CHAPTER III. BY BELL, BOOK, AND CANDLE.
I had never been into Sedgemoor before, and so went straight on as Icould, only turning aside from swampy places while the light lasted.Then I must wait for the moon to rise, and I sat me down under an oldthorn tree on a little rise where I could see about me. I had come outof the woods, and all the moor was open to the west and south so far asI could see. I knew that the place was haunted of evil spirits, andshunned at night time by all: but now I was not afraid of them--orindeed of anything, save the wolves. The terror of the man I had lefthad put that fear into my head, or I think that, desperate as I was,only the sound of a pack of them in full cry would have warned me.Still, I had heard no more since that one howled an hour ago.
Cold mists rose from the marsh, and in them I could see lights flitting.A month or two ago I should have feared them, thinking of Beowulf, sonof Hygelac, and what befell him and his comrades from the marsh fiends,Grendel and his dam. Now I watched them, and half longed for a fightlike Beowulf's. [iv]
At last the moon rose behind me, and I walked on. Once a vast shape roseup in the mist and walked beside me, and I half drew my sword on it. Butthat, too, drew sword, and I knew it for my own shadow on the thickvapour. Then a sheet of water stretched out almost under my feet, andthousands of wildfowl rose and fled noisily, to fall again into furtherpools with splash and mighty clatter. I must skirt this pool, and socame presently to a thicket of reeds, shoulder high, and out of theserose, looking larger than natural in the moonlight, a great wild boarthat had his lair there, and stood staring at me before he too made off,grunting as he went.
So I went on aimless. The night was full of sounds, but whether earthly;from wildfowl and bittern and curlew, from fox, and badger, and otter;or from the evil spirits of the marsh, I knew not nor cared. For now thelong imprisonment and the day's terrible doings, and the little food Ihad had since we halted on the hill of Brent, all began to get hold ofme, and I stumbled on as a man in a bad dream.
But nothing harmed or offered to harm me. Only when some root or twistedtussock of grass would catch my foot and hinder me I cursed it for beingin league with Matelgar, tearing my way fiercely over or through it. Andat last, I think, my mind wandered.
Then I saw a red light that glowed close under the edge of some thickwoodland, where the land rose, and that drew me. It was the hut of acharcoal burner, and the light came from the kiln close by, which wasopen, and the man himself was standing at it, even now taking out aglowing heap of the coal to cool, before he piled in fresh wood andclosed it for the night.
When I saw the hut, it suddenly came on me that I was wearied out, andmust sleep, and so went thither. The collier heard the clank of myarmour, and turned round in the crimson light of the glowing coals tosee what came. As he saw me standing he cried aloud in terror, and,throwing up his hands, fled into the dark beyond the kiln, calling onthe saints to protect him.
For a moment I wondered that he should thus fly me; but I staggered tohis hut, and I remember seeing his rush-made bed, and that is all.
When I woke again, at first I thought myself back in the dungeon, andgroaned, but would not open my eyes. But I turned uneasily, and then asmall voice spoke, saying:
"Ho, Grendel! are you awake?"
I sat up and looked round. Then I knew where I was--but I had slept agreat sleep, for out of the open door I saw the Quantock hills, blueacross the moor, and the sun shone in almost level. It was late afternoon.
I looked for him who had spoken, and at first could see no one, for thesun shone in my face: but something stirred in a corner, and I lookedthere.
It was a small sturdy boy of some ten years old, red haired, andfreckled all over where his woollen jerkin and leather hose did notcover him. He sat on a stool and stared at me with round eyes.
I stared back at him for a minute, and then, from habit, for I wouldalways play with children, made a wry face at him, at which he smiled,pleased enough, and said:
"Spit fire, good Grendel, I want to see."
Now I was glad to be kept off my own fierce thoughts for a little, andso answered him back, wondering at the name he gave me, and at his request.
"So--I am Grendel, am I?"
"Aye," said the urchin, "Dudda Collier ran into village in the night,saying that you had come out of the fen, all fire from head to foot, andso he fled. But I came to see."
"Where is the collier then?"
"He dare not come back, he says, without the priest, and has gone to getthe hermit. So the other folk bided till he came too."
"Were not you afraid of me?"
"Maybe I was feared at first--but I would see you spit fire before theholy man drives you away. So I looked in through a crack, and saw youasleep. Then I feared not, and bided your waking for a little time."
"What is your name, brave urchin?' I asked, for I was pleased with thechild and his fearlessness.
"Turkil," he said.
"Well, Turkil--I am not Grendel. He fled when I came in here."
"Did you beat him?" asked the boy, with a sort of disappointment.
"Nay; but he disappeared when the hot coals went out," I said. "And nowI am hungry, can you find me aught to eat?" and, indeed, rested as I waswith the long sleep, I had waked sound in mind and body again, andlonged for food, and I think that finding this strange child here toturn my thoughts into a wholesome channel, when first they began to stirin me, was a mercy that I must ever be thankful for.
Turkil got up solemnly and went to the hearth. Thence he took an ironcauldron, and hoisted it on the great round of tree trunk that served astable in the midst of the hut.
"Dudda Collier left his supper when he fled. Wherefore if we eat it hewill think Grendel got it--and no blame to us," remarked the boy,chuckling.
And when I thought how I had not a copper sceatta left me in the world,I stopped before saying that I would pay him when he returned, and solaughed back at the boy and fell to.
When we had finished, the cauldron, which had been full of roe deervenison, was empty, and Turkil and I laughed at one another over it.
"Grendel or no Grendel," said the urchin, "Dudda will ask nought of hissupper."
"Why not?"
"By reason of what it was made of."
Then I remembered that a thrall might by no means slay the deer, andthat he would surely be in fear when he knew that one had found him out.So I said to the boy:
"Grendel ate it, doubtless. Nor you nor I know what was in the honestman's pot."
Turkil was ready to meet me in this matter, and looking roguishly at me,gathered up the bones and put them into the kilns.
"Now must I go home," he said, when this was done, "or I shall bebeaten. But I would I had seen Grendel--though I love warriors armedlike you."
"Verily, Turkil, my friend," said I, "a stout warrior will you be if yougo on as you have begun."
Thereupon something stirred within me, as it were, and I took the urchinand kissed him, for I had never thought to call one "friend" again.
Then I feared to let him go from me, lest the thoughts of yesterdayshould come back, as I knew they would, did I give way to them. So Itold him to bide here with me till the village people came to drive awayGrendel, and that I would make all right for him.
Then we went out of the little hut, and sat on the logs of timber, andhe told me tales of the wood and stream and meres to which I must answernow and then, while I pondered over what I must do and where betake myself.
My outlawry would not be known till the people had got home from Brent,and then but by hearsay, till the sheriff's men had proclaimed me in thetownships.
This place, too, where a man could slay roe deer fearless of discovery,must be far from notice, and I would bide here this next night, and somake my plans well, and grow fully rested. But always, whatever Ithought, was revenge on Matelgar uppermost.
Now Turkil would see my sword, and then my seax, and try my helm on hishead, laughing when it covered his eyes, and I had almost bade him co
meto my hall at Cannington and there try the little weapons I had when Iwas his size, so much his ways took from me the thought of my trouble.But that slip brought it all back again, and for a time I waxed moody,so that the child was silent, finding no answer to his prattle, and atlast leant against me and slept. Presently, I leaned back and slept too,in the warm sun.
I woke with the sound of chanting in my ears, and the ringing of alittle bell somewhere in the wood; but Turkil slept on, and I would notstir to wake him, sitting still and wondering.
Then out of the wood came towards the hut a little procession, and whenI saw it I knew that I, as Grendel, was to be exorcised. But though Ithought not of it, exorcism there had been already, and that of my evilspirit of yesterday, by the fearless hand of--a little child.
There came first an old priest, fully vested, bearing a great servicebook in one hand, and in the other a crucifix, and reading as he went,but in Latin, so that I could not know what he read. And on either sideof him were two youths, also vested, one bearing a great candle thatflared and guttered in the wind, and the other a bell, which now andthen he rang when the old priest ceased reading between the verses.
After these came the villagers. I saw the collier among the first, andhis knees shook as he walked. Then some of the men were armed with billsand short swords, and a few with bows. All, I think, had staves. Afterthem came some women, and I saw one who wept, looking about her eagerly.
They did not see me, for the timber pile was next the kiln and a littlebehind it; so that before they got near I was shut out from view for atime.
While they were thus hidden from me, they stopped and began to chantagain, priest and people in turn. After that had gone on for a littletime, Turkil woke and sat up, but I bade him in a whisper to be silent,and putting his finger in his mouth he obeyed, wide eyed.
Then the little bell gave a note or two, and the reading began, so nearthat I could hear the words, or seem to remember them as I know now whatthey were.
"Adjuro te maleficum Grendel vocatum diabolum--"
So far had the priest got when they turned the corner of the house, andI stood up. There came a shout from the men, and the exorcism went nofurther, for the old priest saw at once, as it seemed, that I was but amortal. Not so some of his train, for several turned to fly, sorelyfearing that the wrestle between the powers spiritual had begun, and, asone might think, lacking faith in their own side, for they showed little.
But Grendel or no Grendel, there was one who thought not of her ownsafety. That woman whom I had seen weeping gave a great cry and rushedat me, seizing my little comrade from my arms, for I had lifted him as Istood, and covering him with kisses, chided him and petted at the sametime.
It was his mother, who hearing that her darling had wandered away fromhis playmates with the intention of "seeing Grendel" as he avowed, haddared to join the rest to learn what had been his end.
The old priest looked on this with something of a smile, and then turnedto his people saying:
"Doubtless the fiend has fled, or this warrior and the child had notbeen here. Search, my children, and see if there be traces left of hispresence, and I will speak to the stranger."
They scattered about the place in groups, for they yet feared to bealone, and the priest came up to me, scanning my arms as he did so, toguess my rank. My handsome sword and belt seemed to decide him, forthough the armour and helm were plain, they were good enough for anythane who meant them for hard wear and not for show.
"Sir," he said, very courteously but without any servility, "I see youare a stranger, and you meet me on a strange errand. I am the priestwhom they call the hermit, Leofwine--should I name you thane?"
I was going to answer him as I would have replied but yesterday morning--so hesitated a little, and then answered shortly.
"No thane, Father, but the next thing to it--a masterless man."
"As you will, sir," he replied, thinking that I doubtless had my ownreason for withholding whatever rank I had. "We meet few strangers inthis wild."
"I lost my way, Father," I said, "and wandered here in the night, and,being sorely weary, slept in this empty hut till two hours ago, wakingto find yon child here."
Now little Turkil, seeing that I looked towards him, got free from hismother and ran to me, saying that he must go home, and that I must speakfor him, as his mother was wroth with him for playing truant.
The woman, who seemed to be the wife of some well-to-do freeman,followed him, and I spoke to her, begging her to forgive the boy, as hehad been a pleasant comrade to me, and that, indeed, I had kept him, ashe said some folk were coming from the village.
Whereon she thanked me for tending him, saying that she had feared thefoul fiend whom the collier had seen would surely have devoured him. SoI pleased her by saying that a boy who would face such a monster nowwould surely grow up a valiant man. Then Turkil must kiss me in going,bidding me come and see him again, and I knew not how to escapepromising that, though it was a poor promise that could not be kept,seeing that I must fly the kingdom of Wessex as soon as I might. Thenhis mother took him away, he looking back often at me. With them wentthe most of the people, some wondering, but the greater part laughing atDudda Collier's fright.
I asked the old priest where the village might be, and he told me thatit lay in a clearing full two miles off, and that the father of Turkilwas the chief franklin there, though of little account elsewhere. He hadnot yet come back from the great Moot at Brent, and that was goodhearing for me, for though he must return next day, I should be far bythat time.
While we talked, the collier and two or three men came to us, tellingexcitedly how that the kiln was raked out, and that the cauldron wasempty--doubtless the work of the fiend.
"Saw you aught of any fiend, good sir?" asked the priest of me.
Now I remembered the roe deer in time, and answered, "I saw nought worsethan myself"--but I think that, had the collier known my thoughts, hewould have fled me as he fled that he took me for. But that he was soreterrified I have no doubt, for it seemed that he neither recognized me,nor remembered what he was doing at the kiln when I came. Maybe, asoften happens, he had told some wild story to so many that he believedit himself.
"Then, my sons," said the hermit, "the fiend finding Dudda no prey ofhis, departed straightway, and he need fear no more."
However, they would have him sprinkle all the place with holy water,repeating the proper prayers the while, which he did willingly, knowingthe fears of his people, and gladly trying to put them to rest.
Then the collier begged one after another to bide with him that night,but all refused, having other things to be done which they said mightnot he foregone. It was plain that they dared not stay; but this seemedto be my chance.
The men had many times looked hard at me, but as I was speaking with thepriest, dared not question me as they would. So having seen this, I said:
"I am a stranger from beyond the Mendips, and lost my way last nightcoming back from Brent. Glad should I be of lodging here tonight, andguidance on the morrow, for it is over late for me to be on my way now."
That pleased the collier well enough, and he said he would take me in,and guide me where I would go next day. The other men wanted to ask menews of the Moot, but I put them off, saying that I had not sat thereon,but had passed there on my way from Sherborne. So they were content, andasking the hermit for his blessing, they went their way.
Then the old priest took off the vestments which were over his brownhermit garb, and giving them to the youths who had acted as his acolytesbade them depart also, having given them some directions, and so wethree, the hermit, collier, and myself, were left alone by the hut.
The hermit bade the collier leave us, and he, evidently holding the oldman in high veneration, bowed awkwardly, and went to fill and relighthis kiln fires.
And then the old priest spoke to me.
"Sir, I was brought here, as you see, to drive away an evil spirit,which this poor thrall said had appeared to him
last night, and fromwhich he fled. Now all men know that these fens are haunted by fiends,even as holy Guthlac found in the land of the Gyrwa's, [v] being sorelytroubled by them. But I have seen none, though I dwell in this fen muchas he dwelt, though none so worthy, or maybe worth troubling as he.Know you what he saw? for I seem to see that your coming has to do withthis--" and the old man smiled a little.
Then I told him how I had come unexpectedly into the firelight, and thatthe man had fled, adding that I was nigh worn out, and so, finding aresting place, slept without heeding him; and then how little Turkil hadcalled me "Grendel", bidding me "spit fire for him to see".
At that the old man laughed a hearty laugh, looking sidewise to see thatDudda was at work and unheeding.
"Verily," he said, "it is as I deemed, but with more reason for thecollier to fly than I had thought--for truly mail-clad men are neverseen here, and thy face, my son, is of the grimmest, for all you are soyoung. I marvel Turkil feared you not--but children see below theoutward mask of a man's face."
Now as he said that, the old man looked kindly, but searchingly, at me,and I rebelled against it: but he was so saintly looking that I mightnot be angry, so tried to turn it off.
"Turkil the Valiant called me Grendel, Father. Also I think you came outto exorcise the same by name, for I heard it in the Latin. But that wasa heathen fiend."
The hermit sighed a little and answered me.
"They sing the song of Beowulf and love it, heathen though it be, betterthan aught else, and will till one rises up who will turn Holy Writ intotheir mother tongue, as Caedmon did for Northumbria. Howbeit, doubtlessthose who were fiends in the days of the false gods are fiends yet, andif Grendel then, so also Grendel now, though he may have many othernames. And knowing that name from their songs, small wonder that theterror that came from the marsh must needs be he. And, no doubt," wenton the good priest, though with a little twinkle in his eye, "he knewwell enough whom I came to exorcise, even if the name were wrong, had heindeed been visibly here."
So he spoke: but my mind was wandering away to my own trouble; and whenI spoke of Sherborne just now, the thought of Bishop Ealhstan and hiswords had come to me, and I wondered if I would tell my troubles to thisold man as he bade me. But, though to think of it showed that I wasagain more myself, something of yesterday's bitterness rose up again asthe scene at the Moot came back, and I would not.
The priest was silent for a while, and must have watched my face asthese thoughts hardened it again.
"Be not wroth with an old man, my son," he said, very gently; "but thereis some trouble on your mind, as one who has watched the faces of men aslong as I may well see. And it is bitter trouble, I fear. Sometimesthese troubles pass a little, by being told."
The kind words softened me somewhat, and I answered him quietly:
"Aye, Father--there is trouble, but not to be told. I will take myselfand it away in the morning, and so bear it by myself."
He looked wistfully at me as one who fain would help another, saying:
"Other men's troubles press lightly on such as I, my son, save that theyadd to my prayers."
And I was half-minded to tell him all and seek his counsel: but I wouldnot. Still, I would answer him, and so feigning cheerfulness, said:
"One trouble, Father, I fear you cannot help me in. I have noughtwherewith to reward this honest man for lodging and guidance--nor forplaying Grendel on him, and eating his food to boot."
"Surely you have honest hands by whom to send him somewhat? or he willlead you to friends who will willingly lend to you?"
And I had neither. I, who but a few weeks ago could have commanded bothby scores--and now none might aid me. None might call me friend--Iwas alone. These words brought it home to me more clearly than before,and the loneliness of it sank into my heart, and my pride fled, and Itold the good man all, looking to see him shrink from me.
But he did not, hearing me patiently to the end. I think if he hadshrunk from me, the telling had left me worse than when I kept it hidfrom him.
When I ended, he laid his hand on my shoulder--even as the bishop hadlaid his, and said:
"Vengeance is mine. I will repay, saith the Lord."
And I, who had never heard those words before, thought them a promisesent by the mouth of this prophet, as it were, to me, and wondered. Thenhe went on:
"Surely, my son, I believe you to be true, and that you sufferwrongfully, for never one who would lie told the evil of himself as youhave told me. Foolish you have been, indeed, as is the way of youth, butdisloyal you were not."
I was silent, and waited for him to speak such words again. And he, too,was silent for a little, looking out over the marsh, and rocking himselfto and fro as he sat on the tree trunk beside me.
"Watching and praying and fasting alone, there has been given me somelittle gift of prophecy, my son; now and then it comes, but never withlight cause. And now I will say what is given me to say. Cast out youare from the Wessex land, but before long Wessex shall be beholden toyou. Not long shall Matelgar, the treacherous, hold your place--butyou shall be in honour again of all men. Only must you forego yourvengeance and leave that to the hand of the Lord, who repays."
"What must I do now, Father?" I asked, in a low voice.
"Go your own way, my son, and, as you were bidden, depart from thiskingdom as you will and whither; and what shall be, shall be. Fightingthere is for you, both within and without: but the battle within will bethe sorest: for I know that the longing for revenge will abide with you,and that is hard to overcome. Yet remember the message of forbearance."
Then I cried out that I must surely be revenged and the good man strovewith me with many and sweet words, till he had quieted the thoughtwithin me again. Yet I longed for it.
So we talked till the sun sank, and he must go ere darkness fell. But atlast he bade me kneel, and I knelt, who had thought in my pride never tohumble myself before mortal man again, till one dealt me my death blowand I needs must fall before him.
So he blessed me and departed, bidding me remember that at sunrise andmidday and sunset, Leofwine, the priest, and Turkil, the child, shouldremember me in their prayers. And, for he was very thoughtful, he toldme that he would take such order with the collier that he would asknought from me, nor must I offer him anything, save thanks. And he spoketo him in going.
I watched him go till I could see him no more, and then, calling myhost, supped with him, and slept peacefully till the first morning light.
A Thane of Wessex Page 3