Chapter XIV: How Wulfric and Raud Searched Together

I sat in the warm sun under the wide spread of the farmhouse eaves, dreaming my dreams with the dog at my feet, for so soon as the May time came in I must needs get into the open air, and grow stronger daily.

So it came to pass that one day up the green farm lane came a stranger, at whom the dog barked not, as was his wont, but ran to meet as if he were some well-loved friend. And it was Raud, his old master, who came, lightly mail clad, and with a short hunting spear instead of staff in his hand, and whistling his "Biarkamal" as ever.

Now with Raud I had no quarrel concerning the death of the king, for well I knew that what he had done was truly in mercy, nor had he taken any part in what went before. So I greeted him heartily enough, for all that with the sight of him came back to me, with a sharp pang, the memory of how I saw him last. And he rejoiced to see me again.

"I have half feared that I should find you gone," he said; "for, when I heard of this from Hubba's men, I must needs come and find you, and little hope had I that you would live."

"I have nearly died, they say," I answered; "but I think that I owe it to you that I was not slain in Hoxne woods yonder."

"Why, not altogether," he answered, sitting on the settle by me, and looking me over, from arm yet in sling to lame leg. "Some of the men with Ingvar and me wanted to slay you before they left that place; but Ingvar growled so fiercely that they must let you be, that they said no more, nor even would look your way again. But he himself looked at you, and said strange things to himself."

"What said he?" I asked, wondering.

"He said, paying no heed to me, 'Now, Wulfric--you will hate me forever more, nor do I think that Lodbrok my father would be pleased with this;' after which he spoke words so low that I caught but one here and there, but they were somewhat of the lady Osritha, our mistress. After that he said to me, 'Leave him horse and arms and unbind him,' and then turned away. Yet if I had not bound you at first, maybe they would have had to slay you."

"That is true enough," I said; "surely I should have stood between you and the king. But what came to Ingvar to make him speak thus to me?"

"Why, after the hot fit comes the cold, ever, though Ingvar the King's cold rage is worse at times than his fury. But since that day there has been somewhat strange about the king."

"I wonder not," I said; nor did I. "But how goes it with him?"

"Men say, though they dare not do so openly, that the ghost of Eadmund will not let him rest, and that mostly does he fear him when his rage is greatest. Many a time when the fury seemed like to come on him, Ingvar turns white and stares suddenly beyond all things, as though seeing somewhat beyond other men's ken, and the sweat runs cold from his forehead. Many a man has escaped him through this."

"Surely Eadmund holds him back thus from more cruelty," I thought. And aloud I said:

"What think you of the matter?"

"Why, that I am glad that I was bold enough to save your dying king from more torture--else had I seen somewhat before me day and night. Truly I see him now betimes in my sleep, but he ever smiles on me. Moreover, this is true, that all those seven men who shot the arrows died in that week. Two died in Elmham Church when you were nigh slain."

"Tell me of that," I said.

For no man knew rightly what had befallen there, save that under the charred ruins of the roof lay Bishop Humbert and one or two of his men.

But when he told me, it was as I thought. Those few men had fought bravely until they were slain, themselves slaying three Danes. But one of the bishop's men escaped, cutting through a throng at the doorway and seizing a horse. Then was slain the bishop, who knelt at the altar, not even turning round to face the Danes as they came.

So I hold ever that as I lay for dead I had seen those brave ones pass me even as they were slain. But of this I said naught to Raud, at that time at least.

Now I asked Raud whence he had come, and he said:

"From London."

And at that I feared greatly, asking:

"Has Ingvar taken the city, therefore?"

"Not the king himself, but Guthrum went into London, taking good ransom for peace."

"Where is Ethelred the king of England?" I said, half to myself.

"Ethelred?--he minds naught but Wessex for good reason. For Halfden and Bagsac and the Sidracs are on one side of him, and Ingvar and Hubba the other, waiting for him to make peace. But there is like to be fighting. Alfred, the king's brother, has a brave heart and a hard hand."

"Then all is quiet in London?"

"Peaceful enough; and there Guthrum the King holds court, and I think men are well content with him."

"Of what is Guthrum king?" I asked, for I had not heard him called by that name before. The only other king of the host beside the three jarls was Bagsac.

"Why, of East Anglia. He holds it for Ingvar, while he tries to add Wessex for his own to Mercia. Halfden will be king in Northumbria, maybe, and Hubba over another of the kingdoms."

So they had already parted out the land among them beforehand! Woe for us therefore, for unless a leader was raised up among us, surely all England must own Danish overlords! But I had heard Alfred the Wessex Atheling well spoken of as a warrior.

However, what was that to us of East Anglia? We had been deserted by Wessex at our need as it seemed, and these Danes were as near kin to us as Wessex Saxons.

"How did you come to leave Ingvar's service?" I asked, not being willing to dwell on this matter.

"I think my face spoke to him too plainly of that which was in Hoxne wood--and so he bade me stay with Guthrum. Nor was I loth, for I would find you again."

Then I was touched a little by the kindness of this rough warrior, and thanked him. After that we sat silent for a while, and the good dame brought out food and ale for Raud, and I envied his pleasure therein, for I took little as yet.

Now for many days past a great longing to be away from this place had filled my mind, and now seemed to be the time.

"Take me to London, Raud," I said.

"Why, that is part of my errand here," he answered, smiling. "I have a message to you from Guthrum the King."

"What might that be?"

"He wants to speak to you as one who is known to be friend to Dane and Anglian alike, and being blamed by neither for friendship with the other. So he would have you give him counsel."

"Let me get to London," I said, "and then I will answer. I cannot now."

So Raud bided in the farm with me for a while, and now with new thoughts and with his talk of Halfden and Osritha, I mended quickly, for it was my troubled mind that had kept me back mostly, as I cared for nothing.

One day I felt strong again, waking up and taking delight in the smell of the fresh morning and in the sunlight. And I ate heartily of the brown bread and milk they gave me, and afterwards told Raud of what I had been long thinking.

"All things are quiet in the land now. Let us gather a few of my people and seek the head of our king, if you fear not to go into Hoxne woods."

Raud thought for a while before he answered me.

"I fear not, for the poor king thanked me, smiling at me. Let me go with you."

So that day the dame sent messages by her son to some who had come back to their places, and in the evening when he came home, there were with him two of Bishop Humbert's monks, dressed like churls, for they dared not wear their habits. These two and some others would gladly come with me on my search.

Next day, therefore, they set me on a pony that was quiet, and slowly we went towards Hoxne, coming thither in the afternoon early, seeing no Danes anywhere, while many of our folk were back and at work in the fields.

Then I asked Raud if these poor people were safe now.

"Surely, master," he said, for so he would call me, having heard the farm people name me thus. "There is none so great difference between you and us, and we Danes love to be at peace if we may. I think there will be no more trouble here. And, anyway, we are too wise to hinder a harvesting of that we may eat."

So too thought I, and my heart was less sad after that ride, though there was not one place left unburnt of all that we saw.

When we came to Hoxne I told the two monks where we had bestowed the king's body, bidding them look to see if it was not disturbed. And they said that his bones were safely there.

Now we must seek for the head of the king, and in that Rand could not help us, for one had ridden away with it while he was taken up with me and my plight.

So we went towards that place where the dog had taken us, and searched long, until I, being weak, must get from off the pony and rest. I would ride back to the place where the king had been slain and sit there awhile; but first, knowing that Vig remembered things well, I sent him from me, bidding him search also, hoping that he would not forget his last quest in this place. Yet what we most feared was that the forest beasts had made our search vain.

There were many men from the village with us now, for they had followed the two monks, and they spread about over the wood far and wide, searching, while I sat at the foot of the oak tree to which the king had been bound, leaning my arms and head against the trunk that had been stained with his blood, and thinking and praying, as well I might in that sacred place.

I moved my hand, and felt something sticking from the hard bark and looked to see what it was. It was an arrowhead, such a rough iron spike as men will use when they must make fresh arrows after battle, in all haste, and have to use what they can first find. The shaft was snapped close to the iron and the rawhide lashing that held it, and I could not take it out as I would, for the young oak was sturdy and tough; and so I left it, thinking that I would return some day to cut it out.

That I did in after years, but the arrowhead was hidden, for the tree had grown fast, closing on it, as I think, and I could not find its place. So it will be there for one to find hereafter, maybe long hence, for such a tree has many a hundred years to last yet, if saved from mishap of wind or lightning or axe. Then I think will men still know what that iron is, for Eadmund the King cannot be forgotten.

Presently it seemed to me that the voices I heard in the wood, as the searchers called to each other, drew closer together, crying:

"Where are you?"

"Here--here!"

And then was a sort of outcry, and a silence, and I hoped that maybe they had found what they sought. So I rose up and went slowly and limpingly to the place where they seemed to be.

I met them in a green glade. And foremost came the two monks, bearing between them a cloak, wherein was surely that we looked for, and after them came my dog and Raud, and then the rest. And when they saw me they cried softly to me:

"Master, we have found the head of our king."

So they laid open the cloak before me, and I knelt and looked. And there was indeed the head of Eadmund, seeming whole and fresh as when I had last seen him; and his looks were very peaceful, for on his face was still that smile with which he had greeted death at Raud's hands.

Then, seeing that, the rough Dane was fain to turn away and lean arms and face against a tree trunk, weeping as weeps a child that will not be comforted.

After a little I asked how they had found the head. And one of the villagers, speaking low and holding his cap in his hands as though in the church, answered me.

"When I came to a certain thicket, I heard a crying, as it were, and I turned aside and looked, and at first was sorely afraid, for yon great wolf held the head between his paws, whining over it as in grief. Then I called to the rest, and they came, running, and were afraid also till the good fathers came, to whom the wolf was gentle, suffering them to take that which he guarded. And lo! he follows us even now, as would a dog!"

So the man spoke, not having seen such a dog as mine before, for till more came with the host there were none like him in our land. I told him that it was but my own dog; yet for all that, I know that this tale of a wolf passed for the truth over all the land as it flew from mouth to mouth, so that soon I myself heard from one who knew me not very strange stories of that finding of ours.

Yet would that tale hardly be stranger than was the truth, that not one of the wild creatures, either beast or bird, had harmed our king's sacred head. And how it should be so preserved in that place I cannot tell, but I say what I saw. Yet his body was not so preserved in the place where we had hidden it.

These things are beyond me, nor can I tell all the thoughts that came into my mind as I looked into the face of the king whom I had loved, and who loved me.

Now would we take our treasure, as we must needs think it, to Hoxne, and the monks were about to lift it again. But Raud came forward very solemnly, begging that he might be allowed to bear it, "Because he would make what amends he might."

And I signed to the monks to suffer him to do so, and he took it. None else but I knew what part he had had with the other Danes in this matter, and the monks did but think him grieving for what his comrades had done.

So he bore it to Hoxne village, and we passed the place where the church had been. There, amid the blackened ruins of the walls and roof, stood the font of stone, fire reddened and chipped, yet with the cross graven on its eastward face plain to be seen. And to that place Raud led us, none staying him, yet all wondering.

When he came there he strode over the burnt timber until he came to the font, and there, under the graven cross, he set down his burden very gently, and stood up, looking in my face, and saying:

"Here will I leave the worship of Odin and cleave to that faith for which Eadmund the King died, and for which you, Wulfric, were willing to die both in Jutland and here by Eadmund's side. Will any forbid me?"

Then I knew that the man was in such earnest, that none, save he perilled his own soul, might hold him back, and I took his hand and spoke to the elder monk, saying:

"I will answer for this man, father, as to his will. If he knows enough of our faith, I pray you baptize him straightway."

There was rain water in the font, sparkling and clear, and without any delay or doubt the good man came forward and stood thereby, while I yet held Raud's hand as his godfather.

"What know you of our faith, my son?" said the monk in his gentle voice.

Now of his own accord Raud faced to the eastward, and clasping his hands before him, spoke the words of the Creed, slowly and haltingly maybe, but with knowledge thereof, and all that little company, standing hushed until he ended, answered "Amen" with one voice.

Then again, untaught by us he turned to the west, where the sun was even now sinking, and lifting his right hand very solemnly he put away from him the false gods of his forefathers, and the golden sunlight made his face very glorious, as I thought.

"It is well, my son," said the old monk.

So he was baptized, and I gave him the new name of Cyneward {xxii}, for the memory of Eadmund the King and what he did for him in saving him from torture as best he might. And surely he was the first fruit of the martyrdom of him whose head he had borne.

Then when all was done he took up his burden again, softly and reverently, saying:

"Life I took, and life has been given me. This is not the old way of life for life, but it is better."

So he gave back the head to the monks, and they, wondering at him, but greatly rejoicing, took it, and stood awhile pondering where we might safely bestow it.

Then came one of the villagers, telling of a stone-walled chamber that had been a well in days long gone by, hard by the church porch. That we found after some labour, moving much ruin from over it, and therein we placed the bones and head of our king, covering it again until better days should come. And I, thinking of my riches in the hands of Ingild, promised that when it might be done I would see to raising the church afresh, to be over the ashes of the king.

So our little company parted, and Cyneward, who had been Raud, and I went back with the elder monk and the farm folk to our place, going slowly in the warm twilight, with our hearts at rest, and full of the wonders we had seen that day.

Only one thing would the monk and I ask Cyneward, for we wondered how he had learned our faith so well. And that he answered gladly.

"Ever as Wulfric and I escaped from the vengeance of Ingvar towards Hedeby I wondered that one should be strong enough to defy the Asir and their godar for the sake of the new faith. So I sat in the church of Ansgar among the other heathen and heard somewhat. And again in London of late, where Guthrum will have no man harmed for his religion, I have listened and learnt more. So when I needed them, the words were ready. Now, therefore, both in life and death, Wulfric, my master, I thank you."

But I was silent, knowing how much greater a part in this I might have had. For I thought that, but for the need of proving my faith or denying it, I should have surely been as a heathen among heathen in those days in Jutland. Yet Beorn asked me to pray for him, and that I had done, and it had kept me mindful when I had else forgotten.

So began the work Humbert the Bishop foretold before he died, and that monk of his who saved his own life at Humbert's bidding for the work, saw it, and rejoiced.

After this, in a week's time, Cyneward and I took horse and rode away to London, for the dame's son came back to me, having found Ingild, bringing me messages from him, and also from Egfrid and many more. And all was well. At that time I could not reward as I would those good people who had thus cared for me, but I would send presents when I might. Yet they said they needed naught from me but to see me again at some time, which I promised, as well for my own love of them as for their asking.

We went unharmed and unquestioned, for all the land was at peace. Truly there were new-made huts where farmsteads had been, and at the town gates were Danish axemen instead of our spearmen as of old. Yet already in the hayfields Dane and Anglian wrought together, and the townsmen stood on Colchester Hill beside the Danish warriors, listening while gleeman and scald sang in rivalry to please both.

Little of change was there in London town, save again the scarlet-cloaked Danish guards and watchmen. Few enough of these there were, and indeed the host left but small parties in the towns behind them in our land. Yet those few could hold the country in peace, because men knew that at their back was the might of Ingvar's awful host, which came on a land unawares, marching more swiftly than rumour could fly before it, so that not one might know where the next blow would fall until suddenly the war beacons of flaming villages flared up, and it was too late to do aught but fly.

Yet in our land was none to fight for. No king had we to follow the martyr. Ethelred had left us alone, and already in the hearts of men grew up the thought that the strong hand of the Dane meant peace.

In the house of good old Ingild, my second father, as he would have me hold him, was rest at last. And there I found all whom I held dear gathered to meet me on the night when I came, for they had fled by ship, as they had hoped, and had reached London safely.