Book: Hereward, The Last of the English

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So he led them across the fens and side rivers, till they came into the
old Nene, which men call Catwater and Muscal now.

As he passed Nomanslandhirne, and the mouth of the Crowland river, he
trembled, and trusted that the Danes did not know that they were within
three miles of St. Guthlac's sanctuary. But they went on ignorant, and up
the Muscal till they saw St. Peter's towers on the wooded rise, and behind
them the great forest which now is Milton Park.

There were two parties in Peterborough minster: a smaller faction of
stout-hearted English, a larger one who favored William and the French
customs, with Prior Herluin at their head. Herluin wanted not for
foresight, and he knew that evil was coming on him. He knew that the Danes
were in the fen. He knew that Hereward was with them. He knew that they
had come to Crowland. Hereward could never mean to let them sack it.
Peterborough must be their point. And Herluin set his teeth, like a bold
man determined to abide the worst, and barred and barricaded every gate
and door.

That night a hapless churchwarden, Ywar was his name, might have been seen
galloping through Milton and Castor Hanglands, and on by Barnack quarries
over Southorpe heath, with saddlebags of huge size stuffed with "gospels,
mass-robes, cassocks, and other garments, and such other small things as
he could carry away." And he came before day to Stamford, where Abbot
Thorold lay at his ease in his inn with his _hommes d'armes_ asleep
in the hall.

And the churchwarden knocked them up, and drew Abbot Thorold's curtains
with a face such as his who

"drew Priam's curtains in the dead of night,
And would have told him, half his Troy was burned";

and told Abbot Thorold that the monks of Peterborough had sent him; and
that unless he saddled and rode his best that night, with his meinie of
men-at-arms, his Golden Borough would be even as Troy town by morning
light.

"A moi, hommes d'armes!" shouted Thorold, as he used to shout whenever he
wanted to scourge his wretched English monks at Malmesbury into some
French fashion.

The men leaped up, and poured in, growling.

"Take me this monk, and kick him into the street for waking me with such
news."

"But, gracious lord, the outlaws will surely burn Peterborough; and folks
said that you were a mighty man of war"

"So I am; but if I were Roland, Oliver, and Turpin rolled into one, how am
I to fight Hereward and the Danes with forty men-at-arms? Answer me that,
thou dunder-headed English porker. Kick him out."

And Ywar was kicked into the cold, while Thorold raged up and down his
chamber in mantle and slippers, wringing his hands over the treasure of
the Golden Borough, snatched from his fingers just as he was closing them
upon it.

That night the monks of Peterborough prayed in the minster till the long
hours passed into the short. The poor corrodiers, and other servants of
the monastery, fled from the town outside into the Milton woods. The monks
prayed on inside till an hour after matin. When the first flush of the
summer's dawn began to show in the northeastern sky, they heard mingling
with their own chant another chant, which Peterborough had not heard since
it was Medehampstead, three hundred years ago,--the terrible
Yuch-hey-saa-saa-saa,--the war-song of the Vikings of the north.

Their chant stopped of itself. With blanched faces and trembling knees
they fled, regardless of all discipline, up into the minster tower, and
from the leads looked out northeastward on the fen.

The first rays of the summer sun were just streaming over the vast sheet
of emerald, and glittering upon the winding river; and on a winding line,
too, seemingly endless, of scarlet coats and shields, black hulls, gilded
poops and vanes and beak-heads, and the flash and foam of innumerable
oars.

And nearer and louder came the oar-roll, like thunder working up from the
northeast; and mingled with it that grim yet laughing Heysaa, which
bespoke in its very note the revelry of slaughter.

The ships had all their sails on deck. But as they came nearer, the monks
could see the banners of the two foremost vessels.

The one was the red and white of the terrible Dannebrog. The other, the
scarcely less terrible white bear of Hereward.

"He will burn the minster! He has vowed to do it. As a child he vowed, and
he must do it. In this very minster the fiend entered into him and
possessed him; and to this minster has the fiend brought him back to do
his will. Satan, my brethren, having a special spite (as must needs be)
against St. Peter, rock and pillar of the Holy Church, chose out and
inspired this man, even from his mother's womb, that he might be the foe
and robber of St. Peter, and the hater of all who, like my humility, honor
him, and strive to bring this English land into due obedience to that
blessed apostle. Bring forth the relics, my brethren. Bring forth, above
all things, those filings of St. Peter's own chains,--the special glory of
our monastery, and perhaps its safeguard this day."

Some such bombast would any monk of those days have talked in like case.
And yet, so strange a thing is man, he might have been withal, like
Herluin, a shrewd and valiant man.

They brought out all the relics. They brought out the filings themselves,
in a box of gold. They held them out over the walls at the ships, and
called on all the saints to whom they belonged. But they stopped that line
of scarlet, black, and gold as much as their spiritual descendants stop
the lava-stream of Vesuvius, when they hold out similar matters at them,
with a hope unchanged by the experience of eight hundred years. The Heysaa
rose louder and nearer. The Danes were coming. And they came.

And all the while a thousand skylarks rose from off the fen, and chanted
their own chant aloft, as if appealing to Heaven against that which man's
greed and man's rage and man's superstition had made of this fair earth of
God.

The relics had been brought out. But, as they would not work, the only
thing to be done was to put them back again and hide them safe, lest they
should bow down like Bel and stoop like Nebo, and be carried, like them,
into captivity themselves, being worth a very large sum of money in the
eyes of the more Christian part of the Danish host.

Then to hide the treasures as well as they could; which (says the
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle) they hid somewhere in the steeple.

The Danes were landing now. The shout which they gave, as they leaped on
shore, made the hearts of the poor monks sink low. Would they be murdered,
as well as robbed? Perhaps not,--probably not. Hereward would see to that.
And some wanted to capitulate.

Herluin would not hear of it. They were safe enough. St. Peter's relic
might not have worked a miracle on the spot; but it must have done
something. St. Peter had been appealed to on his honor, and on his honor
he must surely take the matter up. At all events, the walls and gates were
strong, and the Danes had no artillery. Let them howl and rage round the
holy place, till Abbot Thorold and the Frenchmen of the country rose and
drove them to their ships.

In that last thought the cunning Norman was not so far wrong. The Danes
pushed up through the little town, and to the minster gates: but entrance
was impossible; and they prowled round and round like raging wolves about
a winter steading; but found no crack of entry.

Prior Herluin grew bold; and coming to the leads of the gateway tower,
looked over cautiously, and holding up a certain most sacred emblem,--not
to be profaned in these pages,--cursed them in the name of his whole
Pantheon.

"Aha, Herluin! Are you there?" asked a short, square man in gay armor.
"Have you forgotten the peat-stack outside Bolldyke Gate, and how you bade
light it under me thirty years since?"

"Thou art Winter?" and the Prior uttered what would be considered, from
any but a churchman's lips, a blasphemous and bloodthirsty curse; but
which was, as their writings sufficiently testify, merely one of the
lawful weapons or "arts" of those Christians who were "forbidden to
fight,"--the other weapon or art being that of lying.

"Aha! That goes like rain off a duck's back to one who has been a minster
scholar in his time. You! Danes! Ostmen! down! If you shoot at that man
I'll cut your heads off. He is the oldest foe I have in the world, and the
only one who ever hit me without my hitting him again; and nobody shall
touch him but me. So down bows, I say."

The Danes--humorous all of them--saw that there was a jest toward, and
perhaps some earnest too, and joined in jeering the Prior.

Herluin had ducked his head behind the parapet; not from cowardice, but
simply because he had on no mail, and might be shot any moment. But when
he heard Winter forbid them to touch him, he lifted up his head, and gave
his old pupil as good as he brought.

With his sharp, swift Norman priest's tongue he sneered, he jeered, he
scolded, he argued; and then threatened, suddenly changing his tone, in
words of real eloquence. He appealed to the superstitions of his hearers.
He threatened them with supernatural vengeance.

Some of them began to slink away frightened. St. Peter was an ill man to
have a blood feud with.

Winter stood, laughing and jeering again, for full ten minutes. At last:
"I asked, and you have not answered: have you forgotten the peat-stack
outside Bolldyke Gate? For if you have, Hereward has not. He has piled it
against the gate, and it should be burnt through by this time. Go and
see."

Herluin disappeared with a curse.

"Now, you sea-cocks," said Winter, springing up, "we'll to the Bolldyke
Gate, and all start fair."

The Bolldyke Gate was on fire; and more, so were the suburbs. There was no
time to save them, as Hereward would gladly have done, for the sake of the
poor corrodiers. They must go,--on to the Bolldyke Gate. Who cared to put
out flames behind him, with all the treasures of Golden Borough before
him? In a few minutes all the town was alight. In a few minutes more, the
monastery likewise.

A fire is detestable enough at all times, but most detestable by day. At
night it is customary, a work of darkness which lights up the dark,
picturesque, magnificent, with a fitness Tartarean and diabolic. But under
a glaring sun, amid green fields and blue skies, all its wickedness is
revealed without its beauty. You see its works, and little more. The flame
is hardly noticed. All that is seen is a canker eating up God's works,
cracking the bones of its prey,--for that horrible cracking is uglier than
all stage-scene glares,--cruelly and shamelessly under the very eye of the
great, honest, kindly sun.

And that felt Hereward, as he saw Peterborough burn. He could not put his
thoughts into words, as men of this day can: so much the better for him,
perhaps. But he felt all the more intensely--as did men of his day--the
things he could not speak. All he said was aside to Winter,--

"It is a dark job. I wish it had been done in the dark." And Winter knew
what he meant.

Then the men rushed into the Bolldyke Gate, while Hereward and Winter
stood and looked with their men, whom they kept close together, waiting
their commands. The Danes and their allies cared not for the great glowing
heap of peat. They cared not for each other, hardly for themselves. They
rushed into the gap; they thrust the glowing heap inward through the
gateway with their lances; they thrust each other down into it, and
trampled over them to fall themselves, rising scorched and withered, and
yet struggling on toward the gold of the Golden Borough. One savage Lett
caught another round the waist, and hurled him bodily into the fire,
crying in his wild tongue:--

"You will make a good stepping-stone for me."

"That is not fair," quoth Hereward, and clove him to the chine.

It was wild work. But the Golden Borough was won.

"We must in now and save the monks," said Hereward, and dashed over the
embers.

He was only just in time. In the midst of the great court were all the
monks, huddled together like a flock of sheep, some kneeling, most weeping
bitterly, after the fashion of monks.

Only Herluin stood in front of them, at bay, a lofty crucifix in his hand.
He had no mind to weep. But with a face of calm and bitter wrath, he
preferred words of peace and entreaty. They were what the time needed.
Therefore they should be given. To-morrow he would write to Bishop
Egelsin, to excommunicate with bell, book, and candle, to the lowest pit
of Tartarus, all who had done the deed.

But to-day he spoke them fair. However, his fair speeches profited little,
not being understood by a horde of Letts and Finns, who howled and bayed
at him, and tried to tear the crucifix from his hands; but feared "the
white Christ."

They were already gaining courage from their own yells; in a moment more
blood would have been shed, and then a general massacre must have ensued.

Hereward saw it, and shouting, "After me, Hereward's men! a bear! a bear!"
swung Letts and Finns right and left like corn-sheaves, and stood face to
face with Herluin.

An angry Finn smote him on the hind-head full with a stone axe. He
staggered, and then looked round and laughed.

"Fool! hast thou not heard that Hereward's armor was forged by dwarfs in
the mountain-bowels? Off, and hunt for gold, or it will be all gone."

The Finn, who was astonished at getting no more from his blow than a few
sparks, and expected instant death in return, took the hint and vanished
jabbering, as did his fellows.

"Now, Herluin, the Frenchman!" said Hereward.

"Now, Hereward, the robber of saints!" said Herluin.

It was a fine sight. The soldier and the churchman, the Englishman and the
Frenchman, the man of the then world, and the man of the then Church,
pitted fairly, face to face.

Hereward tried, for one moment, to stare down Herluin. But those terrible
eye-glances, before which Vikings had quailed, turned off harmless from
the more terrible glance of the man who believed himself backed by the
Maker of the universe, and all the hierarchy of heaven.

A sharp, unlovely face it was: though, like many a great churchman's face
of those days, it was neither thin nor haggard; but rather round, sleek,
of a puffy and unwholesome paleness. But there was a thin lip above a
broad square jaw, which showed that Herluin was neither fool nor coward.

"A robber and a child of Belial thou hast been from thy cradle; and a
robber and a child of Belial thou art now. Dare thy last iniquity, and
slay the servants of St. Peter on St. Peter's altar, with thy worthy
comrades, the heathen Saracens [Footnote: The Danes were continually
mistaken, by Norman churchmen, for Saracens, and the Saracens considered
to be idolaters. A maumee, or idol, means a Mahomet.], and set up Mahound
with them in the holy place."

Hereward laughed so jolly a laugh, that the Prior was taken aback.

"Slay St. Peter's rats? I kill men, not monks. There shall not a hair of
your head be touched. Here! Hereward's men! march these traitors and
their French Prior safe out of the walls, and into Milton Woods, to look
after their poor corrodiers, and comfort their souls, after they have
ruined their bodies by their treason!"

"Out of this place I stir not. Here I am, and here I will live or die, as
St. Peter shall send aid."

But as he spoke, he was precipitated rudely forward, and hurried almost
into Hereward's arms. The whole body of monks, when they heard Hereward's
words, cared to hear no more, but desperate between fear and joy, rushed
forward, bearing away their Prior in the midst.

"So go the rats out of Peterborough, and so is my dream fulfilled. Now for
the treasure, and then to Ely."

But Herluin burst himself clear of the frantic mob of monks, and turned
back on Hereward.

"Thou wast dubbed knight in that church!"

"I know it, man; and that church and the relics of the saints in it are
safe, therefore. Hereward gives his word."

"That,--but not that only, if thou art a true knight, as thou holdest,
Englishman."

Hereward growled savagely, and made an ugly step toward Herluin. That was
a point which he would not have questioned.

"Then behave as a knight, and save, save,"--as the monks dragged him
away,--"save the hospice! There are women,--ladies there!" shouted he, as
he was borne off.

They never met again on earth; but both comforted themselves in after
years, that two old enemies' last deed in common had been one of mercy.

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."

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