Part 29 (1/2)

Alfred reluctantly obeyed, and Father Cuthbert went forth. So great was their anxiety that it almost banished the power of prayer, save such mental shafts as could be sent heavenward in each interval of thought.

At last Alfred, who was at the window, saw Redwald and his followers-- nearly a hundred in number--leave the castle and ride across towards the forest in the direction of the farm in question. Another moment and Father Cuthbert entered.

”Are you ready? If so, follow me.”

He took them by a private pa.s.sage into the chapel, where four men already stood by the bier, ready to head the procession, and thirty or forty others were gathered in the chapel or about the door--their own va.s.sals, good and true. They all were armed.

Father Cuthbert ascended the wooden tower above the chapel, which served as a bell cot. He looked from its windows; the party of Redwald had disappeared behind the trees.

He came down and gave the signal. The sad procession started; they descended the steps to the courtyard. Redwald had left some forty or fifty men behind--men who had grown old in arms, and who, if they had pleased, might perhaps have stopped the exit, but they were not sufficiently in the confidence of their leader to take the initiative; and the only man who was in his confidence, and whom he had charged to see that no one departed, was fortunately at that moment in another part of the building. The sentinel at the drawbridge was one of Redwald's troop. He menaced opposition, and refused to let the drawbridge be peaceably lowered.

”Art thou a Christian?” said Father Cuthbert, coming forward in his priestly attire, ”and dost thou presume to interfere with a servant of the Lord and to delay a funeral?”

”I must obey my orders.”

”Then I will excommunicate thee, and deliver thy soul to Satan.”

And he began to utter some awful Latin imprecation, which so aroused the superst.i.tion of the sentinel that he made no further opposition, which perhaps saved his life, for the retainers of Aescendune were meditating instant violence, indignant at the delay and the outrage to their lady.

They themselves let the drawbridge down and guarded the sad cortege over the plain. Their numbers increased every moment, and before they reached the neighbourhood of the priory they had little cause to fear any attack, should Redwald have arrived and have been rash enough to attempt one.

The old parsonage house, which had served for the residence of each successive parish prior or ma.s.s-thane, was a large and commodious building, containing all such accommodation as the family absolutely required in the emergency, while furniture, provision and comforts of all kinds were sent over from the priory, for the good fathers did not forget at this hour of need that they owed their own home to the liberality of Ella and his father.

So when they had deposited the loved remains before the altar of the church, and had knelt a brief season in prayer, the exiled family took possession of their temporary home. It was hard--very hard--to give up their loved dwelling at such a season of affliction, but the dread which Redwald had somehow inspired made it a great relief to be removed from his immediate presence.

Yet they could give no reason for the feeling they all shared. Father Cuthbert evidently suspected, or knew, things which he as yet concealed from them.

”Who could have slain the husband and father?”

This was the unanswered question. Their suspicions could only turn to Redwald or some of his crew: no marauders were known to lurk in the forest; there was, they felt a.s.sured, not one of his own people who would not have died in his defence. Again, it was not the l.u.s.t of gold which had suggested the deed, for they had found the gold chain he wore untouched. What then could have been the motive of the murderer?

Father Cuthbert had found a solution, which was based upon sad experience of the traditional feuds so frequently handed down from father to son. Still he would not suggest further cause of disquietude, and added no further words.

The utter uncertainty about Elfric was another cause of uneasiness.

Whether he had gone southward with the king, or had fallen on the battlefield, they knew not; or whether he had surrendered with the prisoners taken in the entrenched camp, and who had been all admitted to mercy.

In the course of the morning they saw Redwald return, laden with the spoils of the Grange farm--oxen and sheep, waggons containing corn, driven before him. What pa.s.sed within on his entrance they could not tell; how narrow their escape they knew not--were not even certain it had been an escape at all.

It was now determined that the interment should take place on the morrow, and the intelligence was communicated rapidly to all the tenantry.

Hourly they expected the forces of Mercia to appear, and exact a heavy account from Redwald for his offences. He was supposed to be the instigator of the expedition which had failed so utterly; it was not likely that he would be allowed to retain Aescendune a long time. The only surprise people felt was that he should have dared to remain at the post when all hope of successful resistance had ceased. He had his own reasons, which they knew not.

Under these circ.u.mstances it seemed desirable to hurry forward the interment, lest it should be interfered with from without, in the confusion of hostile operations against the hall.

The priory church was a n.o.ble but irregular structure, of great size for those days. The cunning architect from the Continent, who had designed it, had far surpa.s.sed the builders of ordinary churches in the grandeur of his conception. The lofty roof, the long choir beyond the transept, gave the idea of magnitude most forcibly, and added dignity to the design. In the south transept was a chapel dedicated especially to St.

Cuthbert, where the aged Offa reposed, and the mother of Ella. There they had removed the body to await the last solemn rites. Six large wax tapers burned around it, and watchers were there day and night-- mourners who had loved him well, and felt that in him they had lost a dear friend.

The wife, the son, or the daughter, were ever there, but seldom alone.

For when the monks in the choir were not saying the canonical hours, or the low ma.s.s was not being said at one of the side altars, still the voice of intercession arose, with its burden: