 12. England, Part II. The Anglo-Saxon Invasion. Historical note. After the withdrawal of the Roman garrisons, the Britons were harassed by the Scots, Irish, on the west, and the Picts, Gales, on the north. Against these Morodos they struggled bravely, but in vain. There was also trouble from the east, for bands of Teuton pirates from the western shores of the Baltic were coming down upon them. At length, as tradition says, the Britons invited these pirates to come to aid them in repelling the other invaders, and promised them the island of Thanedd as their reward. The newcomers were known as Saxons, Angles and Jews. They were pagans, fierce in battle, but they also cultivated the ground. In their homeland, those who were relatives often clustered together in a tiny village. Each family had its house lot and garden, but around the little village extended land known as the Mark, or Boundary. This was divided into pasture, woodland and tillage, and was used in common. The people were of four ranks, Athels, or nobles, Chels, or free landowners, Letts, or Tenons, who paid rent by service, and slaves, who were generally captives taken in war. Each village had its governor and its council, the letter comprising all the freemen. Each hundred, or collection of, villages, had also a governor and council, and the whole tribe had a king, and the council, Wheaton, who elected the king annually. These invaders soon pushed on from Thanedd and conquered lands for themselves in the new country. Early in the sixth century they appeared to have suffered a series of defeats at the hand of some British chief, perhaps the king Arthur of the later legends, which checked their advance for nearly fifty years, but by the close of the century all Britain was in their hands, and the former inhabitants were killed, enslaved, or driven into the mountains of Wales. In 827 the various small kingdoms formed by the invaders were united by Egbert, king of Wessex, and from this monarch every English king, except the four Normans, has traced his descent. THE LEGENDS OF KING ARTHUR The legends of King Arthur in his court probably have this basis in fact, that in the fifth or sixth century there arose a brave British chieftain or general, who defeated the Teutonic invaders in a number of pitched battles, was betrayed by his wife, and met his death in conflict with a near kinsman. The memory of this chieftain was kept alive by the Britons in their mountain fastnesses of Wales, and in the course of centuries spread to the continent, where the courtly poets of France and Germany remolded the legends, making of the rude warrior chief an ideal knight of the middle ages, chivalrous, generous, and without fear. They reflect therefore the life and ideals of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, rather than of the time in which King Arthur is supposed to have lived. THE EDITOR King Arthur receives the round table, by Thomas Mallory. In the beginning of Arthur, after he was chosen king by adventure and by grace, most of the barons knew not that he was Uther Pendragon's son, until Merlin made it openly known. Then many kings and lords made great war against him for that cause. But Arthur overcame them all. For the most part of the days of his life he was ruled much by the council of Merlin. So it befell that King Arthur said unto Merlin, My barons will let me have no rest until I take a wife, and I will take none but by thy council and by thy advice. It is well, said Merlin, that you take a wife, for a man of your attainments and nobility should not be without a wife. Now, is there any that you love more than another? Yay, said King Arthur. I love Guinevere, daughter of King Leo de Grants of the land of Camilliard. This damsel is the most valiant and the fairest lady that I know living, or that ever I could find. Sir, said Merlin, as for her beauty and fairness, she is one of the fairest on earth. But if you did not love her so well as you do, I should find you a damsel of beauty and of goodness that should like you and please you. But when a man's heart is set, he is loath to change. That is truth, said King Arthur. Then Merlin sent forth unto King Leo de Grants of Camilliard and told him of the desire of King Arthur to have Guinevere for his wife. That is to me, said King Leo de Grants, the best tidings that I ever heard, that so worthy a king of prowess and noblesse will wed my daughter. And as far as my lands I would give him all if I thought it would please him. But he hath lands enough and needeth none. But I shall send him a gift which shall please him much more, for I shall give him the round table, which his father, Uther Pendragon, gave me. When it is full complete there are one hundred and fifty knights. And hundred good knights I have myself, but I lack fifty, for so many have been slain in my days. And so Leo de Grants delivered his daughter Guinevere unto Merlin and the round table with the hundred knights. And they rode freshly with great royalty till they came nigh unto London. When King Arthur heard of the coming of Guinevere and the hundred knights with the round table, he made great joy and said openly, this fair lady is passing welcome unto me, for I have loved her long, and therefore there is nothing so much to my liking. And these knights with the round table please me more than great riches. And in all haste the king prepared for the marriage and the coronation in the most honourable fashion that could be devised. Now Merlin, said King Arthur, go thou and find me in all this land fifty knights which are of most prowess and worship. Within a short time Merlin had found knights to fill twenty and eight sieges, but no more he could find. Then the bishop of Canterbury was fetched, and he blessed the sieges with great royalty and devotion, and there set the eight and twenty knights. And when this was done Merlin said, fair sirs, you must all arise and come to King Arthur to do him homage, for he will then have the better will to maintain you. And so they arose and did their homage. And when they were gone Merlin found in every siege letters of gold that told the knight's name that had sat therein. But two sieges were void. What is the cause, said King Arthur, that there be two places void in the sieges? Sir, said Merlin, there shall no man sit in those places but him that shall be of most worship. But in the siege perilous there shall no man sit but one, and if there be any other so hardy as to sit there he shall be destroyed. And therewith Merlin took King Pelinor by the hand and put him in the place next the two sieges and the siege perilous. And he said before them all, this is your place, for you are most worthy to sit therein of all who are here. There at Sir Gawain was passing Enveus, and said to Gehares his brother, Yonder Knight is put to great worship, and this grieveeth me sore, for he slew our father King Lot. Therefore I will slay him. You shall not do it, said Gehares, at this time. For I now am but a squire, but when I am made Knight I will be avenged on him. Therefore, brother, it is best that you suffer till another time, that we may have him out of the court, lest we should trouble this high feast. I will do as you say, said Gawain. There the King established all his knights, and those that had no lands he made rich in lands. And he charged them never to do outrage or murder, and always to flee treason. Also by no means to be cruel, but to give mercy unto him that asked it, upon pain of forfeiture of their worship and lordship of King Arthur forevermore, and always to give succor unto ladies, damsels, and gentlewoman, upon pain of death. Also that no man make battle in a wrongful quarrel, either for any law or this world's goods. Unto this oath were all the knights of the round table sworn, both old and young, and every year were they sworn anew at the Feast of Pentecost. And then when all this was done, the high feast was made ready, and King Arthur was wedded at Camelot, unto Dame Guinevere in the Church of Saint Stevens, with much solemnity. Galahad and the Quest of the Sangriaal by Thomas Mallory. Footnote. Sangriaal, or Holy Grail, that is Holy Cup, the cup from which Jesus Christ is supposed to have drunk at the Last Supper, and in which Joseph of Arimathea is said to have caught the blood that fell from Jesus's side when he was on the cross. End of footnote. Part One. At the vigil of Pentecost, when all the fellowship of the round table were come again unto Camelot, and the tables were set ready to the meat, there entered into the hall a fair gentlewoman on horseback. She had ridden fast, for her horse was all beswetted. There she alighted, and came before the king and saluted him. Then she straightway went unto Lancelot and said, Sir Lancelot, I salute you, and require you to come with me into a forest nearby. And though Sir Lancelot wist not why he should go with that lady, he bade his squire saddle his horse and bring his arms, and then departed he with the lady. And they rode until they came into a forest where they saw an abbey of nuns. And they entered, and a fair company of nuns came and led Sir Lancelot into the abbess's chamber and unarmed him. And presently therein came twelve nuns that brought with them Galahad, a youth so fair and so well made that in all the world men might scarcely find his match, and all those ladies wept. Sir, said they all, we bring you here this child, whom we have nourished, and we pray you to make him a knight, for of a more worthy man's hand may he not receive the order of knighthood. And Sir Lancelot beheld the young squire, and saw him seemly and pure as a dove, and he thought he had never seen so fair a man. Then said Sir Lancelot, come if this desire of himself. He and all they said, yea. Then shall he, said Sir Lancelot, receive the high order of knighthood to-morrow at the celebration of the high feast. And on the morrow at dawn he made him knight, and said, God make you a good man, for beauty faileth you not. Part 2 Now fair sir, said Sir Lancelot, will ye come with me unto the court of King Arthur? Nay, answered Galahad, I will not go with you at this time. Then Lancelot departed from the Abbey, and so he came unto Camelot in the forenoon on Whitsunday. And when the king and all the knights were come unto the round table, the barons aspired in the sieges all about, written with golden letters, the names of those knights to whom the sieges appertained. And thus they went, until they came to the siege perilous, where they found letters which said, 454 winters after our Lord Jesus Christ ought this siege to be fulfilled. Then all they said, this is a marvellous thing. And Sir Lancelot said, It seemeth to me this siege ought to be fulfilled this same day, for this is the feast of Pentecost, after the 454th year, and if it would please all parties, I would rather that none of these letters were seen this day, till he has come that ought to achieve this adventure. Then ordained they that a cloth of silk be brought to cover these letters in the siege perilous. Then the king bade them hasten unto dinner, but at that time in came a squire, and said unto the king, Sir, I bring you marvellous tidings. There is beneath here at the river a great stone floating above the water, and therein I saw sticking a sword. The king said, I will see that marvell. So all the knights went with him to the river, and there they found a stone floating, and therein stuck a fair sword, and in the pommel thereof were precious stones skillfully set in letters of gold. Then the barons read the letters which said, Never shall man take me hence, except him by whose side I ought to hang, and he shall be the best knight in the world. When the king had seen the letters, he said unto Sir Lancelot, Fare, sir, this sword ought to be yours, for I am sure you are the best knight in the world. Then Sir Lancelot answered very soberly, Truly, sir, it is not my sword. Also, sir, would ye well I have not the hardy-hood to set my hand to it, for it belongs not at my side. Also, he who assaith to take the sword in phaelith shall receive such a wound by that sword that he shall not be whole long afterward. And I tell you that this same day shall the adventures of the Sangreal begin. Then King Arthur bade Sir Gawain assay to take the sword, and though Sir Gawain was loath to do so, yet because King Arthur commanded him, he took the sword by the handles, but he could not move it. Then there were no more that durst be so hardy as to set their hands thereto. So then Sir Kay, the steward, bade King Arthur and all the knights go into dinner, and every night knew his own place and set him therein. And when all the sieges were fulfilled, save only the siege perilous, anon there befell a marvellous adventure. All the doors and windows of the palace, shut by themselves, yet the hall was not greatly darkened, and thereupon they were all astonished. Then an old man came in, clothed all in white, and there was no knight new whence he came. And with him he brought a young knight in red arms, without sword or shield, save a scabbard hanging by his side. And these words the old man said unto Arthur, Peace be with you, Sir. I bring here a young knight, who is of King's lineage, and of the kindred of Joseph of Arimathea, whereby the marvels of this court and of strange realms shall be fully accomplished. Then the old man made the young man on arm himself, and anon he led him to the siege perilous, beside which sat Sir Lancelot. And the good men lifted up the cloth, and found their letters which said thus, This is the siege of Galahad, the High Prince. Sir said the old knight, What ye well, that place is yours. Then Galahad sat down in that place, and he said to the old man, Sir, you may go your way, for you have done all that which you were commanded to do. So the good man departed. Then all the knights of the round table marveled greatly, that Sir Galahad dare sit there in that siege perilous, when he was so tender of age. And they said, This is he by whom the Sangriel shall be achieved, for never before sat one in that siege, but that harm came to him. Then came King Arthur unto Galahad, and said, Sir, you are welcome, for you shall move many good knights unto the quest of the Sangriel. Then the King took him by the hand, and went down from the palace to show him the adventures of the stone. Sir, said the King unto Galahad, Here is a great marvel as ever I saw, for right good knights have assayed and failed. Sir, said Galahad, that is no marvel, for this adventure is not theirs but mine. For the surety that I should achieve this sword, I brought none with me, for here by my side hangeth the scabbard. And none, he laid his hand upon the sword, and lightly drew it out of the stone, and put it in the sheath. Sir, said the King, a shield God shall send you. Now, said Galahad, have I that sword that some time was Balans, and he was a passing good man of his hands. And with this sword he slew his brother Balan, and that was great pity, for he was a good knight, and either slew other. And with this sword Balan smote my grandfather, King Pellis, a dolerous stroke of which he is not yet whole, nor shall be till I heal him. Then the King aspired a lady riding on a white palfrey toward them. And she saluted the King and Queen, and said, Sir King, Nacey and the Hermit, send a thee word, that to thee shall befall the greatest worship that ever befell King in Britain. And I say you wherefore, for this day the Sangreal shall appear in thy house, and feed thee and all thy fellowship of the round table. So she departed, and went the same way that she came. Now, said the King, I am sure shall all ye of the round table depart on this quest of the Sangreal, and never shall I see you again whole together. Therefore I will see you all together in the meadow of Camelot to joust, that after your death men may tell how such good nights were wholly together such a day. So at the King's request they accorded all, and took on their harness, and went to the jousting. And the Queen was in a tower with all her ladies to behold that tournament. Now all this moving of the King was for this intent, that he might see Galahad proved. For the King deemed, he should not lightly come again unto the court after his departing. So Galahad put upon him his helm, but chilled would he take none for no prayer of the King. Then Galahad dressed him in the midst of the meadow, and began to break spears marvelously, so that all men wondered. For he there surmounted all other nights, and within a while he had defiled many good nights of the round table, save Twain, that were Sir Lancelot and Sir Percival. Part 3 And then the King and all his estates went home unto Camelot, and so went to even song in the great minster, and so after that to supper. Then anon they heard such cracking and crying of thunder, that they thought the place would fall apart. In the midst of this blast entered a sunbeam, clearer by seven times than ever they saw day, and the grace of the Holy Ghost shone upon them all, and all those nights appeared fairer than ever they had before. And for a great while no night could speak a word, and they looked at each other as though they were dumb. Then there entered into the hall the Holy Grail, covered with white Samite, but none could see it, nor who bore it. And then was all the hall filled with good odours, and every night had such meats and drinks as he best loved in this world. And when the Holy Grail had been born through the hall, it departed so suddenly, that they wished not what became of it. Then had they all breathed to speak, and the King yielded thanks to God for his good grace that he had sent them. Now, said Sir Gawain, we have been served this day with what meats and drinks we liked best, but one thing disappointed us. We could not see the Holy Grail, it was so carefully covered. Wherefore I will make hear my vow that tomorrow I shall begin the quest of the Songriel, that I shall seek a twelve month and a day, or more if need be, and never shall I return again unto the court till I have seen it more openly than it hath been seen here, and if I may not succeed, I shall return again knowing that it is not the will of our Lord that I see it. When those of the round table heard Sir Gawain say this, they arose for the most part, and made such vows as he had made. Anon as King Arthur heard this, he became very sad, for he wished well that they might not gain say their vows. Alas, said King Arthur to Sir Gawain, ye have bereft me of the fairest fellowship and the truest of knighthood that were ever seen together in any realm of the world. For when they depart, hence, I am sure they shall never all meet more in this world, for many shall die in the quest. I have loved them as well as my life, wherefore it grieves me right soar, the departing of this fellowship, and therewith the tears fell in his eyes. Part 4 When the queen, ladies and gentle women, wished these tidings, they had such sorrow and heaviness of heart, that no tongue might tell it. For those knights had held those ladies in honour and love. And many of these ladies that loved knights would have gone with their lovers, had not an old knight come among them in religious clothing, and he spake to all, and said, Fair lords, who have sworn in the quest of the Sangriaal, thus send Athnesia and the Hermit word to you, that none lead lady nor gentle woman with him in this quest. For I warn you plain, he that is not clean of his sins shall not see the mysteries of our Lord Jesus Christ. And for this cause they left those ladies and gentle women. And as soon as it was day the king arose, for he had no rest all that night for sorrow. And he and the queen and all the fellowship of the round table went unto the minster to hear their service. Then after the service was done, the king would wid how many had undertaken the quest of the holy grail. Then they found by tale one hundred and fifty, and all were knights of the round table. And then they put on their helms and departed, and there was weeping and great sorrow. The Passing of Arthur by Alfred Lord Tennyson. At length King Arthur was sorely wounded in battle, and he knew that the time had come for him to die. Cast my sword Excalibur into the water of the lake. He bade Sir Bedivere, his companion, and come again and tell me what you have seen. And when Sir Bedivere had thrown the sword, there rose from the water an arm, clad with white Samite. The hand took the sword, and both sword and arm vanished beneath the waters. Then came close to the shore a barge, and in it was King Arthur's sister, with two other queens, and many fair ladies in waiting. The editor. Then murmured Arthur, place me in the barge. So to the barge they came. There those three queens put forth their hands and took the king and wept. But she that rose the tallest of them all, and fairest laid his head upon her lap. And loosed the shattered cask and shaved his hands, and called him by his name complaining loud, and dropping bitter tears against a brow striped with dark blood, for all his face was white, and colorless and like the withered moon, smote by the fresh beam of the springing east. And all his greaves and quizzes dashed with drops of onset, and the light and lustrous curls that made his forehead like a rising sun, high from the deus throne, were parched with dust, or clotted into points and hanging loose, mixed with the nightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shattered column lay the king, not like that Arthur who with lance and rest, from spur to plume a star of tournament, shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Serbedevir. Ah, my lord Arthur, wither shall I go. Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, when every morning brought a noble chance, and every chance brought out a noble night. Such times have been not since the light that led the holy elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole round table is dissolved, which was an image of the mighty world, and I the last go forth companionless, and the days darken round me and the years among new men, strange faces, other minds. And slowly answered Arthur from the barge, the old order changes, yielding place to new, and God fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself, what comfort is in me. I have lived my life, and that which I have done, may he within himself make pure, but thou, if thou shalt never see my face again, pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats, that nourish a blind life within the brain, if knowing God they lift not hands of prayer, both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell, I am going a long way with these thou seest, if indeed I go, for all my mind is clouded with a doubt, to the island valley of Avallion, where falls not hail or rain or any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly. But it lies deep meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns, and bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, where I will heal me of my grievous wound. So said he, and the barge with oar and sail moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan, that fluting a wild carol ere her death ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood with swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere, revolving many memories, till the whole looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, and on the mirror the wailing died away. But when that moan had passed forever more, the stillness of the dead world's winter dawn amazed him, and he groaned, the king is gone. And therewith all came on him the weird rhyme, from the great deep to the great deep he goes. Where at he slowly turned and slowly cloned, the last hard footstep of that iron crag. Then smarked the black hull moving yet and cried, he passes to be king among the dead, and after healing of his grievous wound he comes again, but if he come no more, oh me, be yon dark queens in yon black boat, who shrieked and wailed, the three were at we gazed on that high day, when clothed with living light they stood before his throne in silence, friends of Arthur, who should help him at his need. Then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint, as from beyond the limit of the world, like the last echo born of a great cry, sounds as if some fair city were one voice, around a king returning from his wars. There at once more he moved about and cloned, even to the highest he could climb, and saw, straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, or thought he saw, the speck that bear the king, down that long water opening on the deep, somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go, from less to less, and vanish into light, and the new sun rose, bringing the new year. End of section 13. Section 14 of England. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marcela Collado. The World Story, Volume 9, England. Edited by Eva Marche-Tapan. Section 14. The Stolen Boys. About 590 by Sir Clemens R. Markham. The interest which Pope Gregory the Great felt in Britain is said to have been due to his seeing some English captives in the Forum at Rome to be sold as slaves. According to the chronicler Edward, he had these boys baptized, and in later years when St. Augustine was sent to England as a missionary, the boys were sent with him. Such is the foundation of the romance from which the following extract is taken. The Editor. Part 1. The three boys threw themselves on the grass, and in a minute they were fast asleep. They had not seen a long black boat, like some foul snake, creeping steadily down the wharf to its confluence. It was flat-bottomed and of unusual being, but low in the water. The crew consisted of half a dozen villainous-looking gruffians, sent by a vessel anchored at the mouth of the Humber to Calcarea on pretence of selling some cloths, and the return cargo was to be stolen. They were sea thieves and cutthroats. As they descended the wharf, they saw for their own civil fishing on the bank and suspecting no evil. Four of them sprang on shore, and in a minute the lads were bound hand and foot, gagged and thrown into the bottom of the boat. A few minutes afterwards, they came inside of the confluence, just in time to see Coleret, Porlor, and Heroric throw themselves on the grass by the opposite shore. There is stealthily the boat was brought under the bank. Coleret and Heroric were overpowered and bound before they were half awake. Porlor, however, was aroused by the footsteps. He had time to draw his knife and make a desperate resistance, gashing the arm of one ruffian and stabbing another in the hand. But he was quickly overpowered. His two companions were thrown into the bottom of the boat, were to their horror and astonishment. They found for their own little sievel in light-light. Porlor was put across a thwart and given an unmerciful beating with a thong of leather, which in the dialect of the cutthroats was called the Loron. His young friends were nearly mad with the impotent rage as they heard the ferocious blows being showered on the child's body. At last he was thrown, bruised and bleeding, among the rest. But bound as they were, they could do nothing to console or help him. It all seemed like a horrible dream. They scarcely knew where they were and could do nothing but sob as they were roused at intervals from a half-dosing state. Meanwhile the boat went swiftly down the oars with an ebb tide. The villains kept a sharp lookout on either bank, and when half a mile above Hemingboro they saw a boy bathing and swimming out boldly as the tide had slackened. Thinking no harm, he caught hold of one of the boat's oars to rest. In an instant his wrists were seized. He was bound, hand and foot, and thrown into the bottom of the boat with the others. It was us with. He was quite naked, and one of the crew threw a coarse cloth over him. The grief of the rest of the kidnapped children was redoubled at the sight of their beloved friend, the fearless son of good love. He was as little able to understand what had really happened as they were, yet he tried to console them. He whispered that he would look out for chances of escape and reminded them that at least they had the consolation of being together. All through the night, the boat kept her course down the Humber, with the tide against them during the first watch, but with a fair wind. Off the mouth of the trend, the seething stopped and made fast, until they were joined by another smaller boat coming down that river, which went alongside and passed another boy on board. In spite of their misery and discomfort, the kidnapped children were fast asleep while the boat was waiting in the mud, and they were aroused by another little boy being thrown amongst them. He said that he was Godric, the son of Alto, a thing of the Guiness. He seemed to be a smallest civil. After a time, the seven forlorn children went fast asleep as the boat was rode down the Humber and finally came alongside the vessel whose leader had sent the thieves on their kidnapping errand. This vessel was small, but suited for sea voyages, and with much more being than was allowed for an ordinary fighting ship. Her lines were indeed very unlike those of a dragon ship of the Vikings, for she was built primarily for trading, and in the second place for piracy were never the opportunity offered, and she had a capacious hold, now half full of merchandise. She was lying off Ravensport, the site of the Roman station of Praetorium under the shelter of Waikil, the Ocellum Promontorium, now spurned head. The seven boys were bundled out of the boat and into the ship's hold like so many bales of goods, and the boats were turned adrift. They had been stolen. The vessel then got underway and hoisted her single sail, shaping a southerly course with a strong breeze which soon freshened into a gale. The stolen children nestled together and slept long, for they were quite worn out with anxiety and grief, to which three of them had added a day of intense excitement and fatigue. They awoke quite famished and were giving some food, but throughout the voyage the poor children were treated with vile inhumanity, half starved, and exposed to the seas which washed into the vessel during the gale. They could not have survived many more days of such treatment. Fortunately the wind was fair, and the voyage had been a short, though a stormy one, when the piratical thieves anchored in the port of Amfleet. It is not known whence they came, nor what land was disgraced by having bred them, nor does it matter. They were paid and employed by a traitor with more humanity, but as little conscience as themselves. Part 2 In his northern trade, Mistakan employed agents to bring him valuable furs and amber, and even unicorns horns, from the countries bordering on the Baltic, tin from Cornwall, and occasionally he paid sea thieves to kidnap young children from the north, who fed high prices in the markets of Rome and Constantinople. He had a shed at Ambaltus, where he received his northern merchandise, preferring that little port to the neighboring harbor of Gesuriakum, Bologna, because a Frankish officer from whom his gifts had secured him favor and protection, was stationed there with a strong body of disciplined followers. Mistakan had been several days at Ambaltus. His merchandise was stored in the shed, and his servants had packed horses ready to convey its southward along the old Roman road, when the vessel from the Humber anchored off the port and landed its cargo. The crew was composed of such dangerous villains that the merchant induced the Queen Regent's officer to post armed men behind his shed, before he ventured to comfort with them. Besides a pile of beaver skins and other commodities, the seven boys were put on shore. They stood on the Sunday beach, close together, the little ones clinging to the three bigger lads. All were wet through, and looked half-starved and miserable. Pornoir and Little Godric were clinging to Colred. Siebel had his arms run for their ear, and airy it nestled under the sheltering arm of the son of Guthloth. Oswith the fearless, who was nearly naked with only a bit of sackcloth around his loins, alone maintained a defiant look. There was no longer any sign or token of berserker rage among the rest. The wily Greek came forward to look at them. He saw their great beauty and their value, but he also saw from their appearance that they had been cruelly treated. The sea thieves demanded the payment he had promised, so much for each. But they are not in good condition, he demonstrated. The price must be reduced. A livid mark on Pornoir's neck caught his quick-searching eye. He pulled down the boy's shirt and saw that his back was covered with wheels, the effect of the cruel flogging he had received. Damaged goods, he said. Then, turning to his servants, he told them to take the boys into the shed and to close and feed them. I will only pay half price for damaged goods, he repeated, turning to the spokesman of the sea thieves. That little white pat used his knife on one of us, the man answered, and the flogging served him right. What is that to me, my friend? Rejoined Mr. Khan in a low but irritating voice. You can please yourselves about damaging your goods, that is your business, but you cannot expect to get the same price as if they were not damaged. If a heavy bale was to fall and hurt one of you, of course it is open to you to cut and slash it if you please, and it may serve the bale right, that I do not dispute. But you must not expect the same price in the market as if the bale had not been cut and slashed. I can only pay you half price for the boys. The kidnappers could not follow the subtle argument of the Greek, but they began to look dangerous. The merchant retreated back a few paces. Pay us what you promised, thou cursed cheat, or we will kill thee on the boys, too. He retreated rapidly back and cried out for help, as the villains drew their long knights and rushed towards him. In another minute they were all overpowered and thrown on the ground by the Frankish guard. The officer came forward and suggested capital punishment, offering to hung them in a row. It is the just and proper treatment, said Mr. Khan, of those who try to extort full price for damaged goods from unwary traders. As soon as your laudable proposal has been carried into effect, I shall have pleasure in requesting your lordship to accept the large sum which the criminals refused. Another hour had not passed before 20 bodies were hanging from the branches of the stunted pines round Ambaltus, and before the Frankish officer had an additional reason for extending his protection to the wily merchant. Mr. Khan set out with his train of laden horses and attendants early next morning, following the old Roman road by Amiens, soison and attune to Lyon. The boys had been warmly clothed and fed and had slept well, nor were they preventing from having a morning bath in the sea. Two pack horses were allowed them so that they could ride by turns while the rest trotted along on the roadside. They found that they could understand much that was said to them by the servants, and when Mr. Khan spoke the Frank dialect slowly and clearly, they could comprehend the meaning of nearly every word, for in those days there was little difference between the Frankish and other Totonic dialects. The journey across Picardii restored the health and strength and revived the spirits of the English lads. This limestone track, with its skin fresh air, arable surface and well water meadows, reminded them of the country-run calcarea. At Semarobriva, or Amien, they rested, and Mr. Khan was allowed to store his goods against the wall of the town and to encamp there by the Roman Gate of the Twins, whereon was carved Romulus and Remus suckled by the wolf. This was the first opportunity the boys had found of collecting their thoughts and holding a serious consultation. Even now they scarcely understood what had happened or where they were. Their first words, as they sat among the bales, were words of grief at the sorrow and anxiety of their relations, who would search high and low through the woods, until at last they gave them up as dead. Alka will give them hope and courage, said Col Red. She will know that we are together, and she knows that we shall return, for we are to die in battle, fighting for a righteous cause, and that cannot be anywhere but in England. She is praying now that the gods will watch over us and her prayers are ever answered. These words, spoken with an air of conviction, comforted the rest. We must suffer, said Oswith, but that does not signify when we have such good reason for hope. Poor Lord has already suffered more than the rest of us. At that, I rejoice, said Poor Lord, whose little head had been teeming with ideas suggested by Mithras and the bull ever since he gazed on the sculpture at York. Through suffering, we shall all win the rewards prepared for the true and brave, and the thong those needering thieves call Lorum is no word of bane to me, but of good luck. Nay then, said Herorix, smiling, we must fasten it to thy name and call thee Poor Lord Lorum. Let it be so, answered the imaginative child, it will remind me and all of us in the happy years that will surely come when this darkness has been turned to light, that we had to pass through suffering, to happiness, and home. Part 3 The form of Trajan was as yet uninjured. The noble row of buildings with colonnades, including the once well-stored library, still surrounded the large paved court, and in the centers stood the beautiful column with its elaborate representation in bronze of the events of the Deishon War. Here important markets were held, and on one autumn morning of the year 588, several merchants, who had lately arrived, exposed many things for sale. A bundles of people resorted thither to buy. Mistacon had his wares arranged under a colonnade. He invited attention in a cringing attitude, seeking for purchasers. The English boys stood in a group quite naked, their eyes full of tears of shame and rage. Among the first people who stopped in front of them was a thin and emaciated Ecclesiastic, accompanied by another who was younger and of stouter build. The older man had an aquiline nose and hollow cheeks, bright piercing eyes which had assumed a gentle expression, and a somewhat commanding air. It was Gregory himself, then aged 44, and his secretary Peter. Mistacon bowed low before them. Gregory looked at the boys with admiration, and turning to the merchant, he remarked that their bodies were white, their countenance is beautiful, and their hair very fine. Mistacon bowed still lower. From what country or nation were they brought, he asked. The reply was that they came from the island of Britain, whose inhabitants are of that personal appearance. Are these islanders Christians, or are they still involved in the errors of paganism, was the next inquiry. He was told that there were pagans. Fetching a deep sigh, he exclaimed. Alas, what pity that the author of darkness is possessed of men of such fair countenances, and that being remarkable for such graceful aspects, their minds should be void of inward grace. What, he demanded, is the name of that nation. The kidnapper replied that there were called Angles. Right, said Gregory, for they have angelic faces, and it becomes such to be coheirs with the angels in heaven. What is the name he proceeded of the province from which they are brought? The reply was that the name of the province was Deira. Truly are they Deira, said he, withdrawn from Roth, and called to the mercy of Christ. How is the king of that province called? Mystical said that his name was Ella, and Gregory, alluding to it as he walked on, observed to Peter that Hallelujah, the praise of God the creator, must be sung in those parts. Gregory was on his way to have an interview with the pope, and on coming into his presence, he proposed that ministers should be sent to the English by whom they might be converted to Christ, and in his impulsive way, he declared that he was ready to undertake that work himself by the assistance of God. Pelagius replied that he was willing to grant his request, but that the people would never consent to his departure. Gregory then entrusted to Peter the business of purchasing some of these Angles, and sent him back to the market. The boys did not understand a word of the remarks made by Gregory and by other passersby who stopped to question Mysticon. Presently, two patricians, advanced in years, followed by clients and attendants, walked into the forum, and stopped at the colonnade where the lads were still exposed. After gazing upon them, Simacus Boethius observed to his companion Panthronius that he had never seen such perfect symmetry and beauty except in ancient sculpture. The works of Praxitellus are looked upon with disapproval by our good friends the priests, so I would feign ornament my villa with living forms that would be worthy of the chisel of the most gifted sculpture of antiquity. Panthronius expressed his concurrence and his desire to possess at least two of the young slaves. Calling Mysticon aside, they made various inquiries and concluded bargains by which Simacus Boethius became the owner of Colred and Portlor, while Oswed and Seville fell to Panthronius. Their clients were instructed to complete the arrangement and pay the purchase money and the great men passed on. No sooner were they out of sight than Peter arrived breathless to carry out the instructions of his master. Mysticon was delighted, for his troubles and anxieties were fully repaid. Peter agreed to his terms and the athelion Eririk, for Eririk and Godric became the property of the Deacon Gregory. The boys were thus relieved from their shameful and degrading position which they had looked forward to with such horror and dismay. Their clothes were restored to them and they were told by signs to accompany the servants of the patricians and Peter, the road of all being the same, namely that leading to the Silian heel. Casting looks of vindictive hatred at Mysticon, they gladly accompanied their new acquaintances. End of section 14. This recording is in the public domain, recording by Marcela Collado. Section 15 of England. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Marcela Collado. The World Story, Volume 9, England, edited by Eva Marche Tapin. Section 15. How King Edwin of Northumbria became a Christian, 627, by Mrs. Elizabeth Randall-Charles. The maiden Freyda's wife and her little brother Leofric, whose home was near the mouth of the Elbe, have been captured by the Britons and sold to the success of Britain as slaves. It is Freyda's wife who is supposed to be telling the following story. The editor. I was given to the lady Edelberga, the young queen of King Edwin of Northumbria, his second wife but lately married and coming to the north from her royal home in Kent, to be her thrall. Leofric was still employed outside intending the royal herds. I might have been considered fortunate. The young queen was not unkind to me, and some of the ladies admired my cleverness and my blue eyes and abundant flaxen hair. But it seemed to me they petted me as they would a bird or a favorite hound, and my pride revolted from their caresses more than from the blows and rough words to which I had been used before. Therefore, before long, I was allowed to pursue my duties unnoticed and unreproved. I learned to embroider and to play on the lyre, but no threats or persuasions could induce me to sing. Should I profane the ballads of my people learn from my mother's lips by singing them to divert these strangers? My worst care, however, began to be for Leofric. His disposition, always gentler than mine, seemed to me to be losing all its fire, and I feared his very soul was growing to be a slave's soul. Over this I shed many bitter tears. Again, at King Edwin's court, I came in contact with the Christian religion. There was a tall monk from Italy residing in the palace, Bishop Paulinus. He had come from Kent with the queen. He preached often concerning the faith and also spoke in private to anyone who would listen. But at first he did not make many converts. And I, God forgive me, hated the very name of Christianity. Was it not the religion of my captors? Had not the treasures of which we, the widow and fatherless, had been robbed, been accepted on Christian altars? Moreover, the life of those monks seemed to me basin and manly. I hated the sight of their smooth, long, foreign faces and their shaven crowns. It seemed to me a miserable, slavish existence for a man to glide in and out of houses clothed in a long robe like a woman's and droning out prayers and psalms. I thought the stern virtues of my people nobler than these. There was great pomp at King Edwin's court. The great hall and the queen's chamber were hung with tapestries. The floors were strewn every day with fresh rushes. The state dresses of the queen and her ladies were of silk from Asia, embroidered with gold, and both men and women were jeweled necklaces and bracelets. The king, wherever he went, was preceded by standard bearers flaunting the royal banners or the tufa, the globe fixed on the spear. We were seldom long in one residence, but traveled from one royal house to another for the king to administer justice and receive tribute. We, the attendants, commonly went before and hung the walls with silken hangings and strewn the floors with fresh rushes and set the tables with the golden and silver cups and dishes in readiness for the arrival of the court. Wherever we went, the Archbishop Paulinus had a Christian chapel where he and the good Deacon Jacob, the beautiful singer from Rome, chanted the church services. And Edwin the king made his offerings to the old Saxon gods of our fathers in the temples, to Thor the Thunderer, to Freya the beautiful, and to Woden the all-father, our royal forefather and chief of all the gods. At length, a change came over the court. We were living at the royal city on the Derwent, near the remains of an older city, Derwentiona, built by the Romans. I liked to be there. It was a kind of bitter comfort to me to see the ruins of the old palaces and temples. I thought, why should we make such an adieu? Not only men, but nations pass away. The palaces of yesterday will be folds for flocks tomorrow. It was the Holy Easter Tide, and Paulinus and the Christians had made such festival as they could in a hidden place. On that day, the king also sat in all his pomp to receive an embassy from the king of the West Saxons. Suddenly, we in the queen's apartment heard wild war cries and a confused shouting from the hall where the king sat. And soon after, the king himself appeared at the door, white and silent, and then a body was born out covered. And we were told that the supposed ambassador was an assassin who had been sent armed with a poison dagger from the West Saxon king, and that to save his lord's life, Lila, the brave nobleman, had made a buckler of his own body, receiving the fatal thrust in his breast. Then all the men had fallen on the assassin till he sunk, pierced with many wounds. The king was saved, but Lila, the noblest, was slain. That night, the young queen bore her first child, the princess Eon Flet. The king gave thanks to the gods of his fathers, to Freya and to Woden, but Paulinus rendered praise to Christ and told the king how he had prayed to him for the queen's safety. The king was moved, and vowed that in case God would grant him victory over the perfidious West Saxon king, he would forsake his old gods and, henceforth, serve and worship none but Christ. The victory was given. King Edwin forsook Woden and Thor, but would not hastily adopt a faith of which he knew so little. But the babe Eon Flet was baptized with 12 others of the royal family, and among those was the royal maiden Hilda, daughter of the king's nephew, who afterwards became the great Abbas Hilda. At that time, Pope Boniface sent letters to the king exhorting him to become a Christian, and to his illustrious daughter, the queen Edelberga, admonishing her to labor for her husband's conversion. With the letters came presents. To the king a shirt, a golden ornament and a garment of ansida. To the queen a silver hand mirror and a gilt ivory comb. To me these seem presents little suitable to the dignity of the Northumbrian royalty, but from many expressions dropped by the Italian monks, I gathered that at Rome they looked on us Saxons as a kind of rude and simple savages, as if not being able to read like the monks out of books made men to be children, or prevented their knowing the world and the wisdom of the aged. For I deem that men were before books, and that those who can speak wise words of their own are wiser than those who can read or copy the wise words of other men. It was not the Pope's letters which fixed King Edwin's purpose. It happened thus. Paulinus had been permitted to preach in public, and the Deacon Jacob to chant his psalms. For many days the king had withdrawn much from his usual amusement and occupations, and had wondered moodily about the chambers, or sat alone, evidently pondering many things in his heart. At length his resolution was taken, and he summoned the Widen Adjemot, the great council of the wise men of his nation, to consider the great question of religion, to the end that if they were also of his opinion they might altogether be cleansed in Christ, the fountain of life. Leofric was there among those that kept the door. What he saw and heard moved him much. The king sat there in his oaken chair of state, with the elders of his people gather around him, and Paulinus beside him. Not one among them, but had heard of the new doctrine. King Edwin asked them one by one what they thought of it. He sought not the clamourous consent of a crowd, but the council of each one. Coffee, the chief of the priest of the old Saxon gods, answered at once. O king, consider what this is that is now preached to us. For I verily declare to you that the religion which we have hitherto professed has as far as I can learn no virtue in it. For none of your people has applied himself more diligently to the worship of the gods than I, and yet there are many that receive more favours from you, and are more prefer than I, and are more prosperous in all their undertakings. Now if the gods were good for anything they would rather forward me, who have been more careful to serve them. It remains therefore that if upon examination you find these new doctrines which are now preached to us better and more efficacious, we immediately receive them without any further delay. But another of the king's chief men spoke more nobly and said, The present life of man, O king, seems to me in comparison of that time which is unknown to us, like to the swift flight of a sparrow through the room where you sit at supper in winter with your chief men and counsellors, and a good fire in the midst whilst the storm of rain as no prevail abroad. The sparrow flying in at one door and out at the other, while he is within is safe from the wintry storm, but after a short space of fair weather his straight way vanishes out of your sight into the dark winter once he came. So this life of man appears for a short space, but of what went before or what is to follow we know nothing. If therefore this new doctrine contains something more sure it seems justly to deserve to be followed. Then the Italian priest arose at the king's command and spoke. A strange contrast with his audience. They stalwart enlarging form with bearded faces and fair hair with broad open brows and honest wandering blue eyes. He tall and spare with a slight stoop in his otherwise majestic figure robed in a long black robe girded with a cord, his dark brilliant eyes flashing from the thin palette face like a visible triumph of the spirit over the flesh. The contrast in his speech yet greater. The easy flow of his persuasive eloquence bore the hearts of the wise men with him. And when he ceased, Coiffe the priest exclaimed that he had long known there was nothing in what they worshipped, but now he plainly saw that in this teaching were life and salvation and eternal happiness. Therefore he counseled that those unprofitable alters where he had so long served in vain should be destroyed with fire and proposed that he himself should be the first to light the pile. This took place in the council hall and not long afterwards before we heard what had passed to their amazement the people beheld Coiffe the priest violating all the customs of our race armed with imprisely arms and mounted on one of the king's war horses right forth from the palace to the ancient temple of wooden the old father and thawed the thunder at Godmonhum. There he launched the spear into the sacred precincts desecrating them by the act. No vengeance followed, wherefore all the people said the gods were nothing and Coiffe and his men destroyed the temple and all its buildings with fire. The flames burned on into the night. Leofric and I gazed on the dread and natural glare from a field near the palace while he told me what he had heard in the council hall. See, fright as white, he said, no avenging fire from heaven meets those fires of defiance from earth. Little cause have we to mourn the downfall of the gods who tempted my father on by false ogres and then abandon him to death and ask to bondage. Yet, I said, it seems to me ignoble to serve or to forsake the gods for such reasons. What king would care for loyalty such as this Coiffe's, measured only by a calculation of his gifts? If the prince is good and our prince, I deem we should follow him not only to victory but to exile. If wood and anthor are true gods and our gods, the fathers and lords of our race, though all the world abandoned them, I would not. The life of the gods is long and the eyes see far into the past and the future, and how should I dispute their wisdom or their will? But, answered Leofric, if, as the other councilor said, any light is in this new faith which would show us what is beyond this life, it would be worth watching. For truly, to us here, this short space of life is no warmth and light at all of this thing but cold and wintry as the world outside. That may be, I said. To me it matters little. What to me is any world beyond unless our father and our mother are there. But as to the reasonings of this Coiffe, I despise them in my heart. These are not the motives which move any brave man, any man with free blood in his veins. They are the wretched calculations of a hireling or a slave. Great changes followed. All the nobility after being instructed were baptized with the king and many of the common sort on Easter day in the spring over which has been built since then the church at York. The national temples were destroyed. The national religion was changed. End of section 15. This recording is in the public domain. Recording by Marcela Collado. Section 16 of England, read for LibriVox.org. The baptism of Edwin by Ford Maddox Brown, English painter 1821 to 1893. Painting page 94. It is easy to imagine how the subjects of King Edwin regarded his conversion to the new religion and the picture well illustrates their feelings. The scene is laid in a little wooden church whose site is now marked by York Minster. The walls evidently thrown up in haste to serve for the baptism are made of own smooth boards through which small windows have been roughly hewn. The Romans have long since left the country, but through these openings the remains of some of their beautiful architecture may be seen. The pavement too is a piece of Roman mosaic contrasting oddly enough with the crudeness of the wooden church such as the setting. The central figure is that of King Edwin kneeling in a baptismal font of stone. The priest stands by him and pours from a bottle the water of baptism. The Bishop Paulinus is raising his hand in benediction. The feelings of the surrounding group are reflected upon their faces. The queen to whose influence it is said the king's conversion is partly due kneels in prayer, her waiting woman beside her. Her little daughter clasping her mother's hand gazes upon this strange scene with wondering eyes. It is easy to see that from those of his subjects who make up the little congregation the king will receive small sympathy. His warriors will have nothing to do with the unknown god. A mother who is evidently amused by the proceeding is holding up her baby that it may not miss the sight. The little incensebearers are seizing the opportunity for a bit of merriment over the difficulty of making the incense burn. Saved for the queen and her attendant they all look upon this baptism either as a bit of folly or as a mere whim on the part of their lord and yet with a shade of superstitious fear. Lest after all there might be something in this strange new teaching. End of section 16. This recording is in the public domain. Section 17 of England. Read for LibriVox.org by Sandra Schmidt. England Part 3. The Coming of the Sea Rovers Historical Note In the ninth century England was harassed by wild bands of viking sea rovers who came in their dragon-proud ships as the Saxons themselves had come three centuries before, looted to sea coast towns and made off with their plunder. Finding the booty plentiful and the danger slight they returned again and again in ever-increasing numbers. These raiders came from Norway, Sweden, Denmark and the islands of the Baltic, but the English called them all Danes. In 866-68 they overpowered East Anglia and the southern part of Northumbria. Convince, churches and schools were swept away, the inhabitants were almost exterminated and it began to seem probable, as many of the English thought, that the land would someday be given over to wild beasts. In 871 Alfred the Great came to the throne. After a desperate struggle with the invaders, he succeeded in checking their advance and giving them the land they had already conquered, he set to work to up-build and strengthen the remainder of his kingdom. In a few generations the Danes had become loyal Englishmen and by the middle of the 10th century all England, Scotland and Wales paid homage to Edgar, the Anglo-Saxon King. But evil times were ahead. The weak rule of Edgar's successor, at the Red the Unready, tempted the Vikings to pay England another visit. And in 980 Olaf Trigveson of Norway and Swain, Svent of the Forked Beard of Denmark, invaded the country. After 34 years of alternate warfare and bribery, 10 to 48,000 pounds of silver a year were paid to the invaders. Swain was acknowledged King of England. He was succeeded by his son Knute, or Knute, a wise ruler, who conciliated the English by his moderation. The mighty Scandinavian Empire, which he had held together with a firm hand, fell to pieces after his death. And in 1042 the English crown reverted to the Anglo-Saxon line in the person of Edward the Confessor, who was succeeded in 1060 by Harold, Earl of Wessex. End of section 17. This recording is in the public domain. Section 18 of England. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The World's Story, Volume 9, England, edited by Eva March Tappin. Section 18. The Fall of the Monastery at Croyland, 870. By Eva March Tappin. The year 870 was a hard one for the Saxons. Then first they began to realize that the Danes had other plans in mind than the gathering of booty, however rich, and sudden onslaughts, however fierce. Early in the autumn the enemy fell upon eastern Marcia. Its king made no effort to protect it. It is possible that the Welsh on the eastern boundaries were keeping his hands more than full, but Algar, a brave young elder man, assembled the men of the district. Some 300 and all, 200 more joined him, a great acquisition, for they were led by a monk named Tolius, who before entering the Monastery of Croyland had been a famous soldier. More men came from the neighboring country and they went out bravely to meet the foe. At first they were more successful than they had dared to hope. For three Danish kings were slain, the Pagans fled, and the Saxons pursued them to their very camp. There was great rejoicing for only the coming of night had prevented them from overpowering the invaders. Weary and happy they returned to their own camp, but they were met by the report of the spies that many hundreds of the heathen, perhaps many thousands, were pouring into the camp of the enemy. It was hopeless the battle in the morning would not be a victory, but a slaughter. Should they die or not, when early morning came, three-fourths of Algar's enthusiastic army had fled in the darkness of the night. The others waited, what should they do, who could blame them if they too had fled, for death only could lie before them. But no, in the earliest gray of the morning Algar and Tolius went about from group to group of the weary men, many of them suffering from the wounds of the previous day and tried as best they might to strengthen and encourage them. The cowards who were among us have stolen away in the darkness like foxes said Algar, shall we be like them, shall your children tell to their children's children that their fathers were among those that dared not meet the foe? What will the heathen say? They will say these runaways who slink out of sight at the very thought of a dame, there is nothing in them to fear, and fiercer than ever before they will fall upon our homes. We perish if we flee, we can buck perish if we stay, shall we stay? Shouts of renewed courage arose, then there was quiet for the soldier monk. Tolius had raised his hand for a silence, he stood erect with them covered head looking straight into the faces of his soldiers. Do you see the tauncher? said he. That is in memory of the crown of thorns, of him who died for us. Will you refuse to die for him? You fight the destroyers of your homes, the murderers of your wives, but more than this, you fight the bands of the heathen for the Christian faith. The Lord of hosts is with us, our God is a God that can work miracles. He will not desert his people, trust in God and fight like demons, said the monk of many battlefields. The light grew less dim, a weird chanting was heard in the Danish camp. It was the song of glory of the dead kings recounting their many victories, their joy in the fight, and the seeds of honor that they would hold in the halls of Odin. All the long bright day they would find happiness in battle, saying the harpers, and when the night came the Valkyries would heal their wounds, and they would feast with the gods. Then came a wild lamentation for the bodies of the kings that had been placed on the ground with their weapons and bracelets, and the first earth was being sprinkled upon them. Quickly a great mount was built up, and the Danes rode around it seven times slowly and with downcast faces. Then came again the weird chanting, men should see this mount, and as long as there were any heroes or children of heroes on the earth they would point out the burial place of the great kings and do them honor. Meanwhile the priests in the camp of the Saxons were praying at the altars that they had built and the men who were that day to fight for their land and for their god were receiving the sacrament, most of them for the last time. The peace of god be with you, said the priest, as the men went forth to the battle that was to help to bring that peace. Algar showed himself a skillful commander. He arranged his little company of heroes in the shape of a wedge. Tolius at the right, the sheriff of Lincoln at the left, while he and his men were in the center. The men on the outside held their shields so close together that they made a wall impenetrable through the spears of their foes. The men behind them held their spears pointed out far beyond the men on the outside who could use only their swords and pikes to protect themselves. This was a new scheme. The Danes rushed upon the little phalanx with fearful war cries, but the Saxons stood firm. The horses were afraid of the bristling spear points. The swords of the Danes and their heavy battle axes were as harmless as feathers for they could not come near enough to use them. They beat the air in their rage, but the little invincible phalanx, obedient to the word of the leader, turned now right, now left, and wherever it went there were wounds and there was death. The Danes were angry, the shadows were fast lengthening, and still the handful of Saxons drove them hither and thither as they would. The Danes made one more attack, then turned to flee as if routed. This was the supreme test of the Saxons and they failed. They could fight like heroes, but when they saw their foes running from them, they ran after them like children. The commands and entreaties of their leaders were alike, powerless. There was no more order or discipline. Every man was for himself. Madly, they pursued. The enemies fled, but when the Saxons were crossing a little hollow, then in the flash of a sword, the Danes came together, phased about, divided to the right, to the left. The brave little company was surrounded, and about three of the heroes of the morning survived. These three had hurriedly consulted almost between the blows of their adversaries. Croyland said they, we can do nothing here. Let us warn the convent. And as the shadows grew darker they fled. They took three different directions that there might be three chances instead of one to warn the monks. Croyland was no common monastery. Its rich fertile lands were separated from the country about them by four rivers. Given by a king, Ethel Bald of Mercia, it had been a favorite of other kings, and many and rich were the gifts that had been showered upon it. One king had sent to it his purple coronation robe to be made into priestly vestments, and the curtain that had hung at the door of his chamber, a marvelous piece of gold embroidery picturing the fall of Troy. Ethel Bald of Mercia, in his persecuted youth, had been guarded and instructed by Saint Goethlach, and it was over his grave that the grateful people had reared this convent. A visit to his tomb would heal the sick, and it was so favorite a resort for the suffering that according to the legend more than 100 were often healed in one day. Pilgrims returning from Croyland were free from tolls and tribute throughout the Mercian kingdom. It was also a kind of city of refuge, and any accused man who had made his way to the monks of Croyland was safe from his pursuers as long as he remained within the space bounded by the farther shores of the four rivers. Jewels and golden vessels and other gifts, costly and rare, were brought to this convent by its visitors until it had become one of the richest spots in the land. It was the hour of matins, and the monks were assembled in the convent chapel when the door was thrown open, and there stood three young men exhausted with hunger, wounds, and their toilsome journey through the forest over the stony hills and across soft wet meadowland. Accustomed as the monks were to the coming of fugitives, they saw that this was something different. The blessing of God be with us, and may God save us, murmured the abbot as he left the altar. What they had feared had come upon them. The abbot, the adore, took command. The treasures of the convent must be saved. They were God's property, not theirs. With a burning eagerness to do what might be their last service, the monks set to work. Gold and silver and brazen vessels were dropped into the well. The table of the great altar was covered with plates of gold, and that too was sunk into the water, but it was too long to be hidden, and so it was returned to the chapel. Chalices of gold hanging lamps set with precious stones and hung with heavy chains of gold, jewels, monuments, charters were piled into the boats, and then most reverently they bore to the landing place the embalmed body of St. Guthlach and his little well-worn salter. Rowed to the south and hide yourselves and our treasures in the wood of Ankarik, said the abbot as quietly as if this were but an everyday proceeding. We will return swiftly, said the rowers, seizing the oars. You will not return, said the abbot in a tone of command. Then we stay to dive with you, they said firmly. The abbot stood unmoved. I command you to go. The convent will be raised. You who are young and strong must rebuild it. The church needs you. The land needs you. Go. Not a man stirred. I and the old and helpless and the little children of the choir will remain. Perchance the heathen will spare those who offer no defense. Said the abbot with a faint smile. The young men only turned their steps toward the convent gate. Back, thundered the abbot, I am your superior. Where are your vows of obedience? I command you to leave me. Do you dare to disobey? Slowly, one by one, the young men entered the boats and grasped the oars. The abbot raised his hand in blessing. He gazed after them with one long, tender look as they rode away silently and with downcast faces. Then he hid his face in his robe and sobbed, my children, oh, my children. It was only a moment that he could give to his grief for much remain to be done. He and the old men and the little boys of the choir put on their vestments. The service of the day was completed. They had partaken of the consecrated bread. Then they sang, old men with faint, quivering voices and little boys with their fearless trouble. High rose the chant as the courage of God filled their hearts. I will not be afraid for 10,000 of the people that have set themselves against me round about, and again I will lay me down in peace and take my rest, for it is thou, Lord, only that maketh me dwell in safety. The safety was not the safety of this world. For long before the assault was ended, the Danes had burst in at the open doors. For a moment, even they were awed by the calmness of the old men and the unearthly sweetness of the voices of the children. But it was only a moment. Where are the jewels of the altar? cried one. They have hidden them from us. Kill them, torture them. Where are your treasures? he shouted, striking down with one blow. The abbot as he knelt at the altar. It seemed hardly the twinkling of an eye, before every monk had fallen, and the marble floors were slippery with their blood. The little children were cut down as ruthlessly as the old men. Habba, one of the sons of Lode Brog had struck down the prior. Beside the dead man knelt one of the children of the convent, weeping bitterly. Yarrow Sidrock raised his sword to kill the child, the only one in the convent that still lived. Kill me if you will, said the boy, looking fearlessly up into his face. You killed my prior. The Danes swept his sword within a hand's breadth of the boy's face, but the child did not flinch. The Saxon Cub is brave enough to be a dame, muttered the yarrow. Get out of that thing and I'll make a Viking of you. And he tore off the boy's convent dress, and threw over him his own tunic. Stay by me whatever happens, he whispered, and keep out of that man's way. And he pointed to Habba, who was fiercely swinging his axe around his head in a mad fury of slaughter. There are no more living, take the dead, shouted Habba, and with bars and plows, shares and maddox they broke open the tombs of the saints, piled up their embalmed bodies, and set fire to them. Many days later, while the ruins of Croyland were still smoking, a half-damaged child wearing a Danish tunic painfully climbed the hill from the river. The monks who had departed at the abbot's command had made their way back. They were toiling to extinguish the flames and searching for the maimed bodies of their friends that they might bury them reverently as martyrs for their faith. They were too sadly busy to notice his approach until the child fell with a sob into the arms of the one that was nearest and fainted. The monks gathered around in wonder. It is little brother Tergar, said one in amazement. It is his spirit come back to help us and guide us, said another. Could it be a while if Satan whispered one fearfully? The heathen had many dealings with evil spirits. The little boy opened his eyes. I am brother Tergar, he said, and then he closed them in exhaustion. After he had eaten and rested, he told his story. The slaughter of Croyland had been repeated at the convents of Peterborough and Eli. Timidly the child had followed his captors, fearing them but fearing the woods with their wild bees. As the Danes were crossing the river, they lay between them and the convent of Huntington, driving the great herds of cattle from the convents that they had already devastated. Two of the heavy wagons of spoils were overturned in a deep place in the stream. Yarl Sidrock was in command and in the confusion. His little captives softly crept away and hid in the reeds that boarded the river. Hardly daring to breathe, he lay there till even his straining ears could not hear a sound of the Danes on their march. Then he sprang up and ran to the woods a day and a night. The child of ten years was alone in the forest with only the wild beasts about him. No wonder that the monks looked upon him reverently as upon one to whom a miracle had been shown. Through the wilderness over rough, stony ground in the midst of briars and nettles, over long stretches of meadowland so soft that the water oozed out around his naked feet as he went on the child ran. On, on, would it never end? Had he always been running, he hardly knew. It was like some terrible dream. At last he began to come to places that he recognized. It was his own river. It was not wide. He swam across. That was all. A sad confirmation of his story came a day later when the hermits of Angkorig, with whom the monks of Coilent had taken refuge with their convent treasures, came to implore their aid in burying the dead of Peter Borough. The wolves were upon them, they said, would their brothers help to give them Christian burial. Never satiated with blood and pillage, the Danes pressed on into the land of East Anglia. Neither forest nor morasses delayed them in their terrible work. Soon they were in the very heart of the kingdom. End of Section 18. This recording is in the public domain. Section 19 of England. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The world's story, Volume 9, England, edited by Eva March Tappan. Section 19. King Edmund and the Wolf, 870, by the abbot, Alfred, translated by Eva March Tappan. Edmund, the Blessed King of the East Angles, was a man of wisdom and worth, and one who, by his constant practice of the most sterling virtues, was ever showing honor to God Almighty. He was of a humble disposition, but nevertheless so firm in the right that nothing would induce him to swerve from the path of duty. He was ever mindful of the precept, if thou hast been made a ruler, do not exalt thyself, but abide among men as one of them. He was as a father to the poor and widowed, and with earnest desire he led his people in the ways of righteousness. He curved the power of the wicked and ever abode in the true faith. Now it came to pass that the Danes came with the fleet and ravaged the land and murdered the people as their custom is. The leaders of this fleet were Hengwar and Habba, brought together by the power of Satan himself. Hengwar went to the east with his ships, and Habba remained in the north, overcoming the people with the utmost cruelty. It was in the year when Alfred, who afterwards became the famous King of the West Saxons, was 21 years of age that Hengwar landed on the coast of the East Angles. And the aforesaid Hengwar stole upon the land like a wolf and slew its people, men, women, and harmless little children, and brought disaster upon the innocent Christians. Then he sent an envoy to King Edmund with this message. Hengwar, our leader, a brave man, and a winner of victories on land and sea, is already ruler of many tribes. He proposes to winter here with his army, and he bids you to divide with him straightway whatever treasure you may have hidden and whatever your forefathers were possessed of, if you care for your life for you have no power to resist him. King Edmund called the bishop who was nearest him, and they consulted together what reply they should make to the cruel Hengwar. The bishop was alarmed and so feared for the life of the king that he advised yielding to Hengwar's demand. The king was silent and looked down at the ground. Then he turned to the bishop and gave to him a right royal answer. Oh, my bishop, he said, my poor people are maltreated, and if they may only enjoy their own country, I should rather fight together with them and fall in the fight. And the bishop said, oh, my beloved king, your people have been slain. You have no troops to lead into battle. The pirates are at hand, and unless you either yield to them or else save yourself by flight, you will soon be a dead man. Then said King Edmund, hero as he was, my beloved people, together with their wives and children, are slain in their beds by these pirates. Never have I tried to save myself by flight, and now I would rather die for my country than flee. God knows that whether I live or die, I will never cease to love and worship him. Then he turned to the messenger and fearlessly said, you deserve to be put to death, but I will not defile my hands with your foul blood. I am a follower of Christ, and if God decrees that I be slain by you, I am ready to obey his will in all gladness. Therefore, do you go at once and say to your cruel leader, Edmund yields to Christ his Savior alone, and he will never yield to Hengwar, the leader of the heathen pirates. The messenger hastened on his way and on the road he met the savage Hengwar with all his host. He gave him the answer of Edmund, and Hengwar turned straightway to his followers and said, do you let all else go and watch for this king who despises the command of your leader? Him do you seize and bind? And when Hengwar drew near to Edmund's hall, there stood the king. He had cast aside his weapons, for in his heart was the thought of Christ, who forbade Peter to take up arms. Then Edmund was bound fast and insulted and beaten with rods, and after this he was tied to a tree by many cruel bonds. He was beaten again, but between the blows of the whips he called ever upon Christ to come to his aid. This made the anger of the heathen even more furious, and they began to hurl their spears at him until his body like that of Saint Sebastian was as bristling with spears as is the body of a hedgehog with quills. When the wicked Hengwar saw that the noble king would not deny his Savior, he ordered that he should be beheaded, and even while he was calling upon Christ, they dragged him to his death. They cut off his head at a blow, but his soul went happily away to Christ. A man who was watching close by heard all this and afterwards told it just as I have reported it here. The pirates took the head of the king with them and threw it into the brambles, and then they went back to their vessels, and the people of the country came upon the body of their king, and they mourned for him, and they grieved because they could not find his head to place with his body. The man who in his hiding place had seen the cruel deeds of the pirates declared that they had cast the head away somewhere in the forest, and the people sought through briars and brambles in the hope that they might come upon the lost head of their Lord. Now through the goodness of God a great marvel had come to pass, for God had sent a wolf to guard the head day and night and protect it from the other wild beasts of the forest. The followers of King Edmund knew nothing of this, but they sought through and through the wilderness calling to one another every now and then. Hello, comrade, where are you? Behold, the head of the king called and replied, Here I am, here, here. Whenever anyone called the head answered until, by means of this, the men who were searching came upon it, and then they saw a miracle indeed for their lay, a gray wolf, and between his four paws lay the head. The wolf was fiercely hungry, but by the command of God he touched not the head, but defended it from all other beasts. The men gazed in wonder and thanked Almighty God for his marvels, then they took up the holy head of the king and bore it home with them, and the wolf followed after just as if he were tamed until they had come to the town, then he turned back and returned to the woods again. End of Section 19. This recording is in the public domain. Section 20. What the Boy Alfred saw in London. By Eva March Tappan. In the year 853 Alfred, the young prince, then a lad of five, was sent to Rome by his father, and, on his way, passed through London, which he had never before visited. The editor. London was coming into view. They could see a great wall running along the river front and going back from it up the gentle slope. Here and there was a building, tall enough to peer over the top of the wall. There were many boats anchored in front of the city. At the angles of the wall were turrets for the archers, and places of shelter for the sentinels, where they were always watching and fearing lest the Danes should return, for it was only two years since they had sacked and burned a part of that city. They came nearer and nearer, and soon, the little company of boats left the Thames and went north at the fleet, which was then a rapid stream, flowing down not far west of the city wall. It was not so easy now, for the strong current was against them. But the rowers were strong too, and it was not long before they were ready to land the prince and his followers near Ludgate, a massive door in the great wall that surrounded the city. There were many people waiting to receive them. The priests from St. Paul's Church, that was not far away. The commanders of the soldiers who were in the various strongholds. And all the other great men of the city. Some came on foot and some came on horseback, and a few came in heavy wagons with wide, clumsy wheels. And all of them, no matter how they had come, were eager to do honour to the son of the king. There were women whose eyes were full of tears, as they looked at the tiny blue-eyed, fair-haired child, who was so far from his mother, and who was so soon to make the great journey by sea and by land. And there were crowds of boys swarming up the posts and on top of the low-roofed cottages. Every one of them wished that he was the son of the king, and was going to make a wonderful journey. Some of the ponderous wagons had been brought to convey the prince and his nobles to the palace, for Ethelwulf had a place in London, not far from St. Paul's Church. These were decorated with bright-covered cloth and with flowers and green branches. The one in which Alfred was to go had a seat covered with cushions and draping of bright blue, and built up so high that all the people could see him as he rode past. It made the boys more wildly envious than ever, when they saw that he actually wore a coat of mail, and had a real sword hanging down by his side. They were a little stolid and slow in their thinking. These Englishmen of the 9th century. But there was something in the sight of this little child that appealed to them, and aroused all their loyalty and enthusiasm. And they shouted for Alfred and for Ethelwulf, and for Bishop Swithin, until they were horse. And they followed the wagons until the prince and his retinue had gone into the palace. The bishop stood on the steps a minute and raised his hand and blessed them, then he too went in, and the tired and excited little child could have the rest that he so much needed. The palace was a little west of St. Paul's church and not far from the river. Around it were fields and woods, and to the westward beyond the last straggling houses were pastures and forests and fens and moors and commons and low-lying hills. A beautiful, restful country for tired people to look upon. The city was made up of small houses, hardly larger than huts, that seemed to have been dropped down anywhere, of convents and churches and fortresses, of rough, tumble-down sheds, and queer little dark shops in which were benches, a table, and some simple arrangements for cooking. Whatever there was to sell was put on a shelf that projected in front of the shop. Far to the east, just within the wall, one could see a fort that was higher and larger than the rest. For there the closest watch must be kept for the enemy, and there too, if the enemy came, must the hardest fighting be done. The streets, so far as there were any streets, ran any way, and every building seemed to have been set down, without the least regard to any other building. Then, too, there were great vacant spaces, and these were gloomy enough, for here were blackened ruins of the city that used to be before the Danes had burned it. Under all this rubbish were fragments of beautiful mosaic pavement that the Romans had made centuries before. Even then, there was enough in London to interest one for a long time. But the first duty of the Prince after he was thoroughly rested was to go to St. Paul's Church with the gifts that his father had sent. The Church was at the top of a hill, that rose gently from the Thames River. It could hardly have been more than a very simple chapel, built perhaps of stones that may have been part of a heathen temple in the old Roman times. But now the bell rang seven times a day for Christian prayer. This little church was very rich, for it possessed the bones of St. Erkenwald, and wonderful were the miracles that they were said to have wrought. And generous were the gifts that pilgrims, nobles, warriors, and kings had laid on his shrine. St. Paul's had had a hard struggle to get these relics, for St. Erkenwald had died when away from London, and both the clergy of St. Paul's and the monks of Chertsey, whose abbot he had been, contended for the bones. Both parties were very much in earnest. The Londoners seized the buyer and held on. The monks protested. A tempest suddenly came upon them, and there they all stood, drenched in dripping, but neither would yield. The river rose and then they were obliged to stand still, for there was neither bridge nor boat. They might have been standing there yet, had not one of the monks begun to entone the litany, and as he sang the river sank, and the Londoners crossed with the precious relics. The monks giving up, either because they were satisfied that Providence had settled the question, or because the Londoners were the stronger party. The story does not tell. At any rate the bones were in St. Paul's, and there it was that Alfred must go to carry his father's gifts, and to kneel before the shrine of the saint to say the prayers that the bishop had taught him. And so Alfred and the bishop and the long train of followers set out for the church. The unwieldy wagons moved slowly, but Alfred would have liked to go even more slowly, for there was so much to see that was new to him. There were rough soldiers in blather tunics, or in a kind of coat or jacket, covered with scales that would protect them in battle, almost as well as a coat of mail. They had heavy axes and spears and shields, their beards were long and shaggy. Then there were half-savaged men from the country, bringing great, rough carts of timber from the forest, or driving herds of oxen or swine, or carrying rude baskets of vegetables or fruit. They were stout, red-faced men, who looked strong and well and ready for a good-natured wrestling, match, or a downright fight, as the case might be. They were tunics of the coarsest woollen and would not stop with mouths wide open, and stare with wonder at the sight of the prince and his men with their finely wrought clothes and their jewels and banners. The royal train went up the hill to the church, and Alfred, taught by the bishop, presented the gifts that his father had sent. Seven golden vases filled to the brim with roughly cut but bright and shining silver coins. On the side of each one of these vases was a red stone, and below it was the inscription, at the wolf the king sent me. The service was ended. Alfred had said his prayer before St. Erkenwald's shrine, and had gazed half fearfully on the bones of the saint. The prince and his followers left the church. There were fragments of the old Roman pavement under their feet. See the soldier! said Alfred suddenly. But he isn't like my father's soldiers. The bishop looked, and there in the pavement was the figure of a soldier done in Mosaic. That is a Roman soldier! said the bishop, and we shall start for Rome tomorrow. Look down to the river, and you will see the ships that are to take us. End of section 20. This recording is in the public domain.