But he was more weary than usual with the toil and anxiety of the day, and shortly seated himself upon a mossy bank beneath an aged oak. The trees grew thickly behind and before him, on each side of the glade, which terminated at no great distance in the heart of the pathless forest, so that no occasional wayfarer would be likely to pass that way.

There he reposed, until a gentle slumber stole over him and buried all his senses in oblivion.

The day was nearly spent, the light clouds which still reflected the sun's ruddy glow were fast fading into a grey neutral tint, and darkness was approaching. Once a timid deer passed along the glade, and started as it beheld the sleeping form, then went on, but started yet more violently as it passed a thicket on the opposite side. The night breeze had arisen and was blowing freshly; but still the old man slept on, as though he slept that sleep from which none shall awaken until the archangel's trump.

Meanwhile they grew uneasy at the hall over his prolonged absence, and at length Alfred started to find his father, beginning to fear that the excitement of the day had been too great for him, and that he might need assistance. He knew the favourite glade wherein the aged thane was wont to walk, and the mossy bank whereon he frequently reposed, so he lost no time, but bent his steps directly for the spot.

As he drew near, he saw his father lying on the bank beneath the oak as still in sound sleep, and marvelled that the chilly air of the evening had not awoke him. He was not wont to sleep thus soundly. He approached closely, but his steps did not arouse the sleeper. He now bent over him, and put his hand on his shoulder affectionately and lovingly.

"Father, awake," he said; "the night is coming on; you will take cold."

But there was no answering voice, and the sleeper stirred not. Alfred became seriously alarmed, but his alarm changed suddenly into dread certainty. The feathered shaft of an arrow met his eye, dimly seen in the darkness, as it stuck in the left side of the sleeping Ella. Sleeping, indeed. But the sleep was eternal.

Horrified at the sight, refusing to believe his eyes, the son first continued his vain attempts to awake his sire, then fell on his knees, and wrung his hands while he cried piteously, "O father, speak to me!" as if he could not accept the fact that those lips would never salute him more. The moonbeams fell on that calm face, calm as if in sleep, without a spasm of pain, without the contraction of a line of the countenance. The weapon had pierced through the heart; death had been instantaneous, and the sleeper had passed from the sleep of this earth to that which is sweetly called "sleep in the Lord," without a struggle or a pang.

His heart full of joy and thanksgiving, he had gone to carry his tribute of praise to the very throne of God.

When the first paroxysm of pain and grief was over, the necessity of summoning some further aid, of bearing the sad news to his home, pressed itself upon the mind of Alfred, and he took his homeward road alone, as if he hardly knew what he was doing, but simply obeyed instinct. Arrived there, he could not tell his mother or sister; he only sought the chamberlain and the steward, and begged them to come forth with him, and said something had happened to his father. They went forth.

"We must carry something to bear him home," he said, and they took a framework of wood upon which they threw some bearskins.

Alfred did not speak during the whole way, save that in answer to the anxious inquiries of his companions he replied, "You will see!" and they could but infer the worst from his manner, without giving him the pain of telling the fatal truth.

At length they reached the glade where the dead body lay. The moon was bright, and in her light they saw the fatal truth at once.

"Alas, my master! alas, my dear lord! Who has done this? Who could have done it?" was their cry. "Was there one who did not love and revere him?"

More demonstrative than Alfred had been were they in their lamentations, for the deepest grief is often the most silent.

At length they raised the body, the temple of so pure and holy a spirit, which had now returned to the God Who gave it, reverently as men would have handled the relics of some martyr saint, and placed it on the bier which they had prepared. Then they began their homeward route, and ere a long time had passed they stood before the great gate of the castle with their burden.

It now became a necessity for Alfred to announce the sad news to his widowed mother; and here the power of language fails us—the shock was so sudden, so unexpected. The half of her life was so suddenly torn from the bereaved one, that the pang was well-nigh insupportable. But God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, and has promised that the strength of His beloved ones shall be even as their day. So He strengthened the sensitive frame to bear a shock which otherwise might have slain it.

The sounds of lamentation and woe were heard all over the castle as they slowly bore the body to the domestic chapel, while some drew near, impelled by an irresistible desire to gaze upon it, and then cried aloud in excess of woe. Amongst the others, Redwald approached, and gazed fixedly upon the corpse; and Eric the steward often declared, in later days, that he saw the wound bleed afresh under the glance of the ruthless warrior, but perhaps this was an afterthought.

Father Cuthbert, who had now been elected prior of the monastic house below, on the banks of the river, soon heard the sad news, and hastened up to tender the sweet consolations of religion—the only solace at such a time, for it is in seasons of suffering that we best comprehend the Cross.

When he entered he saw the corpse in the chapel, where they had placed it before the altar, and he could only say, "Alas, my lord! alas, my dear friend!" until he knelt down to pray, and rose up somewhat calmed.

Then he sought the chamber where the lady Edith hid her woe, and there he showed her that God was love, hard though it was sometimes for the frail flesh to see it; and he bade her look to the Divine Sufferer of Whom it is said, "In all their afflictions He was afflicted;" and so by his gentle ministrations he brought calm to the troubled breast, and it seemed as if one had said to the waves of grief, "Peace, be still."

And then he gathered the household to prayer, and while they prayed many a "Requiescat" for the faithful soul, as they said the dirge commending to the Fathers Hands a sheep of His fold, so they also prayed for strength to see the love which was hidden behind all this sad, sad visitation, and to know the meaning of the words "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."

And then he bade them rest—those, at least, who were able to do so— while he watched by the body, as was then the custom, all through the deep night.

And so the stars which had looked down from heaven so peacefully upon the house of Aescendune the night before, of which we wrote, now looked down as coldly bright as if no change had occurred, shining alike upon weal or woe, upon crime or holy deed of saint. Yet as the kneeling friar saw them through the chapel window, he thought they were but the golden lights which lay about the confines of that happy region where the faithful live in unspeakable felicity for ever with their Lord, and he found consolation in the thought of the Eternal and the Infinite.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE BATTLE.

The early morn, as we have already seen, broke upon the adverse hosts of Edwy and Edgar as the trumpet sounded to arouse them from their slumbers, in many instances from the last slumber they should ever enjoy.

Every soldier was on his legs in a moment, and, in the first place, preparations were made for breakfast: for it was a recognised fact amongst our ancestors that if you wanted a man to fight or do anything else well, you must feed him well first. So the care of the body was never neglected, however pressing the danger.

Accordingly, Edwy called Elfric to sit by his side at the substantial meal which commenced the day, and saw, with much pleasure, that the cloud had partly passed from his friend's brow for the hope of immediate action, of the excitement of battle, had done much to drive lowness and depression from the young warrior. So he strove to chat and laugh with the loudest, and when the moment came to marshal the host, and to put them in array, his spirits were as high as in old times.

The cavalry, which was their strongest arm, was under the command of Edwy himself, although a sturdy warrior, who had fought in many a battle, rode on his right hand to supply his lack of experience.

The main body of the infantry was under the command of Earl Cynewulf, while the reserve was under the command of Redwald's immediate subordinate, and consisted almost exclusively of the household guard.

The plan of attack, for it was quite decided that they should take the initiative, was simple, and in accordance with the ordinary tactics of the times. The heavy-armed foot were bidden first to advance upon the entrenchments which crowned the opposite hill, and to break the infantry of the enemy, which was drawn up before them in formidable array; this done, the horse were immediately to avail themselves of the opening thus made, and the entrenchments to be assaulted by both cavalry and infantry.

Armed with huge axes, clad in mail, and bearing large shields, the foot advanced to the attack. They were a gallant company; and as the sun shone upon their glittering armour, or was reflected back from the bright steel of their axes, they might well inspire faint hearts with terror; but faint hearts were not amongst those opposed to them. The chosen men of the northwest, some of half-British blood, crowned the opposite hill, drawn up in front of their entrenchments, as if they scorned any other defence than that supplied by their living valour. They had borrowed their tactics from the Danes: deep and strong on all sides, they seemed to oppose an impenetrable wall to the foe; they had their shields to oppose to darts or arrows, their axes for the footmen, their spears to form a hedge of steel no horse could surmount.

Even should they yield to the pressure, still all would not be lost; their retreat was secured into the entrenchments, and there they might well hope to detain the enemy until the whole population should rise against the men of Wessex and their leader, and his cause become hopeless.

Steadily up the hill came the brave troops of Edwy, and from within their ranks, as they ascended the slope, a shower of arrows was discharged by the archers who accompanied them, under their protection; but no return was yet made by the foe, until they were close at hand, when a loud war cry burst from the hostile ranks, and a perfect shower of darts and arrows rained upon the invaders.

Still they persevered, although they left a living, struggling line on the bloody grass behind them—persevered, like men longing for the close hand-to-hand encounter, longing to grasp their foes in deadly grip. The shock arrived; and axe and sword were busy in reaping the harvest of death. So great was the physical strength of the combatants that arms and legs were mown off by a stroke, and men were cloven in two, from the crown downwards, by the sweeping blows of the deadly steel.

It was a fearful struggle, but it was a short one; the line was unshaken in its strength; in vain Edwy's archers behind shot their arrows so as to curve over the heads of their brethren and fall amongst the foe; the men of Wessex recoiled and gave way.

Edwy seized what he thought the auspicious moment when the ranks of the foe, although unbroken, were yet weary and breathless, and ordered his cavalry to charge. The Mercians beheld the coming storm at a distance; down on their knees went the first line, their spears resting on the ground; behind them the second bent over to strike with their axes; while a third rank, the archers, drew their bows, and prepared to welcome the rushing enemy with a discharge of deadly arrows.

Every heart beat quickly as the fatal moment came near; onward, with a sound like thunder, galloped the horse of Edwy. He himself rode at their head, clad in light armour, and by his side Elfric. All trace of fear was gone now in the mad excitement of the charge; before them they saw the wail of spear points; nearer and nearer their coursers bounded, until they seemed to fly. Every rider leant forward, that his sword might smite as far as possible; and, daring the points, trusting perhaps to the breastplates of their horses and their own ready blades, they rushed madly upon the foe.

In cold blood no one could, perhaps, have ridden fearlessly against such an obstacle; but in the excitement of the moment the warriors of Edwy seemed capable of charging any imaginable barrier: and it became almost a pure calculation, not of the respective bravery of the troops, for none were cowards on either side, but of mere physical laws of force and resistance.

Elfric scarcely looked where he was going. He saw a shining lance point, about to impale him, he diverted it by his sword blade, as he was hurried into the midst of axes, swords, lances, and beheld the warrior opposite to him in the second rank raise his axe to inflict a fearful blow, which would have severed his horse's neck, had not an arrow transfixed the foe.

The wedge seemed partly broken, and the king had begun to exult in the anticipation of speedy victory, when from behind each end of the entrenchment rushed two bodies of hostile cavalry; they fell upon Edwy's forces in the rear, and in a few moments all was confusion.

The warriors of Edgar rallied, drove the horse out of their lines, advanced slowly, and the horsemen of the rival brothers, mingled together in deadly strife, in personal combat, where each man seemed to have sought and found his individual foe.

They moved slowly down the bill towards the brook, man after man falling and dotting the green sward of the hill with struggling, writhing bodies.

Meanwhile, Cynewulf was attempting to rally the flying foot, which had been cut almost in two by the charge of the Mercian cavalry: he succeeded, with great difficulty, in doing so at the brook which ran along the bottom of the valley, and, with the stream in their front, they prepared to afford a refuge to their own, and to resist the hostile horse.

Edwy saw the opportunity, and, raising himself in his stirrups, called upon his friends to follow him: he leapt the brook, and galloped round behind the foot, where nearly all the unwounded horsemen followed him. He had fought well, had slain more than one foe with his own royal hand, as became a descendant of Cerdic, and now he but retired to organise another and stouter resistance to the daring foe.

But he was forced to admit now that Cynewulf was right in his conjecture, and that they were utterly outnumbered, for the foe poured forth from their entrenchment and advanced in good order down the slope; while the Mercian cavalry, forming in two detachments to the left and right, crossed the brook and charged along its banks upon the flanks of the Wessex infantry, at the same moment.

The warrior upon whose advice Edwy had been told to depend had fallen: he was left to his own resources. Alas! he forgot he was a commander, and, waving his plumed cap as a signal for his brother knights to follow, charged upon the horsemen who were advancing up stream at like speed, forgetting that a similar body was advancing in the opposite direction, and that as all his force were following his lead, the opposite flank of the foot was unprotected.

In a single minute they were all engaged in the fiercest melee which imagination can well paint, fighting as furiously as men of the same blood only seem to fight when once the claims of kindred are cast aside. Swords ascended and descended with deadly violence; horses raised themselves up on their hind legs, and, catching the deadly enthusiasm, seemed to engage their fellows; riders fell, sternly repressing the groan which pain would extort, while their steeds, less self controlled, uttered, when wounded, those ear-piercing cries only heard from the animals in deadly terror or pain.

In the midst of this tumult Elfric engaged a Mercian of superior size and strength; it was his second personal encounter; in his first, he had seen his adversary fall with a warrior's stern joy, but now he was overmatched; borne down by an arm twice as strong as his own, his guard was broken down, and a deadly blow laid open his shoulder, cutting the veins in the neck of his horse at the same fell sweep. The animal, blinded with blood, staggered, fell, and he was down amongst the horses' feet, confined by one leg, for his horse rolled partly upon him in its dying struggles; while he felt the hoofs of other chargers in close proximity to his heed.

A loud cry, "They fly! They fly! Victory! Victory!" reached him even then. He well knew from which party the cries must proceed, and that he was left to the mercy of the victorious Mercians.

It was even so; the charge of the hostile cavalry on the left flank had broken down the ranks of the infantry on that side; the hostile foot had contrived to cross the brook in the confusion, and all was lost.

The reserve now came rapidly forward, but, seeing at a glance the state of things, retired to defend the entrenched camp, so as to give the king and his broken and routed followers time to escape, while they made good the defence with their lives. So they retired at once into the camp, whither Edwy and his few surviving companions galloped a moment after them.

Edwy was unhurt; he dismounted: his fair face flushed to a fiery red with heat and excitement, he leapt on the entrenchment and looked on the plain. He saw those of his own followers who had not yet made good their escape, ridden down, cut to pieces, slaughtered in the excitement of the moment without mercy; the sight stung him, be would have sallied out to their defence, but Cynewulf, who was yet living, met him in the gateway, and sternly seized the bridle of his steed.

"My lord and king," he said; "your life is precious to Wessex, you may not throw it away."

"I cannot see my followers slaughtered: loose my bridle, I command you;" and he raised his sword impetuously.

"You may cut me down, and so reward my faithful service; but, living, you shall not pass me on your road to destruction. My lord, I am old enough to be your father."

But there was one gay young noble present, who knew better than Cynewulf the key to Edwy's heart. He was one of the boon companions we have been before introduced to; but he had fought, poor young fellow, gallantly all that day, and now he could fight no longer: Edwy saw him reel and fall from his horse.

"Elfgar!" he said; as he strove to raise his friend and subject from the ground—"not seriously wounded I hope!"

"Dying, and for my king, as is my duty let a dying voice reach you, my dear lord. Save yourself if you would save Elgiva, if you—if you—" the words came broken and faint "—are slain, she will be at the mercy of her deadly foes."

His head fell helplessly down upon his shoulder, and ere the king could make any reply, he saw that he was indeed past hope.

But his dying words had sunk deeply into the heart of Edwy.

"Poor Elfgar! he was right. O Elgiva! Elgiva! this is a sad day for thee."

"Return then to her, my lord," said Cynewulf. "See, they are preparing now to assault the camp; I can hold it for hours, and if you are not here, I can make good terms with our foes; but, if you stay, you but embarrass us: ride out, my liege."

"And desert my subjects?"

"They will all acquit you: haste, my lord, haste, before they surround the camp, for your fair queen's sake, or you are lost."

"Come, my men, we must fly," said Edwy, sullenly; and he led the way reluctantly to the back of the camp.

The road was partly encumbered with fugitives, but not wholly, as most of them sought the entrenched camp. Cynewulf accompanied him to the gate, where he stopped to give one last piece of advice.

"Fly, my lord, for Wessex at once; lose no time; the best route will be the Foss Way; they will not suspect that you have taken that direction. Ride day and night; if you delay anywhere you are lost."

"Farewell, faithful and wise counsellor. Odin and Thor send that we may meet again;" and Edwy with only a dozen followers rode out at full speed.

The Mercians had not yet reached that side of the camp, which was concealed by woods which were clear of all enemies, and he rode on rapidly.

"What has become of Elfric, my Leofric?" he said to one of his faithful train.

"I fear me he is dead: I saw him fall in the last struggle."

"Poor Elfric! poor Elfric! then his forebodings have come true; he will never see his father again."

"It is all fortune and fate, and none can resist his doom, my lord," said Leofric.

"But Elfric; yes, I loved Elfric. I would I had never left that fatal field."

"Think, my lord, of Elgiva."

"Yes, Elgiva—she is left to me and left all is left. Ride faster, Leofric, I fancy I hear pursuers."

They had, at Cynewulf's suggestion, taken fresh horses from the reserve, and had little cause to fear pursuit. In an hour they reached the Foss Way and rode along the route described in our former chapter, until, reaching the frontiers of the territory of the old Dobuni, they left the Foss, and rode by the Roman trackway which we have previously described, until they turned into a road which brought them deep into Oxfordshire. Here they were in a territory which had been a debateable land between Mercia and Wessex, where the sympathies of the people were not strongly enlisted on either side and they were comparatively safe.

They passed Kirtlington; rested at Oxenford, then rode through Dorchester and Bensington to Reading, whence they struck southward for Winchester, where Edwy rested from his fatigue in the society of Elgiva.

So ended the ill-advised raid into Mercia.

CHAPTER XIX. EARTH TO EARTH, AND DUST TO DUST.

Although Edwy and his little troop had been successful in gaining the main road, and in escaping into Wessex, yet few of his followers had been so fortunate, and his broken forces were seeking safety and escape in all directions, wanderers in a hostile country. A large number found a refuge in the entrenched camp; but it was surrounded by the foe in less than half-an-hour after the king's escape, and all ingress or egress was thenceforth impossible.

While one large body fled eastward towards the Watling Street, the soldiers who had accompanied the king to Aescendune naturally turned their thoughts in that direction. It was, as they had seen, capable of a long defence—well provisioned, and already partly garrisoned; nor could they doubt the joy with which their old companions would receive them, either to share in the defence of the post, or to accompany them in an honourable retreat southward.

So, not only those who survived of the fifty who had left Aescendune the previous morning, but all whom they could persuade to join them, actuated separately by the same considerations, made their way in small detachments through the forest towards the hall. Redwald had thoroughly earned the confidence of all his warriors, and they would follow him to death or victory with equal devotion. Now, in adversity, they only sought to put themselves once more under the rule of their talented and daring chieftain.

Therefore it was that while Father Cuthbert was yet kneeling in the chapel, where the body of the departed thane had been placed, the devotions of the good priest were disturbed by the blowing of horns and the loud shout whereby the first fugitives sought admittance into the castle.

Redwald had also been up nearly all night pacing his room, muttering incoherently to himself. Over and over again he regarded intently a locket containing a solitary tress of grey hair, and once or twice the word "Avenged" rose to his lips.

"And they little know," said he, soliloquising, "who the avenger is, or what have been his wrongs; little know they how the dead is represented in the halls of his sire—blind! blind! Whichever way the victory eventually turn, he is avenged."

While he thus soliloquised he was aroused by the same noise which had disturbed Father Cuthbert's devotions, and, recognising its source, betook himself to the gateway, where some of his own soldiers were on guard, who, true to discipline, awaited his permission to allow their comrades to enter: it is needless to say it was readily given.

Broken and dispirited was the little troop of ten or a dozen men, who first appeared in this manner after the fight; their garments torn and bloody, some of them wounded, they yet raised a shout of joy as they saw their trusted leader.

"Whence come ye, my comrades in arms?" said he, "and what are your news —you look like men who have fled from battle."

"We did not fly till all was lost."

The countenance of Redwald indicated some little emotion, though it was transient as the lightning's flash in the summer night.

"The king—is it well with him?"

"He has fled with a small troop to the south."

"Saw you aught of Elfric of Aescendune?"

"He fell in the last charge of the cavalry."

"Dead?"

"We think so."

"How is it that you have suffered yourselves to be beaten?"

"Had you been there it might have ended differently. We became the aggressors, and attacked a superior force, while they had all the advantage of ground."

"Come in. You must first have some food and wine; then you shall tell me all. We may need your help here, and shall be glad of every able-bodied man."

"More are on the road."

And so it proved, for party after party continued to fall in. The solemn quiet, which so well befitted the house of mourning, was banished by the presence of the soldiery in such large numbers, for early in the day nearly a hundred and fifty were gathered together, and accommodation threatened to fall short.

Under these circumstances the lady Edith became very anxious that either the departure of her unwelcome guests should be hastened, or that the loved remains should be removed at once to the priory church, where she could bemoan her grief in quiet solitude, and be alone with her beloved and God. There seemed no rest or peace possible in the hall, and Redwald was apportioning all the accommodation to his followers as they came, preserving only the private apartments of the lady Edith from intrusion.

She was still expecting the arrival of Elfric, for Redwald had not communicated the news he had received, and she did not even know that King Edwy had been defeated; so absorbed was she in her grief, that she did not note the thousand little circumstances which might have told her as much.

But before the hour of terce, Alfred came into the room where she was seated with her daughter, and she saw by his troubled countenance that he had something to communicate which pained him to tell.

"Elfric!" she said—"he is well?"

"He has not come yet, my mother; and I grieve to say that we were deceived yesterday—deceived about the battle."

"How so?"

"The king was defeated; he has fled southward, and there has been a great slaughter."

"But Elfric?"

"No one can tell me anything about him," said Alfred, wringing his hands. "Mother, you must leave this place."

"Leave our home—and now?"

"They talk of defending it against the forces of the Etheling Edgar, who has been declared king; and we should all be in great danger."

"But will they stay here against our will?"

"Yes; for they say their lives depend upon it, that the Mercians scour all the country round about, that all the roads are now occupied and guarded, so that they can only hope to defend this place until they can make terms with the King of Mercia, as they call Edgar, who is likely to be acknowledged by all north of the Thames. The curse of the Church is, they say, upon Edwy."

"Father Cuthbert is still here, is he not?—what does he advise? where shall we go?"

"He says we can have the old house in which he, and the mass-thanes [xxix] before him, lived while as yet the priory was incomplete or unbuilt. It is very comfortable, and close to the church."

"But to take him so soon from his home!"

"They will place him in God's house, before the altar; there could not be a better place where they or we could wish his dear remains to await the last rites upon earth."

At that moment Father Cuthbert entered the room unannounced.

"Pardon me, my revered lady," he began; "but I grieve to say that your safety demands instant action, and must excuse my intrusion; your life and liberty are no longer safe here."

"Life and liberty?"

"There is some foul plot to detain you all here, on pretence your safety requires it. I have been this morning to Redwald, and he refuses permission for any one to leave the place, asserting that thus only can he assure your safety. Now, it is plain that if the place comes to be besieged you would be far safer in the priory or the old priests' house. Our own countrymen would not injure us."

"He will not detain us by force?"

"I would not trust to that; but we must meet guile by guile. I have pretended to be content on your behalf and he is just going to leave the hall, with the greater part of his followers, to collect provisions and cattle. I have told him that the Grange farm is well stocked; he has caught the bait, and is going to superintend the work of spoliation in person: far better, in the present need, that he should rob the estate than that a hair of your head or of those of your children should perish."

"But why do you suspect him of evil?"

"I cannot tell you now. I have overheard dark, dark speeches. So soon as he has gone, Alfred and I must summon all your own people who are in the hall. We will then bring the body forth, and follow it ourselves; as we shall outnumber those left behind I do not imagine they will dare, in his absence, to interfere with our progress."

"I will go at once," said Alfred, "and summon the household."

"No; you would be observed. I am older and perhaps a little more discreet. Stay with your mother till all is ready."

Alfred reluctantly obeyed, and Father Cuthbert went forth. So great was their anxiety that it almost banished the power of prayer, save such mental shafts as could be sent heavenward in each interval of thought.

At last Alfred, who was at the window, saw Redwald and his followers— nearly a hundred in number—leave the castle and ride across towards the forest in the direction of the farm in question. Another moment and Father Cuthbert entered.

"Are you ready? If so, follow me."

He took them by a private passage into the chapel, where four men already stood by the bier, ready to head the procession, and thirty or forty others were gathered in the chapel or about the door—their own vassals, good and true. They all were armed.

Father Cuthbert ascended the wooden tower above the chapel, which served as a bell cot. He looked from its windows; the party of Redwald had disappeared behind the trees.

He came down and gave the signal. The sad procession started; they descended the steps to the courtyard. Redwald had left some forty or fifty men behind—men who had grown old in arms, and who, if they had pleased, might perhaps have stopped the exit, but they were not sufficiently in the confidence of their leader to take the initiative; and the only man who was in his confidence, and whom he had charged to see that no one departed, was fortunately at that moment in another part of the building. The sentinel at the drawbridge was one of Redwald's troop. He menaced opposition, and refused to let the drawbridge be peaceably lowered.

"Art thou a Christian?" said Father Cuthbert, coming forward in his priestly attire, "and dost thou presume to interfere with a servant of the Lord and to delay a funeral?"

"I must obey my orders."

"Then I will excommunicate thee, and deliver thy soul to Satan."

And he began to utter some awful Latin imprecation, which so aroused the superstition of the sentinel that he made no further opposition, which perhaps saved his life, for the retainers of Aescendune were meditating instant violence, indignant at the delay and the outrage to their lady.

They themselves let the drawbridge down and guarded the sad cortege over the plain. Their numbers increased every moment, and before they reached the neighbourhood of the priory they had little cause to fear any attack, should Redwald have arrived and have been rash enough to attempt one.

The old parsonage house, which had served for the residence of each successive parish prior or mass-thane, was a large and commodious building, containing all such accommodation as the family absolutely required in the emergency, while furniture, provision and comforts of all kinds were sent over from the priory, for the good fathers did not forget at this hour of need that they owed their own home to the liberality of Ella and his father.

So when they had deposited the loved remains before the altar of the church, and had knelt a brief season in prayer, the exiled family took possession of their temporary home. It was hard—very hard—to give up their loved dwelling at such a season of affliction, but the dread which Redwald had somehow inspired made it a great relief to be removed from his immediate presence.

Yet they could give no reason for the feeling they all shared. Father Cuthbert evidently suspected, or knew, things which he as yet concealed from them.

"Who could have slain the husband and father?"

This was the unanswered question. Their suspicions could only turn to Redwald or some of his crew: no marauders were known to lurk in the forest; there was, they felt assured, not one of his own people who would not have died in his defence. Again, it was not the lust of gold which had suggested the deed, for they had found the gold chain he wore untouched. What then could have been the motive of the murderer?

Father Cuthbert had found a solution, which was based upon sad experience of the traditional feuds so frequently handed down from father to son. Still he would not suggest further cause of disquietude, and added no further words.

The utter uncertainty about Elfric was another cause of uneasiness. Whether he had gone southward with the king, or had fallen on the battlefield, they knew not; or whether he had surrendered with the prisoners taken in the entrenched camp, and who had been all admitted to mercy.

In the course of the morning they saw Redwald return, laden with the spoils of the Grange farm—oxen and sheep, waggons containing corn, driven before him. What passed within on his entrance they could not tell; how narrow their escape they knew not—were not even certain it had been an escape at all.

It was now determined that the interment should take place on the morrow, and the intelligence was communicated rapidly to all the tenantry.

Hourly they expected the forces of Mercia to appear, and exact a heavy account from Redwald for his offences. He was supposed to be the instigator of the expedition which had failed so utterly; it was not likely that he would be allowed to retain Aescendune a long time. The only surprise people felt was that he should have dared to remain at the post when all hope of successful resistance had ceased. He had his own reasons, which they knew not.

Under these circumstances it seemed desirable to hurry forward the interment, lest it should be interfered with from without, in the confusion of hostile operations against the hall.

The priory church was a noble but irregular structure, of great size for those days. The cunning architect from the Continent, who had designed it, had far surpassed the builders of ordinary churches in the grandeur of his conception. The lofty roof, the long choir beyond the transept, gave the idea of magnitude most forcibly, and added dignity to the design. In the south transept was a chapel dedicated especially to St. Cuthbert, where the aged Offa reposed, and the mother of Ella. There they had removed the body to await the last solemn rites. Six large wax tapers burned around it, and watchers were there day and night— mourners who had loved him well, and felt that in him they had lost a dear friend.

The wife, the son, or the daughter, were ever there, but seldom alone. For when the monks in the choir were not saying the canonical hours, or the low mass was not being said at one of the side altars, still the voice of intercession arose, with its burden:

"Eternal rest give unto him, O Lord, And let perpetual light shine upon him."

At length the morning came, the second only after death. The neighbouring thanes whom the troubled times did not detain at home, the churls of the estate, the thralls, crowded the precincts of the minster, as the solemn bell tolled the deep funeral knell. At length the monks poured into the church, while the solemn "Domino refugium" arose from their lips—the same grand words which for these thousand years past have told of the eternity of God and the destiny of the creature; speaking as deeply to the heart then as in these days of civilisation.

The mourners entered, Alfred supporting his widowed mother, who had summoned all her fortitude to render the last sad offices to her dear lord; her daughter, a few distant relations—there were none nearer of kin. The bier, with its precious burden, was placed in the centre before the high altar. Six monks, bearing torches, knelt around it. A pall, beautifully embroidered, covered the coffin, a wreath of flowers surmounting a cross was placed upon it.

The solemn requiem mass commenced, and the great Sacrifice once offered upon Calvary was pleaded for the soul of the deceased thane. When the last prayer had been said, the coffin was sprinkled with hallowed water, and perfumed with sweet incense, after which it was removed to its last resting place. The grave was already prepared. Again the earthly cavern was sprinkled with the hallowed water, emblematical of the blood of sprinkling which speaketh better things than that of Abel, and the body —the sacred dust for which Christ had died, in which God had dwelt as in a temple—was lowered, to be sown in corruption, that hereafter it might be raised in incorruption and joy unspeakable.

All crowded to take the last sad look. Alfred felt his dear mother's arm tremble as she leant on him, yet gazed firmly into that last resting place, while the solemn strain arose:

"Ego sum resurrectio et vita. Qui credit in Me, etiam si mortuus fuerit vivet; et omnis qui vivit, et credit in Me, non morietur in aeternum." [xxx]

CHAPTER XX. "AND THE DOOR WAS SHUT."

The reader is, we trust, somewhat impatient to learn what had really been the fate of the unhappy Elfric of Aescendune—whether he had indeed been cut off with the work of repentance incomplete, or whether he yet survived to realise the calamity which had fallen upon his household.

He lived. When the blow of his adversary, as we have seen, crushed him to the earth, and he lay there with his head on the ground, prostrate, amidst kicking and plunging hoofs, and the roar and confusion of deadly strife, Providence, without which not one sparrow falleth to the ground, watched over him, and averted the iron hoofs from his forehead. Could one have concentrated his gaze upon that little spot of earth and have seen the furious hoofs graze, without injuring, that tender forehead, could he have beheld the gallop of the retreating steeds over and around that senseless form, for it now lay senseless, he would have realised that there is One Whose Eye is observant of each minute detail which concerns the life of His beloved ones—nay, Who knows the movements of the tiniest insect, while His Hand directs the rolling spheres. And his care preserved Elfric for His Own wise ends, until the fight receded, leaving its traces behind it, as when the tide of ocean recedes after a storm and the beach is strewn with wreck—bodies of men, of horses, mutilated, dismembered, dead or dying, disabled or desperately wounded.

Hours had passed, during which the sounds of the combat still maintained at the entrenched camp came freshly on the ear, and then died away, until the solemn night fell upon the scene, and the only sound which smote the ear were faint, faint moans—cries of "Water! water!" incessantly repeated from hundreds of feeble lips.

It was then that Elfric awoke from the insensibility which had resulted from exhaustion and the stunning blow he had received in his fall. Every limb seemed in pain, for the loss of blood had not left the vital powers strength for the maintenance of the due circulation through the body, and the cold night air chilled the frame. He did not at first comprehend where he was, but as his senses returned he perceived all too well that he was left for dead.

His first impulse was to see whether he had strength to arise. He raised himself partially, first on one elbow, and then he strove to stand up, but fell back feebly and helplessly, like an infant who first essays to escape its mother's arms and to trust its feeble limbs.

Then he looked around him, thus raising his head, and gazed upon the sad and shocking scene. Close by him, with the head cleft literally in two by a battle-axe, lay a horseman, and his blood reddened all the ground around Elfric's feet, and had deeply dyed the youth's lower garments; a horse, his own, lay dead, the jugular vein cut through, with all the surrounding muscles and sinews; hard by, a rider had fallen with such impetus, that his helmet had fixed itself deeply in the ground, and the body seemed as if it had quivered for the moment in the air; a dart had transfixed another through belt and stomach, and he lay with the weapon appearing on either side the body. Near these lay another, whose thigh had been pierced to the great artery, and who had bled to death, as the deadly paleness of the face showed; here and there one yet lived, as faint moan and broken utterance testified; but Elfric could bear no more, his head sank upon the ground, and he hid his face.

It was bright starlight, and the gleam of the heavenly host seemed to mock the wounded youth as he thought of the previous night, when, sound in body, he had wandered beneath the glittering canopy of the heavens; and thus reminded, all the thoughts of that previous night came back upon him, especially the remembrance of his sin, of his desertion of his father, of his vicious life at court, of his neglect for three years and more of all the obligations of religion, and he groaned aloud in the anguish of his spirit.

"Oh! spare me, my God!" he cried, "for I am not fit to die! Spare me, that I may at least receive my father's forgiveness."

For he felt as if he could not ask God to forgive him until he had been forgiven by his father. Little did he think, poor boy, that that father lay cold in death; that never could he hear the blessed words of forgiveness from his tongue; neither had he the consolation of knowing how completely he had been forgiven, and how lovingly he had been remembered in his father's last hours upon earth.

"I cannot die! I cannot die!" thus he cried; and he strove again to raise himself from the ground, but in vain; strove again, as if he would have dragged his feeble body through pain and anguish all the way to Aescendune, but could not. The story of the prodigal son, often told him by Father Cuthbert, came back to him, not so much in its spiritual as in its literal aspect: he would fain arise and go to his father; but he could not.

"O happy prodigal!" he cried; "thou couldst at least go from that far off country, and the husks which the swine did eat; but I cannot, I cannot!"

While thus grieving in bitterness of spirit, he saw a light flitting about amongst the dead bodies, and stopping every now and then; once he saw it pause, and heard a cry of expostulation, then a faint scream, and all was still; and he comprehended that this was no ministering angel, but one of those villainous beings who haunt the battlefield to prey upon the slain, and to despatch with short mercy those who offer resistance.

He lay very, very quiet, hoping that the light would not come near him, and he trembled every time it bent its course that way; but at length his fears seemed about to be realised—it drew near, and he saw the face of a hideous looking hag, dressed in coarse and vile garments, who held a bloody dagger in the right hand, and kept the left in a kind of bag, tied to her person, in which she had evidently accumulated great store. Her eyes were roaming about, until the light suddenly was reflected from the poor lad's brilliant accoutrements, and she advanced towards him.

He groaned, and sank backwards, and her hand was upon the dagger, while she cast such a look as the fabled vampire might cast upon her destined victim, loving gold much, but perhaps blood most, when all at once she turned and fled.

Elfric knew not what had saved him; when voices fell upon his ear, and the baying of a dog.

"Which way has that hag fled? Pursue her, she murders the wounded."

The sound of rushing feet was heard, and Elfric felt that help was near, yet leaving him, and he cried aloud, "Help! help! for the love of God."

One delayed in his course, and came and stood over the prostrate form. It was a monk, for the boy recognised the Benedictine habit, and his heart sank within him as he remembered how pitilessly he had helped to drive that habit from Glastonbury.

"Art thou grievously wounded, my son?"

"I feel faint, even unto death, with loss of blood. Oh! remove me, and bear me home; if thou art a man of God leave me not here to perish in my sins."

The piteous appeal went to the heart of the monk, and he knelt down, and by the aid of a small lamp, examined the wounds of the sufferer.

"Thou mayst yet live, my son," he said; "tell me where is thy home; is it in Mercia?"

"It is! it is! My home is Aescendune; it is not far from here."

"Aescendune—knowest thou Father Cuthbert?"

"I do indeed; he was my tutor, once my spiritual father."

"Thy name?"

"Elfric, son of the thane Ella."

The monk started, then raised a loud cry, which speedily brought two or three men in the dress of thralls (theows) to his side.

"She will murder no more, father; the dog overtook her, and held her till we came; she was red with blood, and we knocked her down; Oswy here brained her with his club."

"It is well—she deserved her fate; but, Oswy, look at this face."

"St. Wilfred preserve us!" cried the man "it is the young lord. He is not dying, is he? She hadn't hurt him—the she-wolf?"

"No, we were just in time, and only just in time; we must carry him home to his father."

The monk had started for the expected scene of battle, intent on doing good, with a small party of the thralls of Aescendune, just after Edwy had left the hall; consequently, he knew nothing of the death of the thane or the subsequent events. Oh, how sweetly his words fell upon Elfric's ears, "Carry him home to his father."

A litter was speedily made; one of the thralls jumped into a willow tree which overhung the stream, and cut down some of the stoutest boughs. The others wove them with withes into a kind of litter, threw their own upper garments thereon in their love, placed the poor wounded form as tenderly upon it as a mother would have done, and bore him from the field, ever and anon stopping to relieve some other poor wounded sufferer, and to comfort him with the intelligence that similar aid was at hand for all, as the various lights now appearing testified.

For themselves, they felt all other obligation fade before their duty to their young lord. He was object of their solicitude.

So they bore him easily along, until they reached a stream; there they paused and washed the heated brow, and allowed the parched lips to imbibe, but only slightly, the pure fresh beverage, sweeter far than the stimulant the good monk had poured down his throat on the field. Then they arranged his dress—bound up his wounds, for the Benedictine was an accomplished surgeon for the times; after which, having satisfied himself that his patient was able to bear the transit, he departed, with a cheerful benediction, to render the like aid to others.

So comforted was Elfric, and so relieved from pain, that he slept all through the following hours, as they bore him along through woodland paths; and he dreamt that he had met his father and was clasped lovingly in his forgiving arms.

At daybreak they were six or seven miles from the camp, and they rested, for the continued effort had wearied the bearers. They made a fire, cooked their breakfast, and tried to persuade Elfric to eat, which he did, sparingly.

Then they resumed their journey; they kept as much in the shade as possible, for it was a bright day; rested again at noontide, with only five or six miles before them; started when the heat was a little overpast, and just after sunset came in sight of the halls of Aescendune, from the opening in the forest whence Elfric had beheld them that night when he first brought Prince Edwy home in company with his brother Alfred.

The wounded youth raised himself up, looked with intense affection at the home of his youth, and sank back contented on his couch, thinking only of father and mother, brother and sister, and the sweet forgiveness he felt sure awaited him. Poor boy!

It was almost dark when they reached the gate of the castle, and the drawbridge was up. One of the bearers blew his horn loudly, and the summons brought the warder to the little window over the postern gate.

"Who are you, and what do you seek?" was the cry.

"We are bringing my young lord, Elfric of Aescendune, home from the battlefield wounded."

"Wait a while."

A few minutes passed; then the drawbridge was lowered, and the bearers bore their burden into the courtyard. Every moment Elfric expected to see the beloved faces bending over him; but all seemed strange, till he remembered that Redwald had remained behind at the hall; the four bearers spoke uneasily to one another, and Oswy disappeared in the dusky twilight.

At length three or four men, in the military costume so familiar to Elfric, approached the litter; and raising him, bore him into the interior of the building, up the stairs, into the gallery, which partly ran round at the height of the first floor. The door of a room was opened, a familiar room; it had been his father's bedroom, and Elfric was placed on the bed.

"Ask them to come to me," he said "father, mother, Alfred, Edgitha! —where are they?"

But minute after minute passed by, and no one came near; there was no light in the room, and it was soon very dark. Elfric became very uncomfortable; it was not the kind of reception he had promised himself.

"Why does not my father come," he muttered impatiently, "to see his wounded boy?" and he felt at one moment his pride revive, then a sickening feeling of anxiety filled his heart.

But it was not until an hour had passed that he heard a heavy step on the stairs, and soon the door opened, and Redwald appeared.

Elfric. gazed upon him with surprise; especially when he noted the stern cold look which sat on his features. As Redwald did not speak, Elfric took the initiative.

"Why is not my father here? I want to see him, Redwald; do send him to me; say I must see him, I must—I cannot endure this longer; it is more than I can bear."

"Calm yourself and listen to me, for I have a strange story to unfold to you."

"Not now; some other time; do send them to me."

"It must be heard now; and perhaps when you have heard it, you will comprehend why they do not come."

"But they will come?"

"Elfric, there was, two generations back, a man who had two sons; he was a noble thane of high descent, his eldest son was worthy of his father, high souled, impetuous, brave, fiery, and in short, all a warrior's son should be: the younger son had the heart of a monk, and was learned in all pious tricks; he stole the father's heart from his elder brother."

Elfric began to listen at this point.

"At last, misjudgment and unkindness drove the elder brother from home, and he sought food and shelter from men who had the souls of conquerors. With them he lived, for his father disinherited him; he had no father, he had no country."

Elfric began to draw his breath quickly.

"At length war arose between those who had sheltered and protected him, and the people who should have been his own people; say what side was the exile to be found on?"

"He should have fought with his own people."

"His own people were those who had really adopted him when his father and family disowned him, and with them he fought for victory; but the fates were unpropitious, the people with whom his father and brother fought were successful; the son was taken prisoner, and adjudged to die a traitor's death, his own father and brother consenting."

Elfric began to comprehend all.

"They put him on board an open boat, and sent him out to sea, at the mercy of winds and waves; but not alone; he had married amongst the people who had adopted him, and his boy would not forsake his sire, for he had one boy—the mother was dead. This boy besought the hard-hearted executioners of a tyrant's will to let him share the fate of his sire, so earnestly, that at last they consented."

"The boat, as it pleased fate, was driven by wind and tide on the shore of Denmark, and there the unhappy exile landed; but he had been wounded in the battle, and his subsequent exposure caused his early death; before he died he bequeathed one legacy, and only one, to his son—

"Vengeance."

Elfric was pale as death, and trembled visibly.

"Then you are—"

"Elfric, I am your cousin, and the deadly foe of you and yours!"

"Then my poor father; but if you must find a victim seek it in me; spare him! oh, spare him!"

Redwald smiled; but such a smile.

"At least let me see him now, and obtain his forgiveness. Redwald, he is my father; you were faithful to your father; let me atone for my unfaithfulness to mine."

"You believe there is another world, perhaps?"

Elfric. only answered by a look of piteous alarm.

"Because, in that case, you must seek your father there; although I fear Dunstan would say there is likely to be a gulf between you."

Elfric comprehended him, and with a cry which might have melted a heart of stone, fell back upon the bed. For a moment he lay like one stunned, then began to utter incoherent ravings, and gazed vacantly around, as one who is delirious.

Redwald seemed for one moment like a man contending with himself, like one who felt pity struggling with sterner emotions; yet the contest was very short.

"It is of no use—he must die; if hearts break, I hope his will break, and save me the task of shedding his blood, or causing it to be shed; there must be no weakness now; he has been sadly wounded; if he is left alone, he will die; better so—I would spare him if I were not bound by an oath so dread that I shudder to think of it. The others have escaped: he must die."

Still he walked to and fro, as if pity yet contended with the thirst for vengeance in his hardened breast: perhaps it was his day of grace, and the Spirit of Him, Who has said "Vengeance is Mine, I will repay," pleaded hard with the sinner. Yet the gentle Voice pleaded in vain; still he walked to and fro, until his resolution seemed firmly made; and he left the chamber, fastening it on the outside.

CHAPTER XXI. "UNDER WHICH KING?"

It will be remembered that one of the theows who had borne Elfric home from the field of battle had become alarmed by the suspicious aspect of things at the hall, and had escaped, by prompt evasion, the confinement which awaited his companions. Oswy, for it was he, thus showed his natural astuteness, while he also conferred the greatest possible obligation upon Elfric, since he bore the news of his ill-timed arrival at once to the priory.

Here his worst suspicions were confirmed; and the faithful thrall heard for the first time of the death of his late lord, and that he had given his young master into the hands of his bitter foes. Alfred was at once summoned; and a conference was held, in which Father Cuthbert, his brethren, and the chamberlain and steward of the hall, took part.

"It is now generally believed," said Father Cuthbert, "that Redwald is the bitter enemy, for some reason, of the house of Aescendune. Has any one here suspected that reason?"

No one could give any reply.

"I fear what I am about to say," he continued, "will startle you all. Redwald is a member of the family himself."

"A member of the family!"

"Yes. Is there any one present who remembers the unhappy brother of our late lamented lord—Oswald, the son of Offa?"

"Yes," said the old chamberlain, "I remember him well; and I see now what you mean."

"Is not the expression of the face identical? Are they not the same features, as one might say?"

"Yet Redwald is much darker."

"Because his mother was Danish, and he has inherited some of her peculiarities, that is all."

"Still," said the steward, "every one supposed that the unhappy Oswald perished at sea with his son. Never shall I forget the grief of the old thane Offa, when inquiring for the son, he learned that he had gone with the father to his death. He would have adopted him."

"And do we not," added a Benedictine. "say a mass daily at St. Wilfred's altar for the souls of Oswald and his son Ragnar?"

"Oswald may be dead; Ragnar yet lives in Redwald. The name alone is changed."

"But where are the proofs? We cannot wholly trust an imaginary resemblance."

"It is not imaginary; and these are the proofs in question. The night after the murder" (all looked at each other as if a sudden inspiration struck them), "as I was going to the chapel from the lady Edith's apartments, I passed through a passage little used, but leading past the chamber allotted to Redwald, and only separated by a thin wainscoting. I was startled as I passed it by the sound of a pacing to and fro; an incessant pacing; and I heard the inmate of the room soliloquising with himself as in a state of frenzied feeling. I caught only broken words but again and again I heard 'Avenged;' and once 'Father you are avenged;' and once 'Little do they know who is their guest;' once 'It is a good beginning,' and such like ejaculations. I remained a long time, because, as you will all see, the murderer stood revealed."

"Then why did you not tell us before?" exclaimed all, almost in a breath.

"Because it would have been of no avail. Had there been the least chance of calling him to account, I should, you may be sure, have proclaimed his guilt. But early in the morning fresh forces began to arrive to his aid. My only endeavour was to get the lady Edith and her remaining children safe from the castle; and it was only by dissembling my feelings, by talking face to face with the man of blood, by pretending to trust him, that I could succeed. Had he not thought us all perfectly satisfied, he would never have left the hall to go foraging in person; and now all would be well, but for this sad, sad chance, which has placed the poor lad Elfric in his power."

"But," said Alfred, "this makes the case worse than ever. Poor Elfric! they will kill him. Oh, can this be Ragnar?"

The Benedictines expressed themselves convinced, because the supposition explained the present circumstances so clearly, and accounted for that hitherto unaccountable circumstance—the murder. The steward and chamberlain both fancied they recognised the family likeness; and so the solution at which Father Cuthbert had arrived was accepted by all.

The question was now what course to adopt, for the night was fast wearing away.

"Two things are to be done," said Father Cuthbert. "The first is to secure the safety of the lady Edith and her children from any sudden attack from the castle, to which effect I propose holding all the vassals in arms; and, in case of any force leaving the hall, I purpose giving the lady Edith and her daughter instant sanctuary in the priory, while the vassals gather round its precincts; for, I fear me, this Ragnar is a heathen, and would but little respect the house of God."

"Could we not attack the hall and release Elfric? Think of Elfric," said Alfred.

"It would be madness; Redwald has more than a hundred and fifty men of war within it. The place is full; we could not attack with the least chance of success. No: the second thing I meant to propose was this, that we should send an instant message to King Edgar, who is near at hand, and explain the whole circumstances to him. He has many causes of enmity against Redwald, and would probably come to our aid at once, as the safety of his realm would require him to do eventually."

"Let me be the messenger; he will surely listen to the pleadings of a brother for a brother."

"I had so designed," said Father Cuthbert; "and in order that no chance may be thrown away, I will adventure myself in the lion's den, and threaten with the penalties of excommunication this vindictive Redwald or Ragnar."

"No, father; you will never come out alive. No, no!" said they all.

The last proposal was universally discouraged. Redwald had already special cause of enmity against Father Cuthbert, who had robbed him of part of his destined prey; and it was ultimately settled that Father Swithin, another of the order, should be charged with the mission, with the power to make conciliatory offers, or to act on the other course as he should see fit; in short, to use all his wit for Elfric.

Alfred did not delay a moment unnecessarily, but in the dawning light set forward to seek Edgar, of whom he had no definite information, but who was believed to linger in the neighbourhood of the battlefield, holding council with earls and thanes as to the further steps to be taken, and receiving the submission of the whole Mercian, East Anglian, and Northumbrian nobility.

Therefore, mounted upon a good steed, and accompanied by Oswy, he rapidly traversed the country over which his brother had been so painfully borne; slowly, however, in places, for here and there large tracts of swamp obstructed the way, and in other places the thickets were dense and impervious; even where the country was cultivated the unpaved roads were rough and hazardous for riders.

It was past the hour of nones, the ninth hour of the day, when the riders reached the battlefield, which still bore frightful traces of the recent combat; reddened with blood, which had left its dark traces on large patches of the ground, and encumbered with the bodies of horses and men which had not yet found sepulture, although bands of theows from the neighbouring estates were busily engaged in the necessary toil, excavating huge pits, and placing the dead—no longer rivals— reverently and decently in their last long home. Several wolves could be discerned, hanging about under the skirts of the forest, but not daring to come out into the plain while the day lasted and the men were about; whole flocks of ravenous birds flew about the scene, now settling down on the spots where the strife had been hottest, now soaring away when disturbed in their sickening feast.

It was the first time Alfred had ever gazed upon a battlefield; and now he saw it stripped of all the romance and glamour which bards had thrown over it, and the sight appalled him.

He drew near a large pit into which the thralls were casting the dead. Many of the bodies presented, as we have already seen, a most ghastly spectacle; and nearly all had begun to decompose. Mentally he thanked God that Elfric, at least, was not there; and he turned aside his head in horror at the sight.

He now inquired of the foreman of the labourers whether he knew where the Etheling Edgar would be.

"You mean King Edgar, for the Mercians will acknowledge no other king. The people of Wessex may keep the enemy of the saints, if they like."

"King Edgar, I mean. Where is he now?"

"He has been holding a council at Tamworth town, in the old palace of King Offa; and they say all the tributary kings have come there to be his men, and all the great earls."

"Can you tell me the nearest road to Tamworth?"

"Why, it lies through the forest there, where you see those wolves lurking about. They will begin to be dangerous when the sun goes down, and perhaps some of them would not mind a snap at a horse or even a man, now."

"We must take our chance;" said Alfred: "life and death hang on our speed," and he and Oswy rode on.

The wolves were no longer seen. In the summer they generally avoided men, at least during the day, and they were gradually becoming more uncommon at that date. Alfred entertained little fear as he proceeded, until the darkening shadows showed that night was near, and they were still in the heart of the forest, when he began to feel alarmed. The road before them was a good wide woodland path, and easy to follow even in the gathering darkness.

Suddenly their horses started violently, as a loud howl was heard behind, and repeated immediately from different quarters of the forest.

Alfred felt that it was the gathering of the ferocious beasts, which had been attracted from distant forests by the scent of the battlefield, and had thus happened to lie in increased numbers around their path. The howling continued to increase, and their horses sped onward as if mad with fear—it was all they could do to guide them safely.

Nearer and nearer drew the fearful sound; and looking back they beheld the fiery eyes swarming along the road after them. They had begun to abandon hope, when all at once they heard the sound of advancing horsemen in front of them, accompanied by the clank of arms. The wolves heard it too, and with all the cunning cowardice of their race scampered away from their intended prey, just as Alfred and Oswy avoided impaling themselves upon the lances of the coming deliverers.

"Whom have we here, riding at this pace through the woods?" cried out a rough, manly voice.

"The wolves were after the poor fellows," said another.

"They may speak for themselves," said the leader, confronting Alfred. "Art thou a Mercian and a friend of King Edgar? Under which king? Speak, or die!"

"I seek King Edgar. My name is Alfred, son of Ella of Aescendune."

"Who sheltered the men of Wessex, and entertained the impious Edwy in his castle."

"We had no power to resist had we wished to do so."

"Which you evidently did not. May a plain soldier ask you now why you seek King Edgar?"

"Because," said Alfred, "my father has been murdered, and my brother made a prisoner by Redwald, the captain of King Edwy's hus-carles, who holds our house, and has driven us all out."

"Your father murdered! Your family expelled! Your brother a prisoner! These are strange news."

"Why this delay!" cried another speaker, riding up from behind. "The king is impatient to get on. Ride faster."

"The king!" cried Alfred. "Oh, lead me to him."

"Who is this," demanded the second officer, "who demands speech of the royal Edgar?"

"Alfred of Aescendune. He tells us that the infamous Redwald holds the fortified house there, has murdered the thane Ella, and expelled the family, save the brother, whom he holds to ransom."

"No, not to ransom," cried Alfred. "It is his life that is threatened. Oh, take me to Edgar!"

"He is close behind, in company with the Ealdorman of Mercia and Siward of Northumbria."

"Stay behind with him, Biorn, and let us continue our route. You may introduce him to the king, if he will see him."

The first party—the advance guard—now passed on, and was succeeded almost immediately by the main body, foremost amongst whom rode Prince or rather King Edgar, then only a youth of fifteen years of age. We last beheld him a boy of twelve, at the date of Elfric's arrival at the court of Edred. By his side rode Siward, Ealdorman of Northumbria.

"Who is this?" cried the latter, as he saw Alfred and his attendant waiting to receive him.

"Alfred of Aescendune, with a petition for aid against Redwald, who has seized his father's castle."

"Alfred of Aescendune!" cried Edgar. "Halt, my friends, one moment. Alfred of Aescendune, tell me your story; to me, Edgar, your king."

Alfred hastened to pour his tale of sorrows into an ear evidently not unsympathising, and when he had concluded Edgar asked—"And tell me what is your request. It shall be granted even to the uttermost."

"Only that you, my lord, would hasten to our aid and deliver my brother for his poor widowed mother's sake."

"We should send a troop against Redwald in any case, but even had our plans been otherwise, know this, Alfred of Aescendune, that he who by his devoted service saved the life, or at least the liberty, of Dunstan, the light of our realm of England, and the favourite of heaven, has a claim to ask any favour Edgar can grant.

"Siward, my father, bid the advanced guard bend its course towards Aescendune at once."

"My lord, the men are too weary to travel all night. We had purposed halting when we reached the battlefield on our march southward. There is a cross-country road thence to Aescendune, almost impassable in the night."

"Then we will travel early in the morning; and doubt not, Alfred, we shall arrive in time to chastise this insolent aggressor. Redwald has been my poor brother's evil spirit in all things; he shall die, I swear it," said the precocious Edgar, a man before his time.

"But, my lord," said Alfred, "may I ask but one favour, that you will permit me to proceed and relieve the anxiety of my people with the tidings of your approach?"

"If you must leave our side, such an errand would seem to justify you. Poor Elfric! I remember him well. I could not have thought him in any danger from Redwald."

"Redwald is his, is our bitterest foe."

"Indeed," said Edgar, and proceeded to elicit the whole history of the case from Alfred.

The sad tale was not complete till they reached the battlefield, and encamped in the entrenchments the young prince had occupied the night before the combat.

"We had intended," said Edgar, "to march at once for London, owing to news we have received from the south, but we will tarry at Aescendune until the work is completed there, even if it cost us our crown.

"Nay, Siward, I may have my way this once. I am soldier enough to know I may not leave an enemy behind me on my march."

"But a small detachment might accomplish the work."

"Then I will go with it myself; my heart is in it. But, Alfred, you look very ill; you cannot proceed tonight. When did you sleep last?"

"Three nights ago."

"Then it would be madness to proceed; you must sleep, and at early dawn you shall precede us on my own charger—which has been led all the way —if your own is too wearied, and with an attendant or two in case of danger from man or beast. Nay, it must be so."

Alfred, who could scarcely stand for very fatigue, was forced to yield, and that night he slept soundly in the camp of Edgar. At the first dawn they aroused him from sleep, and he found a splendid warhorse awaiting him—a gift, they told him, from Edgar. Two attendants, well mounted, awaited him in company with Oswy. He would willingly have dispensed with their company; but he was told that the king, anxious for his safety, had insisted upon their attending him, and that they were answerable for his safe return to Aescendune, the country being considered dangerous for travellers in its present disturbed state.

So he yielded; and before the king had arisen he left the camp, after a hasty meal, and rode as rapidly as the roads would permit towards his desolated home.

CHAPTER XXIII. LOVE STRONG AS DEATH.

Meanwhile Father Swithin had gone alone and unprotected, save by his sacred character, into the very jaws of the lion; or rather, would have gone, had he been suffered to do so; for when he approached the hall he found the drawbridge up, and the whole place guarded as in a state of siege.

He advanced, nothing daunted, in front of the yawning gap where the bridge should have been, and cried aloud—"What ho! porter; I demand speech of my lord Redwald."

"You may demand speech—swine may demand pearls—but I don't think you will get it. Deliver me your message."

"Tell your lord, rude churl, that I, Father Swithin, of the holy Order of St. Benedict, have come, in the name of the rightful owners of this house, and in the power of the Church, to demand that he deliver up Elfric of Aescendune to the safe keeping of his friends."

"I will send your message; but keep a civil tongue in your mouth, Sir Monk, and don't begin muttering any of your accursed Latin, or I will see whether the Benedictine frock is proof against an arrow."

In a short time Redwald appeared on the roof, above the gateway.

"What dost thou require, Sir Monk?" said he; "thy words sound strange in my ears."

"I am come, false traitor," said Father Swithin, waxing wroth, "to demand the person of Elfric of Aescendune, whom thou detainest contrary to God's law and the king's."

"Elfric of Aescendune! right glad am I to hear that he is alive; my followers have brought me word that they saw him fall in battle."

"Nay, spare thy deceit, thou son of perdition, for well do we know that he was brought home wounded last night. One of his bearers escaped thy toils, even as a bird the snare of the fowler, and is now with us."

"Assuredly the loon has lied unto you. Rejoiced should I be to see the unhappy youth, and to know that he yet lived. I but hold this place, faithful to his lord and mine, Edwy, King of all England."

"Then why hast thou expelled the rightful dwellers therein from their house and home? We know Elfric is with thee, and that thou art a traitor, wherefore, deliver him up, or we will even excommunicate thee."

"Thou hadst better not begin in the hearing of the men who sit upon the wall; for myself, excommunication cannot hurt a man who never goes to church, and does not company over much with those who do."

"Infidel! heretic! pagan! misbeliever! accursed Ragnar!" began the irate monk, when an arrow, perhaps only meant to frighten him (for they could hardly have missed so fair a mark), glanced by him.

He retreated, but still continued his maledictions.

"Excommunicabo te, et omnes tibi adhaerentes; thou art an accursed parricide, who hast raised thine hand against thy father's house. Vade retro, Sathanas, I will shake off the dust of my feet against thee,"— another arrow stuck in his frock—"thou shalt share the fate of Sodom, yea of Gomorrha; in manus inimici trado te;" by this time his words were inaudible; and he departed, not having accomplished much good, but having nevertheless informed Redwald of two great facts—the first, that Elfric's return was blazed abroad; the second, that his own identity was more than suspected.

"Ragnar!" said he, "What fiend has told them that? how came they to suspect? Confusion! it will foil all my plans, and my vengeance will be incomplete. At least this one victim must not escape, and yet I had sooner he should escape than any other member of the house. Poor boy! the sins of the fathers are heavy upon the children, as these Christians have it; but my oath, my oath taken before a dying father! no; he must die!"

So spake the avenger of blood, a man whose heart was evidently not all of iron; yet from childhood had he striven to restrain every tender impulse, and had bound himself to vengeance. Long years of peace in England had come between him and the execution of his projects, and he had prepared himself for the task he never lost sight of, by acquiring all the accomplishments of a knight and warrior, and even of a man of letters, at that court of Rouen, now rapidly becoming the focus of European chivalry, where the fierce barbarian Northmen were becoming the refined but ruthless Normans. Then, in England, he had wormed himself into the confidence of the future king with singular astuteness, and at length had found the occasion he had long sought, in a manner the most unforeseen save as a possible contingency.

And now he turned from the battlements to his own chamber, but on the way he paused, for he passed the door of the late thane's room, where poor Elfric lay. He passed the sentinel and entered. The unhappy boy was extended on the bed, in a raging fever; ever and anon he called piteously upon his father, then he cried out that Dunstan was pursuing him, driving him into the pit, then he cried—"Father, I did not murder thee; not I, thy son! nay, I always loved thee in my heart. Who is laughing? it is not Dunstan; break his chamber open, slay him: is a monk's blood redder than a peasant's? O Elgiva hast thou slain my father? See, I am all on fire; it is thy doing. Edwy, my king, Dunstan is burning me: save me!"

Then there was a long pause, and Redwald or Ragnar as we may now call him stood over his unhappy cousin. The fair head lay back on the pillow, with its profusion of golden locks; the face was red and fiery, the eyes weak and bloodshot.

"Water! water! I burn!" he said.

There was no cooling medicine to alleviate the burning throat, no gentle hand to smooth the pillow, no mother to render the sweet offices of maternal love, no father to whisper forgiveness to the dying boy.

"Better he should die thus," said Ragnar, "since I cannot spare him without breaking my oath to the dead."

Then he left the room hastily, as if he feared his own resolution. The sentinel looked imploringly at him, as the cries of the revellers came from below.

"Go!" said Ragnar, "join thy companions; no sentinel is required here. Go and feast; I will come and join you."

So he tried to drown his new-born pity in wine.

At a late hour of the day, Alfred and his attendants arrived, bringing news of the coming succour to Father Cuthbert and the other friends who awaited him with much anxiety. They had contrived to account for his absence to the lady Edith, from whom they thought it necessary to hide the true state of affairs.

But everything tended to increase Alfred's feverish anxiety about his brother. The relieving force could not arrive for hours; meanwhile he knew not what to do. No tidings were heard: Father Swithin had failed and Elfric might perhaps even now be dead.

So Alfred, taking counsel only of his own brave, loving heart, left the priory in the dusk, attended by the faithful Oswy, and walked towards his former home. The night was dark and cloudy, the moon had not yet arisen, and they were close upon the hall ere they saw its form looming though the darkness. Neither spoke, but they paused before the drawbridge and listened.

Sounds of uproarious mirth arose from within; Danish war songs, shouting and cheering; the whole body of the invaders were evidently feasting and revelling with that excess, of which in their leisure moments they were so capable.

"It is well!" said Alfred; and they walked round the exterior of the moat, marking the brightly lighted hall and the unguarded look of the place; yet not wholly unguarded, for they saw the figure of a man outlined against a bright patch of sky, pacing the leaded roof, evidently on guard.

And now they had reached that portion of their circuit which led them opposite the chamber window of the lamented Ella, and Alfred gazed sadly upon it, when both he and Oswy started as they heard cries and moans, and sometimes articulate words, proceeding therefrom.

They listened eagerly, and caught the name "Dunstan," as if uttered in vehement fear, then the cry. "Water! I burn!" and cry after cry, as if from one in delirium.

"It is Elfric! it is Elfric!" said Alfred.

"It is my young lord's voice," said the thrall; "he is in a fever from his wound."

"What can we do?" and Alfred walked impatiently to and fro; at last he stopped.

"Oswy! if it costs me my life I will enter the castle!"

"It shall cost my life too, then. I will live and die with my lord!"

"Come here, Oswy; they do not know the little postern door hidden behind those bushes; the passage leads up to the chapel, and to the gallery leading to my father's chamber, where Elfric lies dying. I remember that that door was left unlocked, and perhaps I can save him. They are all feasting like hogs; they will not know, and if Ragnar meet me, why, he or I must die;" and he put his hand convulsively upon the sword which was dependent from his girdle.

"Lead on, my lord; you will find your thrall ready to live or die with you!" said Oswy.

At the extreme angle of the building there was a large quantity of holly bushes which grew out of the soil between the moat and the wall, which itself was clothed with the thickest ivy; the roof above was slanting— an ordinary timber roof covering the chapel—so that no sentinel could be overhead. Standing on the further side of the moat, all this and no more could be observed.

The first difficulty was how to cross the moat in the absence of either bridge or boat. It was true they might swim over; but in the event of their succeeding in the rescue of Elfric, how were they to bear him back? The difficulty had to be overcome, and they reflected a moment.

"There is a small boat down at the ferry," whispered Oswy.

It was all Alfred needed, and he and Oswy at once started for the river. They returned in a few minutes, bearing a light boat, almost like a British coracle, on which they instantly embarked, and a push or two with the pole sent them noiselessly across the moat.

They landed, made fast the boat, and searched in the darkness for the door; it was an old portal, almost disused, for it was only built that there might be a retreat in any such pressing emergency as might easily arise in those unsettled times; the holly bushes in front, and the thick branches of dependent ivy, concealed its existence from any person beyond the moat, and it had not even been seen by the watchful eye of Ragnar.

Alfred, however, had but recently made use of the door, when seeking bunches of holly wherewith to deck the board on the occasion of the feast given to King Edwy, and he had omitted to relock it on his return, an omission which now seemed to him of providential arrangement.

He had, therefore, only to turn the rusty latch as noiselessly as might be, and the door slowly opened. The key was in the lock, on the inside.

Entering cautiously, taking off their heavy shoes and leaving them in the doorway, they ascended a flight of steps which terminated in front of a door which entered the chapel underneath the bell cot, while another flight led upwards to the gallery, from which all the principal chambers on the first floor opened.

Arriving at this upper floor, Alfred listened intently for one moment, and hearing only the sounds of revelry from beneath, he opened the door gently, and saw the passage lie vacant before him.

He passed along it until he came to the door of his father's chamber, feeling the whole time that his life hung on a mere thread, upon the chance that Ragnar and his warriors might remain out of the way, and that no one might be near to raise the alarm. With nearly two hundred inmates this was but a poor chance, but Alfred could dare all for his brother. He committed himself, therefore, to God's protection, and went firmly on till he reached the door.

He opened it with trembling eagerness, and the whole scene as we have already described it was before him. Elfric sat up in the bed, uttering the cries which had pierced the outer air. When Alfred entered he did not seem to know him, but saluted him as "Dunstan." His cries had become too familiar to the present inmates of the hall for this to attract attention. Alfred closed the door.