There have been few troubles from the Danes, close at hand; so few
that they seem trivial in comparison with those our countrymen suffer
elsewhere. Still we have many of the pagans living as settlers in our
neighbourhood, whose presence is tolerated for fear of the reprisals
which might follow any acts of hostility against them. Kill one Dane,
the people say, and a hundred come to his funeral. Many of these
settlers have acquired their lands peaceably, but others by the strong
arms of their ancestors in periods of ancient strife; and these have
been allowed to keep their possessions for generations, so that if
they did not retain their heathen customs we might forget they were
not Englishmen.

One of these lives near us. His name is Anlaf. Some say he boasts of
being a descendant of that Anlaf who once ravaged England, and was
defeated at Brunanburgh. He married an English girl, whose heart, they
say, he broke by his cruelty. They had one child, Alfgar by name.

The mother died a Christian. Taking my life in my hands, I penetrated
their fortalice, and administered the last sacrament to her; but they
threatened my life for entering their domains, and, perhaps, had I
been but a simple priest, and not also, small boast as it is, the son
of a powerful English thane, whom they feared to offend, I had died in
doing my duty. When the poor girl was dying she committed the boy as
well as she could to my care, begging me to see that he was baptized;
but the father has prevented me from carrying out her wishes,
asserting that he would sooner slay the lad.

But it seems as if the boy retained some traces of his mother's faith;
over and over again I have seen him hiding in some remote corner of