CHAPTER X. CARISBROOKE IN THE ELEVENTH CENTURY.
The fleet bore the troops of savage soldiery safely--toosafely--across the waters of the Solent, to the estuary formed by theMedina, where now thousands of visitors seek health and repose, andthe towers of Osborne crown the eastern eminences. A fleet may stillgenerally be discerned in its waters, but a fleet of pleasure yachts;far different were the vessels which then sought the shelter of thelovely harbour, beautiful even then in all the adornment of nature.
There the Danes cast anchor, and the forces dispersed to their winterquarters. The king and his favourite chieftains took up their abode atCarisbrooke, situate about eight miles up the stream, but above thespot where it ceases to be navigable.
Their chosen retreat was the precincts of the old castle--old eventhen--for it had been once a British stronghold, commanding the routeof the Phoenician tin merchants across the island, whence its name"Caer brooke," or the "fort on the stream."
The Romans in after ages saw the importance of the position, fortifiedit yet more strongly, and made it the chief military post of theisland, which, under their protecting care, enjoyed singular peace andprosperity--civilisation flourished, arts and letters were cultivated.The beautiful coasts and inlets were crowded with villas, and invalidsthen, as now, sought the invigorating breezes, from all parts of theisland of Britain, and even from the neighbouring province of Gaul.
The Roman power fell at last, and when the English pirates, our ownancestors, like the Danes of our story, attacked the dismemberedprovinces of the empire, its wealth and position on the coast made itan early object of attack--happy those who fled early. The Anglo-Saxonchronicle shall tell the story of those who remained.
"AD. 530. This year Cerdic and Cynric conquered the Isle of Wight, andslew many people at Whitgarasbyrg" (Carisbrooke).
The conquering Cerdic died four years after, and his son Cynric gavethe island to his nephews, Stuf and Wihtgar. The latter died in 544,and was buried in the spot he and his had reddened with blood, withinthe Roman ramparts of Carisbrooke.
It is needless to say that at that early period our ancestors wereheathens, and the mode of their conquest was precisely similar to thatwe are now describing under another heathen (with less excuse), Sweynthe son of Harold.
It was a few days after the arrival of the Danes at their quarters,and Alfgar stood on the rampart at the close of a November day; it wasSt. Martin's Mass, as the festival was then called. The sun wassinking with fading splendour behind the lofty downs in the west, andcasting his departing beams on the river, the estuary, with the fleet,and the blue hills of Hampshire in the far distance.
Southward and westward the view was alike shut in by these loftydowns, and eastward the hills rose again, so as to enclose the valley,of which Carisbrooke formed the central feature.
The ramparts whereon he was standing were of Roman workmanship, builtso solidly that they had resisted every attack of man or of time;while down below lay the ruins of a magnificent villa, once occupiedby the Roman governor of the island.
Anlaf appeared and stood beside his son.
"Alfgar," he said, "the day after tomorrow is the day of St. Brice."
He paused and looked steadfastly in the face of his son.
"And the king proposes to enrol you amongst his chosen warriors onthat day; he has marked the skill you have displayed in the mimiccontests with spear or sword, your skill as a horseman, and he wishesto see whether in actual battle you will fulfil the promise of theparade ground."
"And yet he knows my faith."
"Alfgar," said the old man solemnly, "you must renounce it or die; nomercy will be shown to a Christian on St. Brice's day; that is why theking has chosen it. Think, my son, over all I have told you; you willdecide like one who yet controls his senses, and not disgrace youraged father."
"Father, I do think of you," said the poor lad; "at least believethat. I do not grieve for myself. I feel I could easily die for myfaith, but I do grieve over the pain I must cause you."
The heart of the old warrior was sensibly affected by this appeal, butnot knowing the strength of Christian principle, he could notreconcile it with facts, and he walked sadly away.
But two days, and the dread choice had to be made--the crisis in thelife of Alfgar, a crisis which has its parallel in the lives of manyaround us--approached, and he had to choose between Christ and Odin,between the death of the martyr and apostasy.
He walked to and fro upon the ramparts, after his father left him, inthe growing darkness, feebly illuminated by the light of a new moon.Below him, in the central area, a huge fire burned, whereat theevening meal was preparing for the royal banquet, for Sweyn and hisferocious chieftains were about to feast together.
Escape was hopeless. Even had he not been bound by the promise givento his father, it would have been very difficult. He felt that hismotions were watched. The island was full of foes, their fleetoccupied the Solent. No; all that was left was to die with honour.
But to bring such disgrace upon his father and his kindred! "Blood isthicker than water," says the old proverb, and Alfgar could not, evenhad he wished, ignore the ties of blood; nature pleaded too strongly.But there was a counter-motive even there--the dying wishes of hismother. If his father were Danish, she was both English and Christian.
Before him the alternatives were sharply defined: Apostasy, and hisancestral honours, with all that the sword of the conqueror couldgive; and on the other hand, the martyr's lingering agony, but thehope of everlasting life after death.
He could picture the probable scene. The furious king, the scorn ofthe companions with whom he had vied, nay, whom he had excelled, inthe exercises of arms, end the ignominious death, perhaps that painfulpunishment known as the "spread eagle." No, they could not inflictthat on one so nobly born, the descendant of princes.
Alas! what might not Sweyn do in his wrath?
Was Christianity worth the sacrifice? Where were the absolute proofsof its truth? If it were of God, why did He not protect His people?The heathen Saxons had been victorious over the Christian Britons; andnow that they had become Christian, the heathen Danes were victoriousover them. Was this likely to happen if Christ were really God?
Again Odin and Frea, with their children, and the heroes sung by thescalds, in the war songs which he heard echoing from around the fireat that moment:
"How this one was brave,And bartered his lifeFor joy in the fight;How that one was wise,Was true to his friendsAnd the dread of his foes."
Valour, wisdom, fidelity, contempt of death, hatred of meanness andcowardice, qualities ever shining in the eyes of warlike youth.
This creed had sufficed for his ancestors for generations, as hisfather had told him. Why should he be better than they? If theytrusted to the faith of Odin, might not he?
And then, if he lived, when the war was carried into Mercia, he wouldsave his English friends, even although forced to live unknown tothem.
"Oh! life is sweet," thought he, "sweet to one so young as I. I havebut tasted the cup; shall I throw it down not half empty?"
He was almost conquered. He had all but turned to seek his father,when suddenly the remembrance of Bertric flashed vividly upon him.
He saw, as in a vision, the patient, brave lad enduring mortal agonyfor Christ, so patiently, so calmly. Had Bertric, then, died fornought? He felt as if the martyr were near him, to aid him in thismoment, when his faith was in peril.
"O Bertric, Bertric!" he cried, "intercede for me, pray for me."
He fell on his knees, and did not rise until the temptation wasconquered, and then he walked steadily into the great vaulted room, ofRoman construction, which served as the banqueting hall, and took hisusual place by his father's side.
Oh, how hollow the mirth and revelry that night! How he loathed thesinging, the drunken shouting, the fierce imprecation over the winecup--the sensuality, which now distinguished his bloodthirstycompanions. The very knives he saw used for their meals had served asdaggers t
o despatch the wounded or the helpless prisoner. The eyes,now weak with debauch, had glowed with the maniacal fury of theberserkir in the battlefield. Was this the glory of manhood? Nay,rather of wolves and bears.
Then he looked up at Sweyn, the murderer of his father, and marvelledthat his hand was yet so steady--his head so clear. This apostateparricide! never would he live to kiss the hand of such a man; betterdie at once, while yet pure from innocent blood. This his Christianityhad taught him.
"Minstrel," cried the fierce king, "sing us some stirring song of thedays of old; plenty of the fire of the old Vikings in it."
A strange minstrel, a young gleeman, had been admitted that night--onewhose chain and robes bespoke him of the privileged class--and he sangin a voice which thrilled all the revellers into awed silence. He sangof the battle, of the joy of conquest, and the glories of Valhalla,where deceased warriors drank mead from the skulls of vanquished foes.And then he sang of the cold and snowy Niffelheim, where in regions ofeternal frost the cowardly and guilty dead mourned their weak andwasted lives. In words of terrific force he painted their agony, whereHela, of horrid countenance, reigned supreme; where the palace wasAnguish, Famine the board, Delay and Vain Hope the waiters, Precipicethe threshold, and Leanness the bed.
But in the innermost chamber of this awful home was the abode ofRaging Despair; and in the final verse of his terrible ode the scaldsang:
"Listen to the ceaseless wail,Listen to the frenzied cryOf anguish, horror, and amaze;Would ye know from whom they come,Tell me, warriors, would ye know?"
Here he paused, after throwing intense emphasis on the last words,till he had concentrated the attention of all, and the kinggazed--absorbed--then he continued:
"There wave on wave of bitter woeOverwhelms the parricide."
The king started from his seat. He was about to launch his battle-axethrough the air in search of the daring minstrel, when the same dreadexpression of unutterable agony we have before mentioned passed overhis face; he trembled as an aspen, and sank, as one paralysed, intohis chair, while his glaring eyes seemed to behold some horridapparition unseen by all beside. The warriors now turned in theirwrath to seek the daring or unfortunate minstrel, but he was gone.
Alfgar had seen the apostate in his moment of retributive agony, andhe shuddered.
"Better death, far better," he murmured, "than a fate like this. Godkeep me firm to Him."
The king had by this time recovered his usual composure, but his rageand fury were the more awful that the outbreak was suppressed.
"Sit down, my warriors, disturb not the feast. What if your king hasbeen insulted in his own banquet hall? there are hands enow to avengehim without unseemly tumult. Let us drink like the heroes in Valhalla.Meanwhile let the minstrel be sought and brought before us, and heshall make us sport in a different mode."
The "rista oern" whispered one in his ear.
The ferocious king nodded, and his eyes sparkled with the expectedgratification of his fierce cruelty. Meanwhile warriors were searchingall the precincts of the camp for the destined victim.
Nearly half-an-hour had passed, and the king was getting impatient,for nearly all the chieftains were getting too drunk to appreciate thespectacle he designed for them.
"Why do the men delay?" he cried; "let them bring in the minstrel."
Still he came not; and at length the searchers were forced, one afterthe other, to confess their failure.
"It is well," said the king; "but it was the insult of a Christian,and shall be washed out in Christian blood. Anlaf, produce thy son."
"Nay, nay, not now," cried Sidroc and others, for they saw that Sweynwas already drunk, and consideration for Anlaf made them interfere."Not now; tomorrow, tomorrow."
"Nay, tonight, tonight."
"Drink first, then, and drown care," said Sidroc, and gave the brutaltyrant a bowl of rich mead.
He drank, drank until it was empty, then fell back and reposed with anidiotic smile superseding the ferocious expression his face had solately worn. Meanwhile a hand was laid upon Alfgar's shoulder, and akeen bright eye met his own, as if to read his inmost thoughts.
"Come with me, or my father will disgrace himself."
It was Canute.
He led Alfgar forth into the courtyard.
"Thou dost not seem to fear death," said the boy prince.
"It would be welcome now."
"So some of our people sometimes say, but the motive is different;tell me what is the secret of this Christianity?"
Just then Sidroc and Anlaf came out from the hall and saw the twotogether. Sidroc seemed annoyed, and led the young prince away, whileAnlaf seized the opportunity to whisper to his son:
"My son, I can do no more for thee; I see thou wilt persist in thineobstinacy. I release thee from thy promise given to me; escape if thoucanst, or die in the attempt; but bring not my grey hairs to contempton the morrow."
At this moment, Sidroc having seen Canute to the royal quarters,returned.
"Sidroc," said Anlaf, "I cannot any longer be the jailor of my unhappyand rebellious son. Let him be confined till the morrow. I shall askleave of absence from Sweyn, and now I deliver Alfgar to your care."
"I accept the charge," said Sidroc; "follow me, Alfgar, son of Anlaf."
Alfgar followed passively. He could not help looking as if to takeleave of his father; but Anlaf stood as mute and passionless as astatue. Sidroc reached a party of the guard, and bade them confine theprisoner in the dungeon beneath the ruined eastern tower.
"Listen to my last words, thou recreant boy; Sweyn will send for theeearly in the morning before the assembled host; it will be the day ofSt. Brice; and even were he not now mad with rage, there would be nomercy for a Christian on that day. Thou must yield, or die by theseverest torture, compared with which the death of thy late companionunder the archers' shafts was merciful. Be warned!"
Alfgar the Dane or the Second Chronicle of Aescendune Page 11