Edwy the Fair or the First Chronicle of Aescendune<br />A Tale of the Days of Saint Dunstan by A. D. Crake (ebook reader with highlight function txt) 📖

guests to the refectorarius, and ask him to see that they and all their company taste our bounty at least this day; tomorrow we may have nought to offer them.”

In the famous chapter of the whole house of Glastonbury which followed, and which became historical, prompt resolution was taken on Dunstan’s report, which did honour to the brotherhood, as evincing both their resignation and their trust in God, Who they believed would, to use the touching phrase of the Psalmist, “turn their captivity as the rivers in the south;” so that they “who went forth weeping, bearing good seed, should come again with joy, and bring their sheaves with them.”

So it was at once agreed that the whole community should break up immediately; that within the next hour all the monks should depart for the various monasteries of the Benedictine order; and that Dunstan himself, with but two companions, should take refuge across the sea, sailing from the nearest port on the Somersetshire coast.

A dozen of the brethren were to return with Father Cuthbert and Alfred to Æscendune at once, and to bear with them all the necessary powers for the accomplishment of the good thane’s wishes in regard to the monastery of St. Wilfred, while Father Cuthbert was then and there admitted by Dunstan to the order of St. Benedict —the necessity of the case justifying some departure from the customary formalities.

All being completely ordered and arranged, the chapter broke up, and within an hour the monks were leaving as rapidly as boys leave school when breaking-up day comes, but not quite so joyously. They strove to attract as little attention as possible, and, in most cases, travelled in the ordinary dress of the country.

Father Cuthbert and the Benedictines who were to accompany him on his return—- so much more speedy than had been anticipated —were already prepared to start, when, to their surprise, Alfred could not be found.

Alfred was at that moment in the cell of Dunstan, with whom he had obtained, not without great trouble, another brief interview.

“God bless you, my son,” said Dunstan, “and render unto you according to all you have done for His glory this day, and restore you your brother safe in body and soul!”

But it was not merely for a blessing that Alfred had sought the abbot.

“Father,” he said, “if I have happily been of service to you, I ask but one favour in return; one brother has sought your life, let the other remain with you as a bodyguard.”

“But your father?”

“I am satisfied that I am but speaking as he would have me speak.”

“But you will become an exile.”

“Gladly, if I can but serve you, father.”

“But, my child, I have no means of support for you abroad; as monks we shall find hospitality in every Benedictine house, but you are only a layman.”

“Then, father, I but ask you to allow me to accompany you to the coast.”

“I grant it, my son, for I believe God inspires the wish. Be it as you desire, but one of your serfs must accompany you; it would not be safe to travel home alone.”

So Father Cuthbert and the Benedictines started back to Æscendune without Alfred, bearing Dunstan’s explanation of the matter to the half-bereaved father whose faith, they feared, would be sorely tried, and leaving Oswy to be his companion.

It was now drawing near nightfall, and the abbey was almost deserted; all the pilgrims had left with the monks, although many of them would willingly have put their trust in the arm of flesh and remained to fight for Dunstan against his temporal foes, even as he—so they piously believed—routed their spiritual enemies. In that vast abbey there were now but six persons—Dunstan, Guthlac, Alfred, the lay brother Osgood, Oswy, and a guide who knew all the bypaths of the country.

Desolate and solitary indeed seemed the huge pile of untenanted buildings as the evening breeze swept through them. The last straggler had gone; Dunstan was still in his cell arranging or destroying certain papers, the guide and lay brothers held six strong and serviceable horses in the courtyard below, near the open gate, impatient to start, and blaming secretly the dilatoriness of their great chieftain. They watched the sun as he sank lower and lower in the western sky, and thought of the woods and forests they must traverse, frequented by wolves, and sometimes by outlaws whom they dreaded far more. Still Dunstan did not appear.

Alfred and Guthlac, on a watchtower above, gazed on the plain stretched before them. Mile after mile it extended towards that forest where the enemy was now known to lurk, and they watched each road, nay, each copse and field, with jealous eye, lest it should conceal an enemy. Ofttimes the shadow of some passing cloud, as it swept over moor or mere, was taken for an armed host; ofttimes the wind, as it sighed amongst the trees and blew the dried leaves hither and thither, seemed to carry the warning “An enemy is near.”

At length danger seemed to show itself plainly: just as the sun set, a dark shadow moved from a distant angle of the forest on the plain beneath, and the words “The enemy!” escaped simultaneously from Alfred and Guthlac as the setting sun seemed reflected upon spear and sword, flashing in a hundred points as they caught the reflection of the departing luminary.

Alfred, at the prior’s desire, hurried to the chamber of Dunstan.

“Father,” he said, “the enemy are near. They have left the forest.”

“That is four miles in distance: there will be time for me to finish this letter to my brother of Abingdon.”

“But, father, their horses may be fleeter than ours.”

“We are under God’s protection: I am sure we shall not be overtaken: be at peace, my son.”

Poor Alfred felt as if his faith were very sorely tried indeed, but he strove to acquiesce.

It was now quite dark, and the ears of the would-be fugitives were strained to catch the sounds which should warn them of approaching danger.

At length they fancied they heard sounds arise from the plain before them: suppressed noises, such as must unavoidably be made by a force on its passage; and Alfred again sought the cell of Dunstan, yet dared not enter, urgent though the emergency seemed.

At this moment he was startled by a demoniacal burst of laughter, which seemed to fill the corridor in which he waited with exultant joy.

What could it be? he felt as if he had never heard such laughter before—so terrible, yet so boisterous.

A moment of dread silence, and then it began again, and filled each corridor and chamber.

At that moment Dunstan came forth, and saw the pale face of Alfred.

“It is only the devil,” he said “we are not ignorant of his devices.

“O Satan! thou that wert once an angel in heaven, art thou reduced to bray like a jackass?” xxii

Again the exultant peal resounded.

“Be at peace,” said the abbot; “thou rejoicest at my departure; I shall soon return to defy thee and thy allies.”

And the laughter ceased.

“We must lose no time,” he said; “the moment is at hand.”

Locking each door behind him, he reached the party in the courtyard, and each person mounted in a moment; then they passed under the great archway. Oswy had remained behind one moment to lock the great gates, and then they all rode forth boldly into the darkness.

They passed rapidly in a direction at right angles to that in which their pursuers were approaching, and at the distance of a mile they halted for one moment to ascertain the cause of a great uproar which suddenly arose.

It was not difficult to divine its cause: it was the beating of axes and hammers on the great outer door of the monastery.

“It will occupy them nearly an hour,” said Dunstan, “and we shall be far far away before they have succeeded in effecting an entrance.”

So they rode on rapidly into the night. Before them lay the Foss Way, the road was good and well known to them, the moon was shining brightly, and their spirits rose with the excitement and the exertion. Onward! Onward!