Chapter 10 CARISBROOKE IN THE ELEVENTH CENTURY.

The fleet bore the troops of savage soldiery safely--too safely--across the waters of the Solent, to the estuary formed by the Medina, where now thousands of visitors seek health and repose, and the towers of Osborne crown the eastern eminences. A fleet may still generally be discerned in its waters, but a fleet of pleasure yachts; far different were the vessels which then sought the shelter of the lovely harbour, beautiful even then in all the adornment of nature.

There the Danes cast anchor, and the forces dispersed to their winter quarters. The king and his favourite chieftains took up their abode at Carisbrooke, situate about eight miles up the stream, but above the spot where it ceases to be navigable.

Their chosen retreat was the precincts of the old castle--old even then--for it had been once a British stronghold, commanding the route of 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, fortified it yet more strongly, and made it the chief military post of the island, which, under their protecting care, enjoyed singular peace and prosperity--civilisation flourished, arts and letters were cultivated. The beautiful coasts and inlets were crowded with villas, and invalids then, as now, sought the invigorating breezes, from all parts of the island of Britain, and even from the neighbouring province of Gaul.

The Roman power fell at last, and when the English pirates, our own ancestors, like the Danes of our story, attacked the dismembered provinces of the empire, its wealth and position on the coast made it an early object of attack--happy those who fled early. The Anglo-Saxon chronicle shall tell the story of those who remained.

"AD. 530. This year Cerdic and Cynric conquered the Isle of Wight, and slew many people at Whitgarasbyrg" (Carisbrooke).

The conquering Cerdic died four years after, and his son Cynric gave the 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, within the Roman ramparts of Carisbrooke.

It is needless to say that at that early period our ancestors were heathens, and the mode of their conquest was precisely similar to that we are now describing under another heathen (with less excuse), Sweyn the 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 was St. Martin's Mass, as the festival was then called. The sun was sinking with fading splendour behind the lofty downs in the west, and casting 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 lofty downs, 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, built so solidly that they had resisted every attack of man or of time; while down below lay the ruins of a magnificent villa, once occupied by 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 on that day; he has marked the skill you have displayed in the mimic contests with spear or sword, your skill as a horseman, and he wishes to see whether in actual battle you will fulfil the promise of the parade ground."

"And yet he knows my faith."

"Alfgar," said the old man solemnly, "you must renounce it or die; no mercy will be shown to a Christian on St. Brice's day; that is why the king has chosen it. Think, my son, over all I have told you; you will decide like one who yet controls his senses, and not disgrace your aged father."

"Father, I do think of you," said the poor lad; "at least believe that. I do not grieve for myself. I feel I could easily die for my faith, but I do grieve over the pain I must cause you."

The heart of the old warrior was sensibly affected by this appeal, but not knowing the strength of Christian principle, he could not reconcile it with facts, and he walked sadly away.

But two days, and the dread choice had to be made--the crisis in the life of Alfgar, a crisis which has its parallel in the lives of many around 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, in the growing darkness, feebly illuminated by the light of a new moon. Below him, in the central area, a huge fire burned, whereat the evening meal was preparing for the royal banquet, for Sweyn and his ferocious chieftains were about to feast together.

Escape was hopeless. Even had he not been bound by the promise given to his father, it would have been very difficult. He felt that his motions were watched. The island was full of foes, their fleet occupied the Solent. No; all that was left was to die with honour.

But to bring such disgrace upon his father and his kindred! "Blood is thicker than water," says the old proverb, and Alfgar could not, even had he wished, ignore the ties of blood; nature pleaded too strongly. But there was a counter-motive even there-- the dying wishes of his mother. If his father were Danish, she was both English and Christian.

Before him the alternatives were sharply defined: Apostasy, and his ancestral honours, with all that the sword of the conqueror could give; and on the other hand, the martyr's lingering agony, but the hope of everlasting life after death.

He could picture the probable scene. The furious king, the scorn of the companions with whom he had vied, nay, whom he had excelled, in the exercises of arms, end the ignominious death, perhaps that painful punishment known as the "spread eagle." No, they could not inflict that 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 proofs of its truth? If it were of God, why did He not protect His people? The heathen Saxons had been victorious over the Christian Britons; and now that they had become Christian, the heathen Danes were victorious over them. Was this likely to happen if Christ were really God?

Again Odin and Frea, with their children, and the heroes sung by the scalds, in the war songs which he heard echoing from around the fire at that moment:

"How this one was brave,

And bartered his life

For joy in the fight;

How that one was wise,

Was true to his friends

And the dread of his foes."

Valour, wisdom, fidelity, contempt of death, hatred of meanness and cowardice, qualities ever shining in the eyes of warlike youth.

This creed had sufficed for his ancestors for generations, as his father had told him. Why should he be better than they? If they trusted to the faith of Odin, might not he?

And then, if he lived, when the war was carried into Mercia, he would save his English friends, even although forced to live unknown to them.

"Oh! life is sweet," thought he, "sweet to one so young as I. I have but 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 agony for Christ, so patiently, so calmly. Had Bertric, then, died for nought? He felt as if the martyr were near him, to aid him in this moment, 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 was conquered, and then he walked steadily into the great vaulted room, of Roman construction, which served as the banqueting hall, and took his usual place by his father's side.

Oh, how hollow the mirth and revelry that night! How he loathed the singing, the drunken shouting, the fierce imprecation over the wine cup--the sensuality, which now distinguished his bloodthirsty companions. The very knives he saw used for their meals had served as daggers to despatch the wounded or the helpless prisoner. The eyes, now weak with debauch, had glowed with the maniacal fury of the berserkir 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 marvelled that his hand was yet so steady--his head so clear. This apostate parricide! never would he live to kiss the hand of such a man; better die at once, while yet pure from innocent blood. This his Christianity had taught him.

"Minstrel," cried the fierce king, "sing us some stirring song of the days of old; plenty of the fire of the old Vikings in it."

A strange minstrel, a young gleeman, had been admitted that night--one whose chain and robes bespoke him of the privileged class--and he sang in a voice which thrilled all the revellers into awed silence. He sang of 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 of eternal frost the cowardly and guilty dead mourned their weak and wasted lives. In words of terrific force he painted their agony, where Hela, of horrid countenance, reigned supreme; where the palace was Anguish, Famine the board, Delay and Vain Hope the waiters, Precipice the threshold, and Leanness the bed.

But in the innermost chamber of this awful home was the abode of Raging Despair; and in the final verse of his terrible ode the scald sang:

"Listen to the ceaseless wail,

Listen to the frenzied cry

Of 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 king gazed--absorbed--then he continued:

"There wave on wave of bitter woe

Overwhelms the parricide."

The king started from his seat. He was about to launch his battle-axe through the air in search of the daring minstrel, when the same dread expression of unutterable agony we have before mentioned passed over his face; he trembled as an aspen, and sank, as one paralysed, into his chair, while his glaring eyes seemed to behold some horrid apparition unseen by all beside. The warriors now turned in their wrath to seek the daring or unfortunate minstrel, but he was gone.

Alfgar had seen the apostate in his moment of retributive agony, and he shuddered.

"Better death, far better," he murmured, "than a fate like this. God keep me firm to Him."

The king had by this time recovered his usual composure, but his rage and fury were the more awful that the outbreak was suppressed.

"Sit down, my warriors, disturb not the feast. What if your king has been insulted in his own banquet hall? there are hands enow to avenge him without unseemly tumult. Let us drink like the heroes in Valhalla. Meanwhile let the minstrel be sought and brought before us, and he shall 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 expected gratification of his fierce cruelty. Meanwhile warriors were searching all 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 the spectacle 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 after the 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 Sweyn was 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 brutal tyrant a bowl of rich mead.

He drank, drank until it was empty, then fell back and reposed with an idiotic smile superseding the ferocious expression his face had so lately worn. Meanwhile a hand was laid upon Alfgar's shoulder, and a keen 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 two together. Sidroc seemed annoyed, and led the young prince away, while Anlaf seized the opportunity to whisper to his son:

"My son, I can do no more for thee; I see thou wilt persist in thine obstinacy. I release thee from thy promise given to me; escape if thou canst, or die in the attempt; but bring not my grey hairs to contempt on 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 unhappy and rebellious son. Let him be confined till the morrow. I shall ask leave 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 take leave of his father; but Anlaf stood as mute and passionless as a statue. Sidroc reached a party of the guard, and bade them confine the prisoner in the dungeon beneath the ruined eastern tower.

"Listen to my last words, thou recreant boy; Sweyn will send for thee early in the morning before the assembled host; it will be the day of St. Brice; and even were he not now mad with rage, there would be no mercy for a Christian on that day. Thou must yield, or die by the severest torture, compared with which the death of thy late companion under the archers' shafts was merciful. Be warned!"