I beguiled them as well as I could to leave chatter and spend themselves in healthful work, for it was hay-harvest-tide. On a day early in August, the eleventh day, we bore in our last load of hay. I mind me well of that eleventh of August—sultriest day of all that sultry month: the lift bright as glass, and cloudless altogether until the hour of sun-setting. All day long we laboured in the heat, staying only for our holy offices, the which were soon said under the roof-tree of heaven; and every sister, yea, even the Abbess Algive herself, worked as lustily as the stoutest churl. All was done at early even; the great wains rolled home to the barns, and we passed in thankful procession to our church, and there sang vespers, as well as we might for our parched throats. The evening meal was spread in the hall of the convent: each nun stood beside her stool at the board—thinking, one and all, I trow, of white wheaten bread, and cool cider, and eke of dreamless slumber: at the board's head, the Abbess had but now beckoned to Godmund the Priest that he should ask blessing on our food, when there arose a loud clamour without, such as made even the drowsiest to start, and we heard the voice of the portress, angry and shrill. Then one threw open the door of the hall, and there upon the threshold stood Earl Sweyn Godwinson, and behind him his house-carles, twenty dauntless men of the Danes.
Earl Sweyn stepped within the hall, up to where the Abbess was.
"My lady," he cried, before us all, "here am I. Come thou with me!"
Abbess Algive would not meet his gaze. She strove a little to speak, and a whisper came.
"Lord Earl——"
Sweyn kept his glowing eyes upon her until at last she raised her eyes to his. Then:
"Sweyn, Sweyn," quoth she, and went to him, putting both her hands into his hands. She would have withdrawn them indeed, but he caught her about the body, and laughing a little, bore her shoulder-high from her convent hall.
We sped to our gates, but he was already ahorse, with her before him, holding to him tightly, and his men were springing to their saddles. Out at the gates they streamed, and we after them, into the midst of Leominster town, where they halted a little while. What a sight was there upon Leominster green! Small wonder that the folk thronged to stare! There were the sisters of blessed Benedict, running hither and thither as they were wode, all shrieking, some laughing, most wailing and calling upon all the saints: there lame old Father Godmund, snuffling and chiding all unheeded; in the midst of all, Sweyn the Earl, with his Danish house-carles about him, marking naught, it seemed, but a loose nail in his horse's shoe. Suddenly, one Sister Sexburh, who had been ever greedy after gold and jewels and such light things of the world, cried with a loud voice:
"What, good sisters! bide ye here when the road lies open before you? What of the flock when the shepherdess is fled? Must we ever waste within walls?" And picking up her kirtle with one hand, she set off swiftly down the high-way, with Offa the drunken thane in her wake.
But of all that there befell—to my shame I own it—I heard no more, for now Earl Sweyn set his horse's head towards Hereford, and with him was Algive with her arms about him; and I had no more thought of the Abbey of Leominster, of my holy oath of profession, of the needy I was wont to feed and clothe and the sick I was wont to heal; but I ran until I came up with Sweyn's horse, catching at his stirrup and calling out: