It was in the late afternoon when we rode into Glastonbury town, past the palisadings of the outer works, and then among cottages, and here and there a timber house of the better sort, till we came to the great abbey. It was not so great then as now, nor is it now as it will be, for ever have pious hands built so that those who come after may have room to add if they will. But it was the greatest building that I had ever seen, and, moreover, of stone throughout, which seemed wonderful to me. And there, too, Wulfhere showed me the thorn tree which sprang from the staff of the blessed Joseph of Arimathea, which flowers on Christmas Day, ever.

Then we came to the nunnery where we should leave Alswythe, and I, for my part, was sorry that the journey was over, sad though it had been in many ways, for when I must leave her I knew not how long it should be, if ever, before I saw her again.

And I think the same thought was in her heart, for, when Wulfhere showed her the great house, she sighed, looking at me a little, and I could say nothing. But she began to thank us two for our care of her, as though we could have borne to take less than we had. And her words were so sweet and gracious that even the old warrior could not find wherewith to answer her, and we both bowed our heads in thanks, and rode, one on each side of her, in silence.

Then she must ask Wulfhere what he would do when she was safely bestowed. And that was a plain question he could answer well.

“Truly, lady, if you will give me leave, I would see Heregar, our master, through whatever comes of his messages.”

Then was I very glad, and the more that, though I might not think myself such, the old warrior would call me his master, for that told me that he had full belief in me.

Yet I could but say: “Friend should you call me, Wulfhere, my good counsellor, not master.”

And I reached out my hand to him, bowing to Alswythe, whose horse’s neck I must cross. And Wulfhere took it, and on our two rough hands Alswythe laid her white fingers, pressing them, and, looking from one to the other, said:

“Two such friends I think no woman ever had, or wiser, or braver. Go on together as you will, and yet forget not me here in Glastonbury.”

Then we loosed our hands, looking, maybe, a little askance, for our Saxon nature will oft be ashamed, if one may call it so, of a good impulse acted on, and Wulfhere said that we must think of those things hereafter.

When we came to the gate there was a little crowd following us, for word had gone round in some way that we were fugitives from Parret side. But Wulfhere had bade the men answer no questions till we had seen the bishop, lest false reports should go about the place. So the crowd melted away soon, and we knocked, asking admission, and showing the letter from the prioress of Bridgwater.

Now here there was much state, as it seemed, and we must wait for a little, but then the gates were thrown open, and we rode through them into the courtyard, which was large and open. Then opened a great door on the left, and there was the abbess with many sisters, and one asked me for the letter we bore. So I gave it, and, standing there, the abbess read it while we waited.

As she read she grew pale, and then flushed again, and at last, after twice reading, came down the steps, all her state forgotten, and with tears embraced Alswythe, giving thanks for her safety. And then, leaving her, she came to me where I sat, unhelmed, and gave me her hand, thanking me for all I had done, and, as she said, perhaps for the safety of the Bridgwater sisters also.

Then all of a sudden she went back up the steps, where the sisters were whispering together, and became cold and stately again, so that I wondered if I had offended her in not speaking, which I dared not.

When she was back again in her place, she bade Alswythe and her maidens welcome, and added that all her sister prioress asked her she would do. Also, that one would come and show us lodging for men and horses, which should be at the expense of the nunnery.

So Alswythe must needs part from us coldly, even as she had joined us at Bridgwater, as a noble lady from her attendants, giving us her hand to kiss only. But I went back to my horse well content, knowing that her love and thoughts went out to me.

She went through the great door, but it closed not so fast but that I might see the abbess put her arm around her very tenderly, her state forgotten again, and I knew that she was in good hands.

Now when the horses were stabled, and our men knew where they should bide in the strangers’ lodgings set apart for the trains of guests to the nunnery, which were very spacious Wulfhere and I must needs find the way to get audience of the bishop. As far as the doors of the abbey where he abode was easy enough, but there, waiting for alms and broken meats, were crowds of beggars, sitting and lying about in the sun, with their eyes ever on the latch to be first when it was lifted for the daily dole. And again, round the gate were many men of all sorts, suitors, as we deemed for some favour at the hands of bishop or abbot for the Abbot of Glastonbury was nigh as powerful as Ealhstan himself, in his own town at least.

When we came among these we were told that we must bide our time, for audience was not given but at stated hours. And one man, grumbling, said that that was not Ealhstan’s way in his own place at Sherborne, for there the doors were open ever.

But I knew that my business might not wait, and so, after a little of this talk, went up to the gate and thundered thereon in such sort that the wicket opened, and the porter’s face looked through it angrily enough, and he would have bidden us begone, for war and travel had stained us both, so that doubtless we were in no better case, as to looks, than the crowd that pressed after us very quietly, indeed to hear the parley.

One difference in our looks there was, however, which made the porter silent we wore mail and swords, and at that he seemed to stare in wonder.

Then I held up the ring and said, “Messages from Osric the Sheriff.”

Whereupon the wicket closed suddenly, and there was a sound of unbarring, and the door opened and we were let in, the rest, who must wait, grumbling loudly at the preference shown to us, while the beggars, who had roused at the sound of the hinges creaking, went back whining in their disappointment.

Then one came and bade us follow him, and we were led into the abbey hall and there waited for a little. There were a few monks about, passing and repassing, but they paid no attention to us, and we, too, were silent in that quiet place. Only a great fire crackled at one end of the hall, else there would have been no noise at all. It was, I thought, a strangely peaceful place into which to bring news of war and tumult.

Then I thought of Ealhstan the Bishop, as he had seemed to me when he judged me, and that seemed years ago, nor could I think of myself as the same who had stood a prisoner before him. So I wondered if I should seem the same to him.

Now it is strange that of Eanulf, the mighty ealdorman who had pronounced my doom, I thought little at all, but as of one who was by the bishop. All that day’s doings seemed to have been as a dream, wherein I and Wulfhere had living part with this bishop, while the rest, Eanulf and Matelgar and the others, were but phantoms standing by.

Maybe this is not so wonderful, for the doom was the doom of the Moot, and spoken by Eanulf as its mouthpiece, and that passed on my body only. And Matelgar had found a new place in my thoughts, but Wulfhere was my friend, and the bishop had spoken to my heart, so that his words and looks abode there.

Then the servant cut short my thoughts, and led us to the bishop, bidding me unhelm first.

He sat in a wide chamber, with another most venerable-looking man at the same table. And all the walls were covered with books, and on the table, too, lay one or two great ones, open, and bright with gold and crimson borderings, and great litters on the pages. But those things I saw presently, only the bishop first of all, sitting quietly and very upright in his great chair, dressed in a long purple robe, and with a golden cross hanging on his breast.

And for a moment as I looked at him, I remembered the day of the Moot, and my heart rose up, and I was ready to hide my face for minding the shame thereof.

But he looked at me curiously, and then all of a sudden smiled very kindly and said:

“Heregar, my son, are you the messenger?”

And I knelt before him on one knee, and held out the ring for him to take, and he did so, laying it on the table before him for my errand was in hand yet.

“Then,” he said, “things are none so ill with you, my son,” and he smiled gravely; “but do your errand first, and afterwards we will speak of that.”

So I rose up, and standing before him, told him plainly all that had befallen, though there was no need for me to say aught of myself in the matter, except that, flying with the lady, Osric had chosen me to bear the message of defeat and danger.

And the while I spoke the bishop’s face grew very grave, but he said nothing till I ended by saying that Wulfhere could tell him of the fight.

Then he bade Wulfhere speak, being anxious to know the worst, as it seemed to me. But the old man with him was weeping, and his hands shook sorely.

Now into what Wulfhere told, my name seemed to come often, for he began with the first landing at Watchet, and my bearing the war arrow, and so forward to the firing of the huts at Stert, to the rallying on Cannington Hill, and our flight, and how Osric sent for me.

Then said the bishop, “Is that the worst?”

And Wulfhere was fain to answer that he feared not, telling of the smoke clouds we had seen, and what he judged therefrom.

“Aye,” said the bishop, as it were to himself and looking before him as one who sees that which he is told of, “we saw the like after Charnmouth, and let them have their way. Now must we wait, trembling, for Osric’s next messenger.”

But as for me, though the old man was sorely terrified, as one might see, I thought there was little trembling on the bishop’s part, though he spoke of it. Rather did he seem to speak in scorn of such as would so wait.

“Tell me now,” he went on presently, “how the men rallied, and with what spirit, on the hill where Heregar stayed them?”

“Well and bravely,” answered Wulfhere, “so that the Danes drew back, forming up hastily lest there should be an attack on them; but none was made.”

Then the bishop’s eyes flashed, and I thought to myself that I would he had been there. Surely he would have swept the Danes back to their ships, and I think that was in Wulfhere’s mind also, for he said:

“We want a leader who can see these things. No blame to Osric therein, for it was his first fight.”

Then the bishop laughed softly in a strange way, though his eyes still flashed, and he seemed to put the matter by.

“Truly,” said he, “with you, Wulfhere, to advise, and myself to ask questions, and Heregar to prevent our running away, I think we might do great things. Well, there is Eanulf, who fought at Charnmouth.”

So saying he rose up, and clapped his hands loudly. The old man had fallen to telling his beads, and paid no attention to him or us any longer, doubtless dreaming of the burning of his abbey over his head, unless some stronger help was at hand than that of the three men before him.

A lay brother came in to answer the bishop’s summons.

“Take these thanes to the refectory,” he said, “and care for them with all honour. In two hours I will speak with them again, or sooner, if Osric’s messenger comes.”

“I am no thane,” said Wulfhere, not willing to be mistaken.

“I am Bishop of Sherborne,” said he, smiling in an absent way, and waving his hand for us to go.

So we went, and thereafter were splendidly treated as most honoured guests, even to the replacing of the broad hat which Wulfhere had gotten from the franklin by a plain steel helm, with other changes of garment, for which we were most glad.

Now as we bathed and changed, I found that letter which Leofwine the hermit priest had given me, and I prayed the brother to give it to the bishop at some proper moment, and he took it away with him. I had forgotten it in the greater business.

While we ate and drank, and talked of how to reach Eanulf the Ealdorman, the brother came back and brought us a message, saying:

“The bishop bids you rest here in peace. He has sent messengers to Eanulf, bidding him come here in all haste to speak with him and you.”

So I asked where he was, and the brother said that he lay at Wells, which pleased Wulfhere, who said that he would be here shortly, and that we were in luck, seeing that he wanted another good night’s rest; and indeed so did I, sorely, though that I might yet stay near Alswythe was better still.

Before the two hours the bishop had set, there was a clamour in the great yard, and we thought the messenger from Osric had surely come. And so it was, for almost directly the bishop sent for us, and we were taken back to the same chamber. But he was alone now, and motioned us to seats beside him to one side.

Then they brought in a thane whom I did not know, and he said he was a messenger from Osric, laying a letter on the table at the same time. I saw that his armour was battle stained, and that he looked sorely downcast.

Not so the bishop as he read, for that which was written he had already expected, and he never changed his set look. Once he read the letter through, and then again aloud for us to hear. Thus it ran after fit greeting:

“Now what befell in the first fight you know or shall know shortly from our trusty messenger Heregar, by whom the flight was stayed from that field, on the Hill of Cannington. And this was well done. So, seeing that the Danes had drawn off, I myself, foolishly deeming the matter at an end, left three hundred men on that hill to watch the Danes back to their ships, and returned to the town, there to muster again the men who were sound, and, if it were possible, to lead them on the Danes as they went on board again to depart. For the men, save those of Bridgwater, would not bide on the hill, but came back, saving the Danes would surely depart. And, indeed, I also thought so; but wrongly. For even as I talked with Heregar of his own affairs, news came of a fresh attack, whereon I sent him to you, fearing the worst, for the men on the hill were few, and those in the town seeming of little spirit.

“Now when I came three parts of the way to Cannington, our men there were sped and driven back on us. Whereupon I could no longer hold together any force, and whither the men are scattered I know not. Scarcely could I save the holy women and the monks, for even as they fled under guard into the Quantock woods, and so to go beyond the hills, the houses of Bridgwater next the Danes were burning.

“Now am I with two hundred men on Brent, and wait either for the Danes to depart, or for orders from yourself or the Ealdorman Eanulf, to whom I pray you let this letter be sent in haste after that you have read it.”

So it ended with salutations, and when he had read it, the bishop folded it slowly and looked at the thane, who shrugged his broad shoulders and said:

“True words, Lord Bishop, and all told.”

“It is what I expected,” said Ealhstan, “these two thanes told me it was like to be thus.”

“Surely,” answered the thane. “What else?”

The bishop looked at him and asked him his name.

“Wislac, the Thane of Gatehampton by the Thames, am I,” he said. “A stranger here, having come on my own affairs to Bridgwater, and so joining in the fight. Also, Osric’s thanes having trouble enough on hand, I rode with this letter.”

“Thanks therefor,” said the bishop. “I see that you fought also in a place where blows were thick.”

“Aye, in the first fight,” said Wislac. “As for the second, being with Osric, I never saw that.”

“Did you stay on the hill where men rallied?”

“That did I, as any man would when the saints came to stay us. Otherwise I had surely halted at Bridgwater, or this side thereof,” answered the strange thane, with a smile that was bitter enough.

Now the bishop had not heard that tale of the saint on a white horse; but he was quick enough, and glanced aside at me. Whereupon Wislac the Thane looked also, and straightway his mouth opened, and he stared at me. Then, being nowise afraid of the bishop, or, as it seemed, of saints, he said aloud, seemingly to himself:

“Never saw I bishop before. Still, I knew that they were blessed with visions; but that live saints should sit below their seat, I dreamt not!” and so he went on staring at me.

So the bishop, for all his trouble, could but smile, and asked him if he saw a vision.

“Surely,” he said, “this is the saint who stayed us on yonder hill.”

“Nay, that is Heregar the Thane, messenger of Osric.”

“Then,” said Wislac, “let me tell you, Heregar the Thane, that one of the saints, and I think a valiant one, is mightily like you. Whereby you are the more fortunate.”

Now for all the mistake I could not find a word to say, and was fain to thank him for the good word on my looks. Yet he went on looking at me now and then in a puzzled sort of way. And the bishop seemed to enjoy his wonderment, but was in no mind to enlighten him.

Presently the bishop bade Wislac sit down, and then he took up Osric’s ring that I had given him, and also another which lay beside it on the table silver also, with some device on it, like that I had worn.

“See, thanes,” he said, “have you three a mind to stay with me for a while and be my council in this matter? For I am here without a fighting man of my own to speak with.”

Now this was what I would most wish, and I said so, eagerly and with thanks.

And Wislac said that he was surely in good company, and having nought to call him home would gladly stay also.

Then said the bishop, “Stranger you are, friend Wislac, and therefore wear this ring of Osric’s, that men may pay heed to you as his friend and mine; and do you, Heregar, wear this of mine that men may know you for bishop’s man, and so respect your word.”

So was I put under the bishop’s protection, and he would answer for my presence in Wessex to all and any. That was good, and I felt a free man again in truth, for here was no errand that would end, as Osric’s was ended, when I had seen Eanulf.

Now Wulfhere had not spoken, and the bishop asked him if he too would not stay.

“Ay, lord,” answered Wulfhere, “gladly; but you spoke of thanes only.”

“When the Bishop of Sherborne names one as a thane,” said Ealhstan, smiling, “men are apt to hold him as such. But only to the worthy are such words spoken. Now, friend Wulfhere, I have heard of you at Charnmouth fight, and also there is more in Osric’s letter than I have read to you. So if you will be but a bishop’s landless thane, surely you shall be one”

Then Wulfhere grew red with pleasure, and rising up, did obeisance to the bishop for the honour, and the bishop called us two others to witness that the same was given.

“Now is my council set,” he said, “I to ask questions, and you to advise.”

So for a long two hours we sat and told him all we knew of those Danes, I of the ships, and Wulfhere and Wislac of numbers, and Wulfhere of their ways in raiding a country, for this he had seen before, in Dorset, and also in Ireland, as he told us, in years gone by.

That night we were treated as most honoured guests of the bishop’s own following, and early in the morning the bishop sent for me, before mass. Once again I found him alone in that room of his, and all he said to me I cannot write down. But I found that Leofwine the hermit had told him of how I had taken counsel of him and abided by it, even as Ealhstan himself had bidden me; and, moreover, that Osric had written in his letter of what I had been able to do against the Danes, and of Matelgar’s last words concerning me. And for that remembrance of me, according to his promise, even when writing of far greater matters, I am ever grateful to the good sheriff.

So, because of these things known, Ealhstan spoke to me as a most loving father, praising me where it seemed that praise was due, and reproving me for the many things of deed and thought that were evil. And I told him freely and fully all that had passed from the time I left the hill of Brent till when I had seen the signals of the vikings from above Watchet, and bore the war arrow to Matelgar. The rest he knew in a way; but I opened all my heart to him, he drawing all from me most gently, till at last I came to my dream of Matelgar, and my wish that for me he might rest in peace.

“It is not all forgiveness, Heregar, my son,” he said presently. “There is love for Alsywthe, and pride in yourself, and thought of Matelgar’s failure, which have at least brought you to a beginning of it. But true forgiveness comes slowly, and many a long day shall it be before that has truly come.”

And I knew that maybe he was right, and asked his help; whereupon that was freely given, and in such sort that all my life long I must mind the words he said, and love him in the memory.

When all that was said he would have me hear mass with him, as though I needed urging. And there, too, were Wulfhere and Wislac; and that mass in the great abbey was the most wonderful I ever heard.

After that we three went out into the town, and Wislac and I marvelled at everything. Then we went to the nunnery gates and asked how our charges fared, and then saw to our steeds. There was the collier, working as a groom with the other men, and he told me that he was learning his new trade fast, but would fain walk ever, rather than ride, having fallen many times from the abbess’ mule, which he had bestridden in anxiety to learn. Whether the mule was the better for this lesson I doubt.

When we went back to the abbey Eanulf had come, and with him many thanes. And I feared to meet these somewhat, for they might have been among the Moot, and would know me. Yet Ealhstan had foreseen this, and one was posted at the door to meet me, bidding me aside privately, since the bishop needed me.

Wulfhere and Wislac went into the hall and left me, therefore, and I was taken to a chamber where were six or seven lay brethren, who asked me many things about the fight, and specially at last about the saint who had appeared. And that was likely to be a troublesome question for me, as I could not claim to have been the one so mistaken; but another struck in, saying that there were many strange portents about, for that a fiend had appeared bodily from the marsh and had devoured a child, in Sedgemoor. Now it seems that fiends are rarer than saints among these holy men, and they forgot the first wonder and ran on about the second, not thinking that I could have told them of that also. And at last one fetched a great book, as I thought in some secrecy, and made thereout nothing more nor less than parts of the song of Beowulf itself, and all about Grendel, which pleased us all well, and so we were quiet enough, listening.

And it happened that while we were all intent on this reading (and I never heard one read as brother Guthlac read to us) the sub-prior came in to call me, and pulling back the hangings of the doorway, stood listening, where I could see him.

First of all he looked pleased to find his people so employed. Then when the crash of the fighting verses came to his ears he started a little, and looked round. The good brothers were like to forget their frocks, for their fists were clenched and their eyes sparkled, and their teeth were set, and verily I believe each man of them thought himself one of Beowulf’s comrades, if not the hero himself.

Whereupon the sub-prior and I were presently grinning at one another.

“Ho!” said he, all of a sudden. “Now were I Swithun, where would you heathens spend tonight? Surely in the cells!”

Then for a moment they thought Grendel had indeed come, such power has verse like this in the mouth of a good reader, and they started up, one and all.

And the reader saw who it was, and that there was no hiding the book from him, so they stood agape and terrified, for by this time the good man had managed to look mighty stern.

“Good Father,” said I, seeing that someone must needs speak, “I am but a fighting man, and the brothers were considering my weakness.”

“H’m,” said the sub-prior, seeming in great wrath. “Is there no fighting to be read from Holy Writ that you must take these pagan vanities from where you ought not? Go to! Yet, by reason of your care for the bishop’s thane, your penance shall be light now and not heavy hereafter. Brother Guthlac shall read aloud in refectory today the story of David and Goliath, and you brother,” pointing to one, “that of Ahab at Ramoth, and you, of Joshua at Jericho,” and so he went on till each had a chapter of war assigned him, and I thought it an easy penance.

“But,” he added, “and until all these are read, your meals shall be untasted before you.”

Then the brothers looked at one another, for it was certain that all this reading would last till the meal must be left for vespers.

Then the sub-prior bade the reader take back the book and go to his own cell, and beckoning me, we passed out and left the brothers in much dismay, not knowing what should befall them from the abbot when he heard.

So I ventured to tell the sub-prior how this came about, and he smiled, saying that he should not tell Tatwine the Abbot, for the brothers were seldom in much fault, and that maybe it was laudable to search even pagan books for the manners of fiends, seeing that forewarned was forearmed.

Then he said that surely he wished (but this I need tell none else) that he had been there in my place to hear Guthlac read it. Also that he was minded to make the old rhyme more Christian-like, if he could, writing parts of it afresh. And this he has done since, so that any man may read it; but it is not so good as the old one [ix].

Now we came to the bishop’s chamber, and he went in, calling me after him in a minute or so. I could hear Ealhstan’s voice and that of another as I waited outside.

The other was Eanulf the Ealdorman, and as I entered he rose up and faced me.

“So, Heregar,” he said, “you are bishop’s man now, and out of my power. I am glad of it,” and so saying he reached me out his hand and wrung mine, and looked very friendly as he did so.

“I have heard of your doings,” he said, “and thank you for them. And I will see this matter of yours looked into, for I think, as the bishop believes, that there has been a plot against you for plain reasons enough. However, that must stand over as yet. But come with me to the hall and I will right you with the thanes there.”

At that I thanked him, knowing that things were going right with me, and the bishop smiled, as well pleased, but said nothing, as Eanulf took me by the arm, and we went together to the great hall, where the thanes, some twenty of them, were talking together. At once I saw several whose faces had burnt themselves, as it were, into my mind at the Moot; but none of Matelgar’s friends among them.

They were quiet when their leader went in, and he wasted no time, but spoke in his own direct way.

“See here, thanes; here is Heregar, whom we outlawed but the other day. Take my word and Ealhstan’s and Osric’s for it that there was a mistake. We know now that there is no truer man, for he has proved it, as some of you know-he being the man who lit the huts at Stert in face of the Danes, and being likewise the Saint of Cannington ”

“Aye, it is so,” said several voices, and others laughed. Then, like honest Saxons as they were, they came crowding and laughing to shake hands with an outlawed saint, as one said; so that I was overdone almost with their kindness, and knew not what to say or do.

But Eanulf pushed me forward among them, saying that I, being bishop’s man, was no more concern of his, outlaw or no outlaw, and that saints were beyond him. So he too laughed, and went back to the bishop; and I found Wulfhere and Wislac, and soon I was one of my own sort again, and the bad past seemed very far away.

But Wislac looked at me and said: “You have spoilt a fine tale I had to take home with me; but maybe I need not tell the ending. Howbeit, I always did hold that there was none so much difference between a fighting saint and one of ourselves.”

And that seemed to satisfy him.