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A Maid at King Alfred's Court: A Story for Girls

by Lucy Foster Madison · English · Gutenberg #37405 · 388,254 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Maid at King Alfred's Court: A Story for Girls

Author: Lucy Foster Madison

Illustrator: Ida Waugh


        
Release date: September 11, 2011 [eBook #37405]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37405

Credits: Produced by Darleen Dove and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MAID AT KING ALFRED'S COURT: A STORY FOR GIRLS ***




Produced by Darleen Dove and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net.

Darleen Dove

[Illustration: _"'TWILL LULL THEE TO DREAMLESS REPOSE."_]

                                  ----

                    *A MAID AT KING ALFRED'S COURT*

                          _A Story for Girls_


                                  _By_
                          LUCY FOSTER MADISON
             Author of "A Maid of the First Century," etc.

                        ILLUSTRATED BY IDA WAUGH

                      THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
                            PHILADELPHIA MCM

            _Copyright 1900 by The Penn Publishing Company_

                                  ----

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




CONTENTS


    CHAPTER I--THE MEETING IN THE FOREST
    CHAPTER II--WINCHESTER
    CHAPTER III--A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
    CHAPTER IV--IN THE HALL OF ALFRED
    CHAPTER V--THE DEATH OF A HERO
    CHAPTER VI--THE WOLVES' CONCERT
    CHAPTER VII--THE COMING OF A STRANGER
    CHAPTER VIII--ADIVA GROWS ANGRY
    CHAPTER IX--WOULD YOU STRIKE YOUR KING?
    CHAPTER X--EGWINA GOES AS A MESSENGER
    CHAPTER XI--SOME DANISH TALES
    CHAPTER XII--THE MAGIC SLEEP
    CHAPTER XIII--VICTORY SITS WITH THE SAXONS
    CHAPTER XIV--A PLEASANT SURPRISE
    CHAPTER XV--THE BEGGAR OF ATHELNEY
    CHAPTER XVI--IN THE CAMP OF THE ENEMY
    CHAPTER XVII--THE WINNING OF A BUCKLER
    CHAPTER XVIII--PEACE
    CHAPTER XIX--DARK DAYS
    CHAPTER XX--AELFRIC'S REVENGE
    CHAPTER XXI--THE TRIAL OF EGWINA
    CHAPTER XXII--THE ORDEAL
    CHAPTER XXIII--THE DREAD DECREE
    CHAPTER XXIV--ADIVA TAKES MATTERS INTO HER HANDS
    CHAPTER XXV--HILDA AGAIN
    CHAPTER XXVI--THE ECLIPSE
    CHAPTER XXVII--SIEGBERT'S STORY
    CHAPTER XXVIII--AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
    CHAPTER XXIX--BRINGING THE SUMMER HOME

                    *A Maid at King Alfred's Court*




CHAPTER I--THE MEETING IN THE FOREST


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The girl laughed merrily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The saints forfend!" ejaculated the girl devoutly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Son, wherefore thy call?" queried the bard, approaching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nay; say on."

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

Ethelfleda laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the youth! How proud in bearing he was!"

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II--WINCHESTER


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The juggler hesitated a moment, and then answered:

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

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

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

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

"Whither art thou going?" queried AElfric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There be many--" began Egwina, when Wulfhere interrupted her:

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

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

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

"Yes, granther," and Egwina ran to his side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know not," replied Wulfhere in perplexity.

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

"Let us hear it, daughter," said the abbot.

Without hesitation, Egwina then sang the "Crist" of Cynewulf.

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

"Nay, I know none other," answered Egwina.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then all joined in the sublime, unmetrical Te Deum.

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

The abbot smiled, well pleased.

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III--A THIEF IN THE NIGHT


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

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

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

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

"Grandfather! grandfather! Awake! awake!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it, son?" demanded the abbot.

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

The abbot was quick to act.

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

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

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

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

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

"'Tis he who hath done this!" cried Wulfhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AElfric shook his head sullenly.

"Then hast thou kindred who will pay it for thee?"

But the juggler clasped his hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Niddering?" he shrieked. "AElfric niddering! As ye be Saxons let me at
him!"

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV--IN THE HALL OF ALFRED


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wulfhere, the Gleeman, with his daughter, Egwina the Fair."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell me, ye wise ones, what is winter?"

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

"It is the banishment of summer," answered the minstrel.

"Good, good! Another! Give us another."

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

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

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

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

But Witlaf shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wulfhere smiled as sagely and answered:

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "Alone sits the exile,
      Alone on the plain;
    And the voice of the south wind
      Speaks to him in vain.

    "For back hath his fancy
      Flown to his lord;
    When oft he had followed him
      With arrow and sword.

    "Again does he seem to feel
      As of old his caresses;
    The thought is so sweet to him.
      The awakening distresses.

    "No friends hath he now,
      Nor lord for to follow;
    Long have they been estranged,
      Life seem but hollow.

    "Naught doth earth hold for him;
      No surcease of sorrow:
    For hunger of heartache
    Fails comfort to borrow.

    "Cold, cold is his earth dwelling,
      Care sits on his brow;
    Joyless his dark abode,
      Bereft is he now.

    "Those he hath loved in life
      The tomb now is holding;
    Fain would he join them there
      For rest he is needing."

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

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

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

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

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

"The Dane, the Dane!"




CHAPTER V--THE DEATH OF A HERO


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

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

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

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

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

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

A thegn darted to them at this moment.

"Retire," he shouted. "Retire, Lady, to thy bower."

"Retire!" exclaimed the lady, "and leave my lord's hearthstone to the
invader?"

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

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

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

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

"Now what?" asked the lady of Wulfhere.

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

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

"Where went he?" asked Wulfhere.

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

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

"The king! The king!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dost know what became of the others?" he inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A song! A song in praise of Guthrum! Guthrum the bold!"

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

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

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

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

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

"What!" cried the chief in fury. "What doest thou?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He fell, pierced through and through by their swords.

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI--THE WOLVES' CONCERT


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bury it with him," she said.

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

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

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

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

"Brother," said one to the other, "what sayest thou?"

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

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

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

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

"But were ye not under some lord's hand?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Heard ye not a sound?" asked one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: _SHE BEGAN STRIKING THE CYMBALS TOGETHER._]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a cry of gladness Egwina called loudly:

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

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

"Here, here!" cried the girl joyfully. "In the tree."

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

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

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

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

"Fleest thou from the Dane?" asked one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII--THE COMING OF A STRANGER


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

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

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

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

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

Denewulf unfolded the mantle from the girl as he answered:

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

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

The Saxon laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Denewulf and Adiva both laughed long and loud.

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

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

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

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

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

"Well! Drink hael to the king's coming," and the swineherd tossed off
another horn of mead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Drink hael, man! 'Twill warm thee, and chill blows the wind in the
forest."

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

"Nay," he said. "I care not for more."

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

"Is it so impenetrable?" inquired the stranger.

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

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

"Thou fleest, then, from the Dane?" queried Adiva.

"Yes; they are ravaging the whole of Wessex."

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

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

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

"Why fearest thou for the king? Dost know him?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What cause hath she?"

"Well--but what shall I call thee?" demanded Adiva.

"Call me Wilfred."

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

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

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

"And what art thou called, child?" asked Adiva.

"Egwina."

"Egwina, and I shall call thee 'the fair' also," said the dame.

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

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

Egwina flushed rosy red with pleasure.

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

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




CHAPTER VIII--ADIVA GROWS ANGRY


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

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

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

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

"Why dost thou watch me so, Egwina?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dost think that I could learn, Wilfred?"

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

"Is this it?" asked Egwina, with interest.

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

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

"Thou wilt, thou wilt!" cried Wilfred, in delight. "Forget not, dear
child, that 'The earth, when conquered, gives us the stars.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nay; I noted naught," returned the stranger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adiva raised her hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX--WOULD YOU STRIKE YOUR KING?


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She arose and bowed thrice before the trembling maiden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes; but--" Egwina looked a little troubled.

"But what, child?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Egwina drew back from the doorway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All drank. Another cried:

"Drink hael to the king!" "Drink hael to the king!" All drank but
Wilfred.

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

But Wilfred touched not the mead.

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

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

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

"Back! Would ye strike your king?"

[Illustration: _"BACK! WOULD YOU STRIKE YOUR KING?"_]




CHAPTER X--EGWINA GOES AS A MESSENGER


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The king laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alfred smiled at him a smile full of sweetness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What then shall we do?" queried Athelnoth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My king," Egwina spake timidly.

"Yes, child."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the king uneasily awaited the return of Egwina.




CHAPTER XI--SOME DANISH TALES


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'If thou wilt give me my fill of the ox, it shall be cooked.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Tis a pretty tale," remarked the maiden who had listened with
interest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Speaketh she the truth?" demanded Sigurd of his daughter.

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

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

"Knowest thou the fate songs, maiden?" asked Gyda.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Egwina laughed, interested in spite of her fears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XII--THE MAGIC SLEEP


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Egwina advanced hesitatingly toward the high seat.

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

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

Hakon looked at the maiden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her thoughts flew to the little hut in the woods where the king of the
Saxons lay concealed. Should he, like the phoenix, rise above the
funeral pyre of the dead hopes of his people, and again rule the land as
king? A quaver crept into her voice, and then, as she recalled his
words, "The earth, when conquered, give us the stars," hope swelled her
bosom. No matter the difficulties, the dangers that beset his path,
Alfred would reign again. God's chosen king was he, anointed by the holy
pope himself. Her voice burst into the triumphant refrain as the
assurance came home to her.[1]

    "Lo, from the airy web,
      Blooming and brightsome,
    Young and exulting, the
      Phoenix breaks forth.

    "Round him the birds troop
      Singing and hailing;
    Wings of all glories
      Engarland the king.

    "Hymning and hailing,
      Through forest and sun-air,
    Hymning and hailing
      And speaking him 'king.'

    "Hymning and hailing,
      And filling the sun-air
    With music and glory
      And praise of the king."

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

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

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

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

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

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

The jarl turned to Egwina.

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

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

Hakon knitted his brows, and became thoughtful.

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

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

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

"I see thee, Jarl Hakon," she cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "'Ware, 'ware of the forest, Jarl Hakon,
      The dragon steals forth from his lair,
    He tears thee and thy people asunder,
      And leaves ye as food for the bear.

    "Then take from the vala a warning;
      Seek not the Saxon's great king;
    The forces of Wessex are gathering,
      The dragon of Wessex will spring."

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

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

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

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

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

Again they drank.

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

Again the hoarse shouts of the retainers filled the hall.

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

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

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

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

"I cannot. It is the--" began the girl, and paused.

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

But Egwina shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Look at me, thou Saxon maid," commanded the wicca.

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XIII--VICTORY SITS WITH THE SAXONS


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

"Where is Gyda?" she demanded of the women fiercely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We durst not let thee from us. Of that did the seid woman bid us
beware. Neither doth it lie in our power so to do, for the Northmen are
on every hand. See for thyself."

Egwina looked, and her heart sank as she beheld the long line of
horsemen and men on foot before and behind. Many carts were there filled
with women and children, and the supplies of the Danes. Everything gave
evidence of preparations for a long march. Burying her face in her
hands, Egwina resigned herself to the inevitable.

The march was long and of several days' duration. At last they came to
the extreme western part of Devonshire. Here they were greeted by
another large party of Norsemen under the renowned Hubba, one of the
sons of Ragnar Lodbrock. The Saxons fled in terror at their approach.
Some few, taking their wives and children with them, repaired to the
castle of Kynwith.

The Danes followed after these last rapidly, and, seeing that the castle
was impregnable, would not risk an attack upon it, but sat down before
it in a camp, hoping thus to make the Saxons surrender either from
famine or want of water; for there was no spring near the castle.

Vainly did Egwina seek to join the Saxons in the castle. Her every
movement was watched, and she was forced to abandon the idea. Listlessly
she mingled with them, listening apathetically to their songs. Often did
they try to force her to join in their mirth and gladden their hearts by
music, but she looked at them with unsmiling face and would not sing.

Thus the days passed. The pagans waiting only for the surrender of the
castle which they thought must come soon through the dire necessity of
the Christians.

Early one morning, just as the first faint streaks of dawn were tinting
the sky, Egwina was awakened from slumber by the shouts of men and the
clash of steel. In alarm, the Danes sprang to their arms, but the Saxons
had surprised them too completely for anything but a furious resistance.
From the first they cut down the Northmen in great numbers, for they
were filled with the inspiration of despair, deeming death inevitable
and preferring to fall in battle rather than by starvation.

The trembling maiden prayed fervently in her tent for the success of her
people. While she was thus engaged, the flap was pushed rudely aside,
and two men entered. They seized her before she was aware of their
intention, and dashed out of the tent and into the thick of the fray
where Hubba their king was.

"Take this for thy shield, Hubba," cried one, thrusting the maiden
before the Danish king.

"If, then, thou art slain it must be through the body of the girl. They
will not slay one of their own maidens."

But Hubba haughtily put the girl aside, making the sign of Thor as he
did so.

"Am I not strong in mine own strength? Why should I use a living buckler
when mine own is better? Skoefnung (the name of his charmed sword) hath
already drunk the blood of many who cannot find relief from its life
stein. Besides, stand I not under the magical banner woven by my sisters
in a single day? I need no maid for protection."

Proudly he turned from them and hastened again into the conflict. But
the Norsemen stood looking at the magical standard, and suddenly they
cried out, "Behold the raven lieth motionless! No longer doth he flap
his wings in token of victory. We are doomed."

A wail of anguish went up from the ranks as they beheld the motionless
raven. Above it came the voice of Hubba:

"If die we must, then die as sons of Odin should. The one-eyed one
prepareth the feast of Shaehrimnir the boar. Fast floweth the mead from
the goat. Welcome awaits us in Valhalla. Welcome and good cheer! But
take with ye many of the Saxon warriors. Thus doth the Alfadur bid ye."

Roused to further exertions, the Danes raised their war chant and
rallied round the fatal standard. Those who had brought Egwina to the
combat now left her standing, and joined the others.

The bewildered girl stood, not knowing what to do or which way to turn.
Everywhere Saxon and Dane mingled together in battle. The Norse women
and children had withdrawn to one side. The women screamed or shouted
encouragingly to husbands or fathers, or chanted the battle songs of
their land. In the midst of the contest, the skalds' voices could be
heard reciting the deeds of heroes and inciting the Norsemen to greater
achievements.

The girl stood an unwilling, fascinated spectator, with no thought of
danger to self. Bravely and fiercely fought the Dane. Bravely and
fiercely fought the Saxon. True sons of Wodan they, and to the fighting
blood of the old Norse heroes was added the lofty exaltation of striking
for home and country.

Suddenly one of the Danish women caught sight of Egwina standing there
in the midst of the battle. With a cry of fury she dashed toward her,
and seizing her by the hair began dragging her back to where the women
and children were.

Egwina cried out at the assault, and strove to tear herself from the
grasp of the woman. At her cry, some of the Saxons turned. One, a youth,
left the others and bounded toward the two.

"Unhand the girl," he commanded.

"Nay," cried the woman; "she shall serve as an offering to Odin. The
battle goeth against us, and the fierce one demandeth a victim. Away!"

The youth grasped the woman by the wrists. "Release thy hold," he
shouted; "or, by St. Peter of blessed memory, I will forget that thou
art a woman."

"Forget it, then! Strike if thou durst! Strike, and upon thy head fall
the curse of Odin."

"I care not for Odin's curses," cried the Saxon, "but I war not with
women. Unhand the girl!"

The woman only tightened her grip the more on the long beautiful hair of
Egwina.

"There is but one way, maiden." The youth let go one of the woman's
wrists to draw his seax. The woman thought that he meant to cut off her
hands. Egwina was of the same opinion, and suffering though she was,
exclaimed, "For the love of Heaven, maim not the woman!"

There was a grim smile on the youth's face. He raised the seax and the
stroke fell. With a scream the woman let the bright hair of the maiden
fall, and fled to the others.

"Oh, didst thou hurt her?" cried Egwina, as the young man assisted her
to her feet.

"No;" and he held up two fair locks of her hair. "I meant only to sever
thy hair from thy head."

"And thou didst not intend to cut off her hands?" cried Egwina,
relieved.

"Am I not a Christian? Do Christians treat others so?" demanded the
youth. "Come, let us to the Saxons, for the battle is ended."

[Illustration: _HE RAISED THE SEAX AND THE BLOW FELL._]

It was true. Elated by their triumph, the Saxons pursued the flying
Danes, and great was the slaughter. Great also was the booty they
obtained from the camp, and, among other things, the magical banner of
Hubba, under which the chief lay dead.

"Now," said the youth to Egwina, "the slaughter is done. Great will be
the joy of Alfred when he hears of this day's prowess. A bode am I to
thee from the king. Mickle and sore doth he repent having let thee go
from his sight as bode for him to his family. He bids me, with others,
to accompany thee on thy journey, and bring thee back in safety to him."

"Oh, hast thou seen him?" cried Egwina. "Heavy was my heart that I could
not warn him of Hakon's intended search. Heavy did it lie in my breast
when I knew that Hubba was to come from the west to overrun the land. I
feared that the king's hopes were vain."

"That was the reason, maiden, that I left thee in the house of Hakon the
jarl," said Ethelred. "Niddering did it seem to leave thee, a girl, in
the hands of the foe, unwitting what might befall thee. But in the king
lieth all our hopes. 'Twere better that thou shouldst perish than that
the king be not warned."

"Thou didst right," declared the girl, warmly. "What am I to be thought
of in comparison with the king? Better, oh, better a thousand such as I
should perish than Alfred."

"Thou art a true Saxon, and so I deemed thee," cried the youth. "Would
that thegn and coerl were filled with thy spirit, and the Dane would no
longer uprear his raven standard in the land. But to tell thee all:
Hakon went forth with a goodly company. Alfred, who had been joined by
numbers of the Saxons, sallied forth, took the jarl by surprise, and the
bones of him and all his company lie whitening on the field."

"Dost thou not remember what the seid woman said?" asked Egwina in
awe-struck tones:

    "''Ware, 'ware of the forest, Jarl Hakon,
      The dragon steals forth from his lair;
    He tears thee and thy people asunder,
      And leaves ye as food for the bear.'

"Dost thou suppose, Ethelred, that the vala doth really see what the
future holds?"

"I wot not. There are many things that I understand not, but this do I
know, that 'tis a heathenish practice, and little use have the good
priests for it," and he crossed himself piously.

"True; but oft have I wondered whence came the power that seemed to
belong to them."

"Think not of it," answered the youth, hastily. "Whatever of power they
may have, 'tis of evil. Concern not thyself with such pagan doings, for
unseemly doth it become a Christian. Come, let us to the castle. Bode
must be sent to the king to tell him of this victory. Then thou, and I,
and others will wend us to the depths of Somerset, where the king's
family abide, and then back to Athelney."

And Egwina accompanied him to the castle.




CHAPTER XIV--A PLEASANT SURPRISE


Somersetshire was the only county that had remained true to Alfred.
Throughout all Devonshire the news of the victory of the Saxons at the
castle of Kynwith brought great rejoicing. While everywhere the Saxons
were open in their manifestations of delight, it was not deemed wise to
precipitate matters by letting them know that the king was preparing to
issue forth from his hiding place. Somerset alone was considered worthy
to be trusted, and here the secret was told, and many left their homes
to go to Athelney.

In the heart of Somerset, at the abode of the thegn, Oswald, a trusted
and tried retainer of the king, the family of Alfred was hidden. With
light heart did Egwina now go on the journey, for it was shared by
Saxons true to the king, and hope had made glad their hearts.

"Dost know the family of the king?" inquired Ethelred of the maiden as
they neared the dwelling of the thegn.

"I have met the lady Elswitha, and I saw her mother and children the
night of the attack on Chippenham," answered Egwina. "Hast thou?"

"Nay;" replied the youth. "My father was of the royal family of Mercia,
and, when the pagans overran the country, perished by the sword. With
him I should have attended the great Witan at Winchester this Easter,
and thus have seen the king, and mayhap his family also. Tell me of the
lady Elswitha."

"She is fair and beautiful. Right worthy is she to be the noble Alfred's
wife, for bravely did she bear herself on the night of the assault."

"Often have I seen Eadburga, her mother," remarked Ethelred, "and her
father also, Athelred the Large, for they were of Mercia. Elswitha I
have not seen, for she married the king--he was the atheling
then--before I was old enough to remember. Much have I heard of the
present atheling and his sister. Marry, I would like well to meet with
them."

"Naught do I know of the atheling or his sister," said Egwina. "There
were only some young children with the lady and her mother."

"And was there no youth of my age, nor maiden, near them?" queried
Ethelred.

"Nay," returned Egwina. "There were a youth and a maiden there that
night, but not the atheling nor his sister. The lad was younger than
thou, and the maiden older than I. It could not be they. Besides, I met
this youth and maiden in Andred's weald some time ago. See the ring that
the maiden gave me."

She extended her hand with the sapphire upon it.

"And thou art sure that it was not the atheling's sister?" asked
Ethelred as he examined the gem.

Egwina laughed.

"So sure am I, sir youth, that I will give thee this chain of gold that
Hakon, the jarl, gave me if they be the same. Then, by this amulet, thou
canst have all thy desires."

"Marry! if there be aught in the charm, I would that they be the same,"
returned the youth, falling in with her merry humor. "But hath it given
thee thy wish yet, maiden?"

"Well-a-day! I wot not what it hath granted, but this I know: I wished
myself well away from the dwelling of Hakon, jarl. That came about. I
wished that the king be warned, and that also happened. Then did I wish
that I could reach the lady Elswitha, and yon turrets tell me that that
also is about to come to pass."

Ethelred laughed.

"Almost dost thou make me wish that I could obtain the chain."

"Gladly would I give it thee if only the maid of the forest and the
atheling's sister were the same," returned the girl. "Oft have I wished
to see them again. Oft have I wondered if the invader hath despoiled
them of home, or where they be."

Over the girl's bright face came a cloud, for well did she know of the
devastating work of the ravagers.

"Here we are!" cried the youth. "Now, maiden, thou art the bode from the
king. Seek thou the lady first. We will tarry without until she bids us
enter."

Egwina advanced through the courtyard, and then somewhat timidly to the
portals. In answer to her knock, a warder opened the door and asked her
in.

"I would see the lady Elswitha," spake she. "I bear to her a message
from the king."

"From the king? From Alfred?" ejaculated the warder. He ran from the
room without bidding her welcome. Egwina smiled at his evident delight,
and seated herself near the entrance. She had scarcely done so when the
lady Elswitha hastily entered. As soon as her eyes fell upon the girl
she gave an exclamation of joy.

"Is it thou, little one? Glad am I to see thee safe. Oft have I wondered
about thee and thy father--the good harper--who so bravely tried to lead
us to King Alfred. Is he safe also?"

"Nay, lady," returned the maiden, touched to the quick by the gracious
thoughtfulness of the lady, who could forget her own anxiety in care for
the welfare of others. "Nay; he fell by the hand of the Dane. Anon will
I tell thee of it, but now do I bear thee a message from the king. He is
safe. Followers are rallying around him. Victory hath already crowned
the Saxons against Hubba, and ere the bringing home of the summer the
king hopes again to rule over Wessex."

The lady clasped her hands. Her lips moved as if in prayer. Then,
impelled by a gracious impulse, she stooped and kissed the maiden.

"Sweeter than softest music is thy message to my heart. I rejoice in my
lord's safety, and that his people are coming to his call. Now can I
wait further news until thou hast refreshed thyself."

"No, lady; I am not aweary, and it glads my heart to tell thee of the
king," spoke the girl.

Then, as Elswitha drew her to her side, she told of the cottage in the
woods, the occupations of the king, and everything of her journey
hither. Many exclamations of joy, and pity, and terror did the kind lady
utter as she listened to the story.

"And thy companions--the noble Saxons who brought thee thither? Where
are they?"

"They await without thy bidding."

"They must be welcomed," cried the lady, warmly. "Sit thee here, child,
until my return."

She hurried forth and heartily greeted the Saxons, bidding them come
into the hall. Then she summoned Oswald the thegn, and bade him make a
feast for the good news that was brought, and for the refreshment of
those who had brought it. Into the hall came the three young children,
two girls and the youngest, a boy: Ethelgiva, Ethelswitha and Ethelwerd,
by name.

"Oh, my children," cried the lady, embracing them. "Good news have I for
ye from your father. Haste to the bower chamber of your grandmother
Eadburga! Bid her to come to the hall at once and all the household
also, that I may tell them the joyful tidings."

The children ran quickly out. Egwina cast a hasty glance at the youth
Ethelred. He wore a slightly disappointed look on his face, for he had
heard so much of the atheling that he had supposed him older than this
boy.

At this moment, the door was thrown open and into the hall there stepped
a youth somewhat younger than himself--a falcon on his wrist, hounds at
his heels.

"Edward, my son!" Elswitha rose excitedly. "Give good welcome to these
friends who hath glad news of thy father."

Edward! Egwina looked up in amazement. It was the youth whom she had
seen in the forest. The recognition was mutual.

"'Tis the gleemaiden!" exclaimed the lad, advancing toward her. "Truly,
maiden, thou dost appear to be the good Flygia of our family, as the
witch-wife would say. Thrice hast thou brought to us succor. Once in the
forest; again on the night of the attack of the Danes didst thou and thy
father strive to save us from their fury; now thou art a fair bode from
my father."

He took her hand gently, and Egwina grew rosy in confusion, more
overwhelmed by his simple words than those of the others, because of her
surprise at finding him the atheling.

Elswitha's mother, Eadburga, now entered and with her Ethelfleda, the
maid of the forest. Egwina was not astonished at beholding her. Nothing,
it seemed, could surprise her now. Not even did she see the quizzical
smile with which Ethelred regarded her.

Ethelfleda took charge of her impetuously.

"Hast thou kept the ring?" she asked, after she had thanked and caressed
the girl.

"Yes; though once I came near losing it," returned Egwina, showing it to
her.

"Losing it? Tell me, and tell all that hath befallen thee since the
people pressed us asunder," urged Ethelfleda.

"My daughter," spoke Alfred's wife, "let the maiden with the others
refresh herself. Then shall all tell of themselves."

And so it was arranged. Elswitha would suffer nothing more to be said
until they were rested. Then the maiden recounted all that had happened
from the time she met them in the forest until the present.

"Beautiful is the chain which the Danish jarl gave thee," said
Ethelfleda, examining it. "Curiously wrought, and of pure gold. I wot
that it be charmed, as many of their ornaments are."

"Yes; the amulet, the jarl claimed, brought to the wearer the
realization of every wish--" began Egwina, and then paused in some
dismay, remembering Ethelred.

"It belongeth no longer to her," laughed the youth, joining them.

"Doth it not? How does that come?" asked Ethelfleda.

"She said that she would give it me were the youth and the maiden of the
forest the same as the atheling and his sister," said Ethelred, merrily.
"So ye see that it is hers only by my will."

"And it is thy will, is it not?" insinuated Alfred's son, gently.

"Nay, brother," spoke Ethelfleda, who was of sterner mold than the
atheling, "if the maiden hath promised it, the word should be kept."

"And that right gladly," said Egwina. "Little did I reck when I spake
that ye were the same, but it delights me to have met with you again.
Take the chain, Ethelred, and may it bring to pass thy every wish."

"No, Egwina;" and the youth returned it. "I did but sport with thee. I
wish not thy chain, though I thank thee for thy good wishes."

"But I gave thee my word," said the maiden. "I like not to break it.
Prithee take it, Ethelred."

But Ethelred shook his head.

"This is the solution," and Ethelfleda took up the chain. "Thou, Egwina,
shall have the chain, and Ethelred the amulet which gives him his
desires."

"Wise art thou, Ethelfleda. Worthy to be thy father's daughter!" said
Ethelred, taking the amulet. "I take it with thy well wishes, Egwina,
and from thee, Ethelfleda, that I may realize a wish that hath lately
sprung up in my heart."

"Art thou pleased, Egwina?" asked Ethelfleda.

"Yes," answered she. "And I would that the amulet may bring him his
wish. I am glad that he hath taken it."

"But not I," remarked Edward, detaching an amulet from his own chain.
"Bare is it without an ornament. Take this in its place, Egwina. No
charm hath it but the well wishes of the donor."

He clasped the amulet on the chain, and threw it over her shoulders.

Egwina's eyes shone.

"I cared not for the amulet of Hakon jarl," she said, "but this will I
prize because thou, the king's son, hath given it."

"Ye must to your rest now, people," called Elswitha, coming up to them.
"To-morrow will we set forth to join the king in the forest. So hie ye
to rest, for we must start early enough to end the journey by
nightfall."

With merry good-nights the group separated, Ethelfleda carrying Egwina
with her to her own bower.




CHAPTER XV--THE BEGGAR OF ATHELNEY


Joyfully did Alfred greet them on their arrival at Athelney.

"Well hast thou done, little one," he said to Egwina. "Never will Alfred
forget how leal thou hast been to him."

"But the jewel, my king? I grieve that I have lost it."

"'Tis nought," reassured the king. "A trifle like that can be replaced.
And thou wouldst not, for thy life's sake, give it of thine own free
will. Loyalty and honor hast thou shown--two of the brightest virtues in
friendship's crown."

Glowing with pleasure, Egwina hastened to greet Denewulf and Adiva, who
were overjoyed at her return. A cottage had been built on Athelney for
Alfred, and to this he now repaired with his family. Ethelfleda would
not be separated from Egwina, so the gleemaiden also went with them,
much to the sorrow of the swineherd and his wife, who made her promise
to return to them for a part of each day.

The island had been well intrenched and numbers had flocked to it. So
many were there that the scant resources of the place were soon
exhausted, and so dire was the necessity of the king that he was forced
to forage for provisions.

Now, too, did he begin a series of skirmishes; attacking the enemy
without ceasing, wherever he found any parties or camps accessible to
his attempts. Whether his object was achieved, or did he meet with
repulsion, he retired with a celerity that baffled pursuit to his
unknown asylum. The Northmen became terror-stricken at the ravages which
this secret foe was making upon them, and finally came to believe, with
the superstition of the age, that the attacks were of a supernatural
character.

Gradually the king extended his assaults, harassing the Danes with
hostility in a distant quarter as well as those near. By day and by
night, at dawn, in the evening twilight, from woods and marshes, he was
ever rushing on the Northmen with all the advantages of selection and
surprise. But still the provisions grew less, and the king was sore put
for supplies.

One day, while it was yet so cold that it was frozen, the king's people
had gone out to get provender, fish or fowl or whatsoever they should
happen upon, while Alfred himself remained in the cottage. The king was
discouraged. Despite the successful issue of his forays against the
Norsemen, they still remained in such numbers that it seemed an
impossible task to ever rid the land of them. At last he took from his
bosom the little manual which he always carried with him, and began
reading one of the Psalms of David for comfort.

A knock at the door brought Ethelfleda and Egwina from an adjoining
room.

"Open, my daughter," said the king.

"But it may not be one of thy followers," said the girl, dubiously.

"Open; keep not one without who may need shelter from the wind. Piercing
is the blast. Open unto him whomever it may be."

Ethelfleda opened the door not widely, as was the wont of the Saxons,
for she feared that one might be without who sought the king.

"Bread, maiden! Give me bread to eat for Christ His sake," pleaded a man
who stood there. He was poorly clad and he shivered in the chill breath
of the March wind.

"Enter, in His name," cried the king, heartily. "Enter and warm thyself
by the fire."

Murmuring blessings, the man crept close to the fire and huddled over
the blaze.

"Food for him," commanded the king to Ethelfleda.

"But, my king," remonstrated Egwina, speaking in a low tone, "there is
but one small loaf of bread which is all the food that there is left.
Wilt thou that it be set before the man, and thereby leave thee naught
to strengthen thee for the sally to-night?"

"Give it anyway, little one," bade the king. "We have eaten to-day; it
may be that he hath not. The poor man looks as if he needed it."

Thereupon he returned to his reading, while the maidens served the
beggar. Hungrily did he eat. Soon the last morsel of bread disappeared
before the voracious appetite. Then he arose, gathered the folds of his
mantle more closely around him, and turned to the girls.

"Ye have heard the words of the master," he said. "'Inasmuch as ye have
done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'
I thank ye, maidens, for your kindness. Most of all do I thank him who
hath ministered to me from his own necessity."

He turned to the king as he spake, but Alfred had fallen asleep over his
book. An expression almost of adoration passed over the beggar's face.
Over the sleeping form then did he make the sign of the cross while the
girls watched him in something like awe.

"Whoe'er thou art," he murmured, "Christ is with thee. For that mercy
which thou hast meted to another from thy dire want, may it be returned
fourfold. Art thou brought low from high estate? Be comforted. Low
though the heavy clouds hang, above the sun is shining. Forsaken it may
be that thou art now, but to thy call shall rally hundreds."

He bent before the sleeping form of Alfred, and pressed his lips to the
king's hand. Then drawing his bonnet over his head went slowly from
them.

"Almost," said Ethelfleda to Egwina, "could I believe that some saint
hath visited us. Glad am I that my father bade me give him the food."

"He is some holy man," returned Egwina in a low tone. "But how he spake
of the king? And how he loves him!" She touched the king's hand
reverently. "How they all love him, Ethelfleda!"

"And worthy is he of their love," returned the daughter, gently kissing
his forehead. "My noble father! I care not, Egwina, that he be king; but
that he is wise, and tender, and so good. When he speaks, his words are
unlying always, and men know that his word requires no oath to bind him.
My heart bounds with pride when they call him 'The Truth Teller.' There
have been many kings before him, but none so great as my father."

"I wonder not at thy love," said the gleemaiden. "Well doth he merit it.
And Ethelfleda, as thou dost feel, so do all his people. Pride in his
wisdom, and love for his tenderness, even to the beggar that hath left
us. It hath given me new hope, for it is said that a poor man's wish is
better than the gift of a rich man."

"Into my heart, too, hath crept new hope," said Ethelfleda. "Methinks
that soon the days will really become brighter."

At this moment Alfred awoke, and started to his feet.

"Methought that a poor man but now asked for food," he said.

"One hath been here," answered Ethelfleda. "We fed him, and he is gone.
Dost thou not remember, dear father, that there was not food enou' left
for all but thou didst bid us bring it to him? He hath partaken of it,
blessed thee, and gone."

"He blessed me?" The king's eyes grew dim. "'Tis strange! And then my
dream!"

"Didst thou dream, my lord and son?" said Eadburga, entering the room.
"I, too, have just dreamed. Speak, and let us hear thine, son."

"I dreamed," said Alfred, "that St. Cuthbert of Lindisfarne stood beside
me. He spake and told me he had been my guest. He said that God had seen
my affliction and those of my people which were now about to end. In
token whereof Edward will return with the Saxons with a great take of
fish."

"Sayest thou so?" cried Eadburga, much agitated. "Why that is mine own
dream. Was any one here at all?"

"There was a beggar," declared the girls in the same breath. "He blessed
the king when he left, and made the sign of the cross over him."

"That was the reason that I did dream that it was St. Cuthbert," said
Alfred, who nevertheless was much impressed by the dream.

"Thy difficulties are fast nearing an end," said the aged lady
impressively. "I think, son, that this has been sent thee for comfort to
thy heart, and cheer to thy drooping spirits."

"And comfort hath it brought," said the king heartily.

"I would that Edward would come with the others," cried Ethelfleda. "I
would like to see if he bringeth a great take of fish."

"Look not always for a sign, daughter," reproved Alfred. "Well hath the
vision served, if it but raise our courage. 'Twas induced by the
blessing of the poor man. I would that he had remained with us, for it
is chill and raw without. I wot that he was some holy man. Whatever he
be, little doth he reck how he hath blessed us in return for the poor
food which we gave."

"But still do I wish for Edward's return," declared Ethelfleda in a low
tone to Egwina. "Supper will there not be unless the fish be taken. I am
hungry. Art thou not, Egwina?"

"Not since I have seen that poor man eat," replied the maiden. "He ate
as if naught had passed his lips for days."

Just then came the tramp of many feet from without.

"Open, father," cried the voice of Edward. "Open and see what I have
brought thee."

Ethelfleda flew to the door before Alfred could move, and threw it open.

"Welcome, welcome, Edward! What dost thou bring? Oh, father, see the
fish!"

"Enough to feed an army," and he laughed as the Saxons tried to bring
them in, for it was truly a great take. "Blessed be St. Wilfrid, who
taught the Saxons to fish! He must have been with us to-day."

"No, son; a greater than Wilfrid was with thee," said Alfred solemnly, a
joyous light shining in his eyes. "Wonderful hath been thy catch, and
wonderful, too, hath been our experience."

"Let us have a feast," cried the practical Ethelfleda; "hungry must ye
be, good people, and hungry am I also. Art thou not now, Egwina?"

"Since there is so much," answered she, "I wot that I am."

"And dost thou not feel hunger save when there is plenty?" laughed
Ethelfleda. "Strange, Egwina! Would that my appetite would accommodate
itself to the supply. But marry! the less there is, the more do I wish."

"'Tis the heart of Egwina that molds her appetite," commented Edward.
"At the morning meal I could but notice how she broke off the larger
part of her bread, and gave it to Ethelwerd and Elswitha. The meat did
go in the same manner."

"Didst thou?" Ethelfleda looked up from the fish she was preparing in
amaze. "Thou shouldst have eaten thy portion. Each had the same."

"True; but the little ones wished for more," said the girl simply. "And
I need not much. Then, too, Edward gave me part of his."

"'Twas naught," said the youth hastily. "Thou wouldst retain nothing for
thyself if thou were not watched. Besides, I am a man, and stronger than
thou."

"A man?" teased his sister. "A man, yet thou hast not yet naught but
down upon thy chin; nor art thou of age to wear buckler."

"Yet in truth a man," said Alfred, laying his hand kindly upon his son's
head. "A man such as I wish to see, my son. Tender to the weak, and
gentle to the helpless."

Edward's face flushed at the praise.

"Come, Ethelred," he called, to hide his confusion, to the young man who
stood by the fire. "Come help us to prepare the fish."

"Gladly," returned Ethelred. "I have been warming by the fire, for chill
hath the wind proved, else I had been with ye ere now. Marry! glad will
I be when the Lenat (March) month hath passed."

Thus busily and merrily, despite hardships and dangers, did they prepare
the fish, and with hearts knit more closely together for these same
hardships, the king and his retainers sat down to supper. As merry and
gleeful were they as when in other days they had gathered round the
festive board in royal hall with wassail and song, so now sat the Saxon
king and his people in the rude cabin.

After the meal, Egwina sang, for to-night hope had entered into their
hearts, and their hunger was satisfied as it had not been for days.
Early the next morning, the king crossed to the mainland. But twice
wound he his horn, when from the alders and forest there came many men.

"The king! The king!" they cried. "We rally to his standard!"

"Here is the king," came the reply, and thus five hundred more men were
added to Alfred's number.




CHAPTER XVI--IN THE CAMP OF THE ENEMY


Easter had passed, and the first faint breath of spring was in the air.
Rapidly the numbers in Athelney increased. The whole people had by this
time been apprised of the king's plan, and were making preparations to
join him in the final blow. Guthrum with his Danes grew aware of the
unusual stir and activity among them, but found it impossible to
discover its cause.

Still Alfred knew not the strength of the enemy. Guthrum had removed
from Chippenham, and was now encamped at Westbury. Into the king's mind
there came a bold idea. Calling Egwina to him, he said with his winning
smile, "Little one, darest thou to accompany me on a journey?"

"Gladly, my king," was the response.

"I will not hide from thee, Egwina, that it may be fraught with peril
both to thee and to myself. But it will advantage me to take it, though
little do I reck of the outcome. Thou needst not go unless thou wilt. I
will not think the less of thee if thou dost not choose to go."

"It matters not, my king, whither, or into what it doth lead. If thou
dost desire me with thee,

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