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Tales of English Minsters: Hereford

TALES OF ENGLISH MINSTERS <h1> HEREFORD</h1> BY ELIZABETH GRIERSON <h2 class="v6"> TALES OF ENGLISH MINSTERS HEREFORD</h2> It is possible that anyone who visits Hereford Cathedral, after having visited the other two great Cathedral Churches of the West of England, Worcester and Gloucester, may feel a little disappointed, for it is smaller and plainer than either of them, and there are not so many stories that can be told about it. It has no Royal Tomb, nor any great outstanding Saint, yet in one respect it is the most interesting of the three. Indeed, in this one respect, it is the most interesting of all the English Cathedrals, for it does not only carry our thoughts back, as the others do, to the days when the torch of Christianity was re-lit in England by missionaries from Iona and Canterbury, but it takes them farther back still to the days when the early British Church existed, and had Bishops of her own; for, as doubtless you know, Christianity was brought to Britain from Gaul as early as two hundred years after Christ. We do not know who brought it. The names of the first missionaries are forgotten. Probably they were humble Christian soldiers who came in the ranks of the Roman legions, and they would be followed by a few priests sent after them by the Church in Gaul to minister to them; and from the ranks of these priests one or two Bishops would be consecrated. It all happened so long ago that it seems vague and far away, and it is difficult to pick out authentic facts. We can only say with an old historian, that ‘we see that the Light of the Word shined here, but see not who kindled it.’ Perhaps you know also that this early Christianity was swept away from all parts of the country, except in Ireland and Wales, by the coming of the heathen Angles, Saxons, and Danes. We can easily understand how these two parts of what to us is one Kingdom, managed to hold the Faith. They were more or less undisturbed by the fierce invaders who came from the North of Germany and from Denmark, and who were quite content to settle down in fertile England without taking the trouble to cross the Irish Channel and fight with the savage Irish tribes, or penetrate into the wild and hilly regions of Wales. So it came about that, while the English people were so harassed and worried with war and cruelty that they forgot all about the new doctrines which had been beginning to gain a slender foothold in their land, the people of Wales had still their Church and Bishops. These Bishops seem to have held much the same Sees as the Welsh Bishops hold to-day. Bangor, Llandaff, Menevia or St. Davids, Llanelwy or St. Asaph, and three others with strange Welsh names, one of which was Cærffawydd, which meant the ‘place of beeches,’ and which we now know as Hereford. For in these days Wales was larger than it is now, and was bounded by the Severn, and Cærffawydd was a Welsh town, if town it could be called, not an English one. These Bishops were governed by an Archbishop, who is spoken of sometimes as living at Carleon-on-Usk, sometimes at Llandaff, and sometimes at Hereford. Now, of course you have all heard about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table; and you may have read about them in Tennyson’s ‘Idylls of the King’; about their bravery, and chivalry, and purity, and how they took an oath— <div class="poem"> ‘To break the heathen and uphold the Christ; To ride abroad, redressing human wrongs; To speak no slander—no, nor listen to it;’ </div> and about Bishop Dubric, who crowned the King at Cirencester, and married him to Guinevere his wife. Part of those wonderful stories is purely legendary, but part is true, for it is believed that King Arthur was a real person, and so were many of his Knights. Bishop Dubric, or Dubricus, certainly was a real person, for we know that he was Bishop of Cærffawydd, and it is said that it was Sir Geraint, the Knight who married Enid, and rode with her, in her old faded dress, to Court, who built the first little church here, where the Bishop had his chair or ‘stool.’ Be this as it may, it is certain that there was a tiny little Cathedral here, long before the other English Cathedrals were thought of, for you know that a church is a Cathedral, no matter how small it is, if it has a Bishop’s official chair inside it. And it is probable that this little Cathedral was built of wood, and roofed with reeds or wattles. <div class="ctr pgbreak v6" id="i_11"> <ANTIMG class="figfull" alt="" style="width:618px" src="images/i_11.jpg" /> THE QUEEN HANDS THE DRUGGED CUP TO ETHELBERT. Page 20. </div> It must have been rebuilt, or at least repaired, once or twice during the centuries that followed, but we know very little about its history until we come to the year A.D. 794, when a terrible event happened which led to a larger and more stately church being erected, this time of stone. If you have read the story of St. Albans Cathedral,1 you will know what this event was; but I will try to tell you more fully about it here, for although it is very sad, it gives us a true picture of what even the life of Kings was, in these dark and troublous ages. The name of the King who reigned over East Anglia—that is, the land of the ‘North folk’ and the ‘South folk,’ or, as we call it, Norfolk and Suffolk—in these days was Ethelbert, and he had an only son, Ethelbert the Ætheling. This Ethelbert was such a goodly youth, so tall and straight and handsome, so skilled in all manner of knightly exercises, and so kind to the poor and needy, that all his father’s subjects adored him. He loved God with all his heart, and would fain have given up his princely state and retired into some religious house, so that he might have more time to study His Word, and to learn about Him. But he had plenty of what we call ‘common sense,’ so when his father died, and he was left King in his stead, he said to himself, ‘Now must I bestir myself and put away the dreams of my youth. I had visions of forsaking the world like Cuthbert or Bede, or the holy Paulinus, who won King Edwin to the Faith.2 But if it had been the will of God that I should serve Him in this manner, I would not have been born an Ætheling,3 and inheritor of the throne of East Anglia; and, seeing He hath thus dealt with me, I must serve Him according to His will, and not according to mine own. Therefore will I seek to be a just and true King.’ Then, knowing that a King has need of a wife, he sent for all the aldermen and wise men of his Kingdom, as soon as the days of mourning for his father were over, and told them that he wished to wed the Princess Elfreda, daughter of Offa, King of Mercia, and that he willed that a deputation should go from among them to the Court of that Monarch, to ask, in his name, for her hand. Now, this Offa was a very great and mighty King, who cared for nothing so much as to extend the boundaries of his Kingdom, and he had succeeded in doing this in an extraordinary way. He had conquered the parts of the country which are now known as Kent, Sussex, Essex, and Surrey, and on the West he had driven back the Welsh beyond Shrewsbury, and had built a huge earthwork, which was known as ‘Offa’s Dyke,’ to mark the boundary of their domains. In this way it came about that in his days Cærffawydd, or ‘Fernlege,’ as it had come to be called, was in Mercia instead of Wales. He had built for himself a great Castle at Sutton, near the banks of the Wye, and here he was holding his Court when King Ethelbert’s Ambassadors arrived, and laid their request before him. He granted it at once, for he had but two daughters, the elder of whom, Eadburh, was married to Beorhtric, King of the West Saxons, who owed allegiance to him, and he thought that he would also have a certain power over the young Monarch of the East Angles if Elfreda became his wife. So the grave bearded aldermen returned to their own land, and told their Royal Master how they had fared. King Ethelbert was overjoyed at the success of his suit, and appointed a day on which he would set out, accompanied by all his retinue, to travel to the pleasant West Country in order to fetch home his bride. Now, in those days people believed a great deal in dreams, and omens, and signs, and the old chroniclers tell us that, just before the young man set out, his mother, Queen Laonorine, came to him, and begged him not to go, because it was a very dark and cloudy morning, and she had had a bad dream the night before. ‘Look at the clouds,’ she said; ‘they be so black, methinks they portend evil.’ ‘Nay, but clouds break,’ answered her son cheerily. ‘Yea! Verily! But ‘tis from clouds a thunderbolt may come,’ replied the anxious mother. ‘Let us not trust in omens, but in the living God, who “ordereth a good man’s goings,”’ replied the King, and, kissing her, he joined his nobles, who were already on horseback waiting for him outside, and rode gaily away. It was the month of May, and for four days they rode through the fresh green lanes, till they drew near to where the powerful Monarch dwelt. They crossed the Severn at Worcester, and rode over the great hill of Malvern, and when they were within a day’s journey of the Royal Palace of Sutton, they pitched their tents at Fernlege, on the banks of the Wye, and there Ethelbert and most of his nobles waited, while one or two knights rode forward to inform King Offa of his arrival. In the evening, so the quaint old story goes, the young King left his tent, and, ascending a little hillock, from whence he could obtain a wide view of the surrounding country, sat down at the root of a giant oak-tree. Everything was so fair and peaceful that he smiled as he remembered his mother’s fears, and he thought to himself how delighted she would be when he arrived at home once more, accompanied by his beautiful young bride. Musing thus he fell asleep, and dreamed a dream. He dreamt that he was standing beside the little church which stood down by the riverside, which had been founded by Sir Geraint, and that all of a sudden an angel appeared, who carried a basin in his hand, and, to the King’s horror, the basin was full of blood. But the angel’s calm face was quite untroubled as he picked a little bunch of herbs and dipped them in the blood, and began to sprinkle the rude little building with the scarlet drops. And lo! to Ethelbert’s amazement, the building began slowly to change; it grew bigger and higher, and the reeds and wattles turned to blocks of stone, and presently a magnificent Minster stood in its place. Apparently it was some great Festival, for a sweet-toned organ was pealing inside, while from all directions multitudes of people came thronging to the church, singing hymns of praise as they did so. And as they drew near the King, he heard that there was one name which mingled with the name of God and of the Saints upon their lips, and that name was his own, ‘Ethelbert.’ Wondering greatly, he awoke, and the vision passed quickly from his mind, for at that moment his Ambassadors returned, bearing courteous greetings from the Mercian Monarch, who hoped that on the morrow he would come with all speed to his Palace. Meanwhile, at Sutton, a scene was going on which is almost the story of Ahab and Jezebel and Naboth’s vineyard over again. For King Offa and his wife, Queen Quendreda, were sitting in the King’s private chamber, talking about their coming guest and his fertile dominions, just as Ahab and Jezebel had talked about Naboth. And Quendreda was putting an awful thought into Offa’s mind. ‘It were a good thing,’ so she whispered, ‘to have the King of East Anglia for a son-in-law, but it were a better to murder him quietly, and add his Kingdom to that of Mercia. Then would Offa be a mighty Monarch indeed.’ I think there is no sadder picture in the whole of English history than this, which shows us this great and wise King, for remember he was a great and wise King, who had done an immense amount of good to his country, whose name might have been handed down to us, like that of Alfred the Great, or Victoria the Good, or Edward the Peacemaker, sitting listening to the advice of his wife, who was a thoroughly wicked woman, seeing clearly how bad, and cruel, and treacherous that advice was—aye, and saying so, too—and yet feeling tempted in his heart of hearts to follow it, because of the one weak spot in his otherwise strong character, his ungovernable lust for land and power. If only he could have looked into the future, and seen how that one dark deed would leave a stain on his memory, which would last when his good deeds would be forgotten, and how a blight would descend on his house almost as though it were a direct judgment from God, I think he would have ordered his wife to be silent, and never to speak such words to him again. But to see into the future is impossible. So, as if to shake the responsibility from his own shoulders, he did not actually forbid the scheme, but he pretended to be very angry, and strode out into the hall, and called to his knights and to his son, Prince Ecgfrith, to mount and ride with him to meet the stranger King. When he was gone, the unscrupulous Queen, who felt that she was now at liberty to work her wicked will, sent for the King’s most trusty henchman, Cymbert, the Warden of the Castle, who was tall, and strong, and a mighty fighter, but who had a heart as hard as stone. <div class="ctr pgbreak v6" id="i_22"> <ANTIMG class="figfull" alt="" style="width:800px" src="images/i_22.jpg" /> Valentine & Sons, Ltd. HEREFORD CATHEDRAL. </div> When he had answered the summons, and come and bowed low before her, the Queen said to him: ‘Cymbert, it is not fitting that thou, the Warden of this mighty Castle, shouldst be but a slave and a thrall, wouldst thou not like to be a freeman?’ ‘That would I, O Queen,’ replied the henchman. ‘And more than that, wouldst thou earn land of thine own, where thou couldst build a house?’ ‘Yea, verily!’ was the answer. ‘All these things shall be thine,’ said Quendreda, ‘if thou wilt but carry out my orders. Thou knowest that this very day the King of the East Angles cometh, that he may wed my daughter. ’Tis my wish to have him put to death, so that his Kingdom may be joined to that of Mercia. ‘To this end I will lodge him in the Royal chamber, beneath which, as thou knowest, runs a secret passage, which leads to the little postern in the wall. ‘Thou must arrange a trap-door in the flooring, which will sink or rise at will, and over it I will cause a couch to be placed. ‘Then, to-night, at supper, I will make the Monarch pledge me in a cup of wine, into which I will empty a potion. When he feeleth sleep come creeping upon him, he will retire to his chamber, and throw himself on the couch, and, to a man like thee, all the rest will be easy. ‘When he is dead, thou canst take his body out of the postern by stealth, and bury it, and no man will know what hath become of him.’ <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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