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 Æscendune 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 Æscendune 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 Æscendune?”

“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 Æscendune 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 Æscendune 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 æternum.” xxx