“Return then to her, my lord,” said Cynewulf. “See, they are preparing now to assault the camp; I can hold it for hours, and if you are not here, I can make good terms with our foes; but, if you stay, you but embarrass us: ride out, my liege.”
“And desert my subjects?”
“They will all acquit you: haste, my lord, haste, before they surround the camp, for your fair queen’s sake, or you are lost.”
“Come, my men, we must fly,” said Edwy, sullenly; and he led the way reluctantly to the back of the camp.
The road was partly encumbered with fugitives, but not wholly, as most of them sought the entrenched camp. Cynewulf accompanied him to the gate, where he stopped to give one last piece of advice.
“Fly, my lord, for Wessex at once; lose no time; the best route will be the Foss Way; they will not suspect that you have taken that direction. Ride day and night; if you delay anywhere you are lost.”
“Farewell, faithful and wise counsellor. Odin and Thor send that we may meet again;” and Edwy with only a dozen followers rode out at full speed.
The Mercians had not yet reached that side of the camp, which was concealed by woods which were clear of all enemies, and he rode on rapidly.
“What has become of Elfric, my Leofric?” he said to one of his faithful train.
“I fear me he is dead: I saw him fall in the last struggle.”