Ward of King Canute; a romance of the Danish conquest

Adelina Liljencrantz Ottilia

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. For the facts of this romance I have made free use of the following authorities: The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle; The Venerable Bede's Ecclesiastical History of England; Ingulph's History of the Abbey of Croyland; William of Malmesbury's Chronicle of the Kings of England; The Chronicles of Florence of Worcester; Lingard's History and Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church, and Lingard's History of England; Dean Spencer's The White Robe of Churches; Collier's Ecclesiastical History of Great Britain; Montalembert's Monks of the West; Thrupp's Anglo-Saxon Home; Hall's Queens Before the Conquest; Kemble's Saxons in England; Ridgway's Gem of Thorney Island; Brayley and Britton's History of the Ancient Palace and Late Houses of Parliament; Loftie's Westminster Abbey and Loftie's History of London; Allen's History and Antiquities of London; Lappenberg's History of England Under the Anglo-Saxon Kings; Sharon Turner's History of the Anglo-Saxons; Knight's Old England; Hume's History of England; Green's Conquest of England; Thierry's History of the Conquest of England by the Normans; Freeman's History of the Norman Conquest

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 06 novembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819947523
• Langue: English

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THE WARD OF KING CANUTE
A Romance of the Danish Conquest
By Ottilie A. Liljencrantz
Acknowledgment
For the facts of this romance I have made free useof the following authorities: The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle; TheVenerable Bede's Ecclesiastical History of England; Ingulph'sHistory of the Abbey of Croyland; William of Malmesbury's Chronicleof the Kings of England; The Chronicles of Florence of Worcester;Lingard's History and Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church, andLingard's History of England; Dean Spencer's The White Robe ofChurches; Collier's Ecclesiastical History of Great Britain;Montalembert's Monks of the West; Thrupp's Anglo-Saxon Home; Hall'sQueens Before the Conquest; Kemble's Saxons in England; Ridgway'sGem of Thorney Island; Brayley and Britton's History of the AncientPalace and Late Houses of Parliament; Loftie's Westminster Abbeyand Loftie's History of London; Allen's History and Antiquities ofLondon; Lappenberg's History of England Under the Anglo-SaxonKings; Sharon Turner's History of the Anglo-Saxons; Knight's OldEngland; Hume's History of England; Green's Conquest of England;Thierry's History of the Conquest of England by the Normans;Freeman's History of the Norman Conquest.
For the translations of Ha'vama'l, etc. , used atthe beginnings of the chapters, I am indebted to Professor RasmusB. Anderson and Mr. Paul du Chaillu.
O. A. L. Chicago, April 1, 1903.
THE WARD OF KING CANUTE
Foreword
There is an old myth of a hero who renewed hisstrength each time he touched the earth, and finally was overcomeby being raised in the air and crushed. Whether or not the Anglesrisked a like fate as they raised themselves away from theprimitive virtues that had been their life and strength, no one cantell; but it has been well said that when Northern blood mingledwith English blood at the time of the Danish Conquest, theAnglo-Saxon race touched the earth again.
Chapter I. The Fall of the House of Frode
Full stocked folds
I saw at the sons of Fitjung,
Now they carry beggars' staffs;
Wealth is
Like the twinkling of an eye,
The most unstable of friends.
Ha'vama'l.
As the blackness of the midsummer night paled, thebroken towers and wrecked walls of the monastery loomed up dim andstark in the gray light. The long-drawn sigh of a waking worldcrept through the air and rustled the ivy leaves. The pitying angelof dreams, who had striven all night long to restore the plunderedshrine and raise from their graves the band of martyred nuns,ceased from his ministrations, softly as a bubble frees itself fromthe pipe that shaped it, and floated away on the breath of thewind. Through a breach in the moss-grown wall, the first sunbeamstole in and pointed a bright finger across the cloister garth atthe charred spot in the centre, where missals and parchment rollshad made a roaring fire to warm the invaders' blood-stainedhands.
As the lark rose through the brightening air togreet the coming day, a woman in the tunic and cowl of a nun openedwhat was left of the wicket-gate in the one unbattered wall. Atrace of the luxury that had dwelt under the gilded spires survivedin her robes, which had been of a royal purple and embroidered withsilken flowers; but the voice of Time and of Ruin spoke from themalso, for the purple was faded to a rusty brown, and the silkenembroideries were threadbare. She struck a note in perfect harmonywith her surroundings, as she stood under the crumbling arch,peering out into the flowering lane.
Stretching away from her feet in dewy freshness, itmade a green link between the herb-garden of St. Mildred's and thehighway of the Watling Street. Like the straggling hedges that werehalf buried under a net of wild roses, red and white, the path washalf effaced by grass; but beyond, her eye could follow thestraight line of the great Roman road over marsh and meadow andhill-top. If grass had gathered there also, during the Anglo-Saxontimes, there were no traces of it now, in the days of EdmundIronside when Canute of Denmark was leading his war-host back andforth over its stones. Between the dark walls of oak and beech, itgleamed as white as the Milky Way. The nun was able to trace itscourse up the slope of the last hill. Just beyond the crest, a pallof smoke was spread over a burning village. Though it was milesaway, it seemed to her that the wind brought cries of anguish toher ear, and prayers for mercy. Shivering, she turned her face backto the desolate peace of the ruins.
“Now is it clear to all men why a bloody cloud washung over the land in the year that Ethelred came to the throne, ”she said. “I feel as the blessed dead might feel should they beforced to leave the shelter of their graves and look out upon theworld. ”
Rising from its knees beside a bed of herbs, asecond figure in faded robes approached the gate. Sister Sexbergawas very old, much older than her companion, and her face was awrinkled parchment whereon Time had written some terriblelessons.
She said gently, “We are one with the dead, belovedsister. Those who lie under the chancel lay no safer than we, lastnight, though the Pagans' passing tread shook the ground we lay on,and their songs broke our slumbers. Let us cease not to give thanksto Him who has spread over us the peace of the grave. ”
The shadows deepened in the eyes of Sister Wynfredaas she turned them back toward the lane, for her patience was notyet ripe to perfect mellowness. She was but little past the primeof her rich womanhood, and still bore the traces of a great beauty.She bore in addition, upon cheek and forehead, the scars of threefrightful burns.
“The peace of the grave can never be mine while myheart is open to the sorrows of others, ” she answered withsadness. “Sister Sexberga, that was an English band which passedlast night. I made out English words in their song. I am in utmostfear for the Danes of Avalcomb. ”
“'They that take the sword shall perish with thesword, '” the old nun quoted, a little sternly. “An Englishman wasdespoiled of his lands when Frode the Dane took Avalcomb. If nowFrode's turn has come— ”
Her companion made a gesture of entreaty. “It is notfor Frode that I am timorous, dear sister, nor for the boy,Fridtjof; it is for Randalin, his daughter. ”
Sister Sexberga was some time silent. When at lastshe spoke, it was but to repeat slowly, “Randalin, his daughter.God pity her! ”
Sister Wynfreda was no longer listening. She hadquitted her hold upon the gate and taken a step forward, strainingher eyes. They had not deceived her. Out of a tall mass of goldenbloom at the farther end of the lane, an arm clad in brown homespunhad tossed itself for one delirious instant. Trailing her robesover the daisied grass, the nun came upon a wounded man lying facedownward in the tangle.
There was little in that to awaken surprise; itwould have been stranger had warriors passed without leaving somesuch mute token in their wake. Yet when the united strength of thefour arms had turned the limp weight upon its back, a cry ofastonishment rose from each throat.
“The woodward of Avalcomb! ”
“The hand of the Lord hath fallen! ”
After a moment the younger woman said in a tremblingvoice, “The whisper in my heart spoke truly. Dearest sister, putyour arm under here, and we will get him to his feet and bring himin, and he will tell us what has happened. See! he is shaking offhis swoon. After he has swallowed some of your wine, he will beable to speak and tell us. ”
It was muscle-breaking work for women's backs, forthough he tried instinctively to obey their directions, the man wasscarcely conscious; his arms were like lead yokes upon hissupporters' shoulders. Just within the gate their strength gaveout, and they were forced to put him down among the spicy herbs.There, as one was pulling off her threadbare cloak to make him apillow, and the other was starting after her cordial, he opened hiseyes.
“Master! ” he muttered. “Master? Have they gone?”
In an instant Sister Wynfreda was on her kneesbeside him. “Is it the English you mean? Did they beset the castle?”
Slowly the man's clouded eyes cleared. “The Sisters—” he murmured. “I had the intention— to get to you— but I fell— ”His words died away in a whisper, and his eyelids drooped. SisterSexberga turned again to seek her restorative. Sister Wynfredaleaned over and shook him.
“Answer me, first. Where is your master? And youngFridtjof? And your mistress? ”
He shrank from her touch with a gasp of pain. “Dead,” he muttered. “Dead— At the gate— Frode and the boy— Theraven-starvers cut them down like saplings. ”
“And Randalin? ”
“I heard her scream as the Englishman seized her—Leofwinesson had her round the waist— they knocked me on the head,then— I— I— ” Again his voice died away.
Sister Wynfreda made no attempt to recall him.Mechanically she held his head so that her companion might pour theliquid down his throat. That done, she brought water and bandages,and stood by, absent-eyed and in silence, while Sexberga found hiswounds and dressed them. It was the older woman who spokefirst.
“The fate of this maiden lies heavy on your mind,beloved, ” she said tenderly; “and I would have you know that myheart also is sorrowful. For all that she is the fruit of darkness,it was permitted by the Lord that Randalin, Frode's daughter,should be born with a light in her soul. It was in my prayers thatwe might be enabled to feed that light as it were a sacred lamp, tothe end that in God's good time the spreading glory of itsbrightness might deliver her from the shadows forever. ”
Staring before her with unseeing eyes, SisterWynfreda nodded an absent assent. “To me also it seemed that theLord had led her to us. . . I keep in mind how she looked when shecame that first morning. . . a bit of silk was in her hand, whichFrode had given her for a present, because a golden apple waswrought upon it. She came on her horse, with the boy Fridtjof, tooffer us bread from the castle kitchen if we would agree to te