Chapter 12

It was a low dungeon, built of that brick which we still recognise as of Roman manufacture, in the foundations of what had been the eastern tower of the ancient fortification. The old pile had been badly preserved by the Saxon conquerors, but it had been built of that solid architecture which seems almost to defy the assaults of time, and which in some cases, after fifteen centuries, preserves all its characteristics, and promises yet to preserve them, when our frailer erections lie crumbled in the dust.

The roof was semicircular, and composed of minute bricks, seeming to form one solid mass; the floor of tiling, arranged in patterns, which could still be obscurely traced by the light of the lamp left by the charity of Sidroc to the prisoner; for the dungeon was of bad reputation; lights had been seen there at unearthly hours, when the outer door was fast and no inmate existed.

There were two long narrow windows at the end, unbarred, for they were too small for the human body to pass through them; they looked upon the valley and, river beneath, for although the dungeon was below the level of the courtyard, it was above that of the neighbourhood.

The prisoner strode up and down the limited area, wrestling with self, bending the will by prayer to submit to ignominy and pain, for he knew now that his father had abandoned him, and that he had to apprehend the worst; still he did not regret the choice he had made, and he felt, as he prayed, peace and confidence descend like heavenly dew upon his soul. Mechanically he cast his eyes around the cell, and tried to trace out the pattern of the flooring, when he saw that the central figure, around which the circles and squares converged, was justice, with the scales, and the motto, "Fiat justitia." He knew the meaning of the words, for Father Cuthbert had taught him some Latin, and the conviction flashed upon him that, sooner or later, all the wrong and evil about him would be righted by the power of a judge as omnipotent as unerring. And this thought made him the more reconciled to the apparent injustice of which he was the victim, and he prayed for his father, that God would enlighten him with the true light.

"Perhaps before he dies he may yet think of me without shame."

For the shame which he unwillingly brought upon a father who was stern, yet not unkind or void of parental love, was the bitterest ingredient in the cup.

And so the hours rolled on, which brought the dreaded morn nearer and nearer; and the victim, comforted by prayer, but without hope in this world, slept, and thought no longer of the torturer's knife, or felt the cruel anticipations which would rack the waiting mind.

And while he slept he was wakened, yet but partly wakened, by a voice which seemed to belong to the borderland 'twixt sleep and waking.

"Alfgar, son of Anlaf, sleepest thou?"

"Surely I dream," thought he, and strove to sleep again.

"Alfgar, son of Anlaf, sleepest thou?"

Now he sat up, and beheld, or thought he beheld, a figure of one clothed in the attire of a minstrel, in the centre of the chamber.

"Art thou yet in the flesh like me?" he cried, repressing a shudder.

"Even so, a being of like mould, subject to pain and death."

"A prisoner, then; art doomed to die?"

"No prisoner, neither art thou, if thou willest to escape."

"Thou art the gleeman who insulted Sweyn."

"Nay, who told the brutal tyrant the truth."

"And what doest thou here?"

"I am come to deliver thee."

"But how?"

"Rise up, cast on your garments."

Hardly knowing what he did, Alfgar obeyed, and when he stood face to face with the stranger, began to lose the uneasy impression that the being who addressed him was otherwise than mortal; for he saw by the light of the lamp that the gleeman bore all the attributes of a living man.

"How came you here?"

"Because I know the secrets of the prison house--knew them before the Danes had murdered the once happy dwellers in this garden of England, which they have made a howling wilderness; hence I escaped the wrath of the furious parricide, whom the saints destroy, with ease, and laughed in security at their vain efforts to take me; but we must waste no time; it yet wants five hours to daybreak; within those five hours we must reach the opposite shore."

"But tell me, I cannot understand, why hast thou braved the wrath of Sweyn? why hast thou cared for me?"

"All in good time, follow me now, I bid thee by the memory of Aescendune."

"Aescendune! surely I dream."

"Yes, of Aescendune. I have heard that thou art thence. Now waste no more time."

More and more mystified, for he had never to his knowledge seen the speaker before, Alfgar gazed at the gleeman.

He appeared of noble air and mien, but was evidently but a young man; he was somewhat above the average height, and looked as though he could wield the sword as well as the harp. But how were they to escape?

Alfgar was not left long in doubt. The stranger took up the lamp and walked to the farthest recess of the dungeon, where, concealed amongst the rude carvings with which the builders had ornamented the wall, was a rose carved in stone. The gleeman pressed it sharply, and a hidden door sprang open, revealing a winding staircase excavated in the solid wall.

"Upwards it leads to the banqueting hall, and you can comprehend my escape this evening," said he; "but our path is now downwards, unless you would like to go up and see the drunken beasts of murderers snoring off their debauch upon the floor as they fell; oh, that it were lawful for a Christian man to cut their throats as they lie; many innocent lives would be saved thereby, which those brutes will live to destroy."

"Thou art, then, a Christian?"

The gleeman crossed himself piously.

"Why not?" said he.

"I heard you sing like a scald tonight."

"It was my part, and I acted it passing well, did I not? Sweyn would own as much; but, pardon me, I am forgetting that my daring put you in danger."

"How did you know that?"

"I heard every word; and perhaps I might even have risked more than this to save you."

Meanwhile they had descended nearly a hundred steps, and the atmosphere became singularly cold and charnel-like, when they entered a large vault, which, by the light of their torches, appeared of great extent. Its walls were covered with uncouth representations, and inscriptions in Latin.

"What place is this?"

"It had some connection, I believe, with the old idolatry, and that is all I know. This passage will guide us to daylight and liberty."

Following a short and narrow passage, they emerged upon a ruined vault, whose roof had fallen in. Climbing out with some difficulty, and disturbing in the process hundreds of bat-mice and not a few rats, they found themselves in the midst of some old ruins at the foot of the acclivity whereon the fortress was built, and below them the brook ran rapidly to join the river.

"Thanks be to God for our preservation in that den of unclean lions!" said the gleeman; "but had they known who was amongst them, he would have had scant chance of escape."

"May I not know?"

"Not yet. Come, we must waste no more time."

They walked swiftly down the brook. No sentinels were posted in this direction, nor was any lookout kept.

"The danger is yet to come," said the gleeman, in a low tone.

Shortly they reached the river, and then they found a boat hidden in the rushes, which grew tall and strong. They embarked, and Alfgar steered, by the other's direction, straight down the stream, while he rowed for full an hour with remarkable strength and dexterity, so that they drew near the coast, and the cold air from the sea blew in Alfgar's face.

Here the gleeman ceased rowing, and spoke to him in a low tone.

"Do you see those dark figures ahead?"

"I do."

"Well, they are the Danish war ships, and our hour of peril draws near. We must drop down with the tide, which is running out strongly, and I must steer. You can row, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Well, get the oars ready to pull for your life, if I give the word, but not till then. Now silence."

In perfect silence they drifted down upon the ships. Happily for them there was no moon, and although the stars were bright, there was little danger that their dark-painted bark would be seen at any distance.

One great mass after another seemed to float by them; but it was the dead hour of the night, and no sounds were heard from the sleeping crews. They kept lax watch, because they had no foe to dread. There was, alas! no English fleet.

One after another, until they had drifted into the centre of the fleet, where discovery must have been instant death. There above them rose the "Great Dragon," in all her hideous beauty, the gilded serpent reposing on the placid waves. Her people, even at that untimely hour, were engaged in revelry, and as they passed by the fugitives heard the words:

"Now the warrior's cup of joy was full, When he drank the blood of his foe, Where the slain lay thick on the gory hill, And torrents of blood from every rill reddened the river below, For Odin's hall is the Northman's heaven--"

But they heard no more, for they had drifted beyond hearing.

They had now attained the last ship, when suddenly a watchman sprang to the side.

"Boat ahoy! Whence and where?"

"From the 'Great Dragon'--a poor gleeman and his attendant to his home on the shore."

"Come on board then, and wake us with a song. The watch is ours, and we will make it merry."

There was no help for it; and commending courage with a significant look to his companion, the gleeman and Alfgar ascended. It was yet dark, and the language and appearance of each might pass tolerably under ordinary circumstances for the characters they had assumed.

"Now a song, and we will keep it up till daylight."

Thus pressed, the gleeman took his harp and sang an old Scandinavian song of the first sea king who invaded England, Ragnar Lodbrok.

He told how the fierce Ragnar sailed for England, how his fleet was wrecked, but still how, with the relics of his forces, he assaulted Northumbria, and was taken captive by Ella the king, who threw him into a hole filled with vipers and toads.

"Sharp the adder's tooth, but sharper Spake the sea king to his foes, Spake while savage brows grew darker, As he told the countless woes Which the bear's fierce cubs should bring To those who slew their father and their king."

Then he described the retribution, and the lingering death of Ella under the agonies of the "rista oern" so vividly, that every Danish heart was filled with emulation.

"Well sung!" shouted the Danes. "Thou dost sing a song worth hearing. Hast not taught thy son to sing likewise?"

In turn Alfgar was forced to support his assumed character. Luckily his tenacious memory retained the words of many an old song, and the warriors were well pleased.

"Why must thou go to shore? We will feed and guerdon thee well if thou wilt stay with us."

"We are aweary now, and would fain return to our comrades on the shore, but we will return by and by."

"Do so, here is thy reward;" and one of the speakers threw a gold chain round the gleeman's neck. Gold was plentiful with the robbers.

They were allowed to return to their boat; but as they did so, many a keen eye was fixed upon them. The dawn was already beginning to appear in the east, and every moment was of importance.

"Thou hast borne the test well," said the gleeman, "and hast not flinched."

"I could not in your presence."

At this moment they heard the rapid splash of a boat, manned by many rowers, behind, and a voice shouted aloud to the men on board the ship they had left:

"Hast seen a boat with a gleeman and harp bearer?"

"They have just left the ship."

"Follow; they are English spies. Sweyn will give the weight of their heads in red gold."

Instantly they heard the sound of hurried voices, the lowering of boats, the splash of numerous oars, and all nearly close behind them. They took an oar each, and pulled with all the energy of men who pull for life or death.

The light was gradually growing stronger, and their chance of escape seemed feeble, when Alfgar saw before them a dense cloud of mist rolling round the eastern promontory, and uttered a cry of joy as it enfolded them.

"The wind is east, keep it on your right cheek, and steer straight forward. I will take both oars," said the gleeman.

It was wonderful with what energetic force and success the gleeman pulled until they had cleared the mist, and saw that they were in the red light of dawn, in the midst of the Solent.

One half-mile behind them a solitary boat pursued. There appeared to be only five men, four rowing and one steering. Other boats there were, but wide of the mark.

"Alfgar," said the gleeman, "you will find a quiver of arrows and a long bow at the bottom of the boat behind you."

Alfgar handed them to him.

"The points are passing sharp, and the bow is in order; take your turn to row."

Alfgar obeyed; he could not do otherwise, the gleeman's tone of command was so powerful, but he feared they would loss time by the change.

"You need not hurry yourself; let them approach. They are not likely to have brought other weapons than their swords and axes."

The boat gained on them rapidly, until it was within a hundred and fifty yards.

"Keep just this distance if you can," said the gleeman, and drew an arrow suddenly to its head; it whistled through the air, and the steersman, transfixed, rose, leapt in the boat, and fell in the sea a corpse.

"Gone to seek oysters for King Sweyn's table, I suppose," said the gleeman.

Another steersman promptly took the place, but some yards were lost by the pursuers.

"Slacken, we are too far for accurate aim; and we English must not disgrace ourselves in Danish eyes."

They slackened, another arrow sped, and the foremost rower fell. Evidently the Danes had no means of reply.

"Slacken yet more;" and before the pursuers could recover their confusion, a third fell, then a fourth, before the unerring shafts. The fifth was at the fearful gleeman's mercy, but he restrained himself, now danger had vanished.

But as he did so he cried aloud:

"Dane, we give thee thy life, blood sucker though thou art. Go, and tell King Sweyn that Edmund {viii} the Etheling, son of Ethelred of England, has been his gleeman, and hopes he enjoyed the song which told the doom of parricides."