Chapter XIX “Be Ready, Claudio, for your Death, To-Morrow.”
The night was spent by the weary followers of Arwald in dismal plight. They had scarcely any food, and now experienced all the hardships Athelhune, Ceolwulf, and their party had suffered when they were cast upon the island.
Some men had been sent to bring in food from the country behind Æscing Down, and to hasten up reinforcements and more supplies from the west end of the island. During the night many of the dispersed followers came in; in fact, they kept dropping in throughout the night, so that, when day broke, there was a large muster of men around the homestead; but they were, many of them, wounded, burnt, and listless; all heart seemed to have been taken out of them by the last awful event. In order to stir them out of their lethargy, Arwald determined to have the prisoners put to death. This was not only a matter of policy, but he was longing to gratify his revenge and cruelty.
Some small amount of provisions having been brought in at early dawn, they were distributed as far as they would go, many of the men having made a hearty meal off the slaughtered horses which were lying where they fell in yesterday’s conflict.
At eight o’clock, all the men, who now numbered about two hundred and fifty, were drawn up in the large yard of the homestead, the remainder of the force having been either killed, placed hors de combat by their wounds, or been lost among the wild country on the other side of the Yare, while some few had deserted.
The prisoners were seated on a few logs of trees that had been rolled into the centre. Each man was placed some feet apart from his neighbours, and in his long hair was twisted a couple of tough withies, long enough for a man to hold the head steady from behind. All the men were bare-headed, stripped to the waist, and tied together. Only the chief prisoners were arranged in this way first; the common men were guarded in a crowd in a space separated from the spectators, but in full view of the ghastly proceedings.
On the right of the prisoners sat Beornwulf, next him were three of Ælfhere’s chief ceorls, then came Athelhune, and next him one of the followers of Wulf the Atheling. Outside of these sat two South Saxons. Athelhune had suffered terrible pain from his broken leg, for no attention whatever had been paid him, and he had been roughly carried along with the other prisoners; but he still held up his head bravely, and smiled contemptuously at the preparations for his death. The old Teutonic spirit was strong in him, and he remembered how heroes had met their death. Although deadly pale from the sharp pain of his maimed leg, his eye was bright, and his bearing fearless. All the men preserved the most absolute composure, and did credit to the training of their race. Not a sigh or a regret seemed to announce their reluctance to leave this life; on the contrary, if there were any expression but absolute indifference to the whole proceedings, it was one of pleasure at the thought of so soon enjoying the delights of Valhalla.
The withies entwined in their hair were intended to be held by the thralls or slaves, who accompanied Arwald’s force, so that the heads of the victims should not twitch, or avoid the stroke of the executioner’s axe, and were long enough to allow the holders to be at a safe distance from the blow. Behind each man stood a thrall holding the withies, and these men were laughing and joking together.
When all was ready, Arwald and his chief eorldomen came out of the homestead, and seated themselves on settles placed directly opposite the victims. The Wihtwara chieftain was in high good humour: he had had an excellent breakfast, as far as quantity went, and had washed down his food with copious draughts of ale; for, however much his followers might suffer, he had no intention of being uncomfortable. He came out, therefore, with a hearty, loud laugh, as he cracked some coarse joke with one of his eorls, and took up his seat, lolling his large fat body in the most comfortable position he could. His little black eyes twinkled with cruel pleasure, and his puffy red face showed amid his large dark whiskers, beard, and hair, like a furnace against the black night. He wore his mail-linked shirt and his battered helmet, off which the heron’s wings were shorn. His huge axe hung over his shoulder, but in his hand he held his hunting-knife, with which he played from time to time.
The executioner was a powerful, coarse-looking ceorl, with bare arms and legs, and holding a formidable axe, to whose edge he was giving a finishing touch with a sharpening stone.
The people were now all ready for the spectacle, and the interest was very great; but the disappointment was universal, for the victims were not apparently going to give them any sport by their cries and lamentations.
“Is all ready?” said Arwald carelessly.
“All is ready, eorldoman,” said the executioner.
“Then begin, in Woden’s name,” answered the chieftain, and settled himself more comfortably for the better enjoyment of the tragedy.
The executioner advanced to the man seated on the log nearest to the left, looked at him, poised his axe, measured his distance, nodded to the thrall to hold the withy tight, planted his feet firmly on the ground, swung the axe swiftly through the air, and the man’s head fell at some few paces from the body, which fell forward to the ground. The blow had been dealt so truly and well that the whole thing passed like an ordinary occurrence, and one could hardly realise that a man had just suffered a violent death. No sound had broken the silence of expectancy, only the whizz of the gleaming axe, and the dull thud of the head as it fell on the ground, interrupted the silence.
“Was that well done, eorldoman?” asked the executioner, turning to Arwald.
“Nothing could have been better,” nodded the chieftain; “if thou doest thy work like that I will say thou art the best headsman in England.”
“I hope thou wilt do something better than that,” promptly replied the executioner. Arwald grunted an ambiguous reply, and bid him go on with the next man.
The executioner then stepped up to the next man and went through the ghastly preliminaries as before, performing the business as deftly as he had previously done, only the withies which were twisted into this man’s hair were jerked out of the hands of the thrall, who was holding them, and struck the next thrall a stinging blow in the face, which caused him to cry out, and made all the spectators laugh.
Arwald was put into an extra good humour by this event, and he felt inclined for a little playful conversation with the victims. So addressing the West Saxon who was to be executed next, he asked him what he thought of the death he was so soon to suffer.
“We must all die some day, and as I am tired of looking at thy fat carcase, the sooner I can get away the better,” answered the West Saxon contemptuously. The nearest bystanders, who had heard the remark, began to laugh, and Arwald became angry.
“What art thou waiting for, man?” he said to the executioner. “Let him have his wish at once,” and the man’s head fell with the others.
It was now Athelhune’s turn, and Arwald, deceived by his exceeding pallor, hoped to obtain some sign of weakness from him, and asked him whether death did not look very dreadful.
“Not so unpleasant as thou dost,” was the answer; “but before I die I would like to have a question settled.”
“What is it?” said Arwald.
“We have often talked about death, and whether a man has any feeling after his head is off,” said Athelhune. “Now, give me a knife. If I feel anything after my head is off, I will throw the knife at thee; if it falls to the ground, it will prove I have no feeling. Now strike, and see what will happen.”
Arwald laughed, and bid a knife be given him. The executioner approached. Athelhune held up his hand with the knife pointed at Arwald. The executioner slowly measured his distance. Flash went the axe, and at the same moment the knife flew from Athelhune’s hand and pierced Arwald’s burly leg, causing that stout warrior to utter a yell of pain; but Athelhune’s head was on the ground, and no man could say whether he had hurled the knife while his head was still on his shoulders or no. The knife still quivered in Arwald’s flesh, as the headless body fell heavily to the ground, and the brave West Saxon eorldoman was numbered with his fathers; glad enough to be away from the pain and anguish he had been suffering from his broken leg, which now, owing to the want of care and cruel treatment he had suffered, was rapidly growing black, and had swollen to a great size. He knew he never could be of any use again, and had longed for death to relieve him for some hours past.
The brave warrior died true to the instincts and noblest teaching of his race and ancestors. A faithful, devoted friend, a recklessly brave man, and a skilful chief, he came on this expedition, well knowing the desperate nature of the enterprise, without a thought which could reflect upon his friend and king Cædwalla; his king wished him to go, that was enough for him. It was not his business to question or discuss the reasonableness of the wish; such an idea never crossed his mind; it could not occur to him. His sense of duty to his chief was comprised in those lines that so beautifully describe the whole duty of a soldier:—His “not to make reply,” his “not to reason why,” his “but to do and die.” And this idea of a soldier’s duty he carried out in its entirety, both towards his king and chief Cædwalla, as well as towards those who served under him, all of whom he tried to impress with the same spirit of noble discipline and self-sacrifice. He died contentedly, nay, happily; he had done all he could. If he had not succeeded, that was no affair of his; were there not the Norns or Fates, who ruled the affairs of men? And oftentimes, he knew, even in his own experience, what looked like failure was only the seed of success. Did not men put seed into the ground, and did not the seed disappear? Who could have told that that lost seed would come out of that dry, lumpy ground, green corn good for the food of man? The doing of one’s duty, even if it ended in failure, was the sowing of good seed, it must bear fruit, only it might take a longer time, as some seeds took more time than others to come up. With the noble simplicity of his character, he also accepted implicitly the creed of his ancestors. Surely there was a place of reward for honest men, who struggled to live and die full of that virtue, that [Greek: andréia], that manfulness, which all men in all ages, and of all races, have known to be the essence of a good life. Full of this hope, he rejoiced at his departure to the new life, grateful too that the last few hours of pain had made the longed-for moment all the greater relief.
There was a great shout of triumph from the prisoners when they saw the knife flying from Athelhune’s hand straight for Arwald, and the disappointment was great when it was seen that the wound was not in any way dangerous, although the knife had plunged deep into the fleshy part of the leg and caused the ruler of the Wihtwaras considerable pain as it was drawn out. However, a bandage soon stopped the bleeding, and Arwald called to the executioner to go on with his work, more irritable now than ever.
The courage of the previous victims re-acted upon those whose turn was now coming, and when the executioner stepped up to the next man, and was preparing to strike him sideways, like the others, the man called out to him to strike the blow in front.
“Many is the time I have looked death in the face without blenching, and thou shalt see now if I flinch or no.”
The executioner took him at his word; he placed the edge of the axe against the man’s neck under his chin. Took up the proper distance, planted his feet firmly on the ground, told the man to raise his head a little higher, swung the axe swiftly back and then struck with a swish through the air forwards, and the headless trunk rolled over on the ground, while the head dropped at the feet of the thrall who held the withy. The bystanders could see no change of expression as the axe gleamed in the act of striking, not a twitch of an eyebrow, or quiver of an eyelid told that the man dreaded the blow.
“Well sped, brave soul,” cried the spectators, whose interest was growing deeper as each victim met his end so nobly. Five men had now died, there remained but three more on the log, of whom Beornwulf was the last. Beornwulf was getting weary of sitting so long, and he was irritated with the thrall who held the withy entwined in his hair, which was remarkably long and bushy, and of which Beornwulf was very proud. The thrall twitched his head every time an execution took place, not intentionally, but because he kept twisting round to get a good look at the performance, while Beornwulf also wished to see how each man met his death, with the result that his neck was now very stiff, and he himself was in an impatient, irritable, frame of mind. He did not care what became of him; he knew he would die in a few minutes, but none the less, or rather because of that certainty, he wished to excite Arwald before he died.
“Hi! old Wolf’s head,” he shouted, “thou mountain of flesh, thou! Arwald, or whatever thy name is; how long am I to sit here and have my head twisted off my shoulders by this lubberly thrall? Send that head-cutting knave down this way, and let me get away from here.”
As Arwald paid no attention, Beornwulf began again.
“I say, thou round knave, thou, dost thou not hear?” and he proceeded to string together a collection of epithets considerably more apposite than elegant, which so enraged Arwald that to stop his abuse he told the executioner to go to him next, but Beornwulf had one more idea. He called out—
“By Woden’s beard, I am not going to have my fair hair touched by a base knave; let one of thy eorls come here and hold my hair.”
He had beautiful curly, long, fair hair, and took great care of it; and since great respect was paid to appearance even in those rough times, and the hair, curiously enough, in all savage tribes and races, is always the object of great solicitude, although no other attention is paid to the person, he was allowed to have his wish. One of the eorls sitting by Arwald said he would do as the merry knave wanted, and stepped up to Beornwulf. He took his position behind him, grasping firmly the thick, bushy, curly locks. The other two prisoners moved a little more to the left, so as to allow room for the executioner to have full play for his axe; and the headsman prepared to perform his horrid office. Beornwulf watched him very steadily, the proper distance was measured, the executioner told him to sit very steady. “For,” he said, “thou art a fine young man, and I would be sorry to spoil thy beauty;” to which Beornwulf replied, “Thank thee, poor knave; but it would take a good deal to spoil thine.” Which retort so enraged the executioner, who was a snub-nosed, blear-eyed, red-haired man, and therefore felt the truth of the remark, that he swung back his axe, poised it, and then struck with all his force. There was a sharp cutting sound, a shrill cry, and a shout of astonishment from the crowd, while a loud mocking laugh rang out from—whom? Could it be the dead man? The crowd strained to look. There was no doubt about it. There was Beornwulf roaring with laughter; but instead of his head being on the ground, it was still on his shoulders; but something was on the ground. What was it? The crowd looked at the eorl. What was the matter with him? He was holding up his arms. But what had happened to them? Where were his hands? And then the trick dawned upon every one. And there were loud shouts of applause at Beornwulf’s cleverness, for this was just such a joke as those rude, barbarous men could understand; and they shouted and screamed, and roared with laughter.
“Why, Loki, the mischief lover, was nothing to him.” “Let him go free.” “He ought to live,” were heard on all sides. And even Arwald laughed, so that the tears ran down his face as the splendid joke dawned upon him.
And this is what had happened. When the executioner struck his stroke, Beornwulf, who had been carefully watching him, ducked his head with all his might, and with a sudden jerk. The eorl, whose hands were firmly twisted in his luxuriant hair, was naturally pulled down; the executioner could not stop his blow, even if he had had time to notice the stratagem, and the wretched eorl received the full force of the sweeping cut, with the result that both his hands were shorn off at the wrists.1
The exquisiteness of this stratagem consisted not only in the mortification of the executioner, and the momentary saving of Beornwulf’s life, but, above all in the disabling of one more of Beornwulf’s enemies, for so it would count, according to all the received ideas; and thus at a moment, the most supreme in the life of a man, Beornwulf had contrived to add one more to the number of victims he would have for his own particular portion when he arrived in Valhalla, and his renown for wit would be very great.
But the executioner was furious at the trick that had been played upon him: he paid no heed to the shouts of the crowd, and, uttering a savage cry, he rushed upon Beornwulf. Some of the bystanders shouted to Beornwulf, to warn him of his danger, but it seemed nothing could save him, for the man was upon him: when, quick as lightning, Beornwulf flung himself prostrate upon the ground at the feet of his would-be murderer. The man heavy, blundering, and blinded by passion, fell over him, severing the cord with his axe as he fell; and instantly Beornwulf rose to his feet, seized the axe out of his hand, and dealt him a swinging death-blow.
Again shouts of applause arose, but this time they were not so unanimous, the amour propre of the Wihtwaras was becoming hurt. Beornwulf was a West Saxon and a stranger; it was not right he should triumph thus over the islanders; it was time his conceit came to an end. Had he rested on his first success popular favour would have been with him, or had he simply managed to escape from the blow of the executioner; but the death of this latter, who was a well-known as well as a popular character at Wihtgaresbyryg, made many people angry, and especially Arwald; and he gave orders to have the West Saxon killed at once.
But Beornwulf’s blood was up now. He held in his hand the axe; with a blow he cut the rope which attached the two other prisoners to the long row of prostrate dead bodies; he called to them to seize axes from the bystanders, and then rushed to where the other prisoners were standing; before the guards could interfere, he had cut down one of them, shouted to the prisoners to imitate him, and struck right and left at any who were near him. The whole thing was so sudden, the confusion and noise were so great, that many people did not know what was happening, while at the same time a great number of cattle which were being driven up for supplies, and were close behind the crowd, terrified at the hubbub, broke away from their drivers, and, with tails erect and lowered horns, rushed through the crowd, horning many and trampling on more. Arwald shouted, stormed, and raved; the leading eorls rushed in among the crowd and tried to restore some sort of order; but in such a fighting, struggling mass, confined between the building of the homestead, with plunging cattle, mad with terror, goring, trampling, rushing wildly here and there, with a desperate band of men, in whom the love of life was once more kindled, along with the hope of saving it, what could anyone do to restore order? The confusion could only cease with physical exhaustion. The noise was terrific.
Beornwulf cut his way towards the nearest opening in the buildings, followed by many of the prisoners. There was this advantage for them: they knew what they wanted and had a definite purpose, and were prompted by the most powerful impulse that could act on human beings when blindly yielding to the cry of nature. The instinct of self-preservation taught them where to go, which instinct, also acting upon their enemies, aided them in their efforts to escape. At last—how, scarcely any one could tell—Beornwulf and about twenty more found themselves outside the buildings with nothing before them but open country right down to the ford. With a wild rush they started for the creek, followed by very few of Arwald’s men. The confusion, now that it was relieved of a considerable part of its cause, gradually quieted down, and then Arwald was able to see that nearly all his prisoners had escaped; heaping terrific abuse upon the guards who had allowed them to get away, he ordered his horse to be brought, and all who could to follow him.
The fugitives had strained every nerve to get a good start and were rapidly rearing the ford, but they had had no food and were exhausted; gallantly they ran, but it was quite clear that some of them must be caught again. Panting, gasping, Beornwulf reached the ford, the tide was fortunately down and he dashed through it, followed closely by several others; they had scarcely reached the banks on the other side, when a wild cheer welcomed them, and Ceolwulf, with Wulfstan and a large force of boys sprang up and greeted them. Arwald and his few followers seeing that all the fugitives had now got within shelter of the stones, whose disastrous effects still left a mark on his forehead, thought it more prudent to retire, and all the fugitives were therefore saved.
“Oh, Beornwulf, I am so glad!” cried Wulfstan, as they all stood on the top of the bank and saw Arwald sullenly rein in his horse and give the order to return.
“Let’s give him a parting volley. I do believe I could hit him,” Wulfstan said, and swinging his sling round his head he sent a stone whizzing and humming through the air after Arwald, while all the band set up a derisive shout. Arwald was just turning round to shake his fist at them, when the stone struck his horse violently on the hind quarter, causing it to give a leap into the air. Arwald was pitched heavily forwards, and was nearly unseated; as it was he lost his stirrups, and had to clutch at the mane to keep himself from falling, while the horse galloped away towards the homestead, and in this undignified way the Wihtwara chieftain returned to his men.
Wulfstan and all the others shouted with mocking laughter, and then turned towards the stockade, their spirits considerably relieved at the safety of the fugitives, and at the unexpected addition to their little force.
One or two of the sharpest boys were left with Stuff to see how matters were going, and to watch the enemy, with strict orders to send up word of what was going on, and if any fresh attack seemed imminent.
“We did that fire well, didn’t we, Beorney?” said Wulfstan, as they walked up to the stockade, passing the charred gorse on their right. “I heard Arwald say how nice our cooking smelt; he little thought how soon some of his men would feel the fire. I wish it had been the old fat knave himself.”
Notes
1 The greater part of the above account of these executions is taken from Mallet’s “Northern Antiquities,” where the execution of the Jomsberg Rovers is extracted from various Scandinavian sources. I have inserted them here to give a really true picture of the wild, fierce, brave manners of that rude epoch. The episode of the Jomsberg Rovers is more than 200 years subsequent to the events here narrated.