Edmund and Alfgar, with not more than half our men, have returned with the news.  Hermann is seriously wounded, but bears it bravely.  He is only sixteen now.  There is mourning over all our fallen heroes; but they have died so bravely.  Edmund says they have slain far more than twice their number of the marauders.  Still his father will give him no command.  It is like private war so far as he is concerned; but many fresh recruits have joined his standard, and will go out with him in spring.

March 1011.—­

The king and witan have again offered tribute to the Danes; it is accepted.  I do not think the peace will last long.

Michaelmas, 1011.—­

Woe is me! the Danes have broken the peace; and Canterbury, the chief seat of English Christendom, whence came to us the blessed Gospel, is taken and burnt.  Elfmar, the abbot of St. Augustine’s—­O false shepherd!  O wolf in sheep’s clothing! betrayed it.  The archbishop is prisoner.  God and the blessed saints preserve him!

Easter, 1012.—­

Another saint is added to the calendar; the Archbishop Elphege has suffered martyrdom.  On Easter eve they told him he must find ransom or die.  But he not only firmly refused to give money, but forbade his impoverished people to do so on his account.  Then, on the following Saturday, they led him to their hustings (or assembly), and shamefully slaughtered him, casting upon him bones and the horns of oxen.  And then one smote him with an axe iron on the head, and with the blow he sank down.  His holy blood fell on the earth, and his soul he sent forth to God’s kingdom.

On the morrow they allowed the body to be taken to London, where the bishops, Ednoth of Dorchester and Elfhelm of London, received it, with all the townsmen, and buried the holy relics in St. Paul’s minster, where they say many miracles have already been wrought at his tomb.

Tribute has again been paid, and there is peace awhile.  Thurkill, with forty ships, sweareth to serve King Ethelred and defend the country if he will feed and pay them.

Oh that the martyr’s intercessions may be heard for his afflicted country {xiii}.

August 1013.—­

This fatal month our own neighbourhood, indeed nearly all Mercia, has suffered the extreme horrors of war.  Sweyn came along Watling Street, perpetrating the most monstrous cruelties; in short, he and his committed the worst evil that any army could do.

We found now how wisely we had decided not to rebuild Aescendune.  Not a hall, farm, or cottage, escaped fire and sword, save those hidden in the forest like us.  Edmund has lost many men in the course of the last few months; and with the remainder he hid in our woods, ready to protect us “to the last breath,” as he said, “in his body.”  Alfgar and Hermann, who have both been wounded (the latter for the second time), are with him still.  But the enemy never discovered our retreat.  Praise be to God for sparing this little Zoar!  The saints are not unmindful how we protested against the iniquity of St. Brice’s day.  But of one thing we all feel sure; Anlaf cannot be alive, or revenge would lead him here.