Then Leof and I splashed back through the stream that ran between house and church, and came quickly to the porch.  The church is very small and more ancient than I can say, for it is built of flint bound together with such mortar as the Romans used in their castles, hard as stone itself, and it stands in the midst of the Roman camp that guarded the ford, so that maybe it was the first church in all East Anglia, for we use wood; and, moreover, this stone church is rounded at the east end, and has a barrier dividing the body of the building into two, beyond which the as yet unbaptized must sit, as men say.  And so strong and thick are the walls that I do not know how they can ever fall.

Now through the narrow windows shone lights, and I heard the sound of chanting.  Leof held my horse, and I opened the door gently and went in.

At once there was a shrinking together of a group of men, mostly monks, who stood at the upper end of the church where the chancel begins.  They were chanting the third psalm, for help against the heathen, and it faltered for a moment.  But they were mostly monks of the bishop’s own household, and knew me well enough, and they ended it shortly.

Then there was silence, for they were holding none of the set services, but rather as it seemed doing the bishop’s bidding, and praying with him in the best way for the ceasing of this new trouble, as in time of pestilence once I remembered that he made litanies for us.  And Humbert himself knelt before the altar during that psalm, fully vested, but as in times of fast and penitence.

When he rose, I came up the aisle towards him, and my mail clanged noisily as I walked in the hush.  At the chancel steps I stood, helm in hand, and did reverence, not daring to speak first.

“What is it?” asked the bishop, when he turned and saw me.  “Speak, Wulfric, my son.  Is all well?”

“I have heavy news, father,” I answered.  “Close on us are the Danes, and you must fly.  Then I will tell you all on the way.”

“I will fly no more,” he answered, “here I will bide.  Is the king at my house?”

“He is not there, father,” I said; and then I urged him to fly at once, and with me his monks joined, even going on their knees in their grief.  Yet he would not be moved.

“Surely the king will come here,” he said, “nor will I go without him.”

“Father,” I said, “the Danes have taken the king.”

“Then must I bide here, and pray and scheme for his release.”

Now I knew not how to tell him all, but at last I said: 

“Eadmund the king has escaped from the hands of the heathen.”

At that the bishop looked long at me, judging perhaps what I meant, by my voice.  But the monks rejoiced openly, at first, until they saw what was meant also, and then they trembled.

“Where is he?” he asked, speaking low.

“Father,” I said, “this twentieth day of November will be the day when England shall honour a new martyr.  Eadmund the King is numbered among them.”