I would like
well to meet with them.”

“Naught do I know of the atheling or his
sister,” said Egwina. “There were only some
young children with the lady and her mother.”

“And was there no youth of my age, nor
maiden, near them?” queried Ethelred.

“Nay,” returned Egwina. “There were a
youth and a maiden there that night, but not
the atheling nor his sister. The lad was younger
than thou, and the maiden older than I. It could
not be they. Besides, I met this youth and
maiden in Andred’s weald some time ago. See
the ring that the maiden gave me.”

She extended her hand with the sapphire
upon it.

“And thou art sure that it was not the atheling’s
sister?” asked Ethelred as he examined
the gem.

Egwina laughed.

“So sure am I, sir youth, that I will give
thee this chain of gold that Hakon, the jarl,
gave me if they be the same. Then, by this
amulet, thou canst have all thy desires.”

“Marry! if there be aught in the charm, I
would that they be the same,” returned the
youth, falling in with her merry humor. “But
hath it given thee thy wish yet, maiden?”

“Well-a-day! I wot not what it hath granted,
but this I know: I wished myself well away
from the dwelling of Hakon, jarl. That came
about. I wished that the king be warned, and
that also happened. Then did I wish that I
could reach the lady Elswitha, and yon turrets
tell me that that also is about to come to pass.”

Ethelred laughed.

“Almost dost thou make me wish that I could
obtain the chain.”

“Gladly would I give it thee if only the maid
of the forest and the atheling’s sister were the
same,” returned the girl. “Oft have I wished
to see them again. Oft have I wondered if the
invader hath despoiled them of home, or where
they be.”

Over the girl’s bright face came a cloud, for
well did she know of the devastating work of
the ravagers.

“Here we are!” cried the youth. “Now,
maiden, thou art the bode from the king. Seek
thou the lady first. We will tarry without
until she bids us enter.”

Egwina advanced through the courtyard,
and then somewhat timidly to the portals. In
answer to her knock, a warder opened the door
and asked her in.

“I would see the lady Elswitha,” spake she.
“I bear to her a message from the king.”

“From the king? From Alfred?” ejaculated
the warder. He ran from the room without
bidding her welcome. Egwina smiled at his
evident delight, and seated herself near the
entrance. She had scarcely done so when the
lady Elswitha hastily entered. As soon as her
eyes fell upon the girl she gave an exclamation
of joy.

“Is it thou, little one? Glad am I to see
thee safe. Oft have I wondered about thee and
thy father—the good harper—who so bravely
tried to lead us to King Alfred. Is he safe also?”

“Nay, lady,” returned the maiden, touched
to the quick by the gracious thoughtfulness of
the lady, who could forget her own anxiety in
care for the welfare of others. “Nay; he fell
by the hand of the Dane. Anon will I tell
thee of it, but now do I bear thee a message
from the king. He is safe. Followers are
rallying around him. Victory hath already
crowned the Saxons against Hubba, and ere the
bringing home of the summer the king hopes
again to rule over Wessex.”

The lady clasped her hands. Her lips
moved as if in prayer. Then, impelled by a
gracious impulse, she stooped and kissed the
maiden.

“Sweeter than softest music is thy message to
my heart. I rejoice in my lord’s safety, and
that his people are coming to his call. Now
can I wait further news until thou hast refreshed
thyself.”

“No, lady; I am not aweary, and it glads my
heart to tell thee of the king,” spoke the girl.

Then, as Elswitha drew her to her side, she
told of the cottage in the woods, the occupations
of the king, and everything of her journey
hither. Many exclamations of joy, and pity,
and terror did the kind lady utter as she listened
to the story.

“And thy companions—the noble Saxons
who brought thee thither? Where are they?”

“They await without thy bidding.”

“They must be welcomed,” cried the lady,
warmly. “Sit thee here, child, until my
return.”

She hurried forth and heartily greeted the
Saxons, bidding them come into the hall.
Then she summoned Oswald the thegn, and
bade him make a feast for the good news that
was brought, and for the refreshment of those
who had brought it. Into the hall came the
three young children, two girls and the youngest,
a boy: Ethelgiva, Ethelswitha and Ethelwerd,
by name.

“Oh, my children,” cried the lady, embracing
them. “Good news have I for ye from
your father. Haste to the bower chamber of
your grandmother Eadburga! Bid her to come
to the hall at once and all the household also,
that I may tell them the joyful tidings.”

The children ran quickly out. Egwina cast
a hasty glance at the youth Ethelred. He wore
a slightly disappointed look on his face, for he
had heard so much of the atheling that he had
supposed him older than this boy.

At this moment, the door was thrown open
and into the hall there stepped a youth somewhat
younger than himself—a falcon on his
wrist, hounds at his heels.

“Edward, my son!” Elswitha rose excitedly.
“Give good welcome to these friends who hath
glad news of thy father.”

Edward! Egwina looked up in amazement.
It was the youth whom she had seen in the
forest. The recognition was mutual.

“’Tis the gleemaiden!” exclaimed the lad,
advancing toward her. “Truly, maiden, thou
dost appear to be the good Flygia of our family,
as the witch-wife would say. Thrice hast thou
brought to us succor. Once in the forest; again
on the night of the attack of the Danes didst
thou and thy father strive to save us from their
fury; now thou art a fair bode from my father.”

He took her hand gently, and Egwina grew
rosy in confusion, more overwhelmed by his
simple words than those of the others, because
of her surprise at finding him the atheling.

Elswitha’s mother, Eadburga, now entered and
with her Ethelfleda, the maid of the forest.
Egwina was not astonished at beholding her.
Nothing, it seemed, could surprise her now.
Not even did she see the quizzical smile with
which Ethelred regarded her.

Ethelfleda took charge of her impetuously.

“Hast thou kept the ring?” she asked, after
she had thanked and caressed the girl.

“Yes; though once I came near losing it,”
returned Egwina, showing it to her.

“Losing it? Tell me, and tell all that hath
befallen thee since the people pressed us
asunder,” urged Ethelfleda.

“My daughter,” spoke Alfred’s wife, “let
the maiden with the others refresh herself.
Then shall all tell of themselves.”

And so it was arranged. Elswitha would
suffer nothing more to be said until they were
rested. Then the maiden recounted all that
had happened from the time she met them in
the forest until the present.

“Beautiful is the chain which the Danish
jarl gave thee,” said Ethelfleda, examining it.
“Curiously wrought, and of pure gold. I wot
that it be charmed, as many of their ornaments
are.”

“Yes; the amulet, the jarl claimed, brought
to the wearer the realization of every wish—”
began Egwina, and then paused in some dismay,
remembering Ethelred.

“It belongeth no longer to her,” laughed the
youth, joining them.

“Doth it not? How does that come?” asked
Ethelfleda.

“She said that she would give it me were
the youth and the maiden of the forest the same
as the atheling and his sister,” said Ethelred,
merrily. “So ye see that it is hers only by my
will.”

“And it is thy will, is it not?” insinuated
Alfred’s son, gently.

“Nay, brother,” spoke Ethelfleda, who was
of sterner mold than the atheling, “if the
maiden hath promised it, the word should be
kept.”

“And that right gladly,” said Egwina.
“Little did I reck when I spake that ye were
the same, but it delights me to have met with
you again. Take the chain, Ethelred, and may
it bring to pass thy every wish.”

“No, Egwina;” and the youth returned it.
”I did but sport with thee. I wish not thy
chain, though I thank thee for thy good wishes.“

“But I gave thee my word,” said the maiden.
“I like not to break it. Prithee take it, Ethelred.”

But Ethelred shook his head.

“This is the solution,” and Ethelfleda took
up the chain. “Thou, Egwina, shall have the
chain, and Ethelred the amulet which gives him
his desires.”

“Wise art thou, Ethelfleda. Worthy to be
thy father’s daughter!” said Ethelred, taking
the amulet. “I take it with thy well wishes,
Egwina, and from thee, Ethelfleda, that I may
realize a wish that hath lately sprung up in
my heart.”

“Art thou pleased, Egwina?” asked Ethelfleda.

“Yes,” answered she. “And I would that
the amulet may bring him his wish. I am glad
that he hath taken it.”

“But not I,” remarked Edward, detaching
an amulet from his own chain. “Bare is it
without an ornament. Take this in its place,
Egwina. No charm hath it but the well wishes
of the donor.”

He clasped the amulet on the chain, and
threw it over her shoulders.

Egwina’s eyes shone.

“I cared not for the amulet of Hakon jarl,”
she said, “but this will I prize because thou,
the king’s son, hath given it.”

“Ye must to your rest now, people,” called
Elswitha, coming up to them. “To-morrow will
we set forth to join the king in the forest. So
hie ye to rest, for we must start early enough
to end the journey by nightfall.”

With merry good-nights the group separated,
Ethelfleda carrying Egwina with her to her own
bower.




CHAPTER XV—THE BEGGAR OF ATHELNEY
=================================


Joyfully did Alfred greet them on their
arrival at Athelney.

“Well hast thou done, little one,” he said to
Egwina. “Never will Alfred forget how leal
thou hast been to him.”

“But the jewel, my king? I grieve that I
have lost it.”

“’Tis nought,” reassured the king. “A
trifle like that can be replaced. And thou
wouldst not, for thy life’s sake, give it of thine
own free will. Loyalty and honor hast thou
shown—two of the brightest virtues in friendship’s
crown.”

Glowing with pleasure, Egwina hastened to
greet Denewulf and Adiva, who were overjoyed
at her return. A cottage had been built on
Athelney for Alfred, and to this he now repaired
with his family. Ethelfleda would not be
separated from Egwina, so the gleemaiden also
went with them, much to the sorrow of the swineherd
and his wife, who made her promise to return
to them for a part of each day.

The island had been well intrenched and
numbers had flocked to it. So many were there
that the scant resources of the place were soon
exhausted, and so dire was the necessity of the
king that he was forced to forage for provisions.

Now, too, did he begin a series of skirmishes;
attacking the enemy without ceasing, wherever
he found any parties or camps accessible to his
attempts. Whether his object was achieved, or
did he meet with repulsion, he retired with a
celerity that baffled pursuit to his unknown
asylum. The Northmen became terror-stricken
at the ravages which this secret foe was making
upon them, and finally came to believe, with the
superstition of the age, that the attacks were of
a supernatural character.

Gradually the king extended his assaults,
harassing the Danes with hostility in a distant
quarter as well as those near. By day and
by night, at dawn, in the evening twilight, from
woods and marshes, he was ever rushing on the
Northmen with all the advantages of selection
and surprise. But still the provisions grew less,
and the king was sore put for supplies.

One day, while it was yet so cold that it was
frozen, the king’s people had gone out to get
provender, fish or fowl or whatsoever they
should happen upon, while Alfred himself remained
in the cottage. The king was discouraged.
Despite the successful issue of his forays
against the Norsemen, they still remained in such
numbers that it seemed an impossible task to
ever rid the land of them. At last he took from
his bosom the little manual which he always carried
with him, and began reading one of the
Psalms of David for comfort.

A knock at the door brought Ethelfleda and
Egwina from an adjoining room.

“Open, my daughter,” said the king.

“But it may not be one of thy followers,” said
the girl, dubiously.

“Open; keep not one without who may need
shelter from the wind. Piercing is the blast.
Open unto him whomever it may be.”

Ethelfleda opened the door not widely, as was
the wont of the Saxons, for she feared that one
might be without who sought the king.

“Bread, maiden! Give me bread to eat for
Christ His sake,” pleaded a man who stood there.
He was poorly clad and he shivered in the chill
breath of the March wind.

“Enter, in His name,” cried the king, heartily.
“Enter and warm thyself by the fire.”

Murmuring blessings, the man crept close to
the fire and huddled over the blaze.

“Food for him,” commanded the king to
Ethelfleda.

“But, my king,” remonstrated Egwina, speaking
in a low tone, “there is but one small loaf of
bread which is all the food that there is left.
Wilt thou that it be set before the man, and
thereby leave thee naught to strengthen thee for
the sally to-night?”

“Give it anyway, little one,” bade the king.
“We have eaten to-day; it may be that he
hath not. The poor man looks as if he
needed it.”

Thereupon he returned to his reading, while
the maidens served the beggar. Hungrily did
he eat. Soon the last morsel of bread disappeared
before the voracious appetite. Then he
arose, gathered the folds of his mantle more
closely around him, and turned to the girls.

“Ye have heard the words of the master,” he
said. “‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the
least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto
me.’ I thank ye, maidens, for your kindness.
Most of all do I thank him who hath ministered
to me from his own necessity.”

He turned to the king as he spake, but Alfred
had fallen asleep over his book. An expression
almost of adoration passed over the beggar’s
face. Over the sleeping form then did he
make the sign of the cross while the girls
watched him in something like awe.

“Whoe’er thou art,” he murmured, “Christ is
with thee. For that mercy which thou hast
meted to another from thy dire want, may it be
returned fourfold. Art thou brought low from
high estate? Be comforted. Low though the
heavy clouds hang, above the sun is shining.
Forsaken it may be that thou art now, but to
thy call shall rally hundreds.”

He bent before the sleeping form of Alfred,
and pressed his lips to the king’s hand. Then
drawing his bonnet over his head went slowly
from them.

“Almost,” said Ethelfleda to Egwina, “could
I believe that some saint hath visited us. Glad
am I that my father bade me give him the
food.”

“He is some holy man,” returned Egwina in
a low tone. “But how he spake of the king?
And how he loves him!” She touched the
king’s hand reverently. “How they all love
him, Ethelfleda!”

“And worthy is he of their love,” returned
the daughter, gently kissing his forehead. “My
noble father! I care not, Egwina, that he be
king; but that he is wise, and tender, and so
good. When he speaks, his words are unlying
always, and men know that his word requires no
oath to bind him. My heart bounds with pride
when they call him ‘The Truth Teller.’ There
have been many kings before him, but none so
great as my father.”

“I wonder not at thy love,” said the gleemaiden.
“Well doth he merit it. And Ethelfleda,
as thou dost feel, so do all his people.
Pride in his wisdom, and love for his tenderness,
even to the beggar that hath left us. It hath
given me new hope, for it is said that a poor
man’s wish is better than the gift of a rich
man.”

“Into my heart, too, hath crept new hope,”
said Ethelfleda. “Methinks that soon the days
will really become brighter.”

At this moment Alfred awoke, and started to
his feet.

“Methought that a poor man but now asked
for food,” he said.

“One hath been here,” answered Ethelfleda.
“We fed him, and he is gone. Dost thou not
remember, dear father, that there was not food
enou’ left for all but thou didst bid us bring it
to him? He hath partaken of it, blessed thee,
and gone.”

“He blessed me?” The king’s eyes grew
dim. “’Tis strange! And then my dream!”

“Didst thou dream, my lord and son?” said
Eadburga, entering the room. “I, too, have
just dreamed. Speak, and let us hear thine,
son.”

“I dreamed,” said Alfred, “that St. Cuthbert
of Lindisfarne stood beside me. He spake and
told me he had been my guest. He said that
God had seen my affliction and those of my
people which were now about to end. In token
whereof Edward will return with the Saxons
with a great take of fish.”

“Sayest thou so?” cried Eadburga, much
agitated. “Why that is mine own dream.
Was any one here at all?”

“There was a beggar,” declared the girls in
the same breath. “He blessed the king when he
left, and made the sign of the cross over him.”

“That was the reason that I did dream that it
was St. Cuthbert,” said Alfred, who nevertheless
was much impressed by the dream.

“Thy difficulties are fast nearing an end,”
said the aged lady impressively. “I think,
son, that this has been sent thee for comfort to
thy heart, and cheer to thy drooping spirits.”

“And comfort hath it brought,” said the
king heartily.

“I would that Edward would come with the
others,” cried Ethelfleda. “I would like to see
if he bringeth a great take of fish.”

“Look not always for a sign, daughter,” reproved
Alfred. “Well hath the vision served,
if it but raise our courage. ’Twas induced by
the blessing of the poor man. I would that he
had remained with us, for it is chill and raw
without. I wot that he was some holy man.
Whatever he be, little doth he reck how he
hath blessed us in return for the poor food
which we gave.”

“But still do I wish for Edward’s return,”
declared Ethelfleda in a low tone to Egwina.
“Supper will there not be unless the fish
be taken. I am hungry. Art thou not, Egwina?”

“Not since I have seen that poor man eat,”
replied the maiden. “He ate as if naught had
passed his lips for days.”

Just then came the tramp of many feet from
without.

“Open, father,” cried the voice of Edward.
“Open and see what I have brought thee.”

Ethelfleda flew to the door before Alfred
could move, and threw it open.

“Welcome, welcome, Edward! What dost
thou bring? Oh, father, see the fish!”

“Enough to feed an army,” and he laughed
as the Saxons tried to bring them in, for it was
truly a great take. “Blessed be St. Wilfrid, who
taught the Saxons to fish! He must have
been with us to-day.”

“No, son; a greater than Wilfrid was with
thee,” said Alfred solemnly, a joyous light shining
in his eyes. “Wonderful hath been thy
catch, and wonderful, too, hath been our experience.”

“Let us have a feast,” cried the practical
Ethelfleda; “hungry must ye be, good people,
and hungry am I also. Art thou not now,
Egwina?”

“Since there is so much,” answered she, “I
wot that I am.”

“And dost thou not feel hunger save when
there is plenty?” laughed Ethelfleda. “Strange,
Egwina! Would that my appetite would accommodate
itself to the supply. But marry! the
less there is, the more do I wish.”

“’Tis the heart of Egwina that molds her appetite,”
commented Edward. “At the morning
meal I could but notice how she broke off the
larger part of her bread, and gave it to Ethelwerd
and Elswitha. The meat did go in the
same manner.”

“Didst thou?” Ethelfleda looked up from
the fish she was preparing in amaze. “Thou
shouldst have eaten thy portion. Each had
the same.”

“True; but the little ones wished for more,”
said the girl simply. “And I need not much.
Then, too, Edward gave me part of his.”

“’Twas naught,” said the youth hastily.
“Thou wouldst retain nothing for thyself if
thou were not watched. Besides, I am a man,
and stronger than thou.”

“A man?” teased his sister. “A man,
yet thou hast not yet naught but down
upon thy chin; nor art thou of age to wear
buckler.”

“Yet in truth a man,” said Alfred, laying
his hand kindly upon his son’s head. “A man
such as I wish to see, my son. Tender to the
weak, and gentle to the helpless.”

Edward’s face flushed at the praise.

“Come, Ethelred,” he called, to hide his confusion,
to the young man who stood by the fire.
“Come help us to prepare the fish.”

“Gladly,” returned Ethelred. “I have been
warming by the fire, for chill hath the wind
proved, else I had been with ye ere now.
Marry! glad will I be when the Lenat (March)
month hath passed.”

Thus busily and merrily, despite hardships
and dangers, did they prepare the fish, and with
hearts knit more closely together for these same
hardships, the king and his retainers sat down
to supper. As merry and gleeful were they as
when in other days they had gathered round
the festive board in royal hall with wassail and
song, so now sat the Saxon king and his people
in the rude cabin.

After the meal, Egwina sang, for to-night
hope had entered into their hearts, and their
hunger was satisfied as it had not been for days.
Early the next morning, the king crossed to
the mainland. But twice wound he his horn,
when from the alders and forest there came
many men.

“The king! The king!” they cried. “We
rally to his standard!”

“Here is the king,” came the reply, and thus
five hundred more men were added to Alfred’s
number.




CHAPTER XVI—IN THE CAMP OF THE ENEMY
====================================


Easter had passed, and the first faint breath
of spring was in the air. Rapidly the numbers
in Athelney increased. The whole people had
by this time been apprised of the king’s plan,
and were making preparations to join him in
the final blow. Guthrum with his Danes grew
aware of the unusual stir and activity among
them, but found it impossible to discover its
cause.

Still Alfred knew not the strength of the
enemy. Guthrum had removed from Chippenham,
and was now encamped at Westbury.
Into the king’s mind there came a bold idea.
Calling Egwina to him, he said with his winning
smile, “Little one, darest thou to accompany
me on a journey?”

“Gladly, my king,” was the response.

“I will not hide from thee, Egwina, that it
may be fraught with peril both to thee and
to myself. But it will advantage me to take it,
though little do I reck of the outcome. Thou
needst not go unless thou wilt. I will not think
the less of thee if thou dost not choose to go.”

“It matters not, my king, whither, or into
what it doth lead. If thou dost desire me with
thee, then will I go.”

“Thou leal little one! I knew that I could
trust to thy courage. Listen to my plan,
Egwina, and then shalt thou say if thou wilt.
Thou and I will go as minstrels into the camp
of Guthrum, and I shall see for myself his forces
and supplies. Now, what sayest thou?”

But before she could answer, Ethelfleda, who
had joined them, broke in with, “My father,
take me with thee. Did I not sing to thy
harp? I am thy daughter, and it is more
fitting that I should share thy danger than
Egwina.”

“Thou art too proud in thy port for a gleemaiden,”
returned the king. “Far too proud
for my purpose. Thou couldst not be one in
seeming. Egwina hath always been one, and
so will give more of the appearance of truth to
the affair? Thou seest, my daughter, that it
were better for Egwina to go?”

“I see,” answered Ethelfleda slowly. “But, oh,
my father! Mickle sorrow doth it give me that
I have done naught for thee in thine affliction!”

“Thou hast done much,” and the king
soothed her tenderly. “Much! Thou hast
cheered and comforted me by thy presence and
brightness, and that is much, for I wot how thou
hast chafed at the inactivity, my lion-hearted
daughter. This also do I promise thee: the
beacon that bringth all the Saxons together
thou shalt light with thine own hands.”

“Oh, may I?” cried Ethelfleda, delightedly.
“Then, Egwina, no longer do I grudge thee
thy place, but wish all good to befortune thee.”

“Wilt thou go, Egwina, now that thou
knowest what thou will have to encounter? If
it should so be that there are any in the camp of
the Dane who know me, then I wot not what
will become of thee.”

“Think not of me,” returned the girl
earnestly. “Is not the gleemaiden wont to endure
trials? Think not on me, but reflect on
thyself. How shalt thou act, my king?”

“As a gleeman. With harp and song shall
we delight them; then with tricks of mimicry,
and knives and balls, will I excite their mirth.”

“But thou hast also a proud bearing,” and
the girl looked anxious.

“Not more so than thy grandsire,” said Elswitha
with a smile. “He did deport himself
full of pride.”

“And the gifts,” went on the maiden. “Canst
thou receive them humbly and gratefully from
the gift stool?”

“Never fear, little one. Alfred hath been
forced to pillage for food itself lately, and his
pride hath been brought very low.”

So the king disguised himself as a minstrel,
and with Egwina, the gleemaiden, set forth
for the camp of the Dane. After they had
emerged from the forest, they began singing and
playing as they wended their way through the
villages. The people flocked after them, and
many were the invitations extended to tarry at
some hall, but the supposed minstrel and his
daughter refused them, and kept steadily on
their way to the Danish camp.

It was a well fortified place, and, as they
approached, the keen eyes of the king noted
how impregnable its walls were.

“Should we ever succeed in freeing the land
from the invaders,” he said thoughtfully, “the
lesson will not have been in vain. Behold
those walls, Egwina! How staunch and firm
they be! If God so pleases to bestow peace
upon us for a time, fortresses shall be reared,
ships made, and the coasts defended; so
that never again shall Norseman or foe of any
kind ravage the country.”

They came to the gates, and there paused,
singing their sweetest melodies. The warders
listened and opened to them. Minstrels were
held in such esteem that Saxon and Dane
alike looked upon them as non-combatants,
and admitted them freely to the halls of either
side. So it happened that the king and the
maiden were soon amusing the warriors within
the camp.

They roared with merriment at the tricks
of the minstrel, and listened entranced to the
singing of Egwina.

“To Guthrum! To Guthrum they must go!”
cried one of the crowd which surrounded them.
“’Twill warm the heart of the king to hear
them!”

So to the abode of Guthrum were they taken.
The king sat on his high seat at meat when
the warden spake to him:

“A Saxon minstrel is without, good king.
The strings he touches with a master’s hand;
and as he plays the maiden with him sings to
his harp tales of heroes and brave deeds. Fair
is she, and rarely well doth she sing. In sooth,
the tricks the gleeman gives are good also.”

“Then let them enter,” said the king.
“Heavy lieth the heart of Guthrum in his
breast for darkness hath settled over him, and
he feareth evil to come.”

“Enter, minstrel. My lord’s heart is heavy,
ease it with thy art,” and the warder conducted
them into the hall where Guthrum sat with
his jarls.

“Strike thy harp, skald,” said Guthrum, “and
choose some lay that will lighten the shadow
which the death goddess, Hela, hath thrown over
my soul. For to-night, Guthrum sitteth in
darkness.”

Alfred gazed in compassion on the noble countenance
and broad forehead of the Dane before
him. A wish to ease the burthen which evidently
oppressed him by infusing into his soul
some of that comfort which never failed, filled
him. Striking his harp with a strong twang of
the strings after the fashion of harpers, he
exclaimed loudly, “Hwaet!” (what). The
clamour of the surrounding voices was hushed
instantly and he began to sing.

“Tis a Christian hymn, skald. Hast not
something gayer? Some song of the deeds of
thy heroes or ours? Once were Saxon and Dane
brothers from the same Alfadur, but now hath
the Saxon forsaken his gods.”

“Brothers they be still under the All-father,”
returned Alfred. “Brothers, Guthrum, in
stronger bonds than those of yore. And brother’s
hand should not be lifted against brother.”

“Thy harp,” said Guthrum impatiently. “’Tis
music I crave, not thy words.”

Again did the king sing, and this time accompanied
by the maiden. Guthrum raised his
hand.

“Wait, skald. Wondrous is thy skill on the
harp, and delectably also doth the maiden wield
the cymbals. I would that my daughter should
hear ye.”

He motioned to some of his servitors, who left
the hall, and soon returned bearing a chair in
which was seated the form of a girl. She was
very pale, but her dark eyes were bright, and
her countenance, though wan, showed traces of
beauty.

“What aileth thy daughter, O king?” came
from Alfred pityingly as he looked on the white
face of the girl.

“Her knee is swollen, and vain hath been all
leech’s care,” returned Guthrum. “It hath
been long since she hath stood. It pricks me
to the heart thus for Hilda to be so sore
afflicted.”

“Her knee?” The Saxon king drew near the
maiden. “Wheaten flour boiled in milk and
applied while warm hath been known to work
wonders for such misease. Knowest thou not
that Cuthbert was so cured?”

“Cuthbert? No, I know naught of him.
Was he afflicted as I?” spoke the Danish girl
eagerly.

“In the very self-same manner, maiden.
Listen and, if thou wishest, I will tell thee how
the good saint was cured.”

“But thy harp,” interposed Guthrum.
“Work no charm, sir skald, but give us of
thy skill.”

“Nay, my father,” spake the maiden Hilda.
“He worketh no charm, and I would hear of
this Cuthbert. Speak on, skald.”

Alfred looked at Guthrum, and the latter
bowed in assent to his daughter’s wish.

“Cuthbert,” began the minstrel, “was a noble
youth destined for a holy man. He had alway
been straight and handsome, but all at once—

   | “The youth now bent beneath a sudden pain [#]_
   | And led his languid footsteps with a pine.
   | When on a day as in the air he placed
   | His weary limbs, and meek yet mourning lay,
   | A horseman clothed in snowy garments came,
   | And graceful as a courser:—He saluted
   | The youth reclined, who offered his obeisance.
   |
   | “My prompt attentions should be gladly paid
   | To you if grievous pains did not withhold me;
   | See how my knee is swelled—no leech’s care
   | Through a long lapse of time has soothed the evil.”
   | Straight leaped the stranger from his horse and stroked
   | The part diseased, thus counselling:
   |
   | “The flour
   | Of wheat and milk boil quickly on a fire,
   | And spread the mixture warm upon the tumor.”
   | Remounting then he took the road he came;
   | And Cuthbert used his medicine, and found
   | That his physicians from th’ exalted throne
   | Of the Supreme had come, and eased his pain,
   | As with the fish’s gall he once restored
   | The light to poor Tobias.”

.. [#] Bede’s Life of St. Cuthbert.

“That is like me,” said the Danish girl. “Oh,
I wonder if that would avail my poor limb?”

“’Twill harm thee not to try it, and may it
bring thee cure as it did Cuthbert.”

“And ever will I hold thee in grateful memory
should it do so,” said Hilda. “Take this
charm, minstrel, and if it cures as thou dost
say, bring that to Hilda, and from this land’s
demesne shalt thou receive a jarl’s share. Ay,
with vill upon it, too.”

Alfred hesitated.

“From this land’s demesne?” he repeated.
“Then dost thou own the land?”

“Not yet; but Alfred hath fled from our
power, and soon will my father complete that
which he hath so well begun. Fear not, minstrel!
Thou shalt have thy share.”

“But—” began Alfred.

“The king doth wax impatient,” spake Egwina,
quickly. “Should we not again soothe
his brow with melody?”

“Thou speakest well,” said Hilda. “I, too,
would hear thy harp. Take the charm, minstrel,
and bring it me should it fall out as
thou hast said.”

She extended the charm which Alfred took.
Again the king and the maiden sang, and yet
again. Guthrum rose from his seat and with his
own hands bestowed gifts upon them.

“Wondrous is thy skill, and that of the
maiden also,” he said to Alfred. “Yet methinks
that thou art not as are other skalds.”

“Eager and willing am I to accept thy
princely favors, O King, even as other skalds
are,” returned the minstrel. “Kingly are thy
gifts, Guthrum, as doth become thee. Why
sayest thou that I am not as the others?”

“Keen doth flash thine eye, and ever and
anon thy glance doth penetrate as if to read my
soul. An enemy would I say thou wert, but
that thou hast looked with compassion upon
mine afflicted one. And, minstrel, if thy cure
doth work, add to what my child hath granted
any boon that thou dost wish, and it shall be
thine.”

“I will remind thee of thy promise, my
lord,” and Alfred drew his gonna about him.
“Long will the harper remember thy gifts, for
generous have they been, and again may he
seek thy favor.”

He turned to leave, when there came a commotion
from the lower end of the hall.

“Gyda, the seid woman hath come,” came
the cry, and into the room the witch woman
ran.

“Guthrum! I would speak with Guthrum,
the old,” she cried. “This night have I been
warned that the enemy is within the camp.
The Dragon hath come forth from his lair.
He is within thy walls, Guthrum! Seize him,
lest he devour thee!”

“My king, we must fly,” whispered Egwina,
with pale face. “I fear the wicca, for she hath
marvelous power.”

“Nay,” said Alfred. “Tremble not, little one.
Be not afraid. There is One higher than wicca,
in whose hands we are. Let us meet the danger
as Saxons.”

He turned and stood as if to hear what the
seid woman said, and the trembling maiden
drew close to his side.

“What is it that thou sayest, Gyda?” called
Guthrum the king. “That an enemy is in
our midst? Where is he that we may seize
him?”

“Yon skald and the maiden are not what
they seem,” called the woman loudly.

“The skald! The skald! Where is the
skald?” demanded an hundred voices at once.
Alfred advanced into the centre of the hall.

“Who calls the skald?” he asked. “Wish
ye more of harp and song that ye cannot let a
man and his daughter pass?”

“Come hither, minstrel,” commanded Guthrum
as the tumult ceased suddenly at the sound
of the voice of the harper. “And thou, Gyda!
Come thou also, and make thine accusal.”

Alfred looked fixedly at the woman. She
quailed under his glance.

“My lord,” he said to the Dane boldly, “if
I seem not to be what I am, ’tis not the fault
of the minstrel. In token of the truth of my
words thou shalt find in the breast of the seid
woman a jewel of gold. Look! if it be not
there, do to the harper as thou wilt.”

With a cry of rage the seid woman clasped
her hands to her bosom.

“The runes were wrong,” she gasped. “O
my lord, take not from me the jewel. Again
will I read the rede. Let the skald go, for I
have wronged him.”

“And thou hast the jewel even as he hath
said?” queried Guthrum, looking from one to
the other in perplexity.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then,” said the Dane, turning to the minstrel
who stood so calmly waiting his pleasure,
“thou art a galdra smith (a wizard) as well as
harper?”

“Nay,” returned Alfred. “No charm do I
work save that of a good conscience. Some
little lore of leech craft have I, but that be all.”

“And thou art truly a harper?” Guthrum
knew not what to do, yet was loth to let him
go.

“Hast thou not heard for thyself? Be thou
my judge.”

“True,” said Guthrum. “What sayest thou,
Gyda?”

“My lord, let the incantation be prepared for
the seid woman; for this night hath her art
misled her,” returned Gyda, who sought to divert
all minds from the jewel.

“Let the incantation be prepared,” commanded
the king.

“Go,” whispered the Danish woman, and
Alfred turned and without undue haste made
his way unchidden from the hall.




CHAPTER XVII—THE WINNING OF A BUCKLER
=====================================


The time at last was ripe to strike the final
blow. By his visit into Guthrum’s camp,
Alfred had learned the numbers, disposition
and discipline of the Danes. After satisfying
himself as to the chances of a sudden attack, he
had returned to Athelney and sent messengers
to the thegns and ealdormen of neighboring
shires, giving them a tryst for the second week
in May.

Egbert’s stone, twenty-six miles east of Selwood,
was the place of the tryst. The signal for
the gathering of the forces was to be a beacon
light kindled on the top of Stourton’s hill, where
Alfred’s Tower now stands. The light would
be hidden from the Danes by the range of Wiltshire
hills, while it would be visible to the low
country towards the Bristol Channel and to the
south as far as Dorsetshire.

The time had finally come for the decisive
blow to fall, so Ethelfleda and Egwina, whom
the former had generously consented should
accompany her, set forth, with Edward and
Ethelred for protection, to light the beacon.

“Prithee, Ethelfleda, let me carry the coals,”
said Ethelred. “Thou has carried them a long
way already, and I fear that thou wilt be tired.”

“Nay; there is naught to tire me,” said
Ethelfleda. “Besides, I wish to carry the
embers, Ethelred. I like not to have other
hands than mine touch them.”

“How strong thou art in thy purpose, Ethelfleda,”
said the young man with admiration.
“Naught deters thee from thy enterprises after
thou hast entered upon them. Art thou never
discouraged?”

“Sometimes,” confessed the maiden. “Yet,
Ethelred, when once a purpose hath formed
itself within my mind, I cannot loosen my hold
upon it. Discouragements and doubts may
crowd thick and fast upon me; but, I know
not why, my purpose doth shine bright and
clear through them all, and towards it I needs
must wend my way.”

“I would that it were so with me,” retorted
the young man. “But ofttimes doth happenings
turn me from my purpose. Would that I
had thy perseverance.”

“’Tis a virtue that can be cultivated,” said
the girl gayly as she looked at the embers which
she carried in an earthen vessel. “Here we
are, Ethelred, and for thy pleasant words thou
shalt hold the embers until I need them.” She
gave the vessel into his hands, and sank down
before the great heap of brushwood which had
been gathered for the beacon.

“Almost,” said she solemnly, “do I feel like
offering a sacrifice on this fire that all may end
as my father doth desire.”

“It would not please him, sister, to have
aught rendered that savored of heathenism,”
said Edward. “Here are some fine twigs for
the starting.”

Ethelfleda took them.

“Now, Ethelred, the coals,” she called. They
were given her in silence, and the girl carefully
fanned the embers until the fine stuff ignited.
Then she arose and the four stood and watched
the flames as they caught twig after twig creeping
up, up, until finally the whole pile became
a blazing mass which leaped and crackled, darting
tongues of flame higher and higher until
the surrounding wood was ruddy in the glare.
The figures of the four were silhouetted against
the light in bold relief, and so, standing out
against the background of those dark ages, have
the pictures of those four come down to us.

On the morrow Ethelfleda’s own hands buckled
the sword round Ethelred’s waist, while Edward
chafed that he must remain.

“But another year and I too should go,” he
said, appealing to Egwina for sympathy. “O Egwina,
dost thou not think that my father would
let me go? A little year! What is it that it
should make a difference?”

But Alfred turned a deaf ear to their pleadings,
and Edward was forced to the inactivity of
a non-combatant. The forces left with high
hopes. Listlessly the lad wandered about, unable
to occupy himself. At last he sought Egwina’s
side.

“I cannot content myself here,” he said,
“while yonder the battle may rage. ’Tis custom
for women and maidens to follow from afar, why
not for youths also? Wilt thou go with me,
Egwina, to watch the issue of the fray?”

“Gladly, Edward,” answered Egwina rising,
“if thou wilt promise that thou wilt not rush
into it.”

“I am not old enough,” said the youth
scornfully. “O Egwina, it breaketh my heart
that I am not yet able to strike for my country,
but I will bide my time.”

So the two set forth and followed after the
army. Alfred had gathered his forces first at
Egbert’s stone where the whole army had
collected. The Saxons received him with acclamations
of joy. Moving swiftly, Alfred
then fell upon the pagans at Ethandune. They
were taken completely by surprise.

The chief fault of the Saxons hitherto had
been that they fought in an uncompact manner,
and the Danes could overwhelm them by surrounding
a part at a time. This Alfred had
tried to overcome by direction and drill until
now they fell upon the Danes an organized,
skilled force. Furiously did the Northmen receive
the assault. The discharge of the Saxon
arrows was succeeded by the attack of the
lances, and soon it became a personal conflict of
swords. The Danes resisted with their customary
intrepidity, but their efforts though furious were
unavailing. Closer and closer to the combatants
crept Edward and Egwina. The boy’s eyes
were dilated with excitement. He trembled
but not with fear. Suddenly Alfred’s own
standard of the golden dragon upon a white
ground, which Adiva and Gunnehilde had
woven, tottered and fell. The standard-bearer
was struck down with his death blow.

“The standard! the king’s own standard is
down!” screamed Edward, wildly. “It must
not be!”

“Edward! Edward!” shrieked Egwina, but
the boy heard not, or if he heard, he did not
heed. Over the intervening space he flew;
snatched a sword from a dead body as he went,
and then right to the front he ran, and hoisted
the standard on high. The flying figure of the
lad as he appeared amongst them thrilled the
superstitious Saxons with awe. Alfred saw his
son as he dashed into the thick of the fray, and
as he noted with what bravery he bore himself,
a smile of pride lighted up his face.

“Marry, the boy bears himself as if he
were St. Neot come to lead us to victory!”

A Saxon near heard the word St. Neot, and
saw the king gazing in the direction of the
boy. Instantly he sent up the cry that St.
Neot was in the midst of them. Through the
Saxon lines it ran and raised their spirits to
fever heat. Mad with enthusiasm, their resolute
attack was everywhere irresistible, and the
Northmen gave way. Their bodies strewed the
plain. Of those that remained living, many
fled in different directions, and the rest took
refuge with Guthrum in the neighboring fortifications.

Alfred was master of the field. By one
decisive blow he had broken the force of the
Danish invasion. The fleeing Northmen were
pursued and slaughtered. Then the king sat
down before the fortress, calmly awaiting the
surrender that must follow. After fourteen
days, Guthrum, oppressed by want, cold and
despair, sent overtures of peace, which the king,
being filled with pity, accepted.

The pagans promised to leave the kingdom,
after giving hostages to Alfred and receiving
none, which thing had never been done before.
Guthrum, being moved by the noble conduct of
the king, signified his intention of embracing
Christianity, much to the good Alfred’s delight.
Seven weeks afterward, Guthrum, accompanied
by thirty of his jarls, were baptized at a place
called Aller, near Athelney, and there King
Alfred received him as his son by adoption.

After eight days, during which time the
Danes wore, in accordance with the custom of
the times, the Chrismal—a white linen cloth
put on the head when the rite of baptism was
performed; the eighth day what was known as
the Chrism-loosing, or removal of the cloths,
took place at Wedmore, into which royal vill
Alfred now repaired with his family and
Egwina.

Here, too, did he receive Guthrum, or Athelstan,
as we shall now have to call him, for that
was the name he received from the king at his
baptism.

At Alfred’s invitation, Athelstan brought his
family and abode with him for twelve days.
And behold! the maiden Hilda walked straight
and fair. Seeing this, the king approached her.

“Did the wheat flour, boiled in milk, applied
hot, work thy cure?” he asked.

“It did, my lord,” returned the maiden.
“How knowest thou of it? It was told me by
a skald who sang for us with his daughter.”

From the folds of his gonna Alfred drew the
charm which she had given him.

“Behold, maiden, thy charm. Now do I
crave the fulfilment of thy promise.”

“Was it thou?” cried she, in surprise. “My
father said that the skald was not what he
seemed, but naught could he learn from the
seid women concerning him. But alack! No
longer have I power to give vill or jarl’s proportion
of land.”

“None do I crave, Hilda, so that thou art
healed,” answered Alfred.

“Didst thou not say that thou wert what
thou seemest?” queried Athelstan.

“Nay; I but said that if I were not that
which I seemed, it was not the fault of the
minstrel,” answered Alfred. “Dost thou not
remember?”

“I remember, Alfred, and nobly has thou
borne thyself both as foe and friend. Easy is
it to forgive the deceptions upon me for out of
that grew the pity for the misfortune of another.
Though she were the daughter of thy foe, thou
didst generously give her cure for misease.”

“Thou wouldst have done the same, Athelstan,”
returned the king. “At once did I feel
that there was that in thee which spake a kindred
to me.”

“And this is thy son?” Athelstan turned to
Edward who stood near. “To him, King
Alfred, as much as to thy prowess I truly believe
the victory belongs. What a noble charge he
made as unhelmed he rushed into the fray!
Young though is he for battle.”

Alfred smiled proudly.

“Without permission did he join us,” he said.
“Young the boy is. ’Twill not be until next
year that he will be old enow for buckler. But
for his bravery, he shall not need to wait his
year. Edward hath taught me that a king’s son
matureth sooner than others. Which remindeth
me, my son, that thou hast not yet received thy
guerdon. This night repair thee to the priest
and make confession of thy sins, watching the
night through with prayer. On the morrow
thou shalt then be declared a legitimate miles.”

Overcome with joy at this news, Edward
hastened to tell it to Ethelfleda and Egwina.

“Never again will I tease thee, Edward, about
thy age,” said Ethelfleda. “Thou art truly a
man in heart if not in years.”

Egwina joined in the commendation of his
valor.

The night having been passed in accordance
with the custom, in prayer and watching, the
next morning in the presence of a great concourse
of people, Edward heard mass. Then,
having put on a purple robe girded by a belt set
with gems to which was attached a golden
sheath for his sword, the gift of his father, the
youth repaired again to the church and offered
his sword upon the altar.

The priest read from the Gospel, and, taking
the sword, blessed it and placed it on the youth’s
neck with his benediction. The sacrament was
administered to him, and then Edward arose, a
full-fledged Saxon warrior.

“To my country do I consecrate this weapon,”
said he solemnly. “May God judge me if it
be lifted other than in her service.”

“May He help you to keep that vow, my son,”
said Alfred.

And the years have proven how nobly the
boy fulfilled his oath.




CHAPTER XVIII—PEACE
===================


By the treaty of peace between Alfred and
Athelstan drawn up by the witanagemot or
the Saxon parliament which convened at Wedmore
after the baptism of the Danes, the
boundaries of the two kingdoms were defined.
A line beginning at the mouth of the Thames,
and running along the river Lea to its source,
and turning at Bedford to the right along the
Ouse as far as Watling street was to make the
division. The part which was north of the line
being the Danish kingdom and called Danelagh,
while all south of the line was the kingdom of
the Saxons. According to this arrangement a
large portion of Mercia fell to Alfred’s share.

The treaty comprehended various rules for
the conduct of commerce, and courts were instituted
for the trial of disputes and crimes;
although in their own kingdom the Danes were
to be governed by their own laws.

Athelstan was to remain king of the Danes
but to Alfred tribute was to be paid as over lord.
As soon as peace had been concluded, Alfred
turned his attention to the internal affairs of his
kingdom. The lessons of the invasion had not
been lost, and he proceeded at once to put the
country into a complete state of defence. Old
fortifications were repaired and new ones raised
in suitable localities. Flocks and herds again
grazed in the pastures, herds of swine roamed in
the woods, fields were cultivated, houses rebuilt,
and the country entered upon an era of unprecedented
prosperity.

The fleet was brought into a state of great
efficiency, and it was Alfred who at this time
laid the foundation for England’s future supremacy
on the seas. The land had been infested
by robbers, but the king cleared the land
of these by stringent laws which forced them
either to leave the country or become peaceful
and law-abiding citizens.

The laws were not neglected, and the indefatigable
king revised the code, striking out those
which availed not for the time, and adding
others; the whole approved by his witan. He
exerted the utmost care that justice should be
administered to all impartially. He encouraged
commerce, and took a lively interest in geographical
discovery.

The king’s heart had been grieved at the
depth of the popular ignorance, and to the mitigation
of this dark feature of his country did he
also direct his attention. It had been his testimony
that south of the Thames not even the
priests understood the ritual of the church, or
the meaning of the prayers which they repeated.
It was one of his strongest and most cherished
desires that every free-born youth should qualify
himself to read English correctly.

In order to accomplish this, he rebuilt the
monasteries which had been cast down in the
late wars, and which were the great centres of
education in those days, and established schools.
For the furtherance of the same object, he invited
to his court learned men from all quarters, and
with their assistance, completed a number of
works for the diffusion of knowledge throughout
the kingdom.

Among these men from Gaul were Grimbald
and John. Grimbald was a venerable man and
a good singer; adorned with every kind of ecclesiastical
discipline and good morals, and most
learned in holy Scriptures. John, priest and
monk also, was of most energetic talents, learned
in all kinds of literary science, and skilled in
many other arts. Asser of Wales also came.
From Mercia did he call Werefrith bishop of
Worcester, a man well versed in Scripture; and
Plegmund, archbishop of the church of Canterbury.
Ethelstan and Werewulf, priests and
chaplains, Mercians by birth and erudite.

Through these men was the mind of the king
enlarged, and great work accomplished among
the youth. Elswitha, Ethelgiva, and Ethelwerd,
the younger children, were consigned to the
schools of learning where with the children of
almost all the nobility of the country, and many
also who were not noble, they pursued their
studies. Books both in Latin and in Saxon
were they taught. They learned to write, and
became studious and clever in the liberal arts.

Ethelfleda, Edward, and Egwina were not
suffered to pass their time in idleness or without
gain. Well had Egwina profited by the lessons
taught her in the cottage of Denewulf, and her
apt and ready mind soon placed her beside
Edward and Ethelfleda, who had already received
much instruction. When not engaged in
study, the maidens spent much time with the
needle or distaff; while Edward hunted or
trained hawks. Thus did the days pass until
two years had gone by.

Fair had Egwina been in her childhood, but
the maiden of sixteen was wondrously beautiful.
In sweet unconsciousness of her charm she
performed her tasks with light heart for
pleasant were the days to her. But one shadow
darkened the horizon.

Ethelred had conducted himself with so much
prowess, and shown himself endowed with
so much of executive ability that Alfred had
made him ealdorman of Mercia. Also had the
king consented to the marriage of Ethelfleda to
him, and for this event preparations were now
being made.

For this cause was Egwina sad. She rejoiced
in the happiness of the two, yet did it grieve
her sore to lose the companionship of her friend.

“It shall not be for long, Egwina,” comforted
Ethelfleda. “When I am Lady of the Mercians
thou shalt come, and be my companion as thou
hast been.”

So, amongst innumerable multitudes of both
sexes, the marriage was celebrated with great
rejoicing. As was the custom, the feasting continued
both by day and by night for many days.
Wearied by so much mirth and festivity, and
overcome by a feeling of sadness which she
could not control, Egwina stole away from the
guests, and glided out beneath the trees to
a knoll. The moon shone in all her splendor.
The long, deep shadows of the breathless forest
which lay beyond, checkered the silvery whiteness
of open sward and intervening glade.
Pensively the maiden gazed at the moon, and
then she sighed involuntarily.

“Why sighest thou, daughter of Wulfhere?”
asked a voice near.

Egwina turned with a start. Before her
on the knoll stood Gyda, the seid woman.

“Is it thou, Gyda? Long hath it been since
last I saw thee. Then the land was torn with
tumult and warfare; now doth it prosper,
and peace abideth everywhere.”

“True, maiden; happy have been the days.
Pleasant have been my days. Pleasant, most
pleasant, have been thine. Then wherefore
dost thou sigh? Is it because thou art alone?”

“Nay, Gyda,” said the maiden gently. “’Tis
only that I mourn the loss of my friend. Otherwise
I would not have it to be, for Ethelfleda
is happy. She believes that naught can change
us; but thou wottest, Gyda, that now new
duties will claim her attention, and it cannot
be with us as it hath been. Unworthy is it in
me to grieve, but yet, methinks I shall be the
better for it.”

“Egwina,” said Gyda abruptly, “art thou
happy here? Dost thou not often grieve for
the old life and the free? Think of thy father,
and of thy grandfather. Ay! and I have
heard his father, and his father’s father were
gleemen; yet thou stayest here, and there
is peace in the land. Much gold and many
gifts couldst thou bring to thyself by thy
harp and song. Art content to be at the
call of one lord even though that lord is the
king?”

“I do not grieve for the old life, Gyda,” said
the maiden, simply. “Pleasant was it with granther.
Yet methinks I am happier here than
I should be wandering from lord to lord; from
mead hall to mead hall. And the king and his
family love me.”

“And thou wouldst not leave them?” queried
the wicca.

“Nay; why should I? Useful am I to
Elswitha, and now that she no longer will
have Ethelfleda, I shall be more so. No, Gyda;
I would not leave them. ’Twould grieve me
much.”

“Sorry am I to hear it,” and Gyda’s tone
was low. “Child, little didst thou reck that
thou didst make me long to have thee with me
when last I saw thee. The runes speak not
well for Gyda. They grow dim when she
would read what Skulda hath in store for her.
Calamity overshadows me, and a curious longing
hath fallen upon my heart to have thee,
who art pure and innocent, with me. Methinks
I should be the better for it. Canst thou not,
child, give me thyself for a time only? Alfred
hath much. Why should he begrudge me thee
who have none sibbe to me? Wilt thou come to
dwell with me? Much of gold have I, maiden,
and many gems of rare value which have been
showered upon me. These, all these shall be
thine.”

“Gyda, I know not,” answered Egwina much
distressed and full of pity for the woman’s
loneliness. “I will talk with the king and the
lady Elswitha, and let thee know anon. But if
I go with thee, Gyda, ’tis not for gifts or gold,
but for thy loneliness. I will see thee again.”

“Thinkest thou that Alfred will let thee go
from him?” cried Gyda. “I trow not! I trow
not! Thou art born for greatness, and it is much
to ask of thee.”

She drew her mantle over her head, and
turned to go.

“Natheless, Gyda, wait for a little and I will
speak with him,” urged Egwina, laying her
hand upon the woman’s shoulder.

“Wait I will, maiden. Till the dawn I will
wait. Again will I read the runes, and see if
thou wilt come. Dark and clouded have they
been of late, and seid and galdra have availed
me naught; but once more will I try. Fount,
and tree and scin-laeca, shall all be consulted.”

She glided away, and was lost in the darkness.

“Strange, strange woman,” said the girl
musingly, with a shudder. “I pity her, and
yet my heart revolts from dwelling with her;
but still will I ask the king.”

“Egwina, art thou here?” Edward came to
her side at this moment. “Vainly have I
sought thee through hull and bower, and only
caught sight of thee but now. Why didst thou
leave the mirth?”

“I was awearied, Edward, but now will I return
with thee.”

“Soon will we re-enter, Egwina. Ethelfleda
wishes thee to sing the same song which she
heard thee sing when first thou didst sing for
her.”

“That will I do gladly,” and Egwina turned.
“’Tis but a short time that Ethelfleda remaineth
with us, and gladly will I do aught that
she asketh.”

“Nay; go not yet, Egwina. How fine the
night is! Dost thou remember how chill and
drear was the awful night that the Northmen
fell upon us at Chippenham? How fair thou
didst look that night when, child though thou
wert, thou didst stand up in the hall and sing.
Fair thou wert, Egwina, but not so fair as now.
Thou mindest me of a fawn with thy shyness
and grace. Tell me, hast thou kept the charm
I gave thee?”

“Yes, Edward.” Egwina drew the chain
from under the folds of her tunic. “See! The
amulet is as thou didst fasten it.”

The Saxon clasped the amulet with the hand
that held it in his own.

“Egwina, this night wilt thou exchange with
me the true-lofa?”

“Edward, what meanest thou?” The maiden
looked up at him in startled amazement.

“Thou art duller than thy wont, Egwina, if
thou knowest not,” smiled Edward. “I mean
our betrothal. Always have I intended to wed
thee, if thou wert willing, when proper time
should come. What then so fitting as that we
plight our troth now when all rejoice in the
happiness of Ethelred and Ethelfleda?”

“But, Edward,” faltered Egwina, “thou art
the atheling, and I but a gleemaiden. Thou
wilt be the cyning (king) one day, and then
thou wilt know that such as I am not fit to be
the Lady of the Saxons.”

“No other will I choose, if thou be not my
mate,” returned Edward.

“But thy father, Edward; and thou art yet
too young.” Egwina was troubled.

“I will go to my father now, Egwina. If he
says that we are too young, then will I wait his
pleasure. He will sanction our troth and bless
it. And why should he not? He loves thee
now as a daughter. Wilt thou not give me thy
true-lofa, Egwina?”

“Wait until thou hast seen thy father,”
whispered the maiden. “I fear his displeasure.”

“Thou foolish little one! Hath he not been
kind to thee?”

“Always and always,” declared she with fervor.
“But I am not noble. Naught of gentle
blood have I either on the spear side or the
spindle side. I fear, Edward, that the king
will be displeased with me.”

“Marry, I trow not! Stay thou here, and I
will seek him, and soon shall thy fears be
quieted. Remain here, Egwina, for I will soon
return.”

He hastened back into the house with eager
footsteps, and the agitated girl sank down upon
the sward. Soon she heard voices, and wishing
not to meet any one for a while, she withdrew
into the shadows of the trees. It was Alfred
himself and his wife, Elswitha.

“Dear lord,” the lady was saying, “hast
noted how fair the maiden Egwina groweth?”

“Yea; but not before these last few days. I
fear, Elswitha, that soon she, too, will leave us
for some other’s abode.”

“My lord, Edward looks upon the maiden
with loving eyes.”

“Sayest thou so?” cried Alfred. “Why, the
boy is but young! Art thou not mistaken?”

“Nay, a mother’s heart doth not deceive
her, Alfred. Thou wert but eighteen thyself
when we were wed. Thy son is almost the same
age now as thou wert then.”

“Sayest thou so?” Alfred seemed to be
startled. “Why, ’tis but the other day that he
received sword and buckler!”

“Swiftly doth the time fly,” returned Elswitha.
“I know that which I tell thee is true,
and it hath grieved me, Alfred, for Egwina is
not noble.”

“True,” assented the king; “she comes not
of noble blood.”

Egwina covered her face with her hands.
Was it not as she had thought it would be?
Now these dear people, who had done so much for
her, who had been so kind, would be displeased.

Alfred and the lady passed on. Egwina
sobbed aloud in her loneliness.

“Maiden,” came a low whisper.

Egwina looked up to see the form of Gyda
again beside her.

“I have heard all. All that the youth said
to thee, and what the king and his wife said
also. Seest thou not that they wish thee not?
Come! Gyda will cherish thee as her own.”

Egwina looked at her hopelessly.

“What shall I do, Gyda?” she cried. “I
could not bear that they should be cold to me.”

“Thou needst not bear it, child. Come
with me. I promise thee that thou shalt not
regret it. Come! Edward must not find thee
here when he returns. Come!”

She held out her hand. Scarcely knowing
what she was doing, Egwina put her own within
it, and the two glided noiselessly into the woods.




CHAPTER XIX—DARK DAYS
=====================


Away into the forest they went, the seid
woman keeping fast hold of Egwina’s hand, and
speaking not. Once the maiden thought she heard
the voice of Edward calling, “Egwina! Egwina!”
She half paused but Gyda hurried her on. At
last the wicca stopped before a small, low cottage
quite outside the demesne of the royal vill. In
answer to her knock, the door was thrown open
and they entered the hut. The inmates, a wite
and his wife, seemed to know the seid woman,
and accepted the presence of Egwina without
question.

Gyda did not pause to converse with them,
but half carried the drooping form of the girl
into an adjoining room which was evidently used
by her as a bower chamber.

“There, child, lie down,” she said, not unkindly.
“Spent art thou with thy exertions,
and grief maketh heavy thy heart. Rest,
while I prepare thee hot drink.”

The maiden sank on the bed, and gave way to
her woe. Soon the wicca returned with a horn
full of steaming liquid.

“Drink!” she commanded, and the maiden
drank obediently. “’Tis a potion that will lull
thee to dreamless repose, and woe will sit lightly
on thy pillow.”

The eyes of the maiden waxed heavy as the
drug took effect, and soon she sank into a deep
sleep. The seid woman bent over her, noting
her fairness exultantly.

“Now shalt thou be to me as mine own
child,” she murmured. “Happy shalt thou be,
for I will love thee. Always shalt thou be by
my side, and even though the king himself
should claim thee, thou shalt not leave me.
Sleep, my pretty one! None shall take thee
now from Gyda.”

Morning dawned. Egwina awoke from her
heavy slumber, and gazed about her.

“How came I here?” she murmured as she
arose. “Methinks it be strange to me.”

“Art thou up, Egwina?” asked the seid
woman, entering the room at this moment. At
sight of her the memory of all that had happened
came back to Egwina with a shock.
“That is well,” continued Gyda. “Breakfast
we eat, and then wend we on our journey.”

“Where go we?” asked the maiden, turning
from her that she might not see her emotion.

“To Gunnehilde’s in the forest of Selwood,”
answered Gyda pretending not to notice Egwina’s
grief. “Afterward to Athelney, where
Alfred gathered his forces together. There,
mayhap, I will acquire new virtue. The Saxon
King is my Flygia. Thou dost not mind returning
thither, dost thou?”

“Nay,” answered the girl sadly; “it matters
not where we wayfare.”

“Be not cast down, child,” said the woman
gently. “Some dark threads are woven into
the woof of each life. All cannot be golden.
Thou art young and soon will thy trouble fall
from thee even as the shadow halting between
the light and the darkness passes away into the
night. Sorrow sits not long with the young.
Come, let us eat.”

Egwina partook mechanically of the food set
before her, and then prepared to follow Gyda on
her journey. They proceeded silently, for the
heart of the maiden was heavy, and Gyda, too,
seemed weighed down by some care. At last
the seid woman aroused herself, and turned to
the girl:

“Let us beguile the journey by talk, my
child. Wouldst thou that I should read thy
rede for thee?”

“Nay, Gyda; I care no more for rede or
rune. Dark are the shadows which they cast,
and I would fain be free from their witchery.”

“Yet, natheless, give me thy palm. Believe
as thou wilt. Belief cometh not at the bidding;
neither doth it depart. Thou believest not; I
believe. Yield, then, thy palm for my pleasure.”

Reluctantly the maiden permitted the woman
to scan the lines of her hand. Gyda’s troubled
look returned as she examined them.

“Dark, dark spreads the near future,” she
cried. “Bright is the ending, but, oh, child!
thy trouble hath but begun. Would I had left
thee with Alfred. It is not yet too late. Come,
let us retrace our steps. Thus only canst thou
avoid the danger.”

Egwina shook her head. “No, Gyda; I
wish not to return. If danger or trouble come,
I will ask for strength to meet it. Let us
on.” She withdrew her palm from Gyda’s and
started onward.

“But thy life endeth in glory,” said Gyda,
comfortingly more to herself than to Egwina.
“It endeth in great glory. What doth it matter
after all if we go not back? What hath
been woven, hath been woven!” She lapsed
into silence which was broken by her presently:
“Child, wouldst thou not do something
for me?”

“Willingly, Gyda, if I can.”

“Thou canst if thou wilt.” The woman’s
tone was low, and her manner almost supplicating.

“What is it, Gyda?”

“Call me no longer Gyda, but mother. Once
I had a child, and she would have been like
unto thee had she lived, but Hela took her from
me. Wilt thou, Egwina?”

“I will try,” and the girl turned to her in
sudden pity, moved by the yearning in the
woman’s voice, and laid her hand gently upon
her arm.

“Thou wilt?” exclaimed Gyda, joyously. “I
will be so good to thee, child. Thou shalt not
regret it. Now sing to me, my daughter!
Sing for thy mother. Often had Gyda heard
the echo of thy sweet voice in her heart.
Sing, my pretty one; ’twill cheer both thee and
me.”

Bravely subduing her own feelings, Egwina
sang the songs the woman asked for, and thus
alternately singing and talking, the journey to
the hut of Gunnehilde was at last accomplished.
Gyda bade the maiden remain without the
hut, for she feared that the vala would recognize
her.

“Stay thou here until my return, my child.
Move not from the log where thou sittest, for
thou mightest stray too far into the forest. I go
to consult the vala.”

Egwina sat down as the woman bade her. It
was some little time ere Gyda returned. When
she did so she seemed deeply stirred and somewhat
upset.

“Move quickly,” she cried. “Let us to
Athelney. It may be that there Gyda will regain
that power which now comes not at her
bidding.”

Egwina followed after her. A brisk walk
soon brought them to the island, but lo! a great
change had taken place. Instead of the fortifications
and rude huts which Alfred had erected
during his time of need, there rose the stately
walls of a monastery. With a cry of despair,
the wicca dropped upon the ground.

“What is it?” cried Egwina, coming to her.

“Child, child, I am undone! Seest thou not
yon walls? They have taken the charm from
the place. Curses be upon them! No galdra
or seid can flourish in the shadows of such
walls.”

She moaned in her despair; then from her
bosom drew the jewel of Alfred.

“Evil hast thou brought to me instead of
good,” she exclaimed. “Yet did not the volva
tell me by the fount when the scin-laeca rose
from the grave that jewel of Saxon I must have
to complete my knowledge? One of the line
of Cerdic, and from Cerdic came Alfred. Why,
then, do I falter? Why grow the runes dark
before me? Gunnehilde hath said that a loss
was coming, and death. Death? No, I defy
it! Hela shall not yet have her prey; I will
try the charm despite mone (monk) and
priest.”

She arose and started across the bridge from
the mainland.

“Come,” she called to the maiden, who lingered,
half terrified by her manner. Then she
turned, and almost ran on the bridge. She had
but reached the middle of it, when her foot
slipped and she fell. As she did so, the jewel
dropped from her hand into the water below.
With a moan of anguish the woman lay prone
upon the bridge. Egwina hurried to her.

“Art ill?” she asked. “Let me help thee
up.”

Gyda rose hopelessly. “Fate must be met,”
she said, with despairing calmness. “I have
had my moan; now will Gyda accept that which
Skulda hath spun for her.” She turned to go
back to the mainland.

“But wilt thou not go to the island?” asked
the girl.

“Nay; ’tis useless. Home now do we wend
our way. If Gunnehilde readeth the runes
aright it will not be for long.”

In melancholy silence, with no beguiling of
the journey by song or talk, the two wended
their way to the woman’s home which was in
Berkshire. The life of Egwina now became
very different from what it had been. Life at
Alfred’s vill had been full of duties and pleasures.
Here the seid woman’s time was filled by
consultations of bark and fountain, and by exercises
of her art into which she tried to get the
girl to join. Egwina’s soul sickened with loathing
at sight or sound of magic, and she resisted
all efforts to get her assistance in the
rites.

Vainly she strove to lead the woman from
the subject, and, remembering what the abbot
had told of the good priest Aldhelm and his
singing, tried by singing Christian hymns to
inculcate a longing to hear of the Christian’s
God. But Gyda would have none of them.

“Sing them not,” she said. “Much doth thy
voice please me, but sing not if they be all that
thou canst sing. Galdra doth not flourish where
such songs are sung.”

And Egwina ceased singing entirely. As the
woman grew more feeble, she practiced her rites
more and more until the house seemed peopled
by demons who waited only a summons to step
forth. Her temper, too, became very uncertain.
She loaded Egwina with caresses, and railed at
her alternately. Although she grew thin and
pale under this treatment, Egwina bore patiently
with her, for she knew that death was
fast approaching.

“Give me thine arm,” said Gyda one day to
Egwina. “Hela will sit with me soon, and I
would fain prepare for her coming.”

Leaning heavily upon Egwina’s shoulder, she
went into her room.

“Leave me,” she commanded. “I will call
thee when I need thee.”

Thus adjured, the maiden left her with some
uneasiness, for Gyda seemed much weaker.
Long she remained waiting, and hearing no
sound became uneasy, and softly entered the
room. Gyda sat before a large box on the floor
fingering lovingly the coins and gems which it
contained. So intent was she that she did not
hear the girl enter. Egwina started to leave
the room as quietly as she had entered it, but in
so doing she made a noise which caused the
woman to look up. With an exclamation of
rage she sprang to her feet with unwonted vigor,
her eyes flaming with anger.

“How durst thou spy upon me?” she cried
in fury. “How durst thou, girl? Thinkest
thou to get the gold now? But thou shalt not.”

“Nay, nay, Gyda,” began Egwina, soothingly,
advancing toward her. “I did but come
to see why thou wert so still.”

“Tell me not that thou didst not spy upon
me. Thou didst!” and the enraged woman
struck her violently with her staff.

The blow was so sudden and severe that
Egwina fell heavily to the floor. Instantly the
woman’s anger fled when she saw what she had
done, and she tottered to the girl, her strength
leaving her.

“Forgive me, my pretty one! I meant it not.
Gyda meant not to harm thee.” But the maiden
had fainted.

As soon as she saw this the woman dragged
herself back to her treasure, and restored it to
its hiding place. Then again she approached
the girl and hung over her prostrate form,
moaning, and strove feebly to revive her. Presently
Egwina recovered consciousness. Gyda
caressed her tenderly.

“My child! My child! I have been cruel
to thee. Canst forgive me? Not much longer
shalt thou need to bear with Gyda, for
Hela even now breatheth cold upon my
brow.”

“I forgive thee, Gyda,” said Egwina weakly.
“Thou didst not mean to hurt me. Thou
wotted not what thou wert doing.”

“No, no; I wotted not. Say, I forgive thee,
mother. Give me thy hand and say it.”

Egwina stretched forth her hand and took
the woman’s gently.

“I forgive thee, mother,” she said softly.

With an effort the maiden raised herself, bent
over the woman and kissed her.

“Now lie beside me. Art weak, Egwina?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Mayhap Hela will bear thee to Niflheim
also,” and a triumphant expression flitted across
Gyda’s face. “It would glad my heart to have
thee with me there. Shouldst like to die,
Egwina?”

“I mind it not, Gyda. Heaven is bright and
beautiful, and granther would be there. Dear
granther! We were so happy together! Would
I were with him!”

“Wouldst rather be with him in thy heaven
than with me in Niflheim?” asked the woman,
jealously.

“Mind it not, Gyda. He is mine own granther,
and he loves me.”

“So do I love thee. It groweth dark, Egwina.
Lie closer.”

Egwina crept close to Gyda, and the woman
drew her within her arms.

“Shall I not help thee to thy couch, Gyda?”

“Thou canst not, child. What doth it matter
where we meet Hela?”

Then there fell a silence. Weakened by
the trying days that had preceded, the blow
seemed to have robbed the girl of all energy,
and soon she fell into a deep sleep.

Suddenly she awakened. The light streamed
faintly into the room. Stiff from long lying,
she tried to move, but only did so with much
difficulty. Raising herself on one arm, she
turned toward the figure at her side. Noting
how perfectly still Gyda lay, she bent over her
and looked into her face. She was dead.

With a scream of horror, Egwina sprang up.
At this instant a man and woman, attracted by
her cry, entered the room. Egwina took a step
toward the woman, then clasping her hands to
her head, she reeled and fell an unconscious
heap on the floor.

“’Tis a pity that the jade waxeth sick at this
time,” a voice broke rudely upon Egwina’s ear
one morning as she awoke with the clear light
of reason in her eyes. “Here we but get done
wailing for the mother, when the daughter must
be sick also.”

“Was she her daughter?” came a man’s
voice. “I knew not that Gyda had a daughter,
sibbe though we be.”

“Do not the neighbors say so?” asked the
first voice. “How should she be here if not
her daughter? But now ’tis burthensome for
the minx to be sick.”

“Well, see how she doeth. We cannot treat
her ill, though but for her, all of Gyda’s
treasure would befortune us. Much hath
she hidden somewhere, and when the girl
becometh better, mayhap she will tell us where
it be.”

“Not she,” grumbled the other. Still grumbling
the woman approached the bed where Egwina
lay.

“How art thou this morning?” she asked.

“Have I been ill?” The clear eyes of Egwina
looked at the woman in amazement.
“Who art thou and why am I here?”

“Who am I? Why Githa, the wife of Sweyn,
own cousin to thy mother. Who else should I
be?” asked the woman, who was of surly countenance.

“But I wot not thy meaning. I have no
mother; nor have I had sith a child. Nor have
I ever heard of any of that name sibbe to us.”

“Odin hear her!” ejaculated the woman.
“Dost thou hear that, Sweyn?”

“What?” asked the man.

“The girl doth deny her kith and kin.”

“Well, sith she doth, let her deny,” returned
the man lazily.

“But seest thou not, blockhead, that ’tis to
keep us from the money,” cried the woman
angrily.

The man sprang to his feet and entered the
room where they were. Egwina regarded the
pair with wonder.

“Art thou not Gyda’s daughter?” demanded
the man of her.

“Gyda’s? No. Why should ye think me the
seid woman’s daughter?” asked Egwina in
amazement.

“Hast thou not lived here with her always,
and then sayest thou that thou art not her
daughter?” the woman exclaimed fiercely.
“How now, maiden?”

“Nay; but I am not her daughter,” reiterated
Egwina.

“Then how camest thou here? The neighbors
say that thou wert here for weeks, and that
Gyda called thee daughter. Thou didst call her
mother!”

“True; but it was to please her that I called
her thus. Her own child died, and she yearned
for love as age crept upon her. Hence she took
me to dwell with her.”

“And so thou art not Gyda’s daughter?”
cried the woman.

Egwina shook her head.

“Then thou hast no claim to gold or gem
that may be found?” said the woman quickly.

“None,” said Egwina briefly.

“Tell us where she kept them hidden,” cried
the man.

“I know not,” replied the maiden. “I only
know that the day she died,” and a strong
shudder shook her frame at the remembrance,
“I came upon her as she did count some gold
from a box. Did ye not see it when ye came
into the room?”

“Was it the room where we found ye together?”
asked the man.

“Yes.”

“And thou has not seen aught but that?”
queried he.

“Naught but that,” replied the girl, wearily.

“Then what doest thou here?” The woman
looked so fierce that the maiden trembled.

“Wife, she cannot go now. If she be not
Gyda’s child, we care not if she stay until
she be well. We will have it all,” spoke the
man.

“Yea; I will go as soon as I am able,” cried
Egwina. “Prithee let me stay until then.
’Twill be but a little longer!”

Reluctantly the woman consented.




CHAPTER XX—ÆLFRIC’S REVENGE
===========================


Egwina’s recovery was rapid. She saw that
as she grew stronger, the impatience of Sweyn
and Githa to have her gone increased. With
her by, they feared to hunt for the treasure
which Gyda had left. So one day Egwina
thanked them for their kindness in caring for
her, and again set forth to wend her way from
mead hall to mead hall to gain good will by her
singing. No longer had she harp with which
to accompany herself, and sadly did the girl
miss the loved instrument. Her voice had lost
none of its sweetness and power, and her exceeding
fairness procured for her a ready hearing;
and so, in safety and peace, for the stringent
laws of Alfred were such that gold bracelets
might hang on the high road unmolested, she
wandered from burgh to burgh.

One day she found herself on the road to
Winchester. Memories of when last she had
seen the place crowded thick upon her. Here
upon this very log had she tarried to rest with
her grandfather. Here was where she first
met Ethelfleda and Edward. A sob of loneliness
broke from her lips as she thought of them.
How long ago it all seemed! Had she ever
been a member of the king’s family? What
would they say if they should know that again
she wandered homeless over the land? Bright
and happy had been the days when with her
grandfather they had sauntered leisurely from
place to place. Now she was alone. A throb
of self-pity filled her heart.

She paused before entering the town. The
king might be here even now, and Edward!
Should she go on? Then an overwhelming
desire to look once more upon their faces, herself
unseen, possessed her. For this once she
would see them if the king were at his royal vill.
With this determination the maiden entered the
city. But the king had not yet come to Winchester,
so somewhat disappointed, Egwina turned
her steps toward the manor of a thegn, and, as
was her wont, joined in the glee of the feast.

Bed and entertainment for a day and a night
could be had by the meanest wayfarer, so without
comment, the maiden took her place among
the singers and harpers. Her beauty and
the sweetness of her voice soon attracted the attention
of Oswald the thegn, and brought from
him a request for more.

“Brother,” said the maiden addressing a
harper, “lend me thy harp. Once did I have
one of mine own, but ’tis gone. The song is the
better for the accompaniment.”

“I need the harp for song of mine own,” answered
the harper churlishly. “Sith thou
hast the ear of Oswald, why needst thou the
harp?”

Fearing a refusal from the other gleemen,
Egwina asked not another, but sang without the
instrument, and great was the approval of
Oswald.

“Thou shall remain as gleemaiden under my
mund (protection),” he said, “and bounteous
shall be thy gifts.”

“Prithee, sir,” said Egwina for she wished
not to remain where Alfred and Edward might
come at any time, “ask me not to abide with
thee; for I wish not to stay in Winchester.
This night will I make glee for thee as much as
thou wishest, but to-morrow must I wend my
way hence.”

“Have it thine own way, girl,” said the
thegn good naturedly, “though I wish thou
wouldst stay. Playest thou the harp?”

“Yes, good thegn.”

“Thou hast none of thy own, I see. Edwy,
lend thy harp to the maiden. I would hear if
she hath skill.”

With a sulky look on his face the harper
whom Egwina had asked for his harp handed it
to her. Thanking him, the maiden swept the
strings of the instrument and played with such
rare skill that even the gleemen were forced to
acknowledge her power. The thegn at last
declared himself satisfied, and, after making
her promise that she would abide in the manor
till after the next night, Egwina retired to the
chamber assigned her.

The great mead hall was deserted the next
morning when the maiden, hardly knowing how
to occupy herself until the evening, strayed into
it. On one of the benches where sat the gleemen
and harpers there lay the harp of Edwy.
The maiden took it up with delight. Not since
she had left the palace of Alfred had she
touched a harp until the night before.

The instrument seemed like a friend to her.
Tenderly she touched it; then, carried away by
fond memories, let her fingers stray idly over
the strings, musing on the time when she had
taught the king to play.

“Thou hast improved, maiden, since last I
heard thee,” said a voice in her ear.

Egwina turned with a start. Ælfric the
juggler stood beside her. At first the maiden
could not recall his name or who he was,
when Ælfric, seeing her bewilderment, said:

“Thou canst not gainsay thy knowledge of
me, girl. Wot ye not that thou and thy father
didst make me into a theow?”

“Art thou truly the juggler?” asked Egwina,
shrinking back from the fierce look of the
man’s face.

“I am in truth he. Where is thy father!”

“Dead,” came from the maiden, faintly.

“Art thou alone?” a malignant look came
into the man’s eyes.

Egwina nodded. “And thou?” she asked.
“Art thou still a wite? I hope not. I would
have tried to get granther to return and pay
the were for thee, but that the Danes oppressed
so that there was no thought save for safety
from them.”

“I needed not your aid,” came from Ælfric.
“A freed-man do I stand before thee with help
of none save Ælfric. But what dost thou with
Edwy’s harp?”

“I did but try it;” and Egwina laid it down.

“Hast thou none of thine own that thou must
try those of others?”

“No; I have none;” and Egwina sighed.
”Truly, Ælfric, thou hast had thy desire, and
ill hath been our fortune. Dead lieth granther,
and alone do I wander without kith or
kin. Soon I hope to find some lord to take me
for his gleemaiden.“

“Why stayest thou not here?” questioned
Ælfric.

“I wish not to be in Winchester,” returned
Egwina. “Tell me, Ælfric, thou dost not
regard me now with hatred, dost thou?”

A cruel light shone in the man’s eyes; but
he answered:

“No; if ye have both suffered, it is sufficient.”

Without saying more he left the hall, and
Egwina saw him not while she was at the
hall.

The next morning, laden with many gifts
bestowed by the bounty of Oswald the thegn,
the maiden started forth, resolved to speedily
seek the protection of some lord.

She had gone but a little way from the
manor, when she heard her name called, and
looking back she beheld a bond-woman running
toward her. In her hand was Edwy’s harp.

“This also hath my lord sent thee,” she cried,
her breath coming quickly from the exertion of
running.

“But the instrument belongeth to the
harper!” cried Egwina in amazement.

“He hath another for Edwy. Take and
question not the bounty of the thegn.” The
woman thrust the instrument into the girl’s
hands before she could prevent her, and was gone.

Egwina stood for a little while regarding the
harp with surprise and some disquietude.

“I would that the thegn had not done this,”
she mused. “I like not to take the harp of a gleeman.
I wot not what manner of lord he may
be who takes from one to bestow on another. I
know not what to do.”

She pondered the matter for a time, then
throwing the ribbon of the harp over her
shoulder went on her way. It was evening when
she entered the courtyard of a manor, and proceeded
to the mead hall. Waiting until all had
sung or contributed their portion to the glee, the
maiden began a song. In the midst of it there
came the noise of horses’ hoofs from without,
and a voice vociferously demanded admission.
The wassail and glee were suspended while every
one looked curiously at the men who entered.

The group consisted of several Saxons; among
them, Oswald the thegn, Ælfric the juggler,
Edwy the gleeman, and others.

“Now what seek ye, friend Oswald, that so
unmannerly ye do enter our castle?” cried the
thegn of the manor.

“Yon maiden,” said Oswald pointing at Egwina.
“Last night, and the night before, she
sang in my hall at the glee. Laden with gifts
did I send her forth, but that did not suffice.
With covetous eyes she looked upon the harp
of Edwy the gleeman, and that hath she
taken with her. We come that we may take
her to the reeve that the doom may be pronounced
upon her.”

“That girl?” The thegn and the retainers
looked at the maiden in surprise. “She looks
not as if she would do so base a thing.”

“And neither would I!” spake Egwina, recovering
from the consternation into which
Oswald’s speech had thrown her. “Good Oswald,
didst thou not send thine bond-woman to
me with this harp as additional gift after I had
left thine abode?”

“Marry, no! Why should Oswald take that
which belongeth to another to give thee? Hath
he not wealth enow of his own?”

“But didst thou not send the woman to me?”
faltered the maiden.

“A likely story,” cried Ælfric the juggler.
“Is it the custom for a lord to run after a gleemaiden
with his gifts? I trow not!”

A loud guffaw from the Saxons in the hall
greeted this remark. Poor Egwina was covered
with confusion.

“But truly my lord,” said she, addressing
Oswald, “a woman did bring it and give it me.”

“Maiden,” said Oswald sorrowfully, “add
not to theft the vice of lying. Of both sins the
Scripture doth warn us.”

“But I speak the truth,” cried Egwina, clasping
her hands. “I speak the truth, my lord, as
I live by bread.”

A look of compassion overspread over the
thegn’s face.

“Fair art thou, maiden! Too fair to utter
such words. Evil hath been thy surroundings
if so innocent looking a maiden shouldst so
perjure herself.”

“To think that the jade would say that my
lord would give away the harp of his gleeman,”
spoke Edwy. “Saw ye not, Ælfric, with what
longing eyes she gazed upon it?”

“I saw,” answered Ælfric. “Nought remaineth
but to take her to the gerefa. Let him
pronounce doom upon her.”

There was so much of malignity in his tone
that Egwina looked at him, and seeing with
what cruel triumph he gazed upon her, knew in
her inmost soul that it was Ælfric who had
caused this thing.

In silence, she suffered herself to be carried
back to the manor of Oswald to await the morning
when she would be taken to the gerefa for
trial.




CHAPTER XXI—THE TRIAL OF EGWINA
===============================


Before the ealdorman of the shire, and the
gerefa or reeve, was Egwina taken. It was the
folk moot of the shire. The bishop should
have been present, but he was attending the
king at Windshore. Many were in attendance,
and the maiden shrank from the curious eyes
fixed upon her.

“In the Lord,” said Edwy the gleeman, as
he took the oath, “I accuse not the maiden
neither for hate, nor art, nor unjust avarice, nor
do I know anything more true, but so my mind
said to me, and I myself tell for truth, that this
maiden, called Egwina the Fair, is the thief of
my harp.”

“Thou art sure of this, Edwy?” asked the
gerefa, Beornwulf, won by the sweet face of the
maiden.

“Marry, am I not on my oath?” blustered
the man. “Not only do I ween that the maiden
took the harp, but I wot it.”

“Declare then thy charge,” said Beornwulf.

“The maiden did enter the hall but three
days since at sunset,” deposed Edwy. “She
sang and well did she please my Lord Oswald.
That ye may know that naught but love of justice,
and the restoration of mine own property
doth animate me, I will say that she sang well.
Then did my lord call for more, and the maiden
asked for my harp, but, being unwilling that the
sunbeam of the gleeman should go from my
hands, I loaned it not. My Lord Oswald then
commanded that the maiden have the harp, and
it was given her. She gave it me again. The
next night she sang again at the glee. In the
morning she went her way. Lo! when I would
have accompanied my song with the instrument
it was gone. We followed after the maiden, and
found it with her. I have said.”

He sat down. The statement was clear and
direct. Egwina looked at the gerefa, and saw
that he was impressed by the recital. Friendless
and alone in the crowd she sat with none
to believe in her innocence.

Ælfric next took the oath, and deposed that
the morning thereafter, the first night of which
the harper spake, he had entered the hall.
There sat the maiden, and in her hands was
the harp of Edwy which she did finger with
lingering touch. He had joined in the pursuit
of the girl, and when they found her, behold
the harp was in her hands. When he had
made an end of speaking, he raised his right
hand solemnly and said: “In the name of
the almighty God! As I here stand in true witness,
unbidden and unbought; so oversaw I it
with mine eyes, and overheard it with mine
ears what I have said.”

The maiden raised her head and looked the
fellow straight in the eye. Ælfric quailed at
that clear gaze, and in some confusion took his
seat. Oswald the thegn then took the oath, and
swore to the truth of what the other two had
said, adding, that though he compassionated the
maiden, he felt that he must deliver her to the
doom of the land.

“Maiden,” the gerefa turned to Egwina and
his face was full of honest sorrow, “it mislikes
me to believe that this is as these have sworn.
Take now thine oath, and if thou canst say
aught in rebuttal of what these have said,
speak.”

The maiden stood up, and proud was her port
as she took the oath, and cried earnestly: “In
the name of the Lord! I am innocent both in
word and deed of this thing of which the gleeman
accuses me.”

“Child,” said the gerefa, “perjure not thy
soul. Thou art on oath.”

“I know that I am on oath,” said the maiden
in a clear, steady voice. “I say again, my lord
gerefa, I am innocent of this charge. ’Tis true,
as Edwy hath said, that I did ask him for the
harp. Sweeter is the voice of the singer with
its music. It is the wish of all our craft to
please, thus would I have enhanced my chance
to delight others. True is it also, that Ælfric
found me alone in the hall trying the instrument.
It lay on the seat of the gleeman, and
it harmed none that I did try it. Then, my
lord, and the truth do I speak as I tell thee,
when I left the thegn’s manor laden with generous
gifts, there came one running after me, a
bond-woman carrying the harp. ‘This also hath
my lord sent thee,’ she cried. Wondering much
that a lord should send as gift the property of
another, I took it not, but spake of the matter.
‘Question not the gifts of my lord but take
them,’ she said, thrusting it upon me. Before
I could say aught else, she ran from me, and I
was forced to proceed with the harp, wondering.”

“Strange is thy tale, maiden.” The gerefa
spoke doubtingly. “Never, I ween, hath a lord
been known to take from one to bestow on
another. Strange, strange thy tale!”

“Yet methinks that there is the sound of truth
in the maiden’s words,” spoke the ealdorman.
“Prithee, my Lord Oswald, have thy bond-women
brought that they may be spoken with,
and we shall see how truly the maid doth speak.”

Egwina looked at him gratefully. It was the
first word that she had heard that evinced
anything like faith in her innocence. A silence
fell upon the people as the thegn sent for his
bond-women, and as they waited their appearance
some were there who, won by the beauty of
the maiden, openly expressed a belief in her
innocence. At last the gesiths of Oswald returned,
and with them came the bond-women.
Motioning them forward, the gerefa said to
Egwina, “Maiden, as these pass before thee, say
which was the one who gave thee the harp.”

Egwina looked at the women as they passed.
Finally, at the end of the line, there came one
whom she regarded attentively.

“This, my lord gerefa,” spake she, “is the
one who gave it me.”

The reeve called the woman to him and administered
the oath.

“State, woman,” said he, “when and where
thou didst give the harp to the maiden.”

The woman looked at him in surprise.

“Dread lord, I wot not thy meaning.”

“Didst thou not follow after the maiden, and
give her a harp?”

“Nay; I know not what thou meanest,” declared
the woman.

“Knowest thou not the maiden? Tell if thou
hast even spoken with her.”

“I saw the maiden in the hall of Oswald the
thegn,” deposed she. “For two nights and a
day did she abide therein, and when there was
wassail she sang for the glee. On the morning
of the third day did she bid us good-by and
wended her way hence; whither, my lord, I wot
not. Neither wot I more of her.”

“Dost thou know aught of the harp, and how
the maid came by it?” demanded the ealdorman,
moved by the look of despair on the maiden’s
face. “Take the instrument, and look at it.
Declarest thou, woman, that thou hast never beheld
it before?”

The woman took up the harp and looked at it
closely.

“Many and oft are the times that I have seen
it,” she said, with an appearance of candor. “It
is that of Edwy the gleeman.”

“How knowest thou?”

“Once he did ask that I clean it for him.
Here, my lord, is where by accident I scratched
the wood when I had holpen him.”

“And thou gavest it not to the maid?” The
ealdorman was plainly disappointed.

“No, my lord,” declared the woman positively.
“Why should I give to the girl Edwy’s harp?”

The gerefa turned to Egwina who, with pale
face, listened to the woman’s denial.

“Thou hearest what the woman hath deposed.
Is there aught else that thou hast to say before
thy doom be pronounced upon thee?”

Egwina was troubled. “I know not what to
say,” she said, despairingly. “The truth have
I declared to thee, my lord—the truth, and
naught but the truth. This is she who gave
me the harp. Why she should gainsay the fact,
I know not. But as my soul liveth, I declare
to thee that I am innocent of this charge which
hath been brought against me. It hath been
borne in upon my mind that malice hath been
at work, and that Ælfric hath arranged the
matter; that for vengeance sake he hath testified
falsely, and wrought this evil.”

“Maiden, no longer can we listen to thee.
Receive the doom as thou knowest it to be,”
commanded the gerefa.

But the ealdorman cried, “Brother, are we
not to administer justice? While still there
is a doubt, suffer the girl to benefit by it. Let
her declare cause why Ælfric should wish to
wreak vengeance upon her.”

“Why should we listen?” returned the reeve,
impatiently. “Hath she not been given a fair
trial? One artifice—that of the woman—hath
failed. Shall we try another? Marry,
no!”

“Yet, still let us listen,” requested the ealdorman.
“Maiden,” without waiting for the assent
of the reeve he turned to Egwina, “thou hast
not before seen Ælfric the freed-man. Why,
then, should this be his vengeance upon thee?”

“Oh, my lord, but I have seen him before!”
cried Egwina, hope springing once more in her
breast. Rapidly she recounted the circumstances.

“It may be as thou sayest,” mused the ealdorman.
“Brother, let us search into the matter
as the maiden hath told.”

“No;” the gerefa was full of impatience.
“’Tis but a wile of the jade. Besides, hath
it not been clearly shown that she hath stolen
the harp? Arise, maiden, and hear thy doom.
Too long now hast thou detained us. It hath
been proved by witnesses, both unbought and
unlying, that thou didst take from the manor
of Oswald the thegn the harp of Edwy the
gleeman. More hath also been shown. Not
only didst thou steal the harp, but thou wert
found with it in thy possession. Hear, then,
the doom.”

“But, my lord, I am innocent—innocent,”
interrupted Egwina, wildly. “By the Powers
of Heaven, I swear to thee that I am innocent.”

“Girl, darest thou to blaspheme?” cried the
gerefa, recoiling from her. “Darest thou to
call upon the Powers of Heaven?”

“Aye!” cried Egwina, springing to her feet.
“And not only upon the Powers alone, but upon
Him who ruleth over all as well. Sir Gerefa, a
greater than thou shall be my judge. I commit
my soul to God to attest its innocence. Sir,
I demand the ordeal.”




CHAPTER XXII—THE ORDEAL
=======================


The effect on the people was electrical. A
murmur went up that the maiden was innocent
else she durst not appeal to the Supreme Judge.
Ælfric the juggler turned pale. The tendency
toward belief in the girl’s innocence grew into
a certainty in the heart of the ealdorman, and
even the gerefa seemed somewhat softened.

“Child, child,” he said, compassionately, “wottest
thou what thou askest?”

“Yea, I know,” answered Egwina, firmly.
“By fire or by water as ye may choose, my lord
gerefa and my lord ealdorman, and with God be
the judgment.”

“With God be the judgment,” repeated the
gerefa solemnly. “But with thee lieth the
choice.”

“Do ye two choose,” said the maiden, “that
ye may be satisfied with the trial. It will please
me the better to have it so decided.”

“Then, brother,” said the gerefa, addressing
the ealdorman, “what sayest thou to the ordeal
by water?”

“If it suit the maiden, I will not gainsay the
choice,” returned the ealdorman.

“Then, maiden, thou shalt to the bishop, who
will return to Winchester this day. There wilt
thou purify thyself by just preparation for the
rite. Let bread and salt, water and herbs only
be thy portion. Three days shalt thou tarry at
the abode of the bishop; then, purified and
absolved, the ordeal will be given thee. In the
presence of witnesses, twelve for thee, and twelve
against thee, shalt thou enter the church with
the priest. Into boiling water shalt thou plunge
thine arm to the elbow, and from the water shalt
thou take a stone heated hot. And may God,
the Supreme Ruler, who on the last great day
shall judge the quick and the dead, be thy judge.
May He, in His infinite mercy, prove thee innocent
as thou sayest, for dire and dread is the
punishment that will o’erwhelm thee shouldst
thou be guilty.”

The assembly dispersed. With erect bearing,
as of one conscious of rectitude, the maiden
walked with the ealdorman and the gerefa.
With pale face, Ælfric would have hurried
away with Edwy but that Beornwulf interposed.

“My Lord Oswald,” he said, addressing the
thegn, “see that these men are present during
the ordeal. Be thou there also and thy bond-woman
who hath testified.”

“Aye; I will be there,” answered the thegn.
“If it shall be proven that I have wronged the
maiden, twice will I pay the were.”

“Await the result, and then shape thy action,”
said Beornwulf, shortly, and continued on his
way with the maiden and the ealdorman.

In answer to the knock at the portals of the
bishop’s house, the warder declared that the
bishop had returned but was at mass.

“Then leave we the maiden here,” said the
ealdorman, “and seek him at the minster.”

“Not yet hath the maiden been proven
innocent of the charge,” said the gerefa cautiously.
“I would afford no opportunity for
escape lest justice be defeated. Should she
flee from us, thou and I, brother, must pay the
were.”

“Are there not bolts and bars?” queried the
other. “Let us leave the girl here, and seek
the bishop.”

It was so decided, and Egwina found herself
alone in a room with the door barred awaiting
the return of the bishop. Overwrought by the
events which had transpired so rapidly, and the
excitement thereof, the wearied girl sank down
upon one of the carved settles and gave way to
tears. Violently at first she wept, but gradually
the sobs grew quieter and less frequent until at
last they ceased entirely, and, worn out by
fatigue, the maiden slept.

“She sleeps not as the guilty sleeps,” said the
voice of the ealdorman, as Egwina awoke. “It
speaks in the maiden’s favor that she hath
sought the aid of the church. Mickle do I
mislike to see so fair a hand scarred and seamed
by the ordeal.”

“True,” answered a voice, which sounded
sweeter than the softest music in Egwina’s ear,
for well did she know it. “True; but better for
the hand to be scarred than that the soul be
seared with the blackness of falsehood and
theft. Time may bring obliteration to the scars
of the skin; to the soul never, save through
the blood of Him who alone can purify.”

Egwina turned and looked the speaker full in
the face.

“Well hast thou spoken, Denewulf,” she said.

“Egwina! is it truly thou?” and the bishop,
for he was none other than Denewulf, the swineherd,
whom the king had appointed to this position,
seized the maiden’s hands. “Dear child,
is it thus that I see thee at last?”

“It is thus, Denewulf,” answered Egwina,
sadly. “Where is Adiva? I knew not that
thou wert the bishop.”

“Unworthy am I of so great an estate,” said
Denewulf, humbly, “but the king hath thought
otherwise. Adiva is well and with me. Much
will she rejoice to see thee, my child, for little
have we known of thee for some time. How
comes it that thou art not with the king, but lie
in my hands, accused of theft and subjected to
the ordeal?”

“’Tis a long story,” said Egwina. “Take me
to Adiva, dear Denewulf, and then will I tell
thee of all that hath befallen me, and why I am
with thee to be shriven for the ordeal.”

“My lord bishop, is the maiden known to
thee?” exclaimed the ealdorman, in surprise.
“Belongeth she to the king?”

“She doth,” answered Denewulf, sternly. “If
harm doth come to her, greatly will ye have to
answer to the king.”

“Truly, my lord, we knew not that the girl
was of the king’s household,” cried the ealdorman,
with humility. “Yet, unknowing the
fact, have I believed her guiltless of the theft.”

“True,” said Egwina, smiling at him, gratefully.
“He alone hath shown even a faint belief
in mine innocence.”

“Now we will go to Adiva,” said Denewulf,
“and then, child, thou must begin to prepare
for the ordeal. Since thou hast demanded it,
God alone can judge thee.”

“To His hands gladly do I commend the
matter,” answered Egwina. “Man’s judgment
is fallible, God’s infallible.”

“Then in thy hands do I leave the maiden,”
said the ealdorman, withdrawing.

Adiva greeted her with joy, but became saddened
as she told her story.

“Must thy pretty arm be plunged into the
water?” she cried, indignantly. “Denewulf, be
thou bishop and permit it?”

“She hath appealed to God,” answered Denewulf.
“Not even the king could prevent the
ordeal from taking place now, though I will lay
the matter before him if Egwina so wills.”

“Nay, do not so,” cried Egwina. “Do ye
not see, good friends, I wish not Edward to
know where I am. The king would be displeased
with me for calling upon him. He likes
not that Edward looks on me with—” She faltered,
blushing.

“With favor,” supplemented Adiva. “Dear
heart, little one, how could he help it? I
knew not that the king would turn from thee
because thou wert not gentle. I own that somewhat
hath he grieved me in this, but alack!
even Alfred, wise and good as he is, hath, mayhap,
too much pride.”

“Nay, nay, Adiva,” chid Egwina. “Say
naught against the king. Kind and tender
to me always hath he been. Seest thou not
that Edward may be chosen of the witan to be
cyning some day?—and great will he be, too
great for the husband of a simple girl such
as I.”

Adiva shook her head, and began caressing
her, when Denewulf interrupted.

“Not longer must we talk, Adiva. The
maiden must begin to prepare for the ordeal.
Let her come triumphant from that, and thou
wilt have time to talk enow.”

“Must she?” Adiva began to weep.

“Grieve not, dear Adiva,” comforted Egwina.
“I fear naught. Why should I? Am I not
innocent? I am ready, Denewulf.”

Thus did she enter upon her preparation for
the trial. Three days were consumed in making
ready. She ate only bread and salt and herbs,
and drank but water; spending much time in
prayer.

It was the night before the ordeal was to take
place that Egwina was awakened by a dim light
in the little room which was kept for such as
demanded the trial by fire or water. A touch
fell softly on her arm, and some one began rubbing
it from the elbow down. Wondering much,
the maiden sat up on her couch and, behold!
Adiva was gently stroking her right arm.

“Adiva, what doest thou to my arm?” questioned
the girl.

“Nay, my pretty one, ask me not. No harm,
I’ll warrant thee.”

“What is that with which thou anointest it?”
demanded the girl.

“Why shouldst thou wish to know?” cried
the good dame. “’Tis but a salve that I had
made for thee.”

“But why dost thou use it on my arm?”

“Child, ’tis to save thy arm. See, it hardens
the skin, and thus it feels not the boiling water,
and thou mayest take up the heated stone with
impunity.”

Egwina snatched her arm from the dame in
horror.

“Interferest thou with the judgment of
God?” she cried. “How can I prove that I
took not the harp if I hardened the hand and
the arm to the water? Away, Adiva! Else I
shall believe thee in league with the evil one to
perjure my soul.”

Abashed by the girl’s vehemence, the dame
left the room, and the maiden carefully removed
every vestige of the unguent from her arm.
Little did she reck that thus Adiva had
anointed the member each night.

The next morning, the day of the ordeal,
Egwina laid upon the altar her offering, and received
the holy sacrament. Then before the
gerefa, Beornwulf, and the ealdorman she again
took the oath of innocence. From the accusers,
Oswald the thegn, Ælfric, Edwy, and others to
the number of twelve were chosen for those
against her. The ealdorman and eleven others
stood for her.

These had fasted for twenty-four hours. On
either side of the church they stood, and Denewulf
sprinkled them with the holy water, of
which they also drank. Presenting the Scriptures
to each to kiss, the bishop signed every
one with the sign of the cross. The fire which
was built directly under the altar sparkled
and burned brightly. The huge kettle swinging
over it was full of water which bubbled and
boiled briskly. In the embers of the fire lay
the stone which, heated hot, was to be dropped
into the water from which the maiden was to
snatch it.

From either side advanced a man: Oswald
the thegn and the ealdorman. They went to
the kettle, and, agreeing that the water boiled
furiously, with measured steps returned to their
places at the sides of the church.

All bowed their heads in prayer. As the last
collect was said, Egwina entered with the
bishop. She was very pale, but she walked
firmly, and her eyes shone with a rapt, intent
gaze as if communing with invisible beings
In her hand she carried a small cross which she
kissed ever and anon, and alway did her lips
move in prayer.

.. figure:: images/illus-286.jpg
   :align: center
   :width: 75%
   :alt: She withdrew the stone from the boiling water.

   SHE WITHDREW THE STONE FROM THE BOILING WATER.

Slowly the bishop and the accused approached
the altar. They paused as they reached the
iron kettle. All heads were bowed, and each
continued to pray a prayer that the truth might
be known, as the bishop with tongs lifted the
stone and dropped it into the water.

There was a hissing, seething sound. The
water bubbled and moved tumultuously as it
received the stone. At a sign from the bishop,
with an inaudible prayer, Egwina plunged her
bared arm into the water and lifted therefrom
the stone.

A look of intense amazement flitted across
her face as she did so. Her lips parted as if
about to speak, but the bishop made the sign of
the cross and she remained silent. Still in dead
silence, Denewulf, his own hands covered by a
cloth removed from her hand the stone which
he threw again into the embers. Solemnly he
bandaged the arm and sealed it.

“To God belongeth the judgment,” he said
in grave tones, and withdrew from the church
with the maiden. The people filed out after them.

For three days was the arm to remain bound
up, and if it showed foul on the third day guilt
was assumed; if clear, without suppuration,
then would she be innocent.

“It pains me not, Adiva,” said the maiden
doubtfully in answer to the solicitous inquiries
of the dame. “I know not why but no smart of
burn have I felt at all.”

“Why shouldst thou?” demanded the dame.
“Art thou not one of God’s own lambs? Rest
thee contented, dear heart, that He meant thee
not to suffer.”

In the presence of the ealdorman, the gerefa
Beornwulf, Oswald the thegn, Edwy, Ælfric,
and all others present at the ordeal, the bandage
was removed from the girl’s arm. Clear and
white as alabaster, with no mark of scald or burn
upon it, shone the beautiful member.

A cry went up from those who saw it.

“A miracle! A miracle!” they shouted.
“One of God’s own virgins is the maiden!”




CHAPTER XXIII—THE DREAD DECREE
==============================


“The maid is innocent,” cried Denewulf the
bishop. “By God’s own judgment is she so
pronounced. What then of her accusers? Those
who have perjured themselves, and by testifying
falsely risked their soul’s salvation in so doing?
Step forth, ye that have so spoken, and give
cause why ye have done this thing!”

Then did Oswald the thegn step forth.

“I sware to thee, my lord bishop, that unwitting
did I wrong the maiden. I spake only
that which I knew when I deposed. The harp
was gone. It was found with the maid. Marry,
as I judged so would ye have judged likewise.
Name the were, and it shall be paid! I have
said.”

“And well, Oswald, unwitting and unknowing
didst thou wrong the maiden. As thou wilt
willingly make amends thou hast atoned thy
fault. More thou canst not do. But the others.”

His brow darkened ominously as Edwy the
gleeman came forward. The ealdorman and
gerefa looked hard on the man; now, since
Heaven itself had shown the innocence of Egwina,
they were convinced that guile had been
employed.

“My lords,” cried the gleeman who was
plainly agitated, “I take oath by all the saints
that I did depose only that which I knew. The
harp was mine. ’Twas gone. We found the
same with the maid. How else could I depose?”

“How camest thou to think the maiden had
taken it?” demanded the ealdorman, sharply.

“’Twas Ælfric who spake to me of the maiden’s
toying with it in the hall. But the night
before she did ask me for it. My lords, it looked
ill for the girl, ye must allow.”

“Speaks he the truth, think ye?” inquired
the ealdorman of the bishop and the gerefa.

“Leave him to me,” said the bishop. “He
shall not be shriven until he declareth the truth.
The other two, methinks, are the real culprits.”

A hue and cry was now raised that Ælfric
was escaping, and many left the assembly to go
in pursuit. The juggler was soon overtaken
and borne again to the bishop. Oswald had
brought the bond-woman forward.

The two stood defiantly before the tribunal.
Ælfric had given the woman a quick, warning
glance under which she quailed.

“What sayest thou?” asked Denewulf of the
woman. “Why didst thou deny giving the
harp to the maiden?”

“I gave it not,” answered she sullenly.

“Woman, God hath judged the maiden innocent.
Then thou and this man are guilty. It
must be so. Tell, then, why thou didst the
thing.”

No answer came from the woman’s lips. The
bishop turned to the gerefa and ealdorman.
“Brothers, do ye question her. Stubborn and
hard of heart hath she proven herself. Seek
ye to soften her.”

No amount of questions, threats or persuasion
would induce the woman to answer
further than that she gave not the harp to the
maiden. Presently, hoping to gain more by it,
they turned to Ælfric. The man’s eyes were
shining with a triumphant light as he saw that
the woman was obdurate.

To all questions he answered nothing. In an
insolent attitude he listened, but replied not.
At last the bishop said, with some impatience:
“Fully am I convinced of the guilt of these
two. By his attempt at flight hath Ælfric shown
his crime. Brothers, in this matter the man
and the woman have sinned against heaven.
Let, then, the church give the punishment. To
the ordeal shall both be condemned. The woman
to trial by water and stone even as the
maiden; the man, the ordeal by fire.”

The gerefa and ealdorman willingly gave
consent, as they were convinced that Ælfric
and the woman were truly the offenders.

To the bishop’s house were they taken, there
to make the needful preparation. The allotted
number of days passed. Solitary and alone as
the woman had been kept during this period,
she had had time for reflection. Traces of
a mental struggle between obduracy and despair
showed in her countenance as she was brought
forth to make her offering, and to receive the
sacrament before taking the ordeal.

“Of Christ’s body spiritually dost thou eat,”
said the bishop as he administered the bread.
“Pure and sinless was He. If thou art innocent,
eat with impunity of the holy loaf, and
drink of the wine which by His blessing is His
blood spiritually. Eat and drink, woman! If
innocent, fear naught; if guilty, woe, woe to
thy soul.”

The woman trembled, and her face, already
pale, grew ghastly white. She stretched forth
her hand for the holy morsel, and then with a
great cry fell at the bishop’s feet.

“I dare not,” she cried, “for my soul’s sake,
I dare not partake of it.”

“Then, daughter, assoil thy soul of its taint
by full confession.”

“I will, I will,” sobbed the woman, breaking
down completely. “I did give the harp to the
maiden even as she hath declared. All was as
she hath already told. I ran after her and gave
it into her hands, stating that my Lord Oswald
had sent it as gift.”

“But why, daughter, shouldst thou so perjure
thy soul?” asked the bishop.

“Oh, my lord, judge me not too hardly. I
have a child, and mickle doth it grieve me that
she should be a slave. Ælfric would give me
the money to buy my child and then she would
be free—free, my lord bishop! Little dost
thou reck of a mother’s heart if thou wottest
not the temptation such offer would be to me.
What knew I of the maiden? She was naught
to me, and my child is my life.”

“Grievous hath been thy sin, woman, but
great also thy temptation,” said Denewulf, with
compassion. “Hardened thou art not, or the
holy supper would not have so affected thee. Out
of her sorrow at thy lot feel, daughter, the full
blessings of the Church. Thy child, and thou
also, shall be freed from her bounty. Not because
of thy sin, but because the Church hath
compassion on thine affliction doth she redeem
thee. Arise, daughter, and go in peace. Even
as the Holy One, whose priest I am, spake to
the erring woman, so say I to thee: ‘Go, and
sin no more!’”

With prayers and tears and ejaculations of
gratitude, the woman arose, and left the minster.
The bishop approached Ælfric.

“Wilt thou partake of the holy bread and
wine, or wilt thou, as the woman hath done,
assoil thy soul’s guilt by confession?”

Ælfric’s lip curled.

“Naught fear I, sir priest. On with thy
ordeal! What have I to confess?”

“Heardst thou not what the woman confessed?”
asked the bishop. “That thou hadst
enticed her into this deed by the offer of money
to buy the freedom of her child. Man, man!
Partakest thou of the Eucharist and purgest
not thy soul by confession?”

“Naught have I to confess,” reiterated the
man, doggedly. “Falsely hath the woman
sworn to thee, as thou wilt see.”

With horror in his face at the temerity of the
juggler, Denewulf administered the sacrament.
Ælfric partook of it, and then, as before, twelve
men were chosen from each side of those for
and against him. Nine feet of the length of
the foot of the accused were measured from the
fire where the iron lay heating. For this distance
was the iron to be carried. Just before
the last collect the bishop lifted the iron to the
staples, and then after the prayer he led in the
accused.

With firm step the man advanced, and
grasped the iron steadfastly with both hands.
He walked the required distance, carrying the
iron steadily, then flung it on the floor with an
oath.

The bishop and the honest Saxons ranged on
either side of the church started back in horror.
Tremblingly, fearful of seeing the man struck
down for his impiety, the bishop approached
the wretch and bound up his hands, putting the
seal of the church upon them. After the required
three days the bandages were removed,
and foully mattered were the burns.

“Guilty art thou,” said the bishop with sorrow
to the juggler. “Evil wouldst thou have
wrought upon another, and evil hast thou
brought upon thyself. Son, didst thou not
remember that the Lord hath said, ‘Vengeance
is mine, I will repay’? Then wherefore shouldst
thou try to wreak upon the maiden that for
which only thine own actions were responsible?
See, the judgment of God hath fallen
upon thee! Guilty art thou shown to be.
Purged must thy soul be of its dire sin. Go
forth from this day without thy weapons; and
travel barefoot to the graves of the four saints:
St. Edwin, St. Guthlac, St. Oswald, and St.
Neot. No shelter must thou have at night.
Thou must fast, and watch, and pray both day
and night, and willingly weary thyself. Iron
shall not come to thy hair nor to thy nails. No
warm bath shalt thou affect, nor soft bed; flesh
shalt thou not eat nor shalt thou partake of
drink which can intoxicate. Inside of a church
thou shalt not go, because of the oath which
thou didst utter at the trial of God’s holy ordeal,
but thou shalt seek the tombs of these saints
and there confess thy sins and pray for intercession.
When thou hast finished thy penance,
and severe it is, son, for greatly hast thou sinned,
shriven and absolved from guilt, thou canst
return and again mingle amongst thy fellows.
Arise and go, and may God in His infinite
mercy be with thee in thy wanderings.”

With heads bowed the assembly listened to
the dire punishment meted out to the wretch.
Such was the power of the Church over the
people that not once did it enter the head of
Ælfric to disobey her command.

With dark looks and unrepentant mien he sat
down in the midst of them and removed his
shoes and leather hose. Then forth from the
church did he wend his way to begin his pilgrimage.

And never again did Egwina behold him.




CHAPTER XXIV—ADIVA TAKES MATTERS INTO HER HANDS
===============================================


For a short time after this the days of
Egwina were peaceful. Adiva petted and coddled
her as only good motherly women can do,
and the maiden felt that at last she had found
a haven of rest, for weary was she of wandering.

“Never again shalt thou leave us, little one,”
declared Adiva, one day, as she and the maiden
employed themselves as in the olden days with
shuttle and distaff. “Never again! Thou
shouldst not have left us at all, for thou didst
first belong to us. Did not Denewulf find
thee in the forest? Now thou shalt remain
always.”

“But the king?” said Egwina, bending low
over her work. “Doth he not visit thee,
Adiva—he or some of his family?”

“Well-a-day, yes,” answered Adiva. “What
of it, child? Couldst thou not stay out of the
way until they had departed? ’Tis not as in
the forest. Then there was but the two rooms.
Wottest thou not that the manor of the bishop
hath more?”

Egwina laughed with something of her old
brightness.

“There!” cried the good woman, delightedly,
“gladness doth it bring to my heart to hear
thee laugh like that! Laugh an’ thou wilt, even
though it be at my foolish pride. ’Tis something
better to be the wife of a bishop than of a
swineherd, is it not?”

“But still he is the same, Adiva, swineherd
or bishop,” said the maiden. “What doth it
matter what he doeth? ’Tis the man whom
thou hast wed.”

“Thou art young,” remarked Adiva, with an
upward lift of the head. “Wisdom thou wilt
acquire as thou growest older. Denewulf was
good enow as a husband when a swineherd, but
few were the mancuses and pence that came our
way. Now doth he wear the bishop’s stole and
all bow down to him. Well-a-day, child! It
doth make a difference. But thou hast not yet
said that them wouldst stay with me. To tell
the truth,” she lowered her voice, “there are
times when lonely I be in spite of greatness.”

“If it will please thee, then will it please me,”
answered the maiden. “Weary am I of wandering,
and fain would I dwell where friends abide,
if it so be that I may not see the king nor Edward.
It hath seemed to me of late, Adiva,
that in some way I should show my gratitude
to God for His mercy to me. Some service
would I render Him for His judgment. Why,
Adiva, when I think that there was not even a
scar, I wonder what I have done that so great
a favor should be shown me.”

“Trouble not thy head about it,” said the
dame, hastily. “Oft have I heard that such
things were past finding out. Why, Denewulf,
bishop though he be, wottest not the why of
many things!”

“The maiden is right,” said Denewulf, entering
at this moment. “I, too, Egwina, have
thought of the miracle, for such it was, and it
hath seemed to me that thou wert spared that
thou mightest give Him thy service. To chaste
and holy Mary thy life should belong. Thou
seekest repose, my child; find it in the cloister.”

“The cloister!” Adiva threw up her arms
in dismay. “Yon pretty child? Denewulf,
what aileth thee?”

“Naught,” answered the bishop, promptly.
“Naught but desire for the best for Egwina.
Wonderfully hath she been favored. It can be
for naught else than that she should devote her
life to the service of Heaven.”

“Denewulf, hast thou gone daft?” demanded
Adiva, with some asperity. “Egwina a nun?
I trow not!”

“But, Adiva,” said the gentle voice of Egwina,
“why have I been so favored? Not even
a scar, as thou knowest, nor mark of any kind.
I felt that God would show mine innocence, but
so marked was His favor that it hath troubled
me to know the cause. It may be that for this
service was I thus favored.”

“And dost thou think of becoming a nun?”
cried the dame, in consternation.

“If Denewulf thinketh best, and that for
this cause was the miracle performed, I will so
do,” answered the maiden.

“It hath weighed upon my mind,” said the
bishop, “and it doth seem to me, Egwina, that
it hath been intended by that sign that thou
shouldst become the bride of the church.”

“Out upon such nonsense!” exclaimed the
dame, with energy. “No miracle was there
save only what I, with the help of thy foster-mother,
Gunnehilde, worked.”

“Adiva!” exclaimed both Egwina and the
bishop in a breath. “What meanest thou?”

“I mean,” said the dame, “that I was not
willing to have thy pretty arm seared, so I sent
to Gunnehilde, and she concocted me a lotion.
Every night did I bathe hand and arm. The
last night, child, the salve which thou didst
find me using was but the final touch. Already
the lotion had done its work, and thou mightest
have carried red-hot iron thy nine feet and
back, and no scar would there have been. Out
upon it for a miracle!”

“Woman! thou hast profaned the judgment
of the Supreme One,” said her husband, sternly,
while Egwina sank back overcome.

“Profaned? Not at all,” answered the dame,
defiantly. “Did it not bring the guilty to punishment?
The woman confessed, and the juggler
is even now upon his pilgrimage. Egwina
was shown innocent—as she was. How, then,
have I profaned the judgment?”

“Thou must do penance,” said Denewulf.

“Penance?” retorted Adiva. “Not I. What
good doth it do me to be a bishop’s wife if I am
to do penance as an ordinary body? Keep thy
penance for such as need them, Denewulf.”

“But mine innocence?” cried poor Egwina.
“Happy have I been to think that God did
stoop to so favor me.”

“Now, more than ever, do I think that thou
shouldst enter the cloister,” said the bishop.
“’Tis true that the guilty were brought to punishment
and thy innocence proven; but what
if the ealdorman, the gerefa, and the people
knew of this. Thinkest thou that they would
think it just? Either, my child, thou must
again take the ordeal or thou must retire to the
cloister. I see naught else to be done,” and he
left the room.

“Thou to the nunnery?” cried the dame, indignantly.
“Well-a-day! We shall see, my
lord bishop. Neither ordeal nor cloister shall
there be for my pretty one!”

“But, Adiva, I see that it must be as he
saith,” said Egwina. “Naught is left for me.”

“Is there not, child? Again did I ask
Gunnehilde of thy dream. Greatness is to be
thy portion, and thou shalt not spoil the web
woven for thee by this thing. A nunnery for
thee, who art destined for the bride of Edward?
I trow not! Before that shall happen, Edward
himself shall be sent for, and then we shall
see.”

“Oh, dear Adiva, thou must not do that,”
cried Egwina, distressed.

“If thou dost not as I tell thee,” said Adiva,
with determination written on her brow, “both
the king and Edward will I send for.”

“I will! I will!” cried Egwina, hastily.
“Whatever thou dost say that will I do, if only,
dear friend, thou wilt not send for them. Gladly
would I look upon their faces unknown of them,
but I durst not speak with the king. I could
not bear for him to look on me with coldness.”

“We will wait for a few days,” said Adiva,
“and see whether Denewulf still thinketh the
same. If he doth, then will I tell thee what to
do. If I can o’ersuade him from such thing,
then thou shalt remain with me, and naught
will there be to do.”

But Denewulf could not be persuaded from
his idea. The honest Saxon desired only to do
justice, and to his upright sense of honor this
ordeal had been a failure. Only could his conscience
be satisfied by a repetition of the ordeal
or a retirement to the cloister.

On the other hand, Egwina, actuated by the
same delicate sense of honor, was overwhelmed
with fear lest Adiva should send for Alfred and
Edward as she had threatened. Finding that
Egwina inclined more and more to Denewulf’s
way of thinking, and that Denewulf was obdurate,
the good dame took matters into her
own hands.

“Come!” said she to Egwina one day.
“Thou shalt go with me this morning to see
Gunnehilde. Rememberest thou that time we
went through the forest to have her read thy
rede for thee? Again will we go.”

“But not for reading of rune or rede,”
pleaded the maiden. “Sick at heart doth it
make me, for it bringeth Gyda to my mind.”

“No rune shall she read thee, child, though
I would that thou wouldst let her. Then would
she show thee that thou art destined to sit beside
Edward.”

“Speak not so, Adiva,” said the maiden.
“Henceforth I renounce all faith in seid and
galdra. Of peril they do not warn; neither
keep they from sin. I will seek no more to
pierce that veil by which an all-wise Father
hides the future from our gaze. It bringeth
naught but evil.”

“Well, well, do as thou wishest,” grumbled
the dame. “For my part, I find that it harms
me not to be guided by Gunnehilde, and rare is
she as a compounder of herbs. Here we are,
child. Thou seest that we have brought the
vala with us, for Denewulf, though he believeth
not in her craft, wisheth her near him.”

Gunnehilde greeted them with warmth. To
Egwina she accorded a respect and deference
that confused the maiden, who could not but
see what thoughts were in her mind.

“Come ye to consult the runes?” she asked,
“or upon the matter of which thou spakest,
Adiva?”

“Upon the matter,” returned Adiva. “Egwina
will have naught more to do with runes
or rede. Therefore haste we to the other
affair.”

“She hath no need,” replied the vala.
“Skulda hath woven the web and golden is its
woof. Fear not, maiden, Verdandi striveth
to weave dark threads among the gold, but
already do they begin to brighten. Speed thou
on thy way. Skulda holdeth the shuttle.”

Egwina answered not. The remembrance of
Gyda was still too strong upon her for her to
listen without a shudder to the woman’s
prophecies. Gunnehilde saw the repugnance
in her face, and turned to the bishop’s wife.

“The cart is ready at thy bidding, Adiva.
Whenever thou shalt say, then shall Beorn take
the maiden to my brother’s, Anlaf the black.”

“What dost thou mean?” cried Egwina.
“Where do I go? Adiva, what is it?”

“My child, thou didst promise thou wouldst
do as I bade thee should Denewulf remain obdurate
in his purpose to have thee enter a convent.
Thou wottest how set he is in his design.
Without thy consent thou canst not, of course,
be made to enter one, but I fear that he will
o’ersuade thee. Therefore I deem it best that
thou shouldst retire for a little while into East
Anglia where Anlaf the black, brother to
Gunnehilde, abides. There shalt thou stay
until such time as Denewulf will have given
over his design. Then thou canst return to
me, and never shalt thou leave me until Edward
takes thee.”

“Adiva,” said the maiden, distressed, “it cannot
be. It will never be as thou seemeth to
think. Dwell not on such hopes for they are
vain. I feel with Denewulf that it is meet and
fitting that I should retire into a nunnery.
Oppose me no longer, Adiva. It is best.”

“It is not best,” cried the dame. “If it so
be that Edward doth not wed with thee, yet
still thou shalt not be hidden in the cloister.
Thou wilt go with the man to Anlaf’s, wilt thou
not? Thou must, Egwina, else I will send for
the king and lay the whole matter before him.”

“Thou wottest that I will do as thou sayest,
Adiva, when thou dost make such threat. To
please thee, then, and to keep thee from sending
for the king, I will go into East Anglia and for
a time give up the thought of the cloister.
Anon I will take it up.”

So Egwina found herself bundled into a cart
and on the way to East Anglia to the house of
Anlaf the black.




CHAPTER XXV—HILDA AGAIN
=======================


The brother of Gunnehilde, Anlaf the black,
had been one of the servitors of Guthrum.
The king had parceled out among those of his
retainers who had chosen to remain with him
the lands and manors of East Anglia. Many
of the wild and courageous spirits, rebelling at
the restraints of a peaceful life, had retired
from the coasts of Britain, seeking other fields
of adventure and prowess. To these also the
fact that Guthrum and many of his jarls had
embraced Christianity proved galling, and so
many were the manors and broad the fields
assigned to those who remained. The Saxon
inhabitants either submitted to their rule, and
became subjects of the Danish king, or else
retired into Wessex or southern Mercia.

To Thetford, the capital and largest city of
East Anglia, was Egwina taken. Large and
extensive forests surrounded the town. Just
in the edge of the woods was an open glade in
which was the house where dwelt Anlaf the
black. In the near distance could be seen the
royal vill of Guthrum or Athelstan.

The family consisted of but two members.
Anlaf himself and his wife. They received
the maiden with hospitality and reverence, for
Egwina found that even here the greatness
predicted for her by Gunnehilde had its effect.
The wife of Anlaf would not permit her to
assist her in her household duties, and the
maiden soon found that, deprived of all employment,
time began to hang heavily upon her
hands.

Chafing at her idleness, she began to wander
in the woodland near the house, observing the
caution that had been given her of not straying
too far away for fear of the wolves or bears
with which the forest was filled. One afternoon,
she had walked somewhat farther than
usual, and, feeling the need of rest, flung herself
down upon the sward under the spreading
branches of an oak tree. She had lain so but
a short while when she heard voices.

Out from among the trees there came the
figures of two persons: a young man, very fair,
and to all appearances a Saxon, and a girl, a
Dane. Egwina sat up and surveyed the two
with some curiosity which was reciprocated by
the man and the girl, for they stopped and
looked at her with surprise.

“Come, Siegbert,” said the Danish girl,
“let us advance and see who the maiden is.”
She started forward as she spoke, and the
young man, called Siegbert, supported her form
carefully.

Egwina rose, and awaited their coming, rejoicing
in the fact that she was at last going to
meet with some young folk near her own age.

“Why, it is the skald maiden!” exclaimed
the Danish girl, as she drew near to the Saxon
maiden.

“Hilda, daughter of Guthrum!” exclaimed
Egwina in turn.

“Yes; it is Hilda. What dost thou here?”
cried the king’s daughter. “I thought that
thou wert skald maiden to King Alfred? Thou
wert with him when he entered the camp at
Westbury.”

“True,” answered Egwina, briefly. “Gleemaidens
as well as gleemen are in many places.
To-day they serve one lord; to-morrow they
chant the praises of another.”

“Sit we down,” commanded the Danish girl
imperiously. “Much doth it tire me to stand,
and I would talk with thee.”

The young man spread a mantle upon the
sward, and Hilda sank down upon it. Egwina
resumed her seat, looking at the Saxon attendant
as she did so. Well worthy of attention
was he.

He carried himself nobly; his form was
strong, muscular, and symmetrically developed.
His face was marvelously beautiful, but the
eyes caught and held the gaze. Deep blue
were they, and full of unfathomable sorrow,
yet full also of that strength which is self-conscious
of power. His bearing toward the Danish
maiden was tender in the extreme.

He bore her pettishness and imperiousness
not as a slave, but indulgently as one bears the
caprices of a loved child. Again and again
Egwina found her glance wandering to his face,
and she caught herself listening to his voice as
he spoke to Hilda, with a strange throb of the
heart.

“Lean against me, Hilda,” he was saying.
“Then thou wilt not be so tired.”

“It is better,” admitted Hilda, leaning contentedly
against his broad chest. “Now tell
me, maiden. Art thou wandering through
Danelagh, or what dost thou here?”

“Nay; I wander no more,” answered Egwina.
“Here in East Anglia do I abide for a
time only. I wot not when I shall go hence,
but methinks it will not be long. Hast thou
trouble again with thy knee?”

“No; didst thou not know that thy King
Alfred did cure me? No longer do I suffer
from my knee, but hot and sharp is the pain
here,” and she laid her hand on her breast.
“I would that I knew more of that Cuthbert of
whom the king told me. And he was afflicted
even as I with the lameness of the knee.
Prithee, maiden, dost thou know aught of
him?”

“Only that he was an holy and an austere
man; the bishop of Lindisfarne,” replied Egwina.
“Many miracles have been wrought by
his tomb, and many did he perform himself.”

“Oh, that I might visit his tomb!” exclaimed
the Danish girl, fervently. “I wish not to die
yet. I am so young, so young!” She burst
into a passion of weeping.

Siegbert drew her to him, and gently stroked
her hair.

“But are there no leeches, no remedies?”
cried Egwina, her heart full of sympathy for
the girl.

“Everything hath been tried,” said Siegbert,
and again Egwina felt that strange throbbing
of the heart as he spake. “Everything; but
Hilda thinketh that nothing will cure her save
a visit to the tomb of Cuthbert.”

“Then why doth she not go?” asked Egwina.
“Could she not be taken there?”

“No, maiden.” The Saxon’s voice was grave.
“When the Danes spread over the country,
destroying the monasteries, Cuthbert’s remains
were taken up and carried away by the monks
when they fled. Now, none know where they
be.”

“I feel sure that King Alfred will know,”
cried Egwina. “He hath rebuilt the monasteries,
and oh! I know that he will know.”

“Thinkest thou so?” cried Hilda with eagerness.
“I will tell my father and he will send
to the king.”

She sat up, and seemed much better and
stronger for the hope that was infused into
her.

“Hadst thou not better return now, Hilda?”
asked Siegbert. “Thou hast stayed out long
enow for one day.”

“Nay, I would talk more with the maiden,”
returned Hilda. “So soon as I return will I
get my father to send bode to King Alfred to
ask of him where lie the bones of Cuthbert.
Maiden, believest thou in runes of the volva?”

Egwina shook her head.

“The runes tell me of speedy death,” said
Hilda.

“But, Hilda, thou wert baptized with thy
father,” chid Egwina. “Thou canst not now
believe in runes, or any of the seid of the
volva.”

“Do not the Saxons?” inquired Hilda. “I
have heard that even they who hold belief in
Christianity consult the Morthwyrtha by fount
and elm and scin-laeca.”

Egwina winced, but answered bravely: “Too
true, Hilda. Many of our people do so
deal with such pagan ideas, but it is forbidden
by priest and our most holy religion. I
have heard it said that some worship still the
old gods, despite word of king or monk.”

“But why forsook they the olden gods?”
cried the Danish girl. “I like not the Saxon
God. In what is He better than Odin? Whom
can ye give us in place of our beautiful Baldur
the glorious? ‘Worship the Saxon God,’ is the
command that hath gone forth from my father,
and the people obey because he hath said;
but still do they cling to Odin, and Thor, and
Baldur. Once as we worship, so did ye. Why
did ye change?”

“Hast thou not heard how the good Pope
Gregory sent the priests to Britain?” asked
Egwina.

“No; tell me,” and Hilda, leaned back comfortably
against Siegbert. “If I am to worship
in this new religion I wish to know of it; but
little do I care for aught of it save Cuthbert.”

“Wottest thou not that often men of our island
have been sold as serfs into other countries?”
asked Egwina.

“Yes; as it hath been with ye in that respect,
so hath it been with us.”

“Well, at one time in the city of Rome there
were some men from our island to be sold as
serfs. While they stood in the market place,
Pope Gregory of blessed memory was passing
by. He was a simple priest then, but afterward
became pope. Being attracted by the exceeding
fairness of the men, he stopped.

“‘From what country come ye?’ he asked.
They replied that they were ‘Angles.’ ‘Angles!
Ye should be angels! Are ye Christians,’ said the
holy man, ‘or heathens?’ ‘Certainly not Christians,’
said they, ‘for no one hath opened our
ears.’ Then the holy man, lifting up his eyes,
replied, ‘What man, when there are stones at
hand, layeth a foundation with reeds?’ They
answered, ‘No man of prudence.’ ‘Ye have
well said,’ said he, and straightway did he take
them to his own house and instruct them in the
divine oracles, and arrange with them that he
should go into their country to carry the holy
religion.

“When the people heard of it they made a
great outcry, for he was a holy man, much noted
for good works and well-beloved. So the pope
would not let him go, and it became his hope
that some day the gospel should be taken into
our land. When he became pope, he at once
sent St. Augustine, a holy man, with a multitude
of priests, and thus did they change our
forefathers into Christians.”

“What said they?” inquired the Danish girl.
“How could they turn them from the old gods?
Methinks that I should like to know what was
said.”

“Dear Hilda,” and Egwina looked distressed,
“I would that there was some one that thou
couldst question aside from me. I know so
little; I only know that I believe. I would that
King Alfred were here! He could tell thee all
that thou askest.”

“But dost thou not know somewhat of what
passed between them?” asked the girl impatiently.
“Methinks that were my people to
change so, I would know wherefore it was done.
Bethink thee! Dost thou not remember something
of it?”

“Methinks,” said the Saxon maid, musingly,
“that I have heard that which passed between
them, but, Hilda, I cannot tell thee what it was.
It hath been custom so long for our people to be
Christian that they no longer question the whyfore.”

“I can tell thee, Hilda,” spake Siegbert, in
his deep musical voice. “The king and his
thegns were debating the old and the new religions
in the witan, when a thegn arose and said:
‘Thou dost remember, it may be, O king, that
which sometimes happens in winter, when
thou art seated at table with gesiths and thegns.
Thy fire is lighted and thy hall warmed, and
without is rain and snow and storm. Then
comes a swallow flying across the hall. He enters
by one door and leaves by another. The
brief moment while he is within is pleasant to
him; he feels not rain nor cheerless winter
weather; but the moment is brief—the bird
flies away in the twinkling of an eye, and he
passes from winter to winter. Such, methinks,
is the life of man on earth, compared with the
uncertain time beyond. It appears for a while,
but what is the time which comes after—the time
which was before? We know not. If, then,
this new doctrine may teach us somewhat of
greater certainty, it were well that we should
regard it.’”

“Why, Siegbert,” exclaimed Hilda, “I knew
not that thou didst know aught of it.”

“Dost thou forget that once I was in a monastery?”
asked Siegbert.

“True, I did forget. How comes it that
thou hast not told me before?” questioned
Hilda.

“Never have I heard thee speak as thou hast
spoken to-day,” answered the young man.
“Willingly would I have told thee of it.”

“’Tis true,” declared the Danish girl, after a
short interval of silence, during which time she
seemed to be thinking. “We are like the
swallow. Here for such a brief time and then
out into the shadow of death. Whither? We
know not; unless, indeed, it be true that Hela,
the death goddess, awaits us in Niflheim. Oh,
would that I were not woman! Would that
I were warrior; that Odin, Alfadur, might
send the Valkyrie to wing me to Valhalla,
where all is bright and beautiful. I wish not
to go to Hela!”

“Thou shalt not.” Siegbert spoke soothingly
and with so much of positiveness that
Hilda forgot her tears and raised her head
inquiringly.

“What meanest thou, Siegbert?”

“Thou shalt not go to that dread abode, for
none such exists,” said the young man. “Let
me tell thee, Hilda, of the beautiful heaven of
the Christian faith.”

With solemn sweetness he told of the heavenly
city, where there is no night, where pain
nor death enters not, and of the gentle Christ
so pitiful of weakness and suffering. Egwina
listened entranced. The young man’s earnestness
impressed her, and she felt her own imperfections
as she had never done before.

“I am tired,” said Hilda, at length. “Take
me home, Siegbert, and there thou shalt tell me
more of this Christ of thine. He is like Baldur
in his beauty and goodness. If thy heaven is
as thou sayest, then methinks I wish it, for one
need not be warrior to enter it.”

Lifting her up carefully in his arms, Siegbert
turned to go, but Hilda stopped him.

“Come to me to-morrow, maiden,” said she
to Egwina. “Wilt thou not? Siegbert shall
come to fetch thee if thou wilt. I would hear
thee sing again. Wondrous skill hadst thou
with the harp.”

“I have none now,” responded Egwina,
slowly, “but I will come an’ thou wishest it.”

“I do wish it. I have harp of mine own
which thou canst use. Then I will send Siegbert
for thee.”

She sank back in the strong arms of the
Saxon, who strode off as if the burden he bore
were naught for his strength. Egwina stood for
a long time on the knoll where they had left
her.

“Why doth my heart beat at sound of his
voice or look of his eye?” she mused. “Something
doth draw me to him. I would, oh, I
would that he were sibbe to me. Never before
have I so longed for one to be near to me as I
do him. Oh, would that he were of my kith!
But God doeth all things well, and it may be
that I am bereft of kin that I may the more
readily give myself to the service of Heaven.”

With an involuntary sigh, she turned her
steps in the direction of the abode of Anlaf.




CHAPTER XXVI—THE ECLIPSE
========================


Egwina awaited the coming of the next day
with impatience. She could not define the feeling
that possessed her. She would not go to
the forest lest Siegbert might come, and she
sought to pass the time until his arrival as best
she might. It was not until the sun had risen
high in the heavens that the young man came.

“Fair day to thee, maiden,” he said in his
grave voice. “Wilt thou come now to Hilda,
daughter of Guthrum?”

“Gladly, Siegbert,” and Egwina hastily
donned coverchief and neckcloth. “How seemeth
she to-day?”

“Brighter; but it is the brightness that precedes
dissolution,” answered Siegbert, seriously.

“Then dost thou think that she will not get
well?”

“She will not. She can not,” returned the
Saxon. “Misease hath entered upon her vitals
so thoroughly that naught can cure her.”

“Hath her father sent to Alfred to know
where Cuthbert lies?” asked Egwina, anxiously.
“Mickle have been the miracles that have been
wrought at his tomb, and could she but reach
the place it might be that she, too, would be
favored.”

“Nay; Hilda could not reach it unless it
were very near. I think the end not far off.”

In silence did they proceed to the vill of
Guthrum. It had been the property of the
kings of the royal family of Anglia, and was a
low, rambling structure built in the usual style
of the Saxons. As they entered its portals,
Egwina could not but notice the difference between
the court of the Danish king and that of
King Alfred.

At Alfred’s court there was an air of quietness,
of moderation, and of learning. Under
the trees, in the rooms, and everywhere about
the palace might be seen men of erudition, with
book or tablet in hand, engaged either in absorbing
the wisdom of the ancients or imparting
it to others. Smiths and artisans were
occupied in work of their various crafts, while
the army, one-half of which the king kept ever
by him, could be seen as they were being drilled
in the tactics of war. Everything betokened
an alert monarch trying to educate his people
in all that goes to make civilization and refinement.

Here Danes lolled listlessly about—some under
the trees playing quoits, or clustered together
about some skalds listening eagerly to recitals
of heroes or battles, or to the harp and song,
things of which they never seemed to weary;
others still were throwing spears or shooting
arrows at a mark, while many feasted and drank
in the great mead hall. If the Saxons were
hearty eaters and drinkers and believers in good
cheer, insisting upon their four meals a day
from ealdorman to ceorl, the Danes surpassed
them. Nothing here evidenced that superior
intelligence which was the animus and life of
the Saxon king.

Egwina, without being able to define it, felt
the difference. Siegbert hurried her through the
courtyard and the mead hall, where Guthrum
sat with his jarls, and into the bower chamber
of Hilda. The Danish maiden reclined languidly
on a couch. Her face was paler than it
had been the day before, and dark rings encircled
her eyes.

“I am glad that ye have come,” she cried.
“I feared that ye had stopped by the way
to talk. I wot that, being Saxons, ye would
have much to say, but I hoped that ye would
not.”

“Nor did we,” soothed Egwina, gently.
“Tell me, Hilda, how fares it with thee to-day?”

“I am better,” answered the girl, brightly.
“Much better! My father hath sent a bode to
the Saxon king to learn of St. Cuthbert’s tomb,
and as soon as he returns I shall be taken there.
Then shall I be well again. How good it would
seem never to have pain here again!”

She laid her hand on her breast and the
muscles of her face twitched.

“Here is my harp,” she continued, after a
moment, handing the instrument to Egwina.
“Sing me one of thy songs. Dost remember
what thou and the king did sing when ye came
to the camp?”

“Yea,” answered Egwina, briefly.

“Then sing the same songs as ye did then.
I like the Saxon king and fain would I be reminded
of him. Gentle was he to me, though
I were the daughter of his foe who had driven
him from his throne. In his palace nobly did
he demean himself towards my father, and bestowed
upon him twelve manors and many
presents. Stay,” as Egwina swept the strings
of the harp, “knowest thou the king’s favorite
songs?”

“Yea, they are the Christian hymns,” replied
Egwina, promptly.

“Then sing those, and afterward shalt thou
sing the others.”

Again the maiden swept the strings, saying
as she did so: “Methinks the king liketh this
hymn the best of any. ’Tis a hymn of thanksgiving
on the creation.

   | “Befits it well that man should raise
   | To Heaven the song of thanks and praise,
   | For all the gifts a bounteous God
   | From age to age hath still bestowed.
   | The kindly seasons’ tempered reign,
   | The plenteous store, the rich domain
   | Of this mid earth’s extended plain,
   | All that His creatures’ wants could crave,
   | His boundless pow’r and mercy gave.
   | Noblest of yon bright train that sparkles high,
   | Beneath the vaulted sky,
   | The sun by day, the silver’d moon by night,
   | Twin fires of Heav’n, dispense for man their useful light.
   | Where’er on earth his lot be sped,
   | For man the clouds their richness shed,
   | In gentle dews descend, or op’ning pour
   | Wide o’er the land their fertilizing shower.
   |
   | “Not such the doom
   | Our sorrowing fathers heard of old,
   | The doom that in dread accents told
   | Of Heaven’s avenging might, and woe, and wrath to come.
   | ‘Lo! I have set thee on earth’s stubborn soil
   | With grief and stern necessity to strive;
   | To wear thy days in unavailing toil,
   | The ceaseless sport of tort’ring friends to live.
   | Thence to thy dust to turn, the worm’s repast,
   | And dwell where penal flames thro’ endless ages last.
   |
   | “‘Thrice holy He,
   | The Spirit Son of Deity!
   | He called from nothing into birth
   | Each fair production of the teeming earth;
   | He bids the faithful and the just aspire
   | To join in endless bliss Heaven’s angel choir.
   | His love bestows on human kind
   | Each varied excellence of mind.
   | To some His Spirit-gift affords
   | The power and mastery of words.
   | So may the wiser sons of earth proclaim,
   | In speech and measured song, the glories of His name.’”

“Doth the king like that?” asked the girl,
wistfully.

“Yes, Hilda. Doth it not please thee?”

“It is like the king,” said Hilda. “Lofty
and grand! Far beyond the simple ken of a
maiden’s knowledge, even as the king is beyond
a maiden’s understanding. Siegbert, what is
the little song that thou dost sing?”

“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and
to the Holy Ghost,” chanted Siegbert. “As it
was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.
World without end. Amen. Amen.”

Egwina joined in, and Hilda looked at them
wonderingly.

“Do ye know that as ye were singing, methought
that ye looked alike,” said she. “Hast
thou a brother, maiden?”

“No,” answered Egwina, sadly. “None of
kith and kin have I. Oft hath it saddened my
heart, and it hath brought mickle grief to me
that I had none.”

“Hadst thou never one?” began Siegbert,
when Hilda interrupted him.

“I weary of the harp and even of song, Siegbert.
Prithee carry me into the courtyard, and
let me be in the sunshine.”

Siegbert lifted her up. Egwina stood, not
knowing what to do.

“Come thou also,” said Hilda. “I weary not
of thy presence. The music doth tire me, but
thy talk doth not.”

Out under the trees they went, Siegbert bolstering
up Hilda with pillows.

“How bright is the sun!” said she. “How
good its warmth feels!” She lay for a few moments
basking in its rays. Then throwing out
her hands, exclaimed with sudden energy:
“O sun! Thou bright star of day! If the
Saxon God be the Supreme One and Odin not
the All-Powerful, darken thy rays I entreat.
Turn day into night, that I may know truth,
truth. It shall be a sign, and my life shall be
the offering.”

A silence fell upon Egwina and Siegbert and
those of the jarls who were near enough to hear
the words. Involuntarily all glanced at the sun.
Brightly it shone as ever. A scornful laugh
broke from Hilda’s lips.

“What is your Saxon God?” she cried.
“Powerless is He, or the sun would darken.
What! hath He not so much power as that?
Out upon Him!”

“Behold!” exclaimed Siegbert, abruptly.

All eyes were turned toward the sky. An
undeniable shadow was stealing over the sun.
A hush fell upon them. Almost breathless,
Hilda watched the bright orb. The breeze
rustled the leaves in the tree-tops with a soft,
murmuring sound, as if uneasy at the phenomenon.
Deeper grew the shadow, for over
the sun’s bright disc spread a darkening
cloud.

The loud laughter of Dane and the song of
skald were hushed. Knowing naught of the
cause, the jarls rushed forth from the mead hall
with Guthrum at their head. Awed and panic-stricken,
many threw themselves on the ground
in paroxysms of terror.

“’Tis Ragnarok, the twilight of the gods!”
cried Guthrum in fear. “Dim groweth the
sun! Soon will the stars fall, and time shall
be no more!”

With hoarse cries the Danes repeated, “Ragnarok!
Ragnarok!”

In the distance the cocks crew, and the birds
chirped in the tree-branches as they nested to
rest. Egwina and Siegbert drew close to Hilda.
She had sprung to her feet and, tense and rigid,
stood regarding the sun with awe. Darker
grew the sky, until an intense darkness, black
as starless night, spread over the earth. Only
for a few moments did the phenomenon last, and
then the shadow began to lighten. The cloud
passed, and again the sun shone forth bright and
beautiful.

Then only did the rigidity of the form of the
maiden relax.

“I am answered!” she cried, with a dazzling
smile as she turned to them. “Gloriously hath
the Supreme One honored me! Heed well, ye
jarls, what Hilda saith: The Saxon God is Supreme.
I know it.”

She half turned to her father, who sprang forward.
Before he could reach her, with an upflinging
of her arms toward that orb which had
so wondrously answered her, Hilda fell prone
upon the sward.

When they reached her she was dead.




CHAPTER XXVII—SIEGBERT’S STORY
==============================


It was seven days since the death chant had
arisen in the house of Guthrum for Hilda.

A melancholy had settled upon the spirits of
Egwina. Unable to content herself, she wandered
from wood to house and back again to
wood. Usually bright and cheerful, the girl
felt herself weighed down by a heavy depression
born of loneliness, and she dwelt morbidly
upon the happy days in the king’s household.
A conviction that this was the manner in which
she was to be convinced that she was set apart
for the cloister was fast stealing over her.

One morning, after a sleepless night, she
arose from her couch with the determination to
return to Denewulf, and tell him that she was
ready to devote herself to the life of a nun. After
all, it was not so dreadful a thing. Alfred’s
second daughter, Ethelgiva, was so set apart, and
if she could give up the pomp and majesty of a
king’s court for such a holy life, why should
she rebel, who was only a simple gleemaiden?

Should Adiva send for the king, she would
tell him that it was her wish and he would respect
it. Thus reasoned Egwina. Having
reached this determination, the maiden sought
Anlaf to ask him to take her into Berkshire that
day, but the Dane responded that it could not
be done until the morrow. So Egwina started
off for her accustomed retreat on the knoll.

To her surprise, she found Siegbert there.
She had not seen him since the day of Hilda’s
death, and now hastened to greet him, feeling
again that strange pleasure in being near him.

“Siegbert, glad am I to behold thee once
more, for to-morrow I go to Berkshire, and I
feared that I should see thee not again.”

“I wished to see thee also,” replied the
young man, “because I, too, go away.”

“Thou goest? Whither?” cried Egwina in
surprise.

“Thou wottest, maiden, dost thou not, that I
am or have been a serf in the house of Guthrum?”

“Yes, I know,” answered she.

“Since I was but ten years old,” continued
the Saxon, “have I been serf to Guthrum.
Twelve long years in bondage to the Dane!
Now I have my freedom at last.”

“But how cometh it that now thou hast it
after all these years?”

“I will tell thee, maiden. When I was but
a lad of ten, and Guthrum brought me to his
house as bondsman, Hilda was but five years
old. I had had a little sister in mine own
home, younger still than Hilda. The baby girl
eased the pain and homesickness in my bereaved
heart, and Hilda would have none but me attend
her. So as she grew, grew also the bond
between us, until it was not as bondsman, but
as brother, that I ministered to her. Long ago
could I have had my freedom, for I saved the
money until there was enow, but Hilda clung
to me, and for her sake, because none cared for
her as I did, I stayed. Guthrum knew of it—knew
that I forebore to take my freedom when
I could because of Hilda. He loved her, and
that I was gentle with her did gladden his
heart. Yesterday in the presence of witnesses
he called me and made me free!”

“And now, Siegbert, what doest thou?”
asked Egwina.

“No man will I own as lord save the Saxon
king,” answered Siegbert. “Gladly would I
live where I could partake of his wisdom and
learning. Oh!” he cried with more passion
than Egwina had as yet seen him exhibit, “Oh,
that I could be learned!—learned as those
men with whom I have heard that he surrounds
himself! But what could I give in return?
He has no daughter requiring my care, and
there is naught else that I can do!”

“Why not go to Alfred, and tell him of thy
desire?” said Egwina simply. “He is wise and
good, Siegbert. Thou wottest not how good
unless thou hast partaken of his bounty. It
grieveth his heart that learning is not more
sought after by the youth. Many are there
who care for naught but the chase and hunt.
Canst thou hunt, Siegbert?”

“None better,” answered the young man,
briefly. “Expert are the Danes with bow and
arrow. They teach the youths to excel in such
weapons; leaping, running, wrestling, even as
with the Saxons, are sports in which they delight,
but naught of wisdom’s lore teach they.
For one short year only was the cup of knowledge
presented to my lips. Fain would I have
partaken longer of the draught, but that it was
rudely dashed from my lips, and now, ere I
again partake of it, do I set forth to find if any
there be who know aught of my grandfather or
sister. I wot not if they be dead or living. I
was taken from them so long ago.”

“Tell me of it, Siegbert,” urged Egwina,
seating herself near him. “From what place
wert thou taken?”

“It was from a monastery,” said Siegbert,
“where I was placed, because the abbot had
taken a fancy to my voice and face. ‘He shall
be another Cynewulf,’ he said, and so ’suaded my
grandfather to give me to them. I, too, maiden,
was the son of a gleeman who was the son of a
gleeman, and song was my heritage even as it
is thine. The good abbot taught me to read
and to know of other things, that I might not
be like the animal, who wots of naught but
grass and drink. One morning—well do I remember
the day—a bode ran breathlessly to the
monastery to tell us that the Northmen were
advancing upon us. The battle of Kesteven
had been fought, and victory sat upon the helmet
of the Dane. Terror and consternation
reigned in the monastery, for as the destroyer
had done to other convents, so would he do to
ours. No mercy would be shown to priest or
monk. The abbot alone was calm. Calling all
together, he sent into the fens the younger brothers,
who could support life, together with the
sacred relics of the monastery—the most holy
body of St. Guthlac, the jewels, documents, and
precious gifts presented to the abbey. The aged
and infirm monks with the young children, in
fact all those whom he considered unable to endure
the hardships of the fens, did he retain with
him, hoping that the savage breasts of the Danes
might be filled with pity for so much helplessness.
But alack! even as, robed in the vestments,
we stood at mass, the Danes burst in
upon us. Never, maiden, shall I forget that
sight! Often now, in the dark watches of the
night, doth it come before my vision—the good
abbot, stricken down at the very altar; the
priests and monks, with their heads cloven into
by the terrible battle-ax of the Danes. By the
sub-prior did I stand. The pagans swept to us,
and one, with a swift blow of his ax, laid the
holy father dead at my feet. Wotting not
what I did, I taunted him scornfully because
he slew me not, but stood regarding me with
weapon uplifted. I bade him put me to death
by the side of the holy father, for I loved him;
but the Dane seized me, stripped me of my
robe, and then threw upon me a Danish tunic.
Then bearing me with him, he strode from the
edifice, crying that I was too fair to be slain.
So,” and Siegbert’s lip curled in scorn, “where
holiness and goodness availed not, mere beauty
of feature saved my life. The others who were
not slain outright were seized and tortured to
tell where the treasures of the monastery were
held. Incensed at being thwarted of their
gains, the Danes slew all the remainder save
only myself. I, too, would have been slain but
that Sidroc the younger, who had saved me,
bade me keep from the way of Hubba and the
other jarls, and keep only with his own retainers.
Then they passed on to Medeshamstede,
to continue the work of destruction. The army
then moved toward Huntingdon.

“The two jarls Sidroc were appointed to guard
the rear and the baggage over the rivers. As
they were passing the Neu, after the rest of the
army, two cars laden with wealth and property,
with all the cattle drawing them, were overturned
at the left of a bridge into a whirlpool.
While all the attendants of the younger Sidroc
were employed in recovering what was possible
of the loss, I stole away unperceived and ran
into the nearest wood. All night I walked. I
was footsore and weary, but I was upheld by the
hope of seeing again the monastery and getting
away from the Dane. The wolves molested me
not. They, too, seemed filled with fear of the
dread pagan, and remained hidden in their
lairs. At dawn I reached the monastery. It
was still burning. The younger brothers who
had fled to the fens had returned and were fighting
the flames. They took me and did comfort
me. But woe and well-a-day! we were again
compelled to fly by news of the approach of the
Northmen. I wot not how it happened, but I
strayed from or was left behind the rest in the
fens. For two days I wandered in the marshes,
unwitting where to go. Then did a Dane find me
and bring me to Guthrum, who, won by my fair
looks, took me into his household. So that
again did comeliness bring me succor.”

Egwina had drawn closer and closer to the
young man during the recital. Her eyes were
shining, her lips parted, and she hung upon
his words with an intentness almost painful.
As Siegbert paused, she laid her hand upon his
and asked: “Siegbert, was that monastery of
which thou speakest Croyland?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“What was the name of thy father?”

“Athelwulf, the son of Wulfhere.”

“And thou didst speak of a little sister!
Wittest thou her name?” Egwina was greatly
agitated. Siegbert, too, was regarding her with
intense eagerness.

“My little sister’s name was Egwina,” cried
he, full of suppressed excitement. “Look,
maiden!” He tore from his chest his tunic,
and pointed to his breast, where in old
Saxon letters was punctured the name “Egwina.”
“My grandfather did that just before
I went to the convent. As he did so he
said: ‘Boy, thy father and mother both are
dead. Save thee and me, no kith hath the
little one. Keep that name in thy heart,
and live for none other until mayhap thou
dost resign her into another’s keeping.’ And
I sware to him an oath that it should be as he
said.”

“Brother!” cried Egwina, half beside herself
with joy. “I am that Egwina! I am thy
sister.”

“My sister?” The young man stared at
her for a moment, and then exclaimed: “I
feel it! I know it!” and he embraced her
rapturously.

“We thought thee dead!” cried Egwina,
through her tears. “We knew not that
thou wert spared by the Danes. Granther
grieved for thee always. My brother! my
brother!”

“And thou art Egwina, my own little sister!”
Siegbert touched her gently, a glad light shining
in his grave, beautiful eyes. “Said not
Hilda that we looked alike! I thought that
thou and our grandsire likewise were slain,
because I knew the Northmen had overrun the
country. I thought never to see thee again,
sister.” He lingered lovingly over the last
word, as though it were sweet to him. “Now is
my search ended before it hath begun. But
tell me of my grandfather and of thyself.
How it hath fared with thee these many
years.”

Egwina told him of their wanderings, and
of Wulfhere’s death. Siegbert’s eyes flashed
proudly at the manner of it.

“I grieve not for him,” he said. “Glorious
was his end! So may I die—with front
to foe in defense of my country! Say on,
sister.”

Egwina told all. The life in the forest at the
cottage of Denewulf; Athelney, the palace and
Edward’s love; of Gyda and the ordeal, and
finally how she came to be there at Anlaf’s.

Siegbert turned to her, an anxious expression
on his face.

“Not now, Egwina, wilt thou seek the cloister,
wilt thou? Thy brother cannot give thee
up, now that he hath found thee.”

“Dear brother, never will I leave thee unless
thou sendest me from thee,” said Egwina, kissing
him. “We will go to the king, and thou
shalt enter his service, and learn of his wisdom.
I have eaten of the king’s bread, and for my
sake, will he aid thee. And not only for my
sake, but because thou art a Saxon.”

“Nay, my sister. We will go not to the
king. Sometime in the future mayhap, when
Edward hath taken another to himself, but not
now. We will go to London, an’ it please thee,
sister. There thou and I shall dwell together,
and hard will it go with us, if thy brother
doth not gain thegn’s rank for thy sweet sake.”

“If it pleaseth thee, then doth it please me,”
answered Egwina. “So that we be near each
other.”




CHAPTER XXVIII—AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
==================================


To London, or, as it was then known, Lundenbrige,
the old British name, the brother and
sister went. London, with its narrow, winding
streets and low dwellings. London, which has
grown from the rudiments of a municipal constitution
which Alfred planted to the metropolis
of to-day. London, which owes to the same
king not only its municipality, but also the defenses
which rendered it impregnable to the
later attacks of the Danes.

Close by the bridge which had spanned the
Thames from Roman times immemorial, at the
meeting-places of the roads in that district
known as East Cheap, the two found a cottage
and there did they dwell. Already possessed
of some knowledge of the craft of goldsmith,
Siegbert allied himself with foreign workmen
and cultivated the craft assiduously, soon becoming
an expert. Egwina attended to the
duties of the little household and happily the
time glided by. All that she had learned of
books at the court of the king did she impart to
Siegbert, so that in giving to him of her learning
she but impressed it the more firmly upon
her own mind.

Two years passed thus, and if Egwina’s heart
ever turned with longing toward that far-off
time when, beloved and honored, she dwelt an
inmate of the king’s household, or if the image
of Edward rose before her, none knew of it save
herself.

It was spring. Egwina drew back the linen
blind that did duty in place of glass, which was
in use only by the nobles or churches, and
leaned out. The air came soft and fresh against
her face. A song thrush on a budding tree
near the window trilled forth his merry lay,
and the maiden listened with light heart.

“Hail to thee, maiden,” said a townsman who
was passing, saluting her. “Heardest thou the
news?”

“Nay, I have heard naught,” answered the
maiden, returning the salutation. “What hath
happened?”

“King Alfred and Edward the atheling have
come against the city, and Dane and Saxon
alike have acknowledged him as overlord. Now
hath he brought a great army of workmen and
prepareth to rebuild the wall with which the
Roman once encompassed the city. Fortifications
and manors also doth he purpose erecting.”

“Is the king himself in the burgh?” questioned
the maiden, faint with joy.

“He himself is here,” replied the citizen.
“Royal doings shall we have amongst us, for
the king’s son-in-law, Ethelred, the ealdorman
of Mercia, and the lady Ethelfleda, his wife,
are with him. A goodly company, I trow! I’ll
warrant that there will be rare doings amongst
us,” and he passed on.

Here! In the same place! Egwina sank
back on a seat almost overcome. Those dear
people whom she had not seen for so long!
Unknown to them she would gaze upon their
faces again. And Siegbert! He, too, should
see them. Together would they watch for
them, and he should know them at least by
sight. Full of excitement, she awaited the return
of Siegbert with impatience.

“Thou shalt see them if thou wilt, my sister,”
said Siegbert, kissing her. “I, too, would see
the king, and what manner of man the atheling
be. Of excellent taste since he hath fancied
thee, Egwina. ’Tis pity ’twere displeasing to
the king. Thou art fit mate for any, be he
atheling or what not.”

“At least my life hath not been preserved
twice on account of beauty,” retorted the girl,
saucily, flushing rosy red at his praise.

Siegbert smiled at her.

“Wottest thou not that Hilda said that we
looked alike?” he asked. “Stoodst thou in my
place before Dane, I trow that there could be
found no Norseman, howe’er fierce, that could
find it in his heart to slay thee. List! What
was that? Methought that I heard a groan.”

Both listened, and plainly there came to
their ears the sound of some one moaning as if
in pain.

“Some one hath been hurt, or o’ertaken by
misease,” exclaimed Siegbert, rising. “I will
see if it be near. It so sounded.” He opened
the door. Prone upon the entrance lay the
figure of a man.

“Now, who art thou, and what aileth thee,
that thou dost utter moan?” asked Siegbert as
he bent over the prostrate form.

“Let me enter in pity’s name,” spoke the
man, feebly.

Without more ado the Saxon lifted him in
his arms and bore him into the cottage. Egwina
hastened forward.

“Bear him to thy bed, Siegbert,” she said.
“The poor man is ill.”

The man whose form Siegbert was supporting
turned his head and looked at her.

“Little one, is it thou?” he said.

With a cry, Egwina sprang toward him, and
fell upon her knees before him.

“My king! my king!” she cried, covering
his hands with kisses.

Alfred tried to raise her, but the effort was
too much for him, and he became unconscious.

“Oh, Siegbert, ’tis the king, the king!” cried
Egwina as Siegbert laid him on a couch.

“Yes, my sister; but now aid me to bring
him from his swound, and then will I go for a
leech.”

In response to their restoratives the king soon
showed signs of returning consciousness. Egwina
explained rapidly to Siegbert as they ministered
to him. “’Tis the same misease which
hath afflicted the king since he was a young
man. ’Twas at his wedding feast, I have heard
them say, when first it seized upon him. The
merriment was at its height when he was taken
with it. Some there were, and are yet, who
thought that wicca craft had been wrought
upon him; but go, my brother, for the leech.
See! he openeth his eyes.”

Siegbert left hastily, and soon returned with
the physician, who examined the king carefully.

“It needeth blood-letting,” said he, sagely,
“but unlucky is the day, and mickle would be
the result should I use the vein knife.”

The king smiled faintly.

“No blood dost thou need to let, good leech,”
he said. “The affliction is one to which time
hath accustomed me, and naught do I need now
but repose, since the sharpness of the attack
hath passed.”

“Then,” said the leech, unwilling to let slip
an opportunity to press his service upon the
king, “I will leave thee this decoction, and to-morrow
will we see about the blood-letting.
Then, too, shalt thou be removed to abode more
befitting thee.”

To all of his entreaties the next day to allow
him to remove him to his own dwelling, Alfred
turned a deaf ear; nor would he permit Siegbert
to inform his own family of his whereabouts.

“’Twill be but a few days until the misease
will have left me,” he said. “Until then I will
stay with thee, little one, if thou wilt let me.”

“Gladly, my king,” returned the maiden,
with shining eyes. “If thou canst abide in
our poor dwelling, thou art as welcome as the
sunbeam.”

Tenderly did Alfred smile at her.

“Egwina,” said he gently, when the leech
had gone, “tell me of this young man. Art
thou wed to him, and is that why thou wouldst
not exchange the true-lofa with Edward?”

“No, no,” answered Egwina. “This is my
brother, my king.”

“Thy brother?” and Alfred looked his surprise.
“I knew not that thou hadst a brother,
little one.”

“Nor did I know until but a short time
since,” returned Egwina. Briefly she recounted
the incidents which led to their finding each
other.

“It was the providence of God that brought
ye to each other,” said the king, piously. “Grievously
have we mourned for thee, little one. We
knew not why thou shouldst have left us. Now
that I have found thee, thou shalt not leave us
again. Thy brother shall be of us also. Tell
me of thyself,” and he turned abruptly to
Siegbert.

Siegbert told his story, with which we are
already familiar.

“Thoughtful is thy brow, and thine eye glows
with the light of a scholar,” declared the king,
regarding the young man with interest. “Thou
dost please me well, Siegbert, and agreeable to
me will be the task of training thy mind. In
a few days we will go together to the palace.”

Egwina looked at Siegbert with a distressed
face. Siegbert spoke boldly, resigning without
a pang the enticing prospect opened up before
him, for the sake of that dear sister: “My
lord king, prithee do not press us. Thy graciousness
warmeth the heart, but we are not
of gentle blood, and unbecoming to us would be
the ways of the court.”

“And thou carest naught for wisdom and
learning?” cried Alfred, regarding him with
surprise. “Hath my ken of men failed me
now?”

A light flashed into Siegbert’s eyes, but, loyal
to his sister, he opened his lips to deny the desire
that possessed him when the king said, smilingly:
“There seemeth a paradox. Thy words belie
thy looks, friend Siegbert. Gainsay it not that
thou dost long for learning.”

“I do not gainsay it, my lord,” answered the
young man in a low voice.

“Then why dost thou not wish to come to the
palace? Ah!” catching sight of the downcast
face of Egwina. “Come, little one, thou shalt
answer. Is it Edward?”

Egwina bowed in silent assent.

“Egwina, tell me truly,” and Alfred’s voice
was grave. “Lovest thou not my son? He told
me that thou didst, and that thou didst withhold
from him thy true-lofa because thou didst
fear that I would be displeased with thee.
Gladly did I approve thee, for thou wert near
and dear to me already as mine own child.
When he sought thee, lo! thou couldst not be
found. Vainly have we searched for traces
of thee, but none could be found. Edward
hath grieved without ceasing over thy loss. Tell
me why thou didst leave, for in that doth lie the
reason of thy wish not to return. Hath Edward
been mistaken? Dost thou not love him?”

Egwina looked at him with troubled eyes.
Siegbert would have spoken, but she stopped
him.

“My brother, I will tell him all,” she said in
earnest tones. “I do love Edward, my king. I
knew not that he did love me until the night I
left him. I stood awaiting his coming after he
would have seen thee, when I heard footsteps
approaching. Wishing not to meet other than
Edward at the moment, I retired into the shadow
of the trees. It was thou, my king, and the
lady Elswitha. She was telling thee that she
feared that Edward did look upon me with
loving eye. Thou wert surprised, and when the
lady said that it had grieved her that I was not
gentle, thou didst say, ‘True, she comes not of
noble blood.’ I could bear no more, my king.
I feared thy displeasure, and so, as Gyda the
seid woman was there and wished me to go with
her, I left all and followed after her.”

“Thou foolish little one!” The king’s voice
was very tender. “And thou didst not hear the
rest of our talk? I said, ‘True, she is not
of noble blood, but what do we reck of the blood
when the mind is noble? Glad am I that our
son hath chosen so wisely.’”

“My king!” gasped the girl. “Saidst thou
that?”

“The very same. Now will ye go with me,
my children?” Alfred had risen. He held
out his hands to them with his most winning
smile. With an inarticulate cry Egwina sprang
to him, and Siegbert’s eyes were wet as he kissed
the hand of Britain’s gentle king.




CHAPTER XXIX—BRINGING THE SUMMER HOME
=====================================


Never to be forgotten was the day on which
Alfred brought Egwina and Siegbert to his
palace. Not a cloud marred the blue of the
sky or dimmed the brightness of the sun. All
nature seemed to have donned her fairest garb.
Cowslips dotted every mead. Birds trilled
joyously from every bush. The patient oxen,
each with a nosegay betwixt his horns, bore to
every village and town tall birch trees, around
which the swains and maidens frolicked; for it
was the first of May, and ealdorman and thegn
and ceorl joined together in the glad bringing
home of the Summer.

In the morning from every village went two
troops of horse. Tall youths and men assembled
as though they would go forth to a mighty
battle. One troop was under a captain named
“Winter,” arrayed in fur and wadded garments,
and armed with a winter spear, who
arrogantly rode to and fro, showering made
snow-balls as if he would fain prolong the cold.
The other troop was commanded by a captain
clad in green boughs, leaves, flowers, and other
summer raiment. Then the two factions engaged
in a tilt, typical of the struggle between
life and death, wherein Summer hath the
mastery. Winter and his companions scatter
ashes and sparks about them. The other company
defend themselves with birchen boughs
and young lime twigs; finally the multitude
award the victory to Summer, and he is crowned
with flowers.

All the lads and lassies had set out soon after
midnight, with horns and other music, to
neighboring woods, breaking boughs off the
trees and decking themselves with wreaths and
posies. Homeward then they turned, and at
sunrise set these bushes in the doors and windows
of their houses. Feasting and games
followed, and joyous was the day.

Bright the mead and green the woodland
that stretched from the palace, and merrily resounded
horns and song upon the air. As they
neared the manor, Egwina’s step grew slower,
and she trembled. Alfred drew her close to his
side, and bade her lean upon him for support.
From one of a group of merry-makers a young
man detached himself, and came toward them
with light, quick steps. It was Edward.

“My father,” he cried, “glad am I that thou
hast returned. Somewhat of uneasiness did we
feel that thou didst not come sooner, but now—”

He stopped short, catching sight of Egwina for
the first time. Over his face flashed immediately
incredulity, surprise, and delight in quick succession.
So great was his amazement that he
spoke not, but looked at the maiden as though
he were afraid a word would dissolve the vision.

“Son, hast thou no word of welcome for thy
bride?” Alfred spoke cheerily. “A laggard
will she think thee if thou dost not greet her.
Thy father hath brought thee thy bride.
Shall he woo her for thee also?”

He stooped and kissed the maiden’s brow,
and then, leading her to Edward, joined their
hands together, saying:

“I have brought thee home thy summer,
Edward. Take her, and forever keep that
summer in thy heart. I cannot express all her
merit. Prudent and modest is she, and none
excelleth her in purity. She lives now for thee—thee
alone. Hence she loves naught else but
thee. Let her waste not for thy love, and suffer
naught to come between thee. As thou dealest
with her, so may God deal with thee.”

“So may God deal with me,” repeated Edward,
solemnly. “Welcome, my bride, and
thrice welcome! Never more shall we be parted.
We two will live with but one heart and one
purpose.”

“Welcome also thy bride’s brother,” and
the king brought Siegbert forward. “Hast
thou room in thy heart for another brother?
Marry! once I thought him loth to let thee
have Egwina, and hard did I plead for
thee.”

“But now?” and Edward greeted Siegbert in
his frank, winning way.

“Now that I have seen thee, I am content,”
answered Siegbert.

“It doth surprise me to behold in thee a
brother to Egwina,” said Edward, his hand still
clasping that of Siegbert. “I wotted not that
she possessed any that were sibbe to her.”

“’Tis a long story,” and Alfred drew Siegbert
away with him and turned toward the palace.
“While we greet the Lady Elswitha, do
thou tell him it, Egwina. Join us anon in the
hall, Edward.”

Edward held out his hands to the maiden.

“Let us wander under the trees,” he said.
“Henceforth and forever hand-in-hand.”

So under the trees they sauntered, pouring
forth their joy at again being with each other.
When the first rapture was over, Edward said:
“Tell me, Egwina, why thou didst leave me
that night, and how thou didst find thy brother?
Vainly did I seek for thee; vainly sought in
hillock and dale for trace of thee, but naught
was there to be found anywhere.”

Egwina began where he left her, and told him
all her story. When she reached the ordeal, he
seized her hand and tore her sleeve and bracelet
from her arm.

“No scar or burn in truth is there!” he cried.
“Oh, blessings on the vala who mixed for Adiva
the potion! Blessings also upon Adiva! As
for Denewulf—how dared he let thee suffer such
a trial?”

Egwina laid her hand gently upon his.

“It was not Denewulf, Edward. I demanded
it, for none were there who believed in my innocence.
God alone could show it, for man had
forsaken me. Grieve not over it, because of it
was I led to Anlaf’s, where I found Siegbert,
my brother. Through him was it that thy
father did enter our dwelling, and thus, at last,
was I brought to thee.”

“Truly, it was God’s providence,” answered
Edward. “Yet doth my heart beat, and a mist
comes before mine eyes at thy hardships. Tell
on, brave heart; I will be calm.”

“There is but little else to tell,” answered
she, and continued her narrative.

“Edward, Edward,” called some merry voices
as a group of youths and maidens came trooping
toward them, “come and join us.”

Catching sight of Egwina, they stopped in
surprise, and then called joyously: “’Tis
Egwina! Egwina hath come to us again!”
They gathered round her, welcoming her
warmly. Edward took from a maiden near him
a garland of cowslips, daisies, and primroses,
and kneeling before Egwina said: “Thus do I
crown thee my Summer and queen of my heart.”

“They have exchanged the true-lofa!” went
up the merry shout. “Edward hath chosen
his mate! Lord and lady of the Summer are
they!”

Bursting into a gay song, they joined hands
and circled joyously round the loving pair.

   | “Merry is the throstle’s song
   |   And blithe the mead doth bloom;
   | For we have brought the Summer home
   |   From Winter’s dreary tomb.
   |
   | “Merry is the song of youth
   |   And blithely do we sing;
   | For each hath brought his Summer fair
   |   To join our mystic ring.”
   

.. footnotes:: Footnotes
   :class: smaller


----


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----

.. topic:: Transcriber’s Note

   Spelling and punctuation inaccuracies were silently corrected.

   Archaic and variable spelling is preserved.

   The author’s punctuation style is preserved.

   Hyphenation has been made consistent.

|
|
|
|
|

.. _pg_end_line:

\*\*\* END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MAID AT KING ALFRED’S COURT \*\*\*

.. backmatter::

.. toc-entry::
   :depth: 0

.. _pg-footer:

.. class:: pgfooter language-en

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