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) 📖

had retreated into Wiltshire. There, a few days later, a second battle was fought at Sceorstan {xvi}, wherein much bravery was shown on both sides. On Monday the two armies fought all day without any advantage on either side. On the Tuesday the English were rapidly getting the better, when the traitor Edric, severing the head of a fallen Englishman named Osmaer, held it up, shouting:

"Flee, English! flee, English! Edmund is dead."

They began to yield; and it was as much as Edmund himself could do, by lifting his helmet, exposing his features, and shouting, "I live to lead you to victory!" to restore the battle.

Canute retired upon London, followed closely by Edmund. Upon the road messengers came from Edric imploring the forgiveness of his injured brother-in-law, and offering to join him with all his forces. There was long consultation over this in the English camp; but in spite of Edmund's own feelings it was decided to receive Edric, since Canute's fate would seem to be quite decided if England were united by the union of those southern English who had fought under Canute with Edric, and the men of Mercia and Wessex who had won the previous victories.

So the two armies met together. The men of Hampshire, who had followed the Dane, were welcomed as returning to their true allegiance by their countrymen; and Edmund did violence to his feelings by receiving Edric to his council board, if not to his friendship.

It was a joyous day when Edmund approached London, and thus fulfilled the promise of his coronation. Canute, who had made another attempt on the city, fled before him, but hovered around until two days later. Edmund engaged him the third time at Brentford, and defeated him again. Then Edmund retired into Wessex to raise more troops, and during his absence the Danes took the offensive again, once more besieging London in vain, while they harried all the neighbouring districts until Edmund returned with a large army, drove them into Kent, and gave them such a fearful defeat at Otford that they fled in despair to the Isle of Sheppey, and all men said Edmund would have destroyed them utterly, had not Edric persuaded him to stop the pursuit at Aylesford.

The Danes soon emerged again, and, crossing the Thames, commenced plundering Essex, when Edmund and Edric, with all the flower of the Anglo-Saxon race, advanced to meet them once more. Nearly all the men of note in England followed Edmund's banner, for, now that his abilities were proved, there was a general enthusiasm in his favour. So all the rank and title of the realm stood by him when he drew up his army hard by the little river Crouch, near Assingdun, in Essex, then called Assandun.

There, by his side, when the tents were pitched the evening before the battle, stood many a brave ealdorman,--Godwin of Lindsey; Ulfketyl, the hero of the East Angles; Ethelweard, the son of the pious Ethelwine, whom men called the "Friend of God." And present at that last banquet were Ednoth, the bishop of Dorchester, and other ecclesiastics, who had come to pray for the host and to succour the dying with ghostly aid. Well nigh all the great men of England were here. But Edric supped in their midst. Their spirits were high that night, and while Edmund drank to their success on the morrow, each man responded with a fervour which augured confidence in that morrow's issue--all save the wicked Edric, whose heart seemed far from his words.

The events of that fatal morrow are matter of history. The armies joined battle. Victory seemed to favour Edmund. The Danes were already giving way, when Edric turned and fled, with his whole division, whom he had corrupted. After that all was disorder amongst the English; but they continued fighting bravely until the moon arose, and they were becoming surrounded on all sides, when, in sheer desperation, they at last gave way.

Edmund would not yield until Alfgar seized the bridle of his horse, and almost by violence caused him to turn his steed, bidding him live for England, for he was its hope. It was growing dark rapidly, and the darkness alone saved Edmund and the relics of the English army.

With a faithful few, including both Alfgar and Hermann, nearly all of the party wounded, the English king rode sadly from the scene, groaning bitterly in spirit.

"Why did I trust him again? Why did I trust him?" he kept muttering to himself.

"You did not trust him. The council overruled you. I was present," said Alfgar.

"But I might have resisted."

And he persisted in his unavailing regret.

It was a sad sight to see the field of battle strewn for miles with the dead and dying, while gangs of plunderers swarmed in all directions. One sharp encounter with such a party served to warm Edmund's blood, after which he was a little more cheerful.

But the saddest scene in the flight lay on a gentle eminence, commanding a view of the field, whose deformities night mercifully shrouded from view, although the murmurs of the wounded reached them even there in one long subdued wailing moan.

There, on that little hill, lay bishops and abbots in their sacerdotal apparel. Where they had met to pray, there they lay in death! With a deep sigh Edmund recognised Ednoth, bishop of Dorchester, lying stark and stiff in his bloody robes. A troop of Danish horsemen had surrounded the hill and massacred them all. The assassins had even hewn Ednoth's finger off for the episcopal ring.

Yet, even at this awful crisis, Edmund's lion heart did not wholly fail him, as he left the field where lay all the flower of the Anglo-Saxon race: the brave and faithful Ulfketyl, Earl Ethelweard, Earl Godwin, Elfric the ealdorman, and well nigh all the great men of England, all sleeping in death. He rode to the south till he reached the vale of the Thames, which he pursued until he reached the neighbourhood of Gloucester--Alfgar and Hermann still by his side. And now it was seen how his merits were recognised, and how he had already gained the love of his people, for, from the territory of the Hwiccas, and all the extreme west of Mercia, men flocked to his standard until he was at the head of an army almost as numerous as that he had lost at Assingdun, only less perfectly disciplined and officered.

But Canute followed hard upon his heels, hoping to crush him while yet weak in numbers, until he discovered, to his great mortification, his rival's camp on the banks of the Severn, and saw that the forces were again nearly equal.

Then even the Danish chieftains shuddered at the thought of another battle. Five great battles had been fought, in three of which they had been defeated. There was no Edric now with Edmund to play into their hands, and they hesitated to engage a sixth time.

At this moment an embassy was seen approaching from Edmund's army. Alfgar bore Edmund's personal defiance to Canute, offering to spare the effusion of blood, and settle their differences by single combat.

Canute's brave and impetuous temper caught the suggestion at once. Such appeals to the God of battles were common in the north, and he accepted the challenge.

There is an island in the Severn, then called Oleneige, now called Olney Island. The following day both armies gathered together on opposite banks, and the two kings, clad in splendid armour, were wafted thither. Alfgar, having landed his lord, retired with beating heart to the English bank. Edmund and Canute were alone on the island.

The battle began; no words can describe the dread emotion with which the two nations watched the event.

They continued a long time without any apparent advantage; at length, King Edmund's fury adding strength to him, his blows were so thick and weighty, that Canute, perceiving his own strength to diminish, conceived a resolution to attempt ending the quarrel by a treaty.

But being crafty, and fearing lest his disadvantage should be apparent to Edmund, he collected all his energies and rushed furiously upon him, then withdrew himself aside, and desired Edmund to suspend the conflict for a while.

"Generous prince," said he, "hitherto I have had a covetous desire of your kingdom, but now I do yet more earnestly covet your friendship; your father and my father have each reigned over the land, let us divide the inheritance like brothers."

Edmund's generous spirit led him to accept the offer, and he threw his battle-axe to the ground and extended his right hand, which Canute eagerly grasped {xvii}.

So the land was divided; Edmund was to be head king and to have Wessex, Sussex, Kent, East Anglia, and Essex, with the city of London; while Canute had Northumbria and Mercia.

Canute professed himself a Christian, and swore to govern his people according to the old English laws, and to preserve their temporal and spiritual privileges, a promise which, upon the whole, he well observed.

And so England entered upon a peace of fifty years, only broken by an event yet in the womb of time, the Norman Conquest.

"Come, Alfgar," said Edmund, one day soon after these events, "let us go to Aescendune and fix thy wedding day; Elfwyn need fear no longer that the sword will be the portion of his grandchildren."

Peace! sweet, sweet peace! oh how joyful it was to be once more in the deep woods of Aescendune, to hear the sweet song of the birds, and to fear no evil! Sweet, ineffably sweet were those days to Alfgar and Ethelgiva!

So the day was at length appointed; it was to be the feast of St. Andrew, and to take place at Oxenford, which had been assigned to Edmund's dominions; for he insisted that it should be celebrated with all the pomp the presence of a king could lend.

It was now the season of the falling leaf and there were only a few weeks longer to wait.

CHAPTER XXII. SMOOTHER THAN OIL.

It was the latter end of November, and St. Andrew's day drew near, when a small but select party of friends met together in an old mansion hard by St. Frideswide's Cathedral, at Oxenford, to enjoy the evening banquet.

First and foremost was the king of Southern England, the valiant Ironside, and his attendant and friend Alfgar; Elfwyn and Father Cuthbert from Aescendune, with the Lady Hilda and Ethelgiva; Herstan, his wife Bertha, and son Hermann, from Clifton, with his sisters; and Ethelm, the new bishop of Dorchester, the successor of the martyred Ednoth.

These, our old acquaintances, had all been gathered together in view of the approaching union of Alfgar with Ethelgiva, which was to be solemnised on St. Andrew's day, in the presence of the king. They were a happy party; all the woes of the past seemed forgotten in the happy present, or were only remembered in the spirit of the well-known line: