Brian Fitz-Count. A. D. Crake
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—
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