Now I remember the grim faces of the men as they went, and I remember the look on the faces of the women as they heard, and in the midst of us seemed to lie terror itself glaring from the set eyes of the dead warrior.  And of those memories I will say nought—­I would not have them live in the minds of any by day and night as they lived in mine for many a long year thereafter.  Many were the tales I had heard of the coming of Ingvar’s host in the days of Eadmund our martyred king, who was crowned here at Bures in our own church, and those tales were terrible.  Now the like was on us, and I saw that what I had heard was not the half.

The old steward rose up now, shaking his head in sorrow.  I think he was too old for fear.

“Grinkel is dead, lady,” he said gently, closing the wild eyes as he spoke, and then throwing a cloak from the wall over him.  But my mother only said, “May he rest in peace.  What of the Thane?”

Thereat the steward looked forthright into his lady’s face, and spoke bravely for all around to hear: 

“Doubtless the levy is broken for this once, and he bides with Earl Ulfkytel to gather a new and stronger force.  The Thane has sent Grinkel on, and he has ridden in over-much haste for a wounded man.  He was ever eager.”

My mother gave back her old servant’s look in silence, and seemed to assent.  Yet I, though I was but a lad of sixteen, could see what passed in that look of theirs.  I knew that surely my father had fallen, and that need was great for haste.

Then was hurry and hustle in the house as all that was most valuable was gathered, and I myself could but take my arms from the wall, and don mail-shirt and helm and sword and seax {2} and then look on, useless enough, with my thoughts in a whirl all the time.

Presently out of their tangle came one thing clearly to me, and that was that there were others whom I loved to be warned, besides the villagers.

My mother came into the hall again, and stood for a moment like a carven statue looking at the maidens who wrought at packing what they might.  She had not wept, but in her face was written sorrow beyond weeping.  Yet almost did she weep, when I stood beside her and spoke, putting my hand on her arm.

“Mother,” I said, “I must go to Wormingford and warn them also.  My horse will be ready, and I will return to you.”

Then she looked at me, for as I go over these things I know that this was the first time that I had ever said to her “I must,” without asking her leave, in aught that I would do.  And she answered me calmly.

“Aye, that is a good thought.  They will need help.  Bide with them if need is, and so join us presently on the road.  We will fly to London.”

“So far, mother?” I said.  “Surely Colchester will be safe.”

“I will go to Ethelred the king,” she answered.  “He has ever been your father’s friend, and will be yours.  And I was the queen’s maiden in the old days, and she will welcome me.  Now go and bring Hertha to me.”