The Ward of King Canute: A Romance of the Danish ConquestLiljencrantz, Ottilie A. (Ottilia Adelina)
History
The Ward of King Canute: A Romance of the Danish Conquest
Liljencrantz, Ottilie A. (Ottilia Adelina)
Canute I, King of England, 995?-1035 -- Fiction; Great Britain -- History -- Canute, 1017-1035 -- Fiction
There is an old myth of a hero who renewed his strength each time he
touched the earth, and finally was overcome by being raised in the air
and crushed. Whether or not the Angles risked a like fate as they
raised themselves away from the primitive virtues that had been their
life and strength, no one can tell; but it has been well said that when
Northern blood mingled with English blood at the time of the Danish
Conquest, the Anglo-Saxon race touched the earth again.
CHAPTER I. The Fall of the House of Frode
Full stocked folds
I saw at the sons of Fitjung,
Now they carry beggars’ staffs;
Wealth is
Like the twinkling of an eye,
The most unstable of friends.
Hávamál.
As the blackness of the midsummer night paled, the broken towers and
wrecked walls of the monastery loomed up dim and stark in the gray
light. The long-drawn sigh of a waking world crept through the air and
rustled the ivy leaves. The pitying angel of dreams, who had striven
all night long to restore the plundered shrine and raise from their
graves the band of martyred nuns, ceased from his ministrations, softly
as a bubble frees itself from the pipe that shaped it, and floated away
on the breath of the wind. Through a breach in the moss-grown wall, the
first sunbeam stole in and pointed a bright finger across the cloister
garth at the charred spot in the centre, where missals and parchment
rolls had made a roaring fire to warm the invaders’ blood-stained
hands.
As the lark rose through the brightening air to greet the coming day, a
woman in the tunic and cowl of a nun opened what was left of the
wicket-gate in the one unbattered wall. A trace of the luxury that had
dwelt under the gilded spires survived in her robes, which had been of
a royal purple and embroidered with silken flowers; but the voice of
Time and of Ruin spoke from them also, for the purple was faded to a
rusty brown, and the silken embroideries were threadbare. She struck a
note in perfect harmony with her surroundings, as she stood under the
crumbling arch, peering out into the flowering lane.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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