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Read books online » Fiction » Alfgar the Dane or the Second Chronicle of Aescendune<br />A Tale of the Days of Edmund Ironside by A. D. Crake (classic books for 13 year olds .txt) 📖

Book online «Alfgar the Dane or the Second Chronicle of Aescendune&lt;br /&gt;A Tale of the Days of Edmund Ironside by A. D. Crake (classic books for 13 year olds .txt) 📖». Author A. D. Crake



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us to heaven, which is yet more like home when we think of the loved and the lost who await us there.

We sing a midnight mass in an hour in the little church, another tomorrow at dawn, a third in the full daylight. All the good people here will communicate, and the evening will be given up to such merrymaking as is befitting amongst Christians. All the ceorls and serfs will be at the Hall, and the prince will share the entertainment. Herstan and Bertha have been very busy preparing for it, as also their children, Hermann, Ostryth, and Aelfleda.

But I must go and assist in decking the church for the midnight festivity.

CHAPTER XVI. THE FEAST OF CHRISTMAS.

Alfgar had completely lost the reckoning of times and days since his imprisonment, but he felt that weeks must have passed away, and that the critical period foretold by Edmund must be near, so he listened anxiously for any intelligence from the world without.

At last the weather became very cold, and being without a fire, his sufferings were great, until his ferocious gaoler, finding him quite stiffened, brought up a brazier of coals, which saved his prisoner's life, while it filled the room with smoke, which could only escape by the crevices in walls and roof, for to open a window would have been as bad as to dispense with the fire, such was the state of the outer air.

It was what we call an old-fashioned Christmas, in all its glory and severity--a thing easy enough to bear, nay to enjoy, when men have warm fires and plenty of food, but hard enough to endure where these are absent.

At last Alfgar could but conclude it was Christmastide, for Higbald was joined by two comrades, and they sang and rioted below in a way which showed that they had got plenty of intoxicating drink, and were making free with it.

In the evening of the day Higbald brought him up his supper, staggering as he did so, and with it he brought in a bowl of hot mead.

"Drink," he said, "and drown care. It is Yuletide, and drink thou must and shalt."

Alfgar drank moderately, for sooth to say it was invigorating and welcome that cold day, but Higbald finished the bowl then and there, and then staggering down, drew the outer bolt in such a way that it missed the staple, which fact he was too drunk to perceive.

Alfgar watched the action with eager eyes. It was the first time there had been even a chance of escape.

Meanwhile the evening sped by; and the noisy crew below quarrelled and sang, drank and shouted, while the bright moonlight --brighter as it was reflected from the snow of that December night--stole over the scene.

Not till then did Alfgar pass silently through the open door, and listen at the head of the staircase. Before him was the outer door, the key in the lock. The question was--Could he reach it unobserved by men or mastiff?

Liberty was worth the attempt. He descended the stairs softly. At the bottom he looked around. The door was fastened which led into the large hall where the gaolers were drinking. He advanced to the outer portal, when he heard the growl of the dog from behind the inner door.

The moment was critical. Evidently his masters did not comprehend the action of the too faithful brute, for they cursed and swore at it. Even then it growled, and the drunken fools-- drunken they must have been indeed--threw some heavy missile at it, which caused it to yelp and cease its growling.

Just then something flashed in the ray of moonlight which stole in through an aperture over the door.

It was a sharp double-edged sword.

He grasped it with eagerness. It was now a case of liberty or death. He knew how to wield it full well.

Stealthily he turned the key and the door stood open. Still his captors sang, and he caught the words:

"When we cannot get blood we can drink the red wine, The Sea King sang in his might; For it maddens the brain, it gives strength to the arm, And kindles the soul in the fight."

Now he was on the outer side of the door, and he shut it, and then locked it and tossed the key into the snow.

But which way was he to go? He could not make out the locality, but it was evident that the hill rose above him, and he knew that from its summit he could discern the bearings of places, so he resolved to ascend.

It was now about nine at night, an hour when our ancestors generally retired to rest. All Alfgar's desire and hope--O how joyful a hope!--was to see from the hill the bearings of Clifton, and to descend, with all the speed in his power, towards it. He might arrive before they had retired to rest. So he ran eagerly forward. The moon was bright, and the snow reflected so much light that locomotion was easy.

And now he became conscious that there was a strange gleam along the snow on his left hand--a strange red gleam, which grew stronger and stronger as he advanced. It seemed above and below-- to redden the skies, the frozen treetops with their glittering snow wreaths, and the smooth surface beneath alike.

Redder and redder as he ascended, until he suddenly emerged upon the open hill. Before him were earthworks, which had been thrown up in olden wars, before Englishman or Dane had trodden these coasts. He scrambled into a deep hollow filled with snow, then out again, and up to the summit, when he saw the cause of the illumination.

Before him the whole country to the southeast seemed in flames. Village after village gave forth its baleful light; and even while he gazed the fiery flood burst forth in spots hitherto dark. He stood as one transfixed, until the wind brought with it a strange and fearful cry, as if the exultation of fiends were mingled with the despairing cry of perishing human beings.

He knew whence it came by the red light slowly stealing beyond the next hill, and the fiery tongues of flame which rose heavenward, although the houses were hidden by the ground.

It was from Wallingford, a town three miles below Dorchester. He knew, too, where he was himself; and the one impulse which rushed upon him was to hasten to Clifton, where he trusted he might find Edmund, or, at least, hear of him in this dread emergency. He saw the village lying beneath in the distance, and turned to rush downward, entering the wood in a different direction.

But what sound is that which makes him start and pause?

It is the bay of the mastiff. He is pursued. He clasps his sword with desperate tenacity, in which a foe might read his doom, and rushes on, crushing through the brushwood.

Again the bay of the hound.

Onward, onward, he tramples through bush and bramble, until he sees his progress suddenly arrested by the dark-flowing river.

He coasts along its banks, keeping up stream. The bay of the dog seems close at hand, and the trampling of human feet accompanies it.

All at once he comes upon a road descending to the brink, and sees a ferry boat at the foot of the descent. He rushes towards it and enters. The pole is in the boat. He unlooses the chain, but with difficulty, and precious moments are lost. He hears the panting of the ferocious beast just as he pushes the boat, with vigorous thrust, out into the stream.

The dog, followed closely by the men, is on the bank. The men curse and swear, but the dog plunges into the chilly stream, which, being swollen, has too rapid a current to freeze. Alfgar sees the brute swimming after the boat; he ceases to use the pole, but takes his sword, kneels on the stern of the boat, and waits for the mastiff. It gains the boat, and tries to mount, when the keen steel is driven between the forepaws to its very heart. One loud howl, and it floats down the stream, dyeing the waters with its life-blood.

"Cursed Dane!" shouts Higbald. "thou shalt pay with thy own life blood."

"When you catch me; and even then you must fight for it. Meanwhile, if you be an Englishman, warn the good people of Dorchester that the Danes are upon them. Your Edric has betrayed them."

Reaching the other shore, Alfgar finds smooth meadows all covered with snow. He knows his way now. A little higher up he strikes the main road which leads to Clifton, and rushes on past field and grove, past hedgerow and forest. Behind him the heavens are growing angry with lurid light, before him the earth lies in stillness and silence; the moonbeams slumbering on placid river, glittering on frozen pool, or silvering happy homesteads--happy hitherto. He sees the lights in the hall of Herstan yet burning, and casting their reflection abroad. He is at the foot of the ascent leading up to it. One minute more and--

. . . . . .

Christmas day was almost over when the population of Herstan's village of Clifton obeyed the summons with alacrity to spend the evening in the hall in feasting and merriment. They had all duly performed the religious duties of the day, and had been greatly edified by the homily of Father Cuthbert at mass; and now innocent mirth was to close the hallowed day--mirth which they well believed was not alien to the birthday of Him who once sanctified the marriage festivities at Cana by His first miracle.

So thither flocked the young and the old: the wood rangers and hunters from the forests of Newenham, where Herstan had right of wood cutting; the men who wove baskets and hurdles of osier work from the river banks; the theows who cultivated the home farm; the ceorls who rented a hide of land here and a hide there--all, the grandfather and the grandson, accepted the invitation to feast. The rich and the poor met together, for God was the Maker of them all.

The huge Yule log burnt upon the hearth as it had done since it was lighted the night before; a profusion of torches turned night into day; the tables groaned with the weight of the good cheer; in short, all was there which could express joy and thanksgiving.

The supper was over; the wild boar roasted whole, the huge joints of mutton and beef, the made dishes, the various preparations of milk, had disappeared, the cheerful cup was handed round; after which the tables were removed, the gleemen sang their Christmas carols, and all went merry as a "marriage bell."

Father Cuthbert, seated in a corner near the Yule log, with his brother-in-law and the Etheling, forgot all his apprehensions, and shared in the universal joy around him; if his thoughts were sometimes with those who had once made Christmas bright to him-- if he thought of the bright-haired Bertric, who had been the soul of last Yuletide festivity at Aescendune, or of the desolated home there, he dismissed the subject from his mind at once, and suffered no hint to drop which could dim the mirth of his fellow guests.

Meanwhile, one of those whom he strove in vain to forget for the time drew nearer and nearer; a haggard figure, wan and worn by painful imprisonment, the garments dishevelled, the hair matted, the whole figure wild with excitement, he drew near the outer gate.

He heard the song of joy and peace within as he paused one moment before blowing the horn which hung at the outer gate.

Peace! Peace! The whole wide world rejoiceth now, Let war and discord cease; Christ reigneth from the manger, Away with strife and danger; Our God, before whom angels bow, Each taught this lesson by his birth, Good will to men, and peace on earth. Peace! Peace! Hark, through the silent air Angelic songs declare God comes on earth to dwell O hear the heavenly chorus swell, Good will to men, And on earth, peace.

He could bear it no longer, the contrast was too painful, he must break the sweet charm, the hallowed song, for the sky was reddening yet more luridly behind him, and each moment he expected to see Dorchester burst forth into flames. O what a Christmas night!

He blew the horn, and had to blow it again and again before he was heard.

At length a solitary serf came to the gate:

"Who is there?"

"A messenger for the Etheling; is Prince Edmund with you? I would see him."

"All are welcome tonight, but I fear you will find the Etheling ill-disposed to leave the feast."

"Let me in."

Astonished at the tone of the request, the porter reluctantly complied, first looking around.

"Why, thou art wild and breathless; is aught amiss?"

"Step out and look over the hills; what dost thou see?"

"Why, the heaven is in fire; is it the northern lights?"

"Southern, you mean; the Danes are upon us."

Staggered by the tidings, the man no

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