Star of Mercia Part 12

Good folk, ye say that ye would hear yet further of Earl Sweyn and of the Lady Algive, who are now no more, and of how they came to their ends. Men say that King Edward would once more have pardoned this lord, Edith the Lady besought him so. But when Sweyn had put the body of Earl Beorn on sh.o.r.e at Dartmouth, of his eight ships, six then left him, for his men, both Danes and English, now beheld him stained with the blood of a kinsman. And as he sailed towards the east, in the warship of Beorn, with one of his own ships faithfully following, the men of Hastings set forth from their haven, and hunted these craft until they overtook and seized them. But Sweyn G.o.dwinson they took not, nor Lady Algive that was with him; and they twain hied them into Flanders, and there abode all that winter. Thereafter Lord Sweyn went once more a-sea-roving, seeking forgetfulness, as I have heard.

In the year One Thousand Fifty and One, when the townsfolk of Dover, greatly wroth, did wreak the wrongs done to them by Eustace the French Earl upon the said Earl and his men, G.o.dwin withstood the King upon the men of Dover's behalf, and was banished by King Edward beyond seas, he and all his house. Then went they also unto Baldwin's land, and Sweyn met them there, and abode with them, for he had long yearned for sight of his kindred.

When G.o.dwin was called back into England, they were for bringing Sweyn with them, to be inlawed, and received back into the King's trust, But Sweyn's pride was broken. He would come no more to the land of his birth, who had so fouled the fair fame of G.o.dwin's house. Harold should stand in his stead: he would fare afar, pilgrim to the Holy Grave and Calvary Hill, that haply he might find the forgiveness of heaven. When the children of G.o.dwin returned, they had in their keeping Algive my dear lady. All this while had she been in the city of Bruges, in the ward of Baldwin's daughter, Mahault, that is now Queen of the English, wife to King William. They sent for me to her, and put us to dwell together in the house of my kinsman at Pevensey, where we had woned aforetime.

Now in two years from that time began my Lady Algive to wane and to wither, as a green bush when the sap no more rises. She spake little, and prayed long hours together. At last came the day, when she went abroad no more, and often kept her bed. Then one morning early, she called me to her side and thus quoth she:

"O Winifred, this month agone dreamed I a dream, one that is sooth and no vanity. I dreamed that Sweyn, my lord and my love, stood before me, the rime in his hair, his feet bruised and bleeding, and beckoned me.

So I know--ask me not how--that he is no longer on life, and that G.o.d in his goodness sendeth death to me also. But lo! another marvel. Each morn, as I awaken, I hear the ring of footsteps that come from a far frozen land. Each morn, I say, are these footsteps louder and nigher; but Sweyn comes not at all any more."

This was at the winter-tide. Early in the next summer, my good friend, she who had been of the household of Gytha, sent to let me wit that an holy priest and pilgrim was lately come from the East, bearing tidings which my lady should hear. To our house-door came he, and I led him within to my lady, where she lay. And this was his tale, told in few words:

"Good wives, as I journeyed hither from the Holy City, I traversed the land of Lycia, where they have a winter more bitter than any winter we English know. And one evening came one to our fellowship, saying that yonder, beneath the roof of an holy hermit, lay a man of the north, they thought of the Island of the Angles, sick unto death. I followed this Lycian, seeking my countryman, and found him, a mighty man aforetime, I ween, but now so wasted with his wanderings that he seemed to have no flesh, but only skin and bone. And when I would shrive and housel him, thus he spake: 'Priest, know that I am Sweyn the Nithing, first-born son of Earl G.o.dwin, and whilom Earl in fair England, from Hereford even unto Oxenford! Woe for the sins of unbridled youth! I have profaned the Holy Church of Christ, and have wrought murder, even upon my kinsman, when the red wrath boiled in my blood--aye, and the guilt of mine own father's death is also upon me, most wretched! Since these things done have I known no peace until this hour, wherein I leave my life.'

"Soon after died he of the cold."

Now about an hour after this pilgrim had given over speaking, Algive Aldred's daughter went forth from the bitterness of the world to the unbounded mercy of G.o.d.

As for Haco Sweynson, he fell fighting by King Harold upon Senlac field.

And I, Winifred, daughter of Ebba, yet live on, and pray in each hour to Our Lord Christ and to Mary mild, His Mother, that the souls of these twain, Sweyn and Algive, may be cleansed of every foul stain. For though their sins were many and great, yet scorned they none, nor lied, nor ever betrayed any but themselves, neither ground down the needy when that might was theirs; and verily and indeed they loved much; and I, who have sinned my share, G.o.d wot! do faithfully hope to meet them both again ere long in the fair, shining meads of Paradise.

Edith's Well

"_Sicut spina rosam genuit G.o.duinus Edivam._"

So, Gundred my son's daughter, thou hast been to London town; and thou hast seen this new Queen Edith, whom men in the French tongue call Maulde; and she is the fairest lady who ever in all the world sat beside king in high-seat; the most gracious, the meekest, the freest-handed, the most ruthful! Edith, quoth the child? Long ago there was an Edith.... Well, daughter, a queen once spoke to thy grandfather, and he to her; and a mighty wonder marked their meeting, which will be remembered while time shall last. Young folk love tales, and the old are fain to the telling of tales. Sit down by my feet, and hear how once upon a day Edith came to her Well yonder by the highway.

I have witnessed frost and snow, storm and lightning, pest and famine, in my nigh-on-eighty years; I have known drought and burning also, but never such drought as befell us in the year One Thousand Sixty and Five. This was a great year in its beginnings: a marvellous year for the apple-bloom; we had carried two crops of hay before July was out; the wheat-ears were so heavy that they leant together as they grew, like unto folk in a crowd that swoon, and even the barley would scarcely bestir itself at the coming of a welcome wind. Oh, the heat of that summer! We had three showers in all between April and the end of August, and they but soft and slender. The earth cracked in places into gaps full many a foot wide; the gra.s.s was no more green, but the colour of the baked earth in which it had root: small weeds died, and the moss withered on stock and stone; half a day was the life of a brier-rose.

Rabbits, hares, and some birds starved all about us; the field-mice were a scourge to us at the first, but later even they and the hedgehogs gave up the breath of life. The brooks dwindled and ceased to flow but in a trickle: many an age-old spring sent forth water no more.

The morning dews were heavy, but soon gone; and the earth could drink them in no farther than a hen may scratch. Though we dug dew-ponds, the little moisture they gathered was not worth our toil. We cut the corn in haste, for the wild fowl rifled it day and night. Many an one that laboured did the sun strike dizzy. One man and one boy were slain by the heat-stroke, and some tottered from the fields to work no more that year. With those that remained, it was mug to mouth ten times in the hour! My cider was gone within the first three days; and then my goodly beer must follow! And in the second week in August they sent from Ledbury to tell me that Edith the Lady, King Edward's wife, would pa.s.s near by my dwelling as she went to visit her brother, Harold G.o.dwinson the Earl, at Hereford, and begged that I in charity would give her refreshment upon her wayfaring.

As the Lady willed, so must I do, for our King's sake, and for the sake of other some. In my boyhood I had been one year a henchman of G.o.dwin her father's; Gytha her mother had nursed me in some slight sickness; I had ridden out with Sweyn to fight with Griffith the Welsh king. I had not seen this Edith since she was a young maiden in her father's hall: men had told of her as both merry and learned; but I had never been near her, to speak one word. It was said that she led a gleeless life with her pious old lord. She would not pa.s.s right before my door, I deemed, on her way to the Hereford: I would take food and drink, and meet her upon the road that runs through Ledbury to Gloucester, and ride with her some deal of her journey, if she should wish for my company. So I set out about the ninth hour of the morning, with four of my men: my good wife, thy grandmother, I bade abide within doors, for fear of the deadly heat. We bore with us a pie and wheaten bread--no b.u.t.ter, for it would have melted. Little beer and no cider had I by then; but we took two skins of ripe mead, fit for queen or king.

The sun was shining so strongly that we could almost hear the shooting of his beams. The air was seen to throb. White dust lay thickly over gra.s.s, bush and tree. There was a dreadful stillness; the only sound that ourselves made not was the sickening hum of flies. We went slowly, with bracken-leaves bound about our heads and twined within our horses'

browbands. When we had gone some two miles, there befell a great mishap. The stopper flew from the mead-flask at the saddle-bow of Anflete the reeve, and the mead gushed out. We had not time to catch any of it ere it lay frothing in the dust. And then, as though the devil strove to plague us, the other bottle, which mine own horse carried, burst also, and left us likewise liquorless.

But we bore on, until we came to a spot a few yards off the Ledbury highway, where the banks were steep and the bushes shady: indeed, all about was the woodland of the vill of Stoke, belonging to this same Edith the Lady, who had set a reeve therein to see to her rights and her profits. Seemingly she would not stay to look upon her own land, so fain was she for sight of Harold her brother. Near the joining of the ways, then, we waited. Our throats were as dry as a smith's bellows. My men had swallowed what little beer we had left before I could forbid them. At once I made the blockheads seek for water, thinking of the wants of those we had come to meet. Not one drop within a hundred yards in every quarter, though G.o.d knows there are springs and streams enough thereabouts in any common year! We stretched ourselves in what there was of shade, and soon we beheld them coming, a goodly company of ladies and armed men.

We went forward to greet them; the foremost of them got down from their saddles; the Lady of the English came stately towards me, smiled, and put her small hand in mine.

"Odda, right glad am I to meet with thee," she said. "Dost thou mind thee how at Winchester I let my head-rail fall from a window into the buckthorn-tree, and how thou didst climb in and get it again, and didst send it me by my mother's woman?"

I remembered. Being but a henchman of the stable, I could not myself go with it.

How gracious her smile! How mild her condescension! Great wonder was it throughout the land, I knew, that she should be so lowly-sweet. The Lady Edith was little like to Earl G.o.dwin her father, the rugged, grim old man! Although at this time about forty-four years old, as I think, she was an exceedingly fair woman still. Her skin was white as walrus-bone, and very little wrinkled; her hair long, thick, and red-golden as ever it had been, for though she was now hooded and staidly wimpled, I saw it uncovered later on that morning, and I could find therein no grizzled strand. Her clothing? She was cloaked and hooded, meseemeth, in fallow hue--and a little cross, finely-wrought in silver, hung at her throat; but how can a man speak of women's garments? I know that her mouth was soft and kindly, and quivered a little sometimes when she was not speaking; and there were now black shadows beneath her big grey eyes--maybe from the hardship of her journeying.

"My lady," I answered, "I beg that ye will rest awhile, and eat of the food that I have here. Alack! I have no drink to set before you! We brought mead, but in the heat an hour agone it burst our bottles; and there is no water near at hand--we have but lately sought it."

The lady raised her hands to her brows in most weary wise.

"Good Odda," she said, notwithstanding, "I thank thee much for thy kindness in thus coming, and for all the pains that thou hast taken.

And since thy mead was lost on my behalf, I thank thee for it also. Let us sit here awhile and eat, as thou sayest; we are sore anhungered, that is sure. And later we will go find my reeve at Stoke over yonder.

He will doubtless have one drop of somewhat for us each to drink. We also emptied our flasks an hour ago, silly souls that we were!"

She had with her her ma.s.s-priest, her women, her men-at-arms, her thralls. We sat down upon the ground, and broke the pasty into portions, and dealt out my fine wheaten bread.

As she talked with me of the old days in her own home, suddenly we heard a noise in the woodland upon our right--a child's voice wailing--the voices of two children. Far away at first, then somewhat nearer. Two wandering children, crying fit to burst their bosoms. Great breathless, thirsty sobs, swelling every now and then to a despairing roar.

The lady had sprung to her feet, and had broken through the nearest bushes into the thicket beyond.

"Hither! hither!" she cried. "Come! Come! But where are ye? Weep no more--here is help!"

We all followed her. She walked onward, calling; they shouted still, and drew nearer and yet more near: at last they came forth, the little mites, upon a bare plot whereon we had halted. Boy and girl they were; five and seven years old they seemed: hand clasped in hand, cheeks grimy with dust which their tears had furrowed, faces flushed and seared by the mighty heat.

She ran to meet them, with outstretched arms. They ran to her, and caught at her skirts. The girl, the younger, cried, "We were lost!" and the boy said hoa.r.s.ely, "Mother!... O mother, the world looks black....

Oh, my head, I cannot see!" and he had fallen flat at her feet before she could stay him.

The girl said, "Lady, my head--great smart have I also!" and her breath came thick and loud.

The Lady Edith gathered sorrel-leaves, and bound them about the heads of the bairns.

"It is not enough," said she then. "They must have water."

"There is no water here," Anflete my servant answered. "We sought it high and low before my lady's coming."

She wrung her hands in sharp woe.

"O Christ, have mercy!" she said. "O Mary, that art our mother, hasten--help!"

Then her pa.s.sion seemed to leave her, and she knelt, and began to speak in still, low tones; but I heard her words.

"Father of all goodness," she prayed, "save these twain alive, who are more to Thee than the wild sparrows! Strengthen then, Lord, I beseech thee, the gift that Thou hast bestowed upon Thine handmaid!"

Having so said, she arose, and quickly bade her folk bear the children with them, and shade the little ones' heads. It was high noon now, but she flung her hood back, and her wimple fell away and hung down with the hood, so that her bright hair was laid bare, and her shapely neck and breast of ivory. Many a woman would have seemed light-minded, even wanton, so; but our Edith was queen in everything she did. Although the soil was burning, and scorched the feet through riding-boots, she began to walk swiftly, glidingly, around and about. She held her riding-switch, a toy with handle of gold and amber, bent bow-wise between her two hands. Her lips were parted, as those of one who breathes-in freshest air.

And we followed, a great awe upon us. We were once more in the lane where we had rested, when a gleam awoke in her eyes, which had become dark and shut off from earthly sight, and she sped ahead of us even faster than at first. She came to where the bank overhung, and was covered with sagging ferns, shrivelled and caked with dust. A shiver shot through her whole body, and the switch that she carried started and writhed as it had been a live snake.

"G.o.d be praised!" she exclaimed. "Here is water for them!" She stamped her foot. "Dig! dig! Bring spades--Oh, dig! Quick! Would ye see them die before your eyes?"

"Sebbe the charcoal-burner!" said Anflete. "I will fetch his spade."

Edith had s.n.a.t.c.hed his war-axe from one of her men-at-arms and was hewing at the bank whereunder she stood; I hacked away with my broad knife; some of the others scratched with their hands. In a little while Anflete was back from the charcoal-burner's with spade and pick, and we got more skilfully to work. A homely croon was heard in the heart of the earth. A spot of moisture darkened the bottom of the hollow that we had made. One spadeful more, and up it bubbled--a little spring, but a strong one. There were stones still within the hollow, and we put back more to keep up the shifting sides; and into the bowl so made the water flowed, thick and clotted, truly, with the dust and flakes of sandstone, but how sweet to touch and taste! Oh, the happy noise of water in a thirsty land!