CHAPTER V CWICHELM'S HLAWE
It was a wild and lonely spot, eight hundred feet above sea level, the highest ground of the central downs of Berkshire, looking northward over a vast expanse of fertile country, as yet but partially tilled, and mainly covered with forest.
A tumulus or barrow of huge dimensions arose on the summit, no less than one hundred and forty yards in circumference, and at that period some fifty feet in height; it had been raised five hundred years earlier in the history of the country over the remains of the Saxon King Cwichelm, son of Cynegils, and grandson of Ceol, who dwelt in the Isle of Ceol—or Ceolseye—and left his name to Cholsey.
A wood of firs surrounded the solemn mound, which, however, dominated them in height; the night wind was sighing dreamily over them, the heavens were alternately light and dark as the aforesaid wind made rifts in the cloud canopy and closed them again—ever and anon revealing the moon wading amidst, or rather beyond, the masses of vapour.
An aged crone stood on the summit of the mound clad in long flowing garments of coarse texture, bound around the waist with a girdle of leather; her hair, white as snow, streamed on the wind. She supported her strength by an ebony staff chased with Runic figures. Any one who gazed might perchance have thought her a sorceress, or at least a seer of old times raised again into life.
"Ah, he comes!"
Over the swelling ridges of the downs she saw a horseman approaching; heard before she saw, for the night was murky.
The horseman dismounted in the wood, tied his horse to a tree, left it with a huge boar-hound, as a guard, and penetrating the wood, ascended the mound.
"Thou art here, mother: the hour is come; it is the first day of the vine-month, as your sires called it."
"Yes, the hour is come, the stars do not lie, nor did the mighty dead deceive me."
"The dead; call them not, whilst I am here."
"Dost thou fear them? We must all share their state some day."
"I would sooner, far sooner, not anticipate the time."
"Yet thou hast sent many, and must send many more, to join them."
"It is the fortune of war; I have had Masses said for their souls. It might have chanced to me."
"Ha! ha! so thou wouldst not slay soul and body both?"
"God forbid."
"Well, once I believed in Priest and Mass—I, whom they call the witch of 'Cwichelm's Hlawe': now I prefer the gods of war, of storm, and of death; Woden, Thor, and Teu; nay, even Hela of horrid aspect."
"Avaunt thee, witch! wouldst worship Satan!"
"Since God helped me not: listen, Brian Fitz-Count. I, the weird woman of the haunted barrow, was once a Christian, and a nun."
"A nun!"
"Yea, and verily. A few of us had a little cell, a dozen were we in number, and we lived under the patronage—a poor reed to lean on we found it—of St. Etheldreda.[6] Now a stern Norman like thyself came into those parts after the conquest; he had relations abroad who 'served God' after another rule; he craved our little home for them; he drove us out to perish in the coldest winter I remember. The abbess, clinging to her home and refusing to go, was slain by the sword: two or three others died of cold; we sought shelter in vain, the distress was everywhere. I roamed hither—I was born at the village of Hendred below—my friends were dead and gone, my father had followed Thurkill of Kingestun, and been killed at Senlac. My mother, in consequence, had been turned out of doors by the new Norman lord, and none ever learned what became of her, my sweet mother! my brothers had become outlaws; my sisters—well, I need tell thee no more. I lost faith in the religion, in the name of which, and under the sanction of whose chief teacher, the old man who sits at Rome, the thing had been done. They say I went mad. I know I came here, and that the dead came and spoke with me, and I learned mysteries of which Christians dream not, yet which are true for good or ill."
"And by their aid thou hast summoned me here, but I marvel thou hast not perished as a witch amidst fire and faggot."
"They protect me!"
"Who are they?"
"Never mind; that is my secret."
"Thou didst tell me that if I came to-night I should see the long-expected signal to arm my merrie men, and do battle for our winsome ladie."
"Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war. Well, I told thee truly: the hour is nigh, wait and watch with me; fix thine eyes on the south."
Dim and misty the outlines of the hills looked in that uncertain gloaming; here and there a light gleamed from some peasant's hut, for the hour of eight had not yet struck, when, according to the curfew law, light and fire had to be extinguished. But our lone watchers saw them all disappear at last, and still the light they looked for shone not forth.
"Why does not the bale-fire blaze?"
"Baleful shall its influence be."
"Woman, one more question I have. Thou knowest my family woes, that I have neither kith nor kin to succeed me, no gallant boy for whom to win honour: two have I had, but they are dead to the world."
"The living death of leprosy."
"And one—not indeed the lawful child of my spouse—was snatched from me in tender infancy; one whom I destined for my heir: for why should that bar-sinister which the Conqueror bore sully the poor child. Thou rememberest?"
"Thou didst seek me in the hour of thy distress, and I told thee the child lived."
"Does it yet live? tell me." And the strong man trembled with eagerness and emotion as he looked her eagerly in the face.
"They have not told me; I know not."
"Methinks I saw him to-day."
"Where?"
"In the person of a peasant lad—the grandson of an old man, who has lived, unknown, in my forest, and slain my deer."
"And didst thou hang him, according to thy wont?"
"No, for he was brave, and something in the boy's look troubled me, and reminded me of her I once called my 'Aimèe.' She was English, but Eadgyth was hard to pronounce, so I called her 'Aimèe.'"
"Were there any marks by which you could identify your boy? Pity such a race should cease."
"I remember none. And the grandfather claims the lad as his own. Tell me, is he mine?"
"I know not, but there is a way in which thou canst inquire."
"How?"
"Hast thou courage?"
"None ever questioned it and lived."
"But many could face the living, although girt in triple mail, who fear the dead."
"I am distracted with hope."
"And thou canst face the shrouded dead?"
"I would dare their terrors."
"Sleep here, then, to-night."
"Where?"
"In a place which I will show thee, ha! ha!"
"Is it near?"
"Beneath thy feet."
"Beneath my feet?"
"It is the sepulchre of the royal dead."
"Of Cwichelm?"
"Even he."
"May I see it? the bale-fire blazes not, and it is cold waiting here."
"Come."
"Lead on, I follow."
She descended the sloping sides of the mound, he followed. At the base, amidst nettles and briars, was a rude but massive door. She drew forth a heavy key and opened it. She passed along a narrow passage undeterred by a singular earthy odour oppressive to the senses, and the Baron followed until he stood by her side, in a chamber excavated in the very core of the huge mound.
There, in the centre, was a large stone coffin, and within lay a giant skeleton.
"It is he, who was king of this land."
"Cwichelm, son of Ceol, who dwelt in the spot they now call Ceolseye."
"And the son of the Christian King of Wessex—they mingled Christian and Pagan rites when they buried him here. See his bow and spear."
"But who burrowed this passage? Surely they left it not who buried him?"
"Listen, and your ears shall drink in no lies. Folk said that his royal ghost protected this spot, and that if the heathen Danes came where the first Christian king lay, guarding the land, even in death, they should see the sea no more. Now, in the Christmas of the year 1006, aided by a foul traitor, Edric Streorn, they left the Isle of Wight, where they were wintering, and travelling swiftly, burst upon the ill-fated, unwarned folk of this land, on the very day of the Nativity, for Edric had removed the guardians of the beacon fires.[7] They burnt Reading; they burnt Cholsey, with its church and priory; they burned Wallingford; they slew all they met, and left not man or beast alive whom they could reach, save a few most unhappy captives, whom they brought here after they had burned Wallingford, for here they determined to abide as a daring boast, having heard of the prophecy, and despising it. And here they revelled after the fashion of fiends for nine days and nights. Each day they put to death nine miserable captives with the torture of the Rista Eorn, and so they had their fill of wine and blood. And as they had heard that treasures were buried with Cwichelm, they excavated this passage. Folk said that they were seized with an awful dread, which prevented their touching his bones or further disturbing his repose. At length they departed, and each year since men have seen the ghosts of their victims gibbering in the moonlight between Christmas and Twelfth Day."
"Hast thou?"
"Often, but covet not the sight; it freezes the very marrow in the bones. Only beware that thou imitate not these Danes in their wickedness."
"I?"
"Yes, even thou."
"Am I a heathen dog?"
"What thou art I know, what thou wilt become I think I trow. But peace: wouldst thou invoke the dead king to learn thy future path? I can raise him."
Brian Fitz-Count was a brave man, but he shuddered.
"Another time; besides, mother, the bale-fire may be blazing even now!"
"Come and see, then. I foresee thou wilt return in time of sore need."
They reached the summit of the mound. The change to the open air was most refreshing.
"Ah! the bale-fire!!"
Over the rolling wastes, far to the south, arose the mountainous range now called Highclere. It was but faintly visible in the daytime, and under the uncertain moonlight, only those familiar with the locality could recognise its position. The central peak was now tipped with fire, crowned with a bright flickering spot of light.
And while they looked, Lowbury caught the blaze, and its beacon fire glowed in the huge grating which surmounted the tower, whose foundations may yet be traced. From thence, Synodune took up the tale and told it to the ancient city of Dorchester, whose monks looked up from cloistered hall and shuddered. The heights of Nettlebed carried forward the fiery signal, and blazing like a comet, told the good burgesses of Henley and Reading that evil days were at hand. The Beacon Hill, above Shirburne Castle, next told the lord of that baronial pile that he might buckle on his armour, and six counties saw the blaze on that beacon height. Faringdon Clump, the home of the Ffaringas of old, next told the news to the distant Cotswolds and the dwellers around ancient Corinium; and soon Painswick Beacon passed the tidings over the Severn to the old town of Gloucester, whence Milo came, and far beyond to the black mountains of Wales. The White Horse alarmed Wiltshire, and many a lover of peace shook his head and thought of wife and children, although but few knew what it all meant, namely, that the Empress Maud, the daughter of the Beauclerc, had come to claim her father's crown, which Stephen, thinking it right to realise the prophecy contained in his name,[8] had put on his own head.
And from Cwichelm's Hlawe the curious ill-assorted couple we have portrayed beheld the war beacons' blaze.
She lost all her self-possession, she became entranced; her hair streamed behind her in the wind; she stretched out her aged arms to the south and sang—did that crone of ninety years—
"Come hither, fatal cloud of death,
O'er England breathe thy hateful breath;
Breathe o'er castles, churches, towns,
Brood o'er flat plain, and cloud-flecked downs,
Until the streams run red with gore,
From eastern sea to western shore.
Let mercy frighted haste away,
Let peace and love no longer stay,
Let justice outraged swoon away,
But let revenge and bitter hate
Alone control the nation's fate;
Let fell discord the chorus swell,
Let every hold become a hell——
Let——"
"Nay, nay, mother, enough! Thou ravest. Every hold a hell! not at least Wallingford Castle!"
"That worst of all, Brian Fitz-Count. There are possibilities of evil in thee, which might make Satan laugh! Thy sword shall make women childless, thy torch light up——"
"Nay, nay, no more, I must away. My men will go mad when they see these fires. I must home, to control, advise, direct."
"Go, and the powers of evil be with thee. Work out thy curse and thy doom, since so it must be!"