Brian Fitz-Count. A. D. Crake
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."