"God's blood! thou sorry young fool!" cried Offa's wife. "Is this all I must hear from thee—I, who have done thee so much honour? By the Fiend! thou art right hardy! Thinkest indeed that the man who scorneth me shall have my daughter? I am no loser, and Offa and I, we shall share thy kingdom!"
She stamped her foot three times, and scarcely had she done so when a part of the floor of her bedchamber began quickly to descend, and Ethelbert King of the East Angles, who stood upon that part, sank with it out of sight.
There followed one or two cries, fierce, but muffled almost to extinction, and a thud.
The Queen put her face to the opening, and called, "Gymbert, is all done?"
There was no reply. She bent low to listen. Then a piercing sound assailed her ears—the voice of a woman, shrieking again and again, with gruesome, mechanical regularity.
Another moment, and Cynerith had reached the garden. The outer door of this wing, her private door, was open. Upon the threshold stood her youngest daughter, in night-rail and hooded cloak.
Gymbert the Queen's thrall rushed at the Lady Ethelfrith, and tried to take hold of her. She fought and beat him off, and tottered, shrieking still, though more faintly, sobbing and moaning, down the few steep steps and towards the middle of the room, where lay a shapeless mass from which a pool of crimson was spreading slowly. A flickering lantern swung from a hook upon the wall.
Others arrived upon the scene. First came old Edric; then Eadburh, with her mass of tawny hair about her face; then Offa, muttering hoarsely; and all the inhabitants of the palace thronged to learn what had befallen.
Ethelfrith was seated upon the ground, holding Ethelbert's dissevered head in her arms, and she rocked herself to and fro, and chanted in a far-away tone.
"Under the leaves, under the leaves,There saw I maidens seven!"
"Under the leaves, under the leaves,There saw I maidens seven!"
"Under the leaves, under the leaves,
There saw I maidens seven!"
She broke off short, and changed her tune.
"Then He built Him a bridge of the beams of the sun,And over the water ran He;And the three wealthy wights they followed him after,And drowned they were all three!"
"Then He built Him a bridge of the beams of the sun,And over the water ran He;And the three wealthy wights they followed him after,And drowned they were all three!"
"Then He built Him a bridge of the beams of the sun,
And over the water ran He;
And the three wealthy wights they followed him after,
And drowned they were all three!"
"Come, canst thou riddle me my ridlass?
"Yellow and green,Sharp and keen,Grows in the mene.The King cannot ride it, no more can the Queen."
"Yellow and green,Sharp and keen,Grows in the mene.The King cannot ride it, no more can the Queen."
"Yellow and green,
Sharp and keen,
Grows in the mene.
The King cannot ride it, no more can the Queen."
"No more can the Queen…. I must mind me to tell my mother that in two years and a little more her son will be lying dead and cold. How sister Eadburh will storm at what must follow—the fall of our proud house!… Heart's dearest, the sun is high in heaven. Why do ye not awake, my lord? Do ye not hear the lark singing? Ethelbert, there is blood all about thy hair—it is like a crown, Ethelbert!"
Babbling thus and laughing, she was torn away: nor did she ever recover her reason, though she lived thereafter thirty years.
Earl Sweyn the Nithing
Being the Chronicle of Winifred Ebba's daughter
In the first year of King Hardicanute, on the sixth-and-twentieth day of May, feast of blessed Augustine, Algive, only child of Aldred, sometime thane of Berrington, became by oath-plight nun of the Order of blessed Benedict, before the altar of the Abbey-church of Leominster, lately builded and begun by Leofric the good Earl. By this means grew the hoard of the same holy house the richer by the half of her goods. The other half, and her land at Berrington eke, Athelstane her uncle kept for himself.
On the self-same day, and in the self-same abbey-church, did I, Winifred Ebba's daughter, whose father had been freed churl of the father's father of this Algive, make also mine awful vows to serve God after St. Benedict's law. Algive Aldred's daughter had then fifteen years, and I six more than she: all the days of our lives had we played together, and I watched over her. And for that I had ever longed, since I could mind me, for the religious life, I was glad in that hour: and my kindred chode not too greatly, for that I willed to tread the path whereon wended our old thane's daughter. But for Lady Algive was her oath-plight the spring of many and bitter woes.
Now Algive was a right comely maiden. Like the blush of the wild rose on milk was the skin of her cheek: red as the wild rose-berries her soft lips; her hair yellow as the heart of the honeysuckle, and long and curling before they shore it; and her eyes were blue and grey together, as the onyx-stone in my Lord Bishop's great ring. She was hale, blithe, and unmoody, mild and forgiving; she worshipped God as do most women; she had ever a most sweet ruth for all that ailed or sorrowed; boughsome was she unto the rule of St. Benedict, in so far as the Abbess willed: yet I do mind me of thinking always that Heaven had not called her to be a nun. Howsoever, these thoughts kept I to myself. Twenty sisters were we, a few good enough, many less good than the best that lead the life of the world. We dwelt together in peace as far as might be; but there were no saints among us, such as King Edward loved. Nor was there such learning at Leominster as many of our English sisterhoods did boast of; but of such things I cannot speak cunningly, nor was I ever drawn to lettered lore. For me, the things of the household: let me cook and mend, heal and bind, and all happiness is mine. Our sister Algive had small learning enough. But because she was sunny ever, and none hated her, and because, moreover, her kin were mighty folk, when the Abbess Mildred came to die, we made her Abbess over us. Algive was then in her one-and-twentieth year. I do think that from first to last her rule was overmild. Many of us left prayer for idle talking—an ill thing where there are many women! Me she took from the kitchen, wherein I had wrought since my coming to the convent, to be sub-prioress, and sent me often as her trusted bode about the farm and garden.
Those were the days when holy King Edward sat upon the throne in Thorney Island, by London town, and doughty Earl Godwin swayed the land. Many hated this Godwin; not a few feared, but ever followed him; but I who knew him can tell you so much of him: Were he greedy of wealth and grasping after means to might, yet had he a stout English heart, and none loved better than he the English land, or kenned better the wants of English folk. Churl's son or childe's son, I wit not, but King Edward took his daughter, fair Edith, as Lady of the English; and the children of Godwin were of the blood of kings, for he wedded Gytha the Danish Lady, kinswoman of King Canute. But though foremost in Witan and in leaguer, two of his own sons might Earl Godwin never rule. Of the six sons of Godwin, with three have I, Winifred, had my dealings, and of those three this is my reckoning: Sweyn the eldest was a man, for all his wilfulness and his sinful wrath. Harold the next-born was a noble prince. Woe worth the day wherein the arrow slew him! As for Tostig, fair of face as Michael Archangel, he was a devil.
Now the Abbey of Leominster stood in the old land of Offa, some fourteen miles from the Hereford, where the king's armies are wont to pass over Wye into the fastnesses of the Welsh. Some three years before my lady Algive became our Abbess, Sweyn the first-born son of Godwin was made Earl, and given as Earldom much of the old kingdom of the March—to wit, Herefordshire and Gloucestershire, and more beside. Ere long there spread from mouth to mouth tales of the wildness of our young Earl, even such wildness as Godwin his father bore with never in any other lord in England. More viking he seemed than Englishman, which made some to wonder, and to put abroad a groundless slander. And with brooding brows and foreboding nods, folk would tell of how he spurned the wise words of the old, or of how he would at times drink deep, and then fall to singing, fighting, or love-making maybe. Yet was he a righteous lawgiver, and open-handed ever: loving a daring deed, a hearty lay, a tale of the great ones of bygone years. Few there were that wished him not well, and few that prayed not God to bring him through the storms of youth to a steady manhood. Alack! alack for Lord Sweyn! tallest, proudest, most gifted of all the Godwinsons!
It was on the twenty-sixth day of May—the self-same day of our profession—in the year of Our Lord One Thousand, Forty and Seven, when the hawthorn was in full bloom, and the bleak blossoms of the blackthorn hung withered and tattered on their swart stems, and all our broad meadows shone golden with the buttercup, that we of the convent of Leominster heard a clatter of many horses' hooves upon the cobble-stones before our door. And there before the door was Sweyn our Earl, with twenty Danish house-carles that followed him, and at his side some of the wealthiest and worthiest thanes of our smiling shire of Hereford. He was much above the mean height, long-limbed and lithe, with a swift and noiseless tread; not ruddy, as are the most of the English, but dark of hair and milk-white of skin as his mother the Dane, and browned about the face and neck by wind and sun; with a nose like the beak of a hawk, and eyes like the hawk's for brightness, and a sudden, rare smile such as God gives to few. And a most beguiling tongue had Earl Sweyn—the tongue of a sagaman.
I saw his coming, peeping from an upper window, and went in haste with the tidings to the Lady Abbess.
He strode into her little parlour, and louted low before her. Then many a strange thing happened. I was standing by at this their first meeting, and what there befell can I forget never. For ye must bear in mind that for six years I had toiled without end within the convent kitchen, and beheld no man, young or old, goodly or wizen, but Godmund the priest. It was a fair sight that greeted the Earl, that of Algive Aldred's daughter, now full-grown to womanhood—two and twenty years had she—fair even in her weeds of black, with her eyes lowered, yet she peering, as I knew, all the while from beneath her lashes. And so, when he then beheld her, Sweyn Godwinson grew pale beneath his bronze, and stood stock-still before her, his look all wonder. Algive raised her grey-blue eyes to his for one short moment. Of a sudden she dropped her gaze once again to the hem of her kirtle, and felt fumblingly for the crucifix at her waist. Then Sweyn flushed deep red, and his fingers clenched on the handle of his boar-spear; and taking another step forward, he bowed him down once more, and gave her greeting in words. Thereafter these twain talked together in courtly wise, as befitted them.
From that day forth came Earl Sweyn often to our Abbey. Twice or thrice had he with him his near kinsman, Beorn, late made Earl of the Middle English, sister's son to King Canute. This was a handsome man enough, but methought his eyes were treacherous. After a while Earl Sweyn brought Beorn no more, but himself came, and was much with the Abbess alone.
My lady had indeed grounds for beseeching help of him: her churls were unruly, and who could rede the Abbess so well as the Earl? Howsoever, within the sisterhood was there great tattle of talk, and light hinting anent their two names. I but waited, and prayed, feeling sharp woe, and sorrowed in my heart—Mary forgive me!—as much for him as for her.
Then one day late in June, the Lady Abbess rode forth, with only a band of weapon-bearing churls, to Hereford, where Sweyn the Earl then dwelt. A week's stay made she there, then rode back again to her Abbey. No more was she the woman that she had been—even Algive the fair, sparkling as a beam of the sun. Wan as the dead was she now, with tight-drawn lips. All day long would she walk up and down the cloister, up and down the garden paths, oft-times wringing her hands together. The evil mutterings grew, and tongues waxed ever louder and bolder; and some sisters forbore not openly to cast gibes at their Abbess almost before her back was turned.
I beguiled them as well as I could to leave chatter and spend themselves in healthful work, for it was hay-harvest-tide. On a day early in August, the eleventh day, we bore in our last load of hay. I mind me well of that eleventh of August—sultriest day of all that sultry month: the lift bright as glass, and cloudless altogether until the hour of sun-setting. All day long we laboured in the heat, staying only for our holy offices, the which were soon said under the roof-tree of heaven; and every sister, yea, even the Abbess Algive herself, worked as lustily as the stoutest churl. All was done at early even; the great wains rolled home to the barns, and we passed in thankful procession to our church, and there sang vespers, as well as we might for our parched throats. The evening meal was spread in the hall of the convent: each nun stood beside her stool at the board—thinking, one and all, I trow, of white wheaten bread, and cool cider, and eke of dreamless slumber: at the board's head, the Abbess had but now beckoned to Godmund the Priest that he should ask blessing on our food, when there arose a loud clamour without, such as made even the drowsiest to start, and we heard the voice of the portress, angry and shrill. Then one threw open the door of the hall, and there upon the threshold stood Earl Sweyn Godwinson, and behind him his house-carles, twenty dauntless men of the Danes.
Earl Sweyn stepped within the hall, up to where the Abbess was.
"My lady," he cried, before us all, "here am I. Come thou with me!"
Abbess Algive would not meet his gaze. She strove a little to speak, and a whisper came.
"Lord Earl——"
Sweyn kept his glowing eyes upon her until at last she raised her eyes to his. Then:
"Sweyn, Sweyn," quoth she, and went to him, putting both her hands into his hands. She would have withdrawn them indeed, but he caught her about the body, and laughing a little, bore her shoulder-high from her convent hall.
We sped to our gates, but he was already ahorse, with her before him, holding to him tightly, and his men were springing to their saddles. Out at the gates they streamed, and we after them, into the midst of Leominster town, where they halted a little while. What a sight was there upon Leominster green! Small wonder that the folk thronged to stare! There were the sisters of blessed Benedict, running hither and thither as they were wode, all shrieking, some laughing, most wailing and calling upon all the saints: there lame old Father Godmund, snuffling and chiding all unheeded; in the midst of all, Sweyn the Earl, with his Danish house-carles about him, marking naught, it seemed, but a loose nail in his horse's shoe. Suddenly, one Sister Sexburh, who had been ever greedy after gold and jewels and such light things of the world, cried with a loud voice:
"What, good sisters! bide ye here when the road lies open before you? What of the flock when the shepherdess is fled? Must we ever waste within walls?" And picking up her kirtle with one hand, she set off swiftly down the high-way, with Offa the drunken thane in her wake.
But of all that there befell—to my shame I own it—I heard no more, for now Earl Sweyn set his horse's head towards Hereford, and with him was Algive with her arms about him; and I had no more thought of the Abbey of Leominster, of my holy oath of profession, of the needy I was wont to feed and clothe and the sick I was wont to heal; but I ran until I came up with Sweyn's horse, catching at his stirrup and calling out:
"Leave me not, leave me not! Take me also, Lord Earl!"
Sweyn made sign to one of his men that rode beside him, who, stooping, lifted me into his saddle before him, and so was I borne along, following Earl Sweyn and my Lady Algive.
From that day forth was Earl Sweyn forced to flee from shire to shire. For wheresoever he would go, the noise of his sacrilege sped before him. All priests of God cried out upon him throughout the length and breadth of the land; and of the folk, the most did shun the Earl, and curse the whole brood of Godwin.
Then Sweyn took pen in hand, and wrote unto Edward our King, his sister Edith the lady's lord, begging this thing of him: That whereas Algive Aldred's daughter had taken the holy oath-plight in full early youth, for dread of her kindred, whom she might not withstand, this Algive might now be freed of her oath, and be wedded to him, Sweyn Godwinson, as his lawful wife. Now blessed Edward was a great saint, ywiss. Did any man ill or slightingly by this Edward's self, his laws or his kingship, then had the King towards him the kind heart of a woman: but woe betide that one that had wrought wrong to Holy Church! He alone would find starkness in King Edward. For him had our Lord King heart of stone! When he had read the writing of Lord Sweyn, he cut and tore the same in shreds, and stamping his foot upon the ground, swore by blessed Dunstan's bones that Sweyn Godwinson should rue the day wherein he was born.
King Edward was abiding at Winchester, and Earl Godwin and his other sons were with him. Unto his father sent Sweyn then for help, but Godwin did most straitly let that he should not come to him: nor would any of his brethen hold speech with Sweyn, but Harold only.
Then was Algive the Abbess stricken with fear, and wanhope, and bitter remorse, and she fled from before Earl Sweyn, and hid herself in the house of a kinsman of mine own, in the borough of Pevensey, in Kentland, where, try as he would, he might never come at her. Here, in the summer of the next year, her son Haco was born.
And about this tide was Sweyn Godwinson outlawed by Witenagemote, and became as a wolf, and his head as a wolf's head, and thus any man might slay him, and yet go guiltless of blood.
And Sweyn fled to the sea-shore, and took ship with his house-carles, and fared unto his Danish kin, and with them roved the seas a viking, for full a year and more.
Now my Lady Algive and I abode in the house of Oswy my kinsman, a worthy chapman of the town of Pevensey, and the folk around kenned nought of us nor of whence we came, believing her to be a widow and I her maid. For King Edward and Earl Godwin had made fast unto my lady some small means of livelihood. Thus a whole year passed from the spring of Sweyn Godwinson's forth-going, and summer was come again. And one fine day, when my lady and I did walk forth into Pevensey market to buy us fresh cake-bread, who should come through the market, wending afoot, but Sweyn's cousin, Earl Beorn of the shifty eyes. He caught sight of Algive's face beneath her wimple, as she stood by the cake-seller's booth, and halted beside her, and spake softly, near to her ear. And when my lady returned to our dwelling, Earl Beorn went along with her, and there talked with her alone some while.
Often thereafter came he unto my lady Algive at my kinsman's house at Pevensey—once in the week at the seldomest. What this boded I could not guess, but ever I misliked this Beorn more and more.
One evening, late in summer, I, after long wandering by the shore in the cool of the eventide, hied me home, weening that somewhat ailed my lady, and sought her in her own small chamber. I found her therein, crouched low upon the floor, white as sheeted ghost, her eyes a-stare, her mouth round-agape. Seeing me, she stumbled to her feet, and with one great sob, flung her arms about my neck and held me as she would never let me go.
"Winifred, sweet friend," then said mine alderliefest lady, "fail me not now, thou that hast followed me through weal and woe! For now must I to a deed before which my whole being quails. Know then—Earl Beorn—he hath wooed me long to his own ends, and I withstood him, minding me that my troth is to Christ our Lord, even though I be now desecrate. But ever he spake of the King, and of how he, Beorn, had lately besought him that Sweyn might come again into England, and be made once more lord and earl, as beseemeth his father's son. And King Edward, said he, seemed like to yield. And oh! I have but now plighted me, that if Sweyn be inlawed by his means, I will go unto Beorn whensoever he shall send for me…. O Winifred, thou wilt yet stand by me? Thou wilt go with me—on that day…? To what end my soul's weal? Is not Sweyn's life wrecked through me?"
Seeing how it was with her, I wrestled not with her resolve, but soothed her crying, and swore to stand or fall by her. In the town of Pevensey I had a friend, a trusty good-wife who had been whilom of Earl Godwin's household, and loved Lord Sweyn as her own bairn. Indeed, I had but now learned of her that Sweyn, with his Danish ships, hung even then about the shores of Kent. And in his father's lordship of Bosham were some, as I knew, that gave him food and shelter when he willed to set foot on English ground. To one of these I sent, bidding him tell Sweyn the outlaw that I had that for his ear alone which must be said, and quickly. Three days later I found him, Earl Godwin's first-born, within a filthy hovel, wherein must he ever stoop that his head hit not against the thatch.
Straightway I fell on my knees before him, not knowing what I uttered—only saying over and over:
"Lord Sweyn, Lord Sweyn, this must not be!"
And I told to him the guilty bargain made by my Lady Algive with Beorn the Earl, for sake of him, Sweyn Godwinson.
Scarce was my meaning clear ere his fell wrath began to gather like a thunder-storm.
"May he burn in hell-fire!" cried Sweyn. "May earth spue forth his body, that he come never to no burial! May the ravens of Odin pick his bones for ever, and each day may the flesh grow upon them anew! The toad! The rat!—Aye, I too have trafficked with Beorn Estrithson of late, and found him kindly and loving enough. Speak for me to the King! Shall I be inlawed? I do think for a day: and then, if I but yawn at mass, or smile at a pretty wench by the roadside, they will drive me once more forth!"
Then growing calmer he said:
"Into thy keeping give I Algive. Watch well; and when Beorn would work his wicked will, send me tidings, and I will be with them ere harm can come to that lady."
Honeyed words spake Earl Beorn in King Edward's ear, and within the week was Sweyn Godwinson inlawed, and of the King bidden come and welcome.
On the self-same night my lady bade me wit that the hour of her dread was nigh. Now the King's ships were out, ready to fight with Baldwin the Flemish Earl, but in the end King Edward willed not to war with Baldwin, so must the seamen to their own homes. It had so befallen that the King had sent for Harold Godwinson to Sandwich, where he was then dwelling. Earl Harold's seamen were of Devon, and would make Dartmouth on the next day, and thus must Earl Beorn be over them in their ship of war, in Harold's stead. At eventide would Earl Harold yield up his command to Beorn his kinsman, in the haven of Pevensey; and at eventide would Beorn have my Lady Algive come to him aboard this ship.
Then I sent a trusty one in haste with these tidings unto Sweyn.
As the sun was setting, my lady, hooded altogether, and leaning upon my arm, went down to the water-side. In a shed, behind heaped-up timber, crouched we hidden, and watched Earl Harold and his household men land from the tall warship when the shades of night were fast drawing down, and set out for the court of the King. Earl Beorn was left, and four of his men, and they had all eaten and drunken well.
When all was once more still, we crept out, she and I, clomb the ladder that yet hung adown the side, and so aboard the ship of Earl Beorn. In the bows lay the four seamen, heavy with the ale they had drunken: they seemed scarce to mark our going. Now Beorn awaited her astern, in a tent-room strung upon poles and screened on all sides with thick hangings, wherein he had feasted with Harold a little before. At the door of this tent I left her, and ran with all my haste to the ship's side. Beneath my cloak I had carried, so warily, a little lanthorn, whose horn I had shrouded with a scrap of thin red silk. This I waved thrice to and fro, for a token to Lord Sweyn without.
In the twinkling of an eye, he came on out of the darkness, ten of his Danish followers in his wake: swiftly and soundlessly they leapt aboard. They took hold on three of Beorn's men ere they could struggle or cry, gagged them, and bound them fast. The fourth saw we not at all at that time.
Swiftly sped Sweyn towards the Earl's tent, the great battle-axe of a viking in his hand, and I beside him. Even fleeter was I, for I forged ahead, and had torn aside the hangings even as he came up with me. Earl Beorn stood within, flushed and lowering: at his feet knelt Algive, her hood wrested away, and the fingers of his right hand clasped in the short golden curls of her hair. Beside him, as though thrust from his way, was a light trestle-board, yet strewn with bread, broken meats, and drinking-horns: upon this board he leant unsteadily with his other hand. Said he thickly, swaying a little:
"By the hammer of Thor, who dare——"
Then Sweyn glided within, and called full softly and sweetly: "Ho, Beorn Estrithson! Here is Sweyn Godwinson!"
"Is it so?" said Beorn. "Is it so indeed? Sweyn the Outlaw! Sweyn the Nithing!" His voice rose in a drunken laugh. "Godwin's son! Sweyn the son of King Canute, and of Gytha the spotless princess."
It was the last hiss of that wicked worm. The Danish war-axe of Sweyn whistled once through the air, and smote Earl Beorn right between the brows, and he fell heavily along the deck, and by his blood was Algive all foully bespattered as she lay.
And Sweyn sang loud and hoarse and high; hoarse and high and loud sang he:
"Utters the axe: of Sweyn the sea-rover;Lifeless he lies: the wiler of women!Blood of betrayer: is it not a sight full seemly?Haro! Haro!Aié! Haro!Lo! cries his lord: Weapon unworthy,Lop I thy head leifer, than 'gainst brave and true men bear thee!Hempen death rather his, that was sib-folk's slanderer.'Cowards come not: To the halls of the Chosen!Haro! Haro!…"
"Utters the axe: of Sweyn the sea-rover;Lifeless he lies: the wiler of women!Blood of betrayer: is it not a sight full seemly?Haro! Haro!Aié! Haro!Lo! cries his lord: Weapon unworthy,Lop I thy head leifer, than 'gainst brave and true men bear thee!Hempen death rather his, that was sib-folk's slanderer.'Cowards come not: To the halls of the Chosen!Haro! Haro!…"
"Utters the axe: of Sweyn the sea-rover;
Lifeless he lies: the wiler of women!
Blood of betrayer: is it not a sight full seemly?
Haro! Haro!
Aié! Haro!
Lo! cries his lord: Weapon unworthy,
Lop I thy head leifer, than 'gainst brave and true men bear thee!
Hempen death rather his, that was sib-folk's slanderer.
'Cowards come not: To the halls of the Chosen!
Haro! Haro!…"
But of all that followed I nothing saw nor heard, for a great blow was stricken me behind the head, and black darkness rushed down upon mine eyes and ears.
The blood beat dully against my brow, and my head ached as it would split in twain. I lay on a day-bed, pillowed with down.
On the ship? There had been a ship…. The fourth man! He must have fallen upon me as I stood in the tent-door.
Nay, I was once again within four walls. There were voices of men and women about me. I opened mine eyes. Near-by saw I some that I kenned full well, though they kenned not me, for often had I gazed upon the great ones of the land, since coming into Kent. On a settle over against me sat proud Lady Gytha, Earl Godwin's wife: her grief had made her stony; her eyes were heavy, and her lips a thin, tight streak. Earl Tostig stood before the empty hearth, clanking ever at the golden chain about his neck. At the feet of his mother, upon a stool, sat Harold, holding on his knee the child Haco Sweynson.
"Stirs she yet?" said Lady Gytha.
"Nay, not yet," Tostig answered. I shut mine eyes, for his harsh tones jarred and sickened me.
"Was it Algive?" she said, right mournfully. "Has this woman once again brought my Sweyn to nought?"
"Lady mother," spake Earl Harold, "I was, as ye know, at Dartmouth town, when, at dead of night, came one of my men to me. In a dark wynd, he said, armed men set upon him and held him fast, and one, whose voice seemed the voice of Sweyn, gave into his arms this child, son of Sweyn Godwinson, and bade him take him thence unto me, or be slain where he stood. 'And look thou beneath the shed of Oswald the shipman, by his wharfside,' quoth he that might be Sweyn, 'and there wilt thou behold more which beareth on this matter.' My man and his fellows sought the sheds of Oswald, and lo! bound hand and foot, four seamen of Beorn's ship, which Sweyn my brother sailed out of Pevensey, and the body of Beorn Estrithson our kinsman, mangled fearfully, and eke yon poor soul, whom the men of Beorn call the Lady Algive's woman."
Then I guessed that I was now in the house of Earl Godwin at Dorchester.
"Slain by my son!" moaned Lady Gytha. "Beorn, who won for him the King's forgiveness!"
"Fore God and His host of hallows!" cried Tostig bitterly. "Heavy is now our shame! Such wantonness knows no end. Outcast of Holy Church was Sweyn Godwinson—and now black murder done on him who had befriended him. Shall the whole house of Godwin fall for the strayings of one? Were I King——"
"Hold!" Harold thundered. "Never aught underhand did Sweyn, and that thou well wittest, Tostig!"
At this I strove to sit upright on my bed, but could not, and fell back.
"See, she swoons no more," said Lady Gytha, and was at my side, bringing wine in a flask.
Then there broke in upon us Godwin the Earl, with fumbling step, his eyes wild, his grey locks tangled and unkempt.
"Woe worth the day!" he cried aloud unto his lady. "Woe worth the hour wherein he saw the light, this son of thine! Twice outlaw he, and Nithing by the word of the armed Gemot! Foul blows where thanks were owing—that was well done, O Sweyn! No child of mine art thou henceforward. Harold, stand thou in his stead: thine are all the rights of the first-born."
He sank upon a settle, shading his countenance with his hands. Lady Gytha went to him, and her tears began fast to flow. Then came Tostig's whisper, sudden and clear as the cracking of ice:
"What, Harold, so soon? I did think——"
But Harold chode not with him, for the boy Haco whimpered, and he fell to soothing him in most kind wise.
Then, by God's favour, I rose from my bed, and knelt at the feet of the Earl and his lady, and spake to them of the shameful saying of Beorn, the which had goaded Sweyn Godwinson to smite him to death. In after years, Lord Harold knew, but so softly spake I there that my tale was heard of Godwin and Gytha only, and no word reached the ear of Tostig.
When I had ended, Lady Gytha arose, to pass from us all into an inner room. And Earl Godwin arose too, and caught her arm as she went.
"Gytha—wife"—said he—"here is it at an end! I am old, I am old, Gytha!"
It was sooth he spake, the once stout Earl. He was an old man from that hour. But Gytha held her head high, and I knew that in her heart she was glad for her son.
Good folk, ye say that ye would hear yet further of Earl Sweyn and of the Lady Algive, who are now no more, and of how they came to their ends. Men say that King Edward would once more have pardoned this lord, Edith the Lady besought him so. But when Sweyn had put the body of Earl Beorn on shore at Dartmouth, of his eight ships, six then left him, for his men, both Danes and English, now beheld him stained with the blood of a kinsman. And as he sailed towards the east, in the warship of Beorn, with one of his own ships faithfully following, the men of Hastings set forth from their haven, and hunted these craft until they overtook and seized them. But Sweyn Godwinson they took not, nor Lady Algive that was with him; and they twain hied them into Flanders, and there abode all that winter. Thereafter Lord Sweyn went once more a-sea-roving, seeking forgetfulness, as I have heard.
In the year One Thousand Fifty and One, when the townsfolk of Dover, greatly wroth, did wreak the wrongs done to them by Eustace the French Earl upon the said Earl and his men, Godwin withstood the King upon the men of Dover's behalf, and was banished by King Edward beyond seas, he and all his house. Then went they also unto Baldwin's land, and Sweyn met them there, and abode with them, for he had long yearned for sight of his kindred.
When Godwin was called back into England, they were for bringing Sweyn with them, to be inlawed, and received back into the King's trust, But Sweyn's pride was broken. He would come no more to the land of his birth, who had so fouled the fair fame of Godwin's house. Harold should stand in his stead: he would fare afar, pilgrim to the Holy Grave and Calvary Hill, that haply he might find the forgiveness of heaven. When the children of Godwin returned, they had in their keeping Algive my dear lady. All this while had she been in the city of Bruges, in the ward of Baldwin's daughter, Mahault, that is now Queen of the English, wife to King William. They sent for me to her, and put us to dwell together in the house of my kinsman at Pevensey, where we had woned aforetime.
Now in two years from that time began my Lady Algive to wane and to wither, as a green bush when the sap no more rises. She spake little, and prayed long hours together. At last came the day, when she went abroad no more, and often kept her bed. Then one morning early, she called me to her side and thus quoth she:
"O Winifred, this month agone dreamed I a dream, one that is sooth and no vanity. I dreamed that Sweyn, my lord and my love, stood before me, the rime in his hair, his feet bruised and bleeding, and beckoned me. So I know—ask me not how—that he is no longer on life, and that God in his goodness sendeth death to me also. But lo! another marvel. Each morn, as I awaken, I hear the ring of footsteps that come from a far frozen land. Each morn, I say, are these footsteps louder and nigher; but Sweyn comes not at all any more."
This was at the winter-tide. Early in the next summer, my good friend, she who had been of the household of Gytha, sent to let me wit that an holy priest and pilgrim was lately come from the East, bearing tidings which my lady should hear. To our house-door came he, and I led him within to my lady, where she lay. And this was his tale, told in few words:
"Good wives, as I journeyed hither from the Holy City, I traversed the land of Lycia, where they have a winter more bitter than any winter we English know. And one evening came one to our fellowship, saying that yonder, beneath the roof of an holy hermit, lay a man of the north, they thought of the Island of the Angles, sick unto death. I followed this Lycian, seeking my countryman, and found him, a mighty man aforetime, I ween, but now so wasted with his wanderings that he seemed to have no flesh, but only skin and bone. And when I would shrive and housel him, thus he spake: 'Priest, know that I am Sweyn the Nithing, first-born son of Earl Godwin, and whilom Earl in fair England, from Hereford even unto Oxenford! Woe for the sins of unbridled youth! I have profaned the Holy Church of Christ, and have wrought murder, even upon my kinsman, when the red wrath boiled in my blood—aye, and the guilt of mine own father's death is also upon me, most wretched! Since these things done have I known no peace until this hour, wherein I leave my life.'
"Soon after died he of the cold."
Now about an hour after this pilgrim had given over speaking, Algive Aldred's daughter went forth from the bitterness of the world to the unbounded mercy of God.
As for Haco Sweynson, he fell fighting by King Harold upon Senlac field.
And I, Winifred, daughter of Ebba, yet live on, and pray in each hour to Our Lord Christ and to Mary mild, His Mother, that the souls of these twain, Sweyn and Algive, may be cleansed of every foul stain. For though their sins were many and great, yet scorned they none, nor lied, nor ever betrayed any but themselves, neither ground down the needy when that might was theirs; and verily and indeed they loved much; and I, who have sinned my share, God wot! do faithfully hope to meet them both again ere long in the fair, shining meads of Paradise.
Edith's Well
"Sicut spina rosam genuit Goduinus Edivam."
So, Gundred my son's daughter, thou hast been to London town; and thou hast seen this new Queen Edith, whom men in the French tongue call Maulde; and she is the fairest lady who ever in all the world sat beside king in high-seat; the most gracious, the meekest, the freest-handed, the most ruthful! Edith, quoth the child? Long ago there was an Edith…. Well, daughter, a queen once spoke to thy grandfather, and he to her; and a mighty wonder marked their meeting, which will be remembered while time shall last. Young folk love tales, and the old are fain to the telling of tales. Sit down by my feet, and hear how once upon a day Edith came to her Well yonder by the highway.
I have witnessed frost and snow, storm and lightning, pest and famine, in my nigh-on-eighty years; I have known drought and burning also, but never such drought as befell us in the year One Thousand Sixty and Five. This was a great year in its beginnings: a marvellous year for the apple-bloom; we had carried two crops of hay before July was out; the wheat-ears were so heavy that they leant together as they grew, like unto folk in a crowd that swoon, and even the barley would scarcely bestir itself at the coming of a welcome wind. Oh, the heat of that summer! We had three showers in all between April and the end of August, and they but soft and slender. The earth cracked in places into gaps full many a foot wide; the grass was no more green, but the colour of the baked earth in which it had root: small weeds died, and the moss withered on stock and stone; half a day was the life of a brier-rose. Rabbits, hares, and some birds starved all about us; the field-mice were a scourge to us at the first, but later even they and the hedgehogs gave up the breath of life. The brooks dwindled and ceased to flow but in a trickle: many an age-old spring sent forth water no more. The morning dews were heavy, but soon gone; and the earth could drink them in no farther than a hen may scratch. Though we dug dew-ponds, the little moisture they gathered was not worth our toil. We cut the corn in haste, for the wild fowl rifled it day and night. Many an one that laboured did the sun strike dizzy. One man and one boy were slain by the heat-stroke, and some tottered from the fields to work no more that year. With those that remained, it was mug to mouth ten times in the hour! My cider was gone within the first three days; and then my goodly beer must follow! And in the second week in August they sent from Ledbury to tell me that Edith the Lady, King Edward's wife, would pass near by my dwelling as she went to visit her brother, Harold Godwinson the Earl, at Hereford, and begged that I in charity would give her refreshment upon her wayfaring.
As the Lady willed, so must I do, for our King's sake, and for the sake of other some. In my boyhood I had been one year a henchman of Godwin her father's; Gytha her mother had nursed me in some slight sickness; I had ridden out with Sweyn to fight with Griffith the Welsh king. I had not seen this Edith since she was a young maiden in her father's hall: men had told of her as both merry and learned; but I had never been near her, to speak one word. It was said that she led a gleeless life with her pious old lord. She would not pass right before my door, I deemed, on her way to the Hereford: I would take food and drink, and meet her upon the road that runs through Ledbury to Gloucester, and ride with her some deal of her journey, if she should wish for my company. So I set out about the ninth hour of the morning, with four of my men: my good wife, thy grandmother, I bade abide within doors, for fear of the deadly heat. We bore with us a pie and wheaten bread—no butter, for it would have melted. Little beer and no cider had I by then; but we took two skins of ripe mead, fit for queen or king.
The sun was shining so strongly that we could almost hear the shooting of his beams. The air was seen to throb. White dust lay thickly over grass, bush and tree. There was a dreadful stillness; the only sound that ourselves made not was the sickening hum of flies. We went slowly, with bracken-leaves bound about our heads and twined within our horses' browbands. When we had gone some two miles, there befell a great mishap. The stopper flew from the mead-flask at the saddle-bow of Anflete the reeve, and the mead gushed out. We had not time to catch any of it ere it lay frothing in the dust. And then, as though the devil strove to plague us, the other bottle, which mine own horse carried, burst also, and left us likewise liquorless.
But we bore on, until we came to a spot a few yards off the Ledbury highway, where the banks were steep and the bushes shady: indeed, all about was the woodland of the vill of Stoke, belonging to this same Edith the Lady, who had set a reeve therein to see to her rights and her profits. Seemingly she would not stay to look upon her own land, so fain was she for sight of Harold her brother. Near the joining of the ways, then, we waited. Our throats were as dry as a smith's bellows. My men had swallowed what little beer we had left before I could forbid them. At once I made the blockheads seek for water, thinking of the wants of those we had come to meet. Not one drop within a hundred yards in every quarter, though God knows there are springs and streams enough thereabouts in any common year! We stretched ourselves in what there was of shade, and soon we beheld them coming, a goodly company of ladies and armed men.
We went forward to greet them; the foremost of them got down from their saddles; the Lady of the English came stately towards me, smiled, and put her small hand in mine.
"Odda, right glad am I to meet with thee," she said. "Dost thou mind thee how at Winchester I let my head-rail fall from a window into the buckthorn-tree, and how thou didst climb in and get it again, and didst send it me by my mother's woman?"
I remembered. Being but a henchman of the stable, I could not myself go with it.
How gracious her smile! How mild her condescension! Great wonder was it throughout the land, I knew, that she should be so lowly-sweet. The Lady Edith was little like to Earl Godwin her father, the rugged, grim old man! Although at this time about forty-four years old, as I think, she was an exceedingly fair woman still. Her skin was white as walrus-bone, and very little wrinkled; her hair long, thick, and red-golden as ever it had been, for though she was now hooded and staidly wimpled, I saw it uncovered later on that morning, and I could find therein no grizzled strand. Her clothing? She was cloaked and hooded, meseemeth, in fallow hue—and a little cross, finely-wrought in silver, hung at her throat; but how can a man speak of women's garments? I know that her mouth was soft and kindly, and quivered a little sometimes when she was not speaking; and there were now black shadows beneath her big grey eyes—maybe from the hardship of her journeying.
"My lady," I answered, "I beg that ye will rest awhile, and eat of the food that I have here. Alack! I have no drink to set before you! We brought mead, but in the heat an hour agone it burst our bottles; and there is no water near at hand—we have but lately sought it."
The lady raised her hands to her brows in most weary wise.
"Good Odda," she said, notwithstanding, "I thank thee much for thy kindness in thus coming, and for all the pains that thou hast taken. And since thy mead was lost on my behalf, I thank thee for it also. Let us sit here awhile and eat, as thou sayest; we are sore anhungered, that is sure. And later we will go find my reeve at Stoke over yonder. He will doubtless have one drop of somewhat for us each to drink. We also emptied our flasks an hour ago, silly souls that we were!"
She had with her her mass-priest, her women, her men-at-arms, her thralls. We sat down upon the ground, and broke the pasty into portions, and dealt out my fine wheaten bread.
As she talked with me of the old days in her own home, suddenly we heard a noise in the woodland upon our right—a child's voice wailing—the voices of two children. Far away at first, then somewhat nearer. Two wandering children, crying fit to burst their bosoms. Great breathless, thirsty sobs, swelling every now and then to a despairing roar.
The lady had sprung to her feet, and had broken through the nearest bushes into the thicket beyond.
"Hither! hither!" she cried. "Come! Come! But where are ye? Weep no more—here is help!"
We all followed her. She walked onward, calling; they shouted still, and drew nearer and yet more near: at last they came forth, the little mites, upon a bare plot whereon we had halted. Boy and girl they were; five and seven years old they seemed: hand clasped in hand, cheeks grimy with dust which their tears had furrowed, faces flushed and seared by the mighty heat.
She ran to meet them, with outstretched arms. They ran to her, and caught at her skirts. The girl, the younger, cried, "We were lost!" and the boy said hoarsely, "Mother!… O mother, the world looks black…. Oh, my head, I cannot see!" and he had fallen flat at her feet before she could stay him.
The girl said, "Lady, my head—great smart have I also!" and her breath came thick and loud.
The Lady Edith gathered sorrel-leaves, and bound them about the heads of the bairns.
"It is not enough," said she then. "They must have water."
"There is no water here," Anflete my servant answered. "We sought it high and low before my lady's coming."
She wrung her hands in sharp woe.
"O Christ, have mercy!" she said. "O Mary, that art our mother, hasten—help!"
Then her passion seemed to leave her, and she knelt, and began to speak in still, low tones; but I heard her words.
"Father of all goodness," she prayed, "save these twain alive, who are more to Thee than the wild sparrows! Strengthen then, Lord, I beseech thee, the gift that Thou hast bestowed upon Thine handmaid!"
Having so said, she arose, and quickly bade her folk bear the children with them, and shade the little ones' heads. It was high noon now, but she flung her hood back, and her wimple fell away and hung down with the hood, so that her bright hair was laid bare, and her shapely neck and breast of ivory. Many a woman would have seemed light-minded, even wanton, so; but our Edith was queen in everything she did. Although the soil was burning, and scorched the feet through riding-boots, she began to walk swiftly, glidingly, around and about. She held her riding-switch, a toy with handle of gold and amber, bent bow-wise between her two hands. Her lips were parted, as those of one who breathes-in freshest air.
And we followed, a great awe upon us. We were once more in the lane where we had rested, when a gleam awoke in her eyes, which had become dark and shut off from earthly sight, and she sped ahead of us even faster than at first. She came to where the bank overhung, and was covered with sagging ferns, shrivelled and caked with dust. A shiver shot through her whole body, and the switch that she carried started and writhed as it had been a live snake.
"God be praised!" she exclaimed. "Here is water for them!" She stamped her foot. "Dig! dig! Bring spades—Oh, dig! Quick! Would ye see them die before your eyes?"
"Sebbe the charcoal-burner!" said Anflete. "I will fetch his spade."
Edith had snatched his war-axe from one of her men-at-arms and was hewing at the bank whereunder she stood; I hacked away with my broad knife; some of the others scratched with their hands. In a little while Anflete was back from the charcoal-burner's with spade and pick, and we got more skilfully to work. A homely croon was heard in the heart of the earth. A spot of moisture darkened the bottom of the hollow that we had made. One spadeful more, and up it bubbled—a little spring, but a strong one. There were stones still within the hollow, and we put back more to keep up the shifting sides; and into the bowl so made the water flowed, thick and clotted, truly, with the dust and flakes of sandstone, but how sweet to touch and taste! Oh, the happy noise of water in a thirsty land!
The Lady Edith dipped a clout in the well and bathed the heads and necks of the little ones, gave them to drink, and set them to lie in the shade. Soon the girl-child stirred and wept, and Edith lifted her up in her arms. A shrill cry made us all turn to behold a poorly-clad woman, hot and unkempt, who stumbled towards us, tears in her eyes and terror in her voice.
"Ye naughty ones!" she stormed at sight of the children. "Here have I been…."
Then she stopped short, with open mouth, and stared at the slender, bare-headed woman who held her younger child, until one whispered: "It is the King's Lady!" when she louted down upon her knees.
"Hush! hush!" said Lady Edith to her sobbing burden. "Fear not, sweetheart! Thou must go home now—go to thy mother indeed!" and she laid her in the arms of the kneeling woman.
Never had she been more lovely than in that moment, her face shining like a rose, her eyes most tender and brightly-beaming. When, a short while after, she turned from mother and child and came seeking me, a huge pity rushed up within me, and I think that she read that pity in my look.
"Dread lady," said I, being a little mazed, and all soft with ruth, "how goes it with our Lord the King?"
"Whenas I left my lord, all was right well with him," she answered. "He had some sickness in the spring, but it irked him little, truly, for his years. Such an holy life he leads, and yet he is so long-enduring towards them of worldly mind! It is great joy to me that I may see him sometimes, and be somewhat near him."
She crossed herself, and the fair light faded from her.
"Wherefore do I murmur?" said she. "Is not Jordan flood better than all the rivers of Damascus?"
And so saying, she folded her meek hands above her heart, and went her way.
I never saw her again. The well that she found for us abideth for her memorial: clear and cool in every weather—the freshest in all the countryside. I have often thought of her since that day; and I think of her more often now than ever in the long night hours that are not the drowsy hours when one has grown old. Dreams, Gundred, dreams—waking dreams, but idle things none the less! But sometimes meseemeth that her very self is near me, standing as I best knew her, arms outheld, face aglow. She lived and died childless; the old King had made an oath, they say, for fear he might fall short of heaven. Once or twice evil tongues have made free to slander her fame! She was staunch, I know, and flawless; and yet her heart was quick and warm. Girl, I have ever recked little of the greater deal of the saints to whom prelates bid us pray. Of God and of his goodness I reck much; and this is the saint whom I worship before all others, crowned in this world or uncrowned—Edith the well-beloved Lady, whom all her people honoured and pitied.