Hereward, the Last of the English

Hereward uttered a cry of horror. If the wild Letts, even the Jomsburgers, had got in, all was lost. He rushed to the door. It was not yet burst: but a bench, swung by strong arms, was battering it in fast.

“Winter! Geri! Siwards! To me, Hereward’s men! Stand back, fellows. Here are friends here inside. If you do not, I’ll cut you down.”

But in vain. The door was burst, and in poured the savage mob. Hereward, unable to stop them, headed them, or pretended to do so, with five or six of his own men round him, and went into the hall.

On the rushes lay some half-dozen grooms. They were butchered instantly, simply because they were there. Hereward saw, but could not prevent. He ran as hard as he could to the foot of the wooden stair which led to the upper floor.

“Guard the stair-foot, Winter!” and he ran up.

Two women cowered upon the floor, shrieking and praying with hands clasped over their heads. He saw that the arms of one of them were of the most exquisite whiteness, and judging her to be the lady, bent over her. “Lady! you are safe. I will protect you. I am Hereward.”

She sprang up, and threw herself with a scream into his arms.

“Hereward! Hereward! Save me. I am—”

“Alftruda!” said Hereward.

It was Alftruda; if possible more beautiful than ever.

“I have got you!” she cried. “I am safe now. Take me away,—out of this horrible place! Take me into the woods,—anywhere. Only do not let me be burnt here,—stifled like a rat. Give me air! Give me water!” And she clung to him so madly, that Hereward, as he held her in his arms, and gazed on her extraordinary beauty, forgot Torfrida for the second time.

But there was no time to indulge in evil thoughts, even had any crossed his mind. He caught her in his arms, and commanding the maid to follow, hurried down the stair.

Winter and the Siwards were defending the foot with swinging blades. The savages were howling round like curs about a bull; and when Hereward appeared above with the women, there was a loud yell of rage and envy.

He should not have the women to himself,—they would share the plunder equally,—was shouted in half a dozen barbarous dialects.

“Have you left any valuables in the chamber?” whispered he to Alftruda.

“Yes, jewels,—robes. Let them have all, only save me!”

“Let me pass!” roared Hereward. “There is rich booty in the room above, and you may have it as these ladies’ ransom. Them you do not touch. Back, I say, let me pass!”

And he rushed forward. Winter and the housecarles formed round him and the women, and hurried down the hall, while the savages hurried up the ladder, to quarrel over their spoil.

They were out in the court-yard, and safe for the moment. But whither should he take her?

“To Earl Osbiorn,” said one of the Siwards. But how to find him?

“There is Bishop Christiern!” And the Bishop was caught and stopped.

“This is an evil day’s work, Sir Hereward.”

“Then help to mend it by taking care of these ladies, like a man of God.” And he explained the case.

“You may come safely with me, my poor lambs,” said the Bishop. “I am glad to find something to do fit for a churchman. To me, my housecarles.”

But they were all off plundering.

“We will stand by you and the ladies, and see you safe down to the ships,” said Winter, and so they went off.

Hereward would gladly have gone with them, as Alftruda piteously entreated him. But he heard his name called on every side in angry tones.

“Who wants Hereward?”

“Earl Osbiorn,—here he is.”

“Those scoundrel monks have hidden all the altar furniture. If you wish to save them from being tortured to death, you had best find it.”

Hereward ran with him into the Cathedral. It was a hideous sight; torn books and vestments; broken tabernacle work; foul savages swarming in and out of every dark aisle and cloister, like wolves in search of prey; five or six ruffians aloft upon the rood screen; one tearing the golden crown from the head of the crucifix, another the golden footstool from its feet. [Footnote: The crucifix was probably of the Greek pattern, in which the figure stood upon a flat slab, projecting from the cross.]

As Hereward came up, crucifix and man fell together, crashing upon the pavement, amid shouts of brutal laughter.

He hurried past them, shuddering, into the choir. The altar was bare, the golden pallium which covered it, gone.

“It may be in the crypt below. I suppose the monks keep their relics there,” said Osbiorn.

“No! Not there. Do not touch the relics! Would you have the curse of all the saints? Stay! I know an old hiding-place. It may be there. Up into the steeple with me.”

And in a chamber in the steeple they found the golden pall, and treasures countless and wonderful.

“We had better keep the knowledge of this to ourselves awhile,” said Earl Osbiorn, looking with greedy eyes on a heap of wealth such as he had never beheld before.

“Not we! Hereward is a man of his word, and we will share and share alike.” And he turned and went down the narrow winding stair.

Earl Osbiorn gave one look at his turned back; an evil spirit of covetousness came over him; and he smote Hereward full and strong upon the hind-head.

The sword turned upon the magic helm, and the sparks flashed out bright and wide.

Earl Osbiorn shrunk back, appalled and trembling.

“Aha!” said Hereward without looking round. “I never thought there would be loose stones in the roof. Here! Up here, Vikings, Berserker, and sea-cocks all! Here, Jutlanders, Jomsburgers, Letts, Finns, witches’ sons and devils’ sons all! Here!” cried he, while Osbiorn profited by that moment to thrust an especially brilliant jewel into his boot. “Here is gold, here is the dwarfs work! Come up and take your Polotaswarf! You would not get a richer out of the Kaiser’s treasury. Here, wolves and ravens, eat gold, drink gold, roll in gold, and know that Hereward is a man of his word, and pays his soldiers’ wages royally!”

They rushed up the narrow stair, trampling each other to death, and thrust Hereward and the Earl, choking, into a corner. The room was so full for a few moments, that some died in it. Hereward and Osbiorn, protected by their strong armor, forced their way to the narrow window, and breathed through it, looking out upon the sea of flame below.

“That was an unlucky blow,” said Hereward, “that fell upon my head.”

“Very unlucky. I saw it coming, but had no time to warn you. Why do you hold my wrist?”

“Men’s daggers are apt to get loose at such times as these.”

“What do you mean?” and Earl Osbiorn went from him, and into the now thinning press. Soon only a few remained, to search, by the glare of the flames, for what their fellows might have overlooked.

“Now the play is played out,” said Hereward, “we may as well go down, and to our ships.”

Some drunken ruffians would have burnt the church for mere mischief. But Osbiorn, as well as Hereward, stopped that. And gradually they got the men down to the ships; some drunk, some struggling under plunder; some cursing and quarrelling because nothing had fallen to their lot. It was a hideous scene; but one to which Hereward, as well as Osbiorn, was too well accustomed to see aught in it save an hour’s inevitable trouble in getting the men on board.

The monks had all fled. Only Leofwin the Long was left, and he lay sick in the infirmary. Whether he was burned therein, or saved by Hereward’s men, is not told.

And so was the Golden Borough sacked and burnt. Now then, whither?

The Danes were to go to Ely and join the army there. Hereward would march on to Stamford; secure that town if he could; then to Huntingdon, to secure it likewise; and on to Ely afterwards.

“You will not leave me among these savages?” said Alftruda.

“Heaven forbid! You shall come with me as far as Stamford, and then I will set you on your way.”

“My way?” said Alftruda, in a bitter and hopeless tone.

Hereward mounted her on a good horse, and rode beside her, looking—and he well knew it—a very perfect knight. Soon they began to talk. What had brought Alftruda to Peterborough, of all places on earth?

“A woman’s fortune. Because I am rich,—and some say fair,—I am a puppet, and a slave, a prey. I was going back to my,—to Dolfin.”

“Have you been away from him, then?”

“What! Do you not know?”

“How should I know, lady?”

“Yes, most true. How should Hereward know anything about Alftruda? But I will tell you. Maybe you may not care to hear?”

“About you? Anything. I have often longed to know how,—what you were doing.”

“Is it possible? Is there one human being left on earth who cares to hear about Alftruda? Then listen. You know when Gospatrick fled to Scotland his sons went with him. Young Gospatrick, Waltheof, [Footnote: This Waltheof Gospatricksson must not be confounded with Waltheof Siwardsson, the young Earl. He became a wild border chieftain, then Baron of Atterdale, and then gave Atterdale to his sister Queen Ethelreda, and turned monk, and at last Abbot, of Crowland: crawling home, poor fellow, like many another, to die in peace in the sanctuary of the Danes.] and he,—Dolfin. Ethelreda, his girl, went too,—and she is to marry, they say, Duncan, Malcolm’s eldest son by Ingebiorg. So Gospatrick will find himself, some day, father-in-law of the King of Scots.”

“I will warrant him to find his nest well lined, wherever he be. But of yourself?”

“I refused to go. I could not face again that bleak black North. Beside—but that is no concern of Hereward’s—”

Hereward was on the point of saying, “Can anything concern you, and not be interesting to me?”

But she went on,—

“I refused, and—”

“And he misused you?” asked he, fiercely.

“Better if he had. Better if he had tied me to his stirrup, and scourged me along into Scotland, than have left me to new dangers and to old temptations.”

“What temptations?”

Alftruda did not answer; but went on,—

“He told me, in his lofty Scots’ fashion, that I was free to do what I list. That he had long since seen that I cared not for him; and that he would find many a fairer lady in his own land.”

“There he lied. So you did not care for him? He is a noble knight.”

“What is that to me? Women’s hearts are not to be bought and sold with their bodies, as I was sold. Care for him? I care for no creature upon earth. Once I cared for Hereward, like a silly child. Now I care not even for him.”

Hereward was sorry to hear that. Men are vainer than women, just as peacocks are vainer than peahens; and Hereward was—alas for him!—a specially vain man. Of course, for him to fall in love with Alftruda would have been a shameful sin,—he would not have committed it for all the treasures of Constantinople; but it was a not unpleasant thought that Alftruda should fall in love with him. But he only said, tenderly and courteously,—

“Alas, poor lady!”

“Poor lady. Too true, that last. For whither am I going now? Back to that man once more.”

“To Dolfin?”

“To my master, like a runaway slave. I went down south to Queen Matilda. I knew her well, and she was kind to me, as she is to all things that breathe. But now that Gospatrick is come into the king’s grace again, and has bought the earldom of Northumbria, from Tweed to Tyne—”

“Bought the earldom?”

“That has he; and paid for it right heavily.”

“Traitor and fool! He will not keep it seven years. The Frenchman will pick a quarrel with him, and cheat him out of earldom and money too.”

The which William did, within three years.

“May it be so! But when he came into the king’s grace, he must needs demand me back in his son’s name.”

“What does Dolfin want with you?”

“His father wants my money, and stipulated for it with the king. And besides, I suppose I am a pretty plaything enough still.”

“You? You are divine, perfect. Dolfin is right. How could a man who had once enjoyed you live without you?”

Alftruda laughed,—a laugh full of meaning; but what that meaning was, Hereward could not divine.

“So now,” she said, “what Hereward has to do, as a true and courteous knight, is to give Alftruda safe conduct, and, if he can, a guard; and to deliver her up loyally and knightly to his old friend and fellow-warrior, Dolfin Gospatricksson, earl of whatever he can lay hold of for the current month.”

“Are you in earnest?”

Alftruda laughed one of her strange laughs, looking straight before her. Indeed, she had never looked Hereward in the face during the whole ride.

“What are those open holes? Graves?”

“They are Barnack stone-quarries, which Alfgar my brother gave to Crowland.”

“So? That is pity. I thought they had been graves; and then you might have covered me up in one of them, and left me to sleep in peace.”

“What can I do for you, Alftruda, my old play-fellow: Alftruda, whom I saved from the bear?”

“If she had foreseen the second monster into whose jaws she was to fall, she would have prayed you to hold that terrible hand of yours, which never since, men say, has struck without victory and renown. You won your first honor for my sake. But who am I now, that you should turn out of your glorious path for me?”

“I will do anything,—anything. But why miscall this noble prince a monster?”

“If he were fairer than St. John, more wise than Solomon, and more valiant than King William, he is to me a monster; for I loathe him, and I know not why. But do your duty as a knight, sir. Convey the lawful wife to her lawful spouse.”

“What cares an outlaw for law, in a land where law is dead and gone? I will do what I—what you like. Come with me to Torfrida at Bourne; and let me see the man who dares try to take you out of my hand.”

Alftruda laughed again.

“No, no. I should interrupt the little doves in their nest. Beside, the billing and cooing might make me envious. And I, alas! who carry misery with me round the land, might make your Torfrida jealous.”

Hereward was of the same opinion, and rode silent and thoughtful through the great woods which are now the noble park of Burghley.

“I have found it!” said he at last. “Why not go to Gilbert of Ghent, at Lincoln?”

“Gilbert? Why should he befriend me?”

“He will do that, or anything else, which is for his own profit.”

“Profit? All the world seems determined to make profit out of me. I presume you would, if I had come with you to Bourne.”

“I do not doubt it. This is a very wild sea to swim in; and a man must be forgiven, if he catches at every bit of drift-timber.”

“Selfishness, selfishness everywhere;—and I suppose you expect to gain by sending me to Gilbert of Ghent?”

“I shall gain nothing, Alftruda, save the thought that you are not so far from me—from us—but that we can hear of you,—send succor to you if you need.”

Alftruda was silent. At last—

“And you think that Gilbert would not be afraid of angering the king?”

“He would not anger the king. Gilbert’s friendship is more important to William, at this moment, than that of a dozen Gospatricks. He holds Lincoln town, and with it the key of Waltheof’s earldom: and things may happen, Alftruda—I tell you; but if you tell Gilbert, may Hereward’s curse be on you!”

“Not that! Any man’s curse save yours!” said she in so passionate a voice that a thrill of fire ran through Hereward. And he recollected her scoff at Bruges,—“So he could not wait for me?” And a storm of evil thoughts swept through him. “Would to heaven!” said he to himself, crushing them gallantly down, “I had never thought of Lincoln. But there is no other plan.”

But he did not tell Alftruda, as he meant to do, that she might see him soon in Lincoln Castle as its conqueror and lord. He half hoped that when that day came, Alftruda might be somewhere else.

“Gilbert can say,” he went on, steadying himself again, “that you feared to go north on account of the disturbed state of the country; and that, as you had given yourself up to him of your own accord, he thought it wisest to detain you, as a hostage for Dolfin’s allegiance.”

“He shall say so. I will make him say so.”

“So be it, Now, here we are at Stamford town; and I must to my trade. Do you like to see fighting, Alftruda,—the man’s game, the royal game, the only game worth a thought on earth? For you are like to see a little in the next ten minutes.”

“I should like to see you fight. They tell me none is so swift and terrible in the battle as Hereward. How can you be otherwise, who slew the bear,—when we were two happy children together? But shall I be safe?”

“Safe? of course,” said Hereward, who longed, peacock-like, to show off his prowess before a lady who was—there was no denying it—far more beautiful than even Torfrida.

But he had no opportunity to show off his prowess. For as he galloped in over Stamford Bridge, Abbot Thorold galloped out at the opposite end of the town through Casterton, and up the Roman road to Grantham.

After whom Hereward sent Alftruda (for he heard that Thorold was going to Gilbert at Lincoln) with a guard of knights, bidding them do him no harm, but say that Hereward knew him to be a preux chevalier and lover of fair ladies; that he had sent him a right fair one to bear him company to Lincoln, and hoped that he would sing to her on the way the song of Roland.

And Alftruda, who knew Thorold, went willingly, since it could no better be.

After which, according to Gaimar, Hereward tarried three days at Stamford, laying a heavy tribute on the burgesses for harboring Thorold and his Normans; and also surprised at a drinking-bout a certain special enemy of his, and chased him from room to room sword in hand, till he took refuge shamefully in an outhouse, and begged his life. And when his knights came back from Grantham, he marched to Bourne.

“The next night,” says Leofric the deacon, or rather the monk who paraphrased his saga in Latin prose,—“Hereward saw in his dreams a man standing by him of inestimable beauty, old of years, terrible of countenance, in all the raiment of his body more splendid than all things which he had ever seen, or conceived in his mind; who threatened him with a great club which he carried in his hand, and with a fearful doom, that he should take back to his church all that had been carried off the night before, and have them restored utterly, each in its place, if he wished to provide for the salvation of his soul, and escape on the spot a pitiable death. But when awakened, he was seized with a divine terror, and restored in the same hour all that he took away, and so departed, going onward with all his men.”

So says Leofric, wishing, as may be well believed, to advance the glory of St. Peter, and purge his master’s name from the stain of sacrilege. Beside, the monks of Peterborough, no doubt, had no wish that the world should spy out their nakedness, and become aware that the Golden Borough was stript of all its gold.

Nevertheless, truth will out. Golden Borough was Golden Borough no more. The treasures were never restored; they went to sea with the Danes, and were scattered far and wide,—to Norway, to Ireland, to Denmark; “all the spoils,” says the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, “which reached the latter country, being the pallium and some of the shrines and crosses; and many of the other treasures they brought to one of the king’s towns, and laid them up in the church. But one night, through their carelessness and drunkenness, the church was burned, with all that was therein. Thus was the minster of Peterborough burned and pillaged. May Almighty God have pity on it in His great mercy.”

Hereward, when blamed for the deed, said always that he did it “because of his allegiance to the monastery.” Rather than that the treasures gathered by Danish monks should fall into the hands of the French robbers, let them be given to their own Danish kinsmen, in payment for their help to English liberty.

But some of the treasure, at least, he must have surely given back, it so appeased the angry shade of St. Peter. For on that night, when marching past Stamford, they lost their way. “To whom, when they had lost their way, a certain wonder happened, and a miracle, if it can be said that such would be worked in favor of men of blood. For while in the wild night and dark they wandered in the wood, a huge wolf met them, wagging his tail like a tame dog, and went before them on a path. And they, taking the gray beast in the darkness for a white dog, cheered on each other to follow him to his farm, which ought to be hard by. And in the silence of the midnight, that they might see their way, suddenly candles appeared, burning, and clinging to the lances of all the knights,—not very bright, however; but like those which the folk call candelae nympharum,—wills of the wisp. But none could pull them off, or altogether extinguish them, or throw them from their hands. And thus they saw their way, and went on, although astonished out of mind, with the wolf leading them, until day dawned, and they saw, to their great astonishment, that he was a wolf. And as they questioned among themselves about what had befallen, the wolf and the candles disappeared, and they came whither they had been minded,—beyond Stamford town,—thanking God, and wondering at what had happened.”

After which Hereward took Torfrida, and his child, and all he had, and took ship at Bardeney, and went for Ely. Which when Earl Warrenne heard, he laid wait for him, seemingly near Southery: but got nothing thereby, according to Leofric, but the pleasure of giving and taking a great deal of bad language; and (after his men had refused, reasonably enough, to swim the Ouse and attack Hereward) an arrow, which Hereward, “modicum se inclinans,” stooping forward, says Leofric,—who probably saw the deed,—shot at him across the Ouse, as the Earl stood cursing on the top of the dike. Which arrow flew so stout and strong, that though it sprang back from Earl Warrenne’s hauberk, it knocked him almost senseless off his horse, and forced him to defer his purpose of avenging Sir Frederic his brother.

After which Hereward threw himself into Ely, and assumed, by consent of all, the command of the English who were therein.