CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE OF ÆSCENDUNE.
CHAPTER III. LEAVING HOME.
CHAPTER IV. LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.
CHAPTER V. TEMPTATION.
CHAPTER VI. LOWER AND LOWER.
CHAPTER VII. “THE KING IS DEAD!—LONG LIVE THE KING!”
CHAPTER VIII. THE CORONATION.
CHAPTER IX. GLASTONBURY ABBEY.
CHAPTER X. ELFRIC AND ALFRED.
CHAPTER XI. THE FLIGHT OF DUNSTAN.
CHAPTER XII. AT HIS WORST.
CHAPTER XIII. THE RETURN OF ALFRED.
CHAPTER XIV. EDWY AND ELGIVA.
CHAPTER XV. THE ROYAL GUEST.
CHAPTER XVI. NAKED THOUGH LOCKED IN STEEL.
CHAPTER XVII. THE SLEEP OF PEACE.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE BATTLE.
CHAPTER XIX. EARTH TO EARTH, AND DUST TO DUST.
CHAPTER XX. “AND THE DOOR WAS SHUT.”
CHAPTER XXI. “UNDER WHICH KING? “
CHAPTER XXII. LOVE STRONG AS DEATH.
CHAPTER XXIII. VENGEANCE IS MINE, I WILL REPAY.
CHAPTER XXIV. SOW THE WIND, AND REAP THE WHIRLWIND.
CHAPTER XXV. “FOR EVER WITH THE LORD.”
PREFACE.
It has been the aim of the Author, in a series of original tales told
to the senior boys of a large school, to illustrate interesting or
difficult passages of Church History by the aid of fiction. Two of
these tales—“Æmilius,” a tale of the Decian and Valerian persecutions;
and “Evanus,” a tale of the days of Constantine—he has already
published, and desires gratefully to acknowledge the kindness with
which they have been received.
He is thus encouraged to submit another attempt to the public, having
its scene of action in our own land, although in times very dissimilar
to our own; and for its object, the illustration of the struggle
between the regal and ecclesiastical powers in the days of the
ill-fated and ill-advised King Edwy.
Scarcely can one find a schoolboy who has not read the touching legend
of Edwy and Elgiva—for it is little more than a legend in most of its
details; and which of these youthful readers has not execrated the
cruelty of the Churchmen who separated those unhappy lovers? While the
tragical story of the fate of the hapless Elgiva has been the theme of
many a poet and even historian, who has accepted the tale as if it were
of as undoubted authenticity as the Reform Bill.
The writer can well remember the impression the tale made upon his
youthful imagination, and the dislike, to use a mild word, with which
he ever viewed the character of the great statesman and ecclesiastic of
the tenth century, Dunstan, until a wider knowledge of history and a
more accurate judgment came with maturer years; and testimonies to the
ability and genius of that monk, who had been the moving spirit of his
age, began to force themselves upon him.
Lord Macaulay has well summed up the relative positions of Church and
State in that age in the following words: “It is true that the Church
had been deeply corrupted by superstition, yet she retained enough of
the sublime theology and benevolent morality of her early days to
elevate many intellects, and to purify many hearts. That the sacerdotal
order should encroach on the functions of the chief magistrate, would
in our time be a great evil. But that which in an age of good
government is an evil, may in an age of grossly bad government be a
blessing. It is better that men should be governed by priest craft than
by brute violence; by such a prelate as Dunstan, than by such a warrior
as Penda.”
The Church was indeed the salt of the earth, even if the salt had
somewhat lost its savour; it was the only power which could step in
between the tyrant and his victim, which could teach the irresponsible
great—irresponsible to man—their responsibility to the great and awful
Being whose creatures they were. And again, it was then the only home
of civilisation and learning. It has been well said that for the
learning of this age to vilify the monks and monasteries of the
medieval period, is for the oak to revile the acorn from which it
sprang.
The overwhelming realisation of these facts, the determination to set
up the dominion of truth and justice which they held to be identical
with that of the Church, as that was identical with the kingdom of God,
supplies the key to the lives and characters of such men as Ambrose,
Cyril, Dunstan, and Becket. They each came in collision with the civil
power; but Ambrose against Justina or even Theodosius, Cyril against
Orestes, Dunstan against Edwy, Becket against Henry Plantagenet—each
represented, in a greater or less degree, the cause of religion, nay of
humanity, against its worst foes, tyranny or moral corruption.
Yet not one of these great men was without his faults; this is only to
say he was human; but more may be admitted—personal motives would mix
themselves with nobler emotions. Self would assert her fatal claims,
and great mistakes were sometimes made by those who would have
forfeited their lives rather than have committed them, had they known
what they were doing. Yet, on the whole, their cause was that of God
and man, and they fought nobly. Shall we asperse their memories because
they “had this treasure in earthen vessels”?
The tale itself is intended to depict what the writer believes to be
the true relative positions of Edwy and the great ecclesiastic;
therefore he will not attempt to deal with the subject here. It will be
noticed however, that he has shorn the narrative of the dread
catastrophe with which it terminated in all the histories of our
childhood. Scarcely any writer has made such wise research into the
history of this period as Mr. E. A. Freeman, and the author has adopted
his conclusions upon this point. With him he has therefore admitted the
marriage of Edwy with Elgiva, although it was an uncanonical marriage
beyond all doubt, and has given her the title of queen, which she bore
in a document preserved by Lappenburg. But, in agreement with the same
authority, the writer feels most happy to be able to reject the story
of Elgiva’s supposed tragical death. All sorts of stories are told by
later writers, utterly contradictory and confused, of a woman killed by
the Mercians in their revolt. This could not be Elgiva, for she was not
divorced till the rebellion was over; and even the sad tale that she
was seized by the officers of Odo, and branded to disfigure her beauty,
rests on no good authority. In spite of the reluctance with which men
relinquish a touching tragedy, the calumny should be banished from the
pages of historians; and it is painful to see it repeated, as if of
undoubted authenticity, in a recent popular history for children by one
of the greatest of modern novelists.
Edwy’s character has cost the writer much thought. He has endeavoured
to paint him faithfully—not so bad as all the monastic writers of the
succeeding period (the only writers with few exceptions) describe him;
but still such a youth as the circumstances under which he became
placed would probably have made him—capable of sincere attachment,
brave, and devoted to his friends, yet careless of all religious
obligations; bitterly hostile to the Church, that is to Christianity,
for the terms were then synonymous; and reckless of obligations, or of
the sanctity of truth and justice.
His measures against St. Dunstan, as they are related in the tale, have
the authority of history; although it is needless to say that the
agents are in part fictitious characters. The writer’s object has been
to subordinate fiction to history, and never to contradict historic
fact; if he has failed in this intention, it has been his misfortune
rather than his fault; for he has had recourse to all such authorities
as lay in his reach.i Especially, he is glad to find that the character
he had conceived as Edwy’s perfectly coincides with the description
given by Palgrave in his valuable History of the Anglo-Saxons:
“Edwy was a youth of singular beauty, but vain, rash, petulant,
profligate, and surrounded by a host of young courtiers, all bent on
encouraging and emulating the vices of their master.”
Another object of the tale has been to depict the trials and
temptations, the fall and the recovery, of a lad fresh from a home full
of religious influences, when thrown amidst the snares which abounded
then as now. The motto, “Facilis descensus Averno,” etc, epitomises the
whole story.
In relating a tale of the days of St. Dunstan, the author has felt
bound to give the religious colouring which actually prevailed in that
day. He has found much authority and information in Johnson’s
Anglo-Saxon Canons, especially those of Elfric, probably
contemporaneous with the tale. He has written in no controversial
spirit, but with an honest desire to set forth the truth.
It may be objected that he has made all his characters speak in very
modern English, and has not affected the archaisms commonly found in
tales of the time. To this he would reply, that if the genuine language
were preserved, it would be utterly unintelligible to modern
Englishmen, and therefore he has thought it preferable to translate
into the vernacular of today. The English which men spoke then was no
more stilted or formal to them than ours is to us.
Although he has followed Mr. Freeman in the use of the terms English
and Welsh, as far less likely to mislead than the terms Saxons and
Britons, and far truer to history, yet he has not thought proper to
follow the obsolete spelling of proper names; he has not, e. g., spelt
Edwy, Eadwig or Elgiva, Ælfgifu. Custom has Latinised the appellations,
and as he has rejected obsolete terms in conversation, he has felt it
more consistent to reject these more correct, but less familiar,
orthographies.
The title, “First Chronicle of Æscendune,” has been adopted, because
the tale here given is but the first of a series of tales which have
been told, but not yet written, attaching themselves to the same family
and locality at intervals of generations. Thus, the second illustrates
the struggle between Edmund Ironside and Canute; the third, the Norman
Conquest; etc. Their appearance in print must depend upon the
indulgence extended to the present volume.
In conclusion, the writer dedicates this book with great respect to
Mrs. Trevelyan, authoress of “Lectures upon the History of England;”
whose first volume, years ago, first taught him to appreciate, in some
degree, the character of St. Dunstan.
All Saints’ School, Bloxham,
_Easter_ 1874.
CHAPTER I.
“THIS IS THE FOREST PRIMEVAL.”
IT was a lovely eventide of the sunny month of May, and the declining
rays of the sun penetrated the thick foliage of an old English forest,
lighting up in chequered pattern the velvet sward thick with moss, and
casting uncertain rays as the wind shook the boughs. Every bush seemed
instinct with life, for April showers and May sun had united to force
each leaf and spray into its fairest development, and the drowsy hum of
countless insects told, as it saluted the ears, the tale of approaching
summer.
Two boys reclined upon the mossy bank beneath an aged oak; their dress,
no less than their general demeanour, denoted them to be the sons of
some substantial thane. They were clad in hunting costume: leggings of
skin over boots of untanned leather protected their limbs from thorn or
brier, and over their under garments they wore tunics of a dull green
hue, edged at the collar and cuffs with brown fur, and fastened by
richly ornamented belts: their bows lay by their sides, while quivers
of arrows were suspended to their girdles, and two spears, such as were
used in the chase of the wild boar, lay by them on the grass. They had
the same fair hair, which, untouched by the shears, hung negligently
around neck and shoulder; the same blue eyes added an indescribable
softness to the features; they had the same well-knit frames and agile
movements, but yet there was a difference. The elder seemed possessed
of greater vivacity of expression; but although each well-strung muscle
indicated physical prowess, there was an uncertain expression in his
glance and in the play of his features, which suggested a yielding and
somewhat vacillating character; while the younger, lacking the full
physical development, and somewhat of the engaging expression of his
brother, had that calm and steady bearing which indicated present and
future government of the passions.
“By Thor and Woden, Alfred, we shall be here all night. At what hour
did that stupid churl Oscar say that the deer trooped down to drink?”
“Not till sunset, Elfric; and it wants half an hour yet; see, the sun
is still high.”
“I do think it is never going to set; here we have been hunting,
hunting all the day, and got nothing for our pains.”
“You forget the hare and the rabbit here.”
“Toss them to the dogs. Here, Bran, you brute, take this hare your
masters have been hunting all day, for your dinner;” and as he spoke he
tossed the solitary victim of his own prowess in the chase to the huge
wolfhound, which made a speedy meal upon the hare, while Alfred threw
the rabbit to the other of their two canine companions.
“I would almost as soon have lost this holiday, and spent the time with
Father Cuthbert, to be bored by his everlasting talk about our duties,
and forced to repeat ‘_hic, hæc, hoc_,’ till my head ached. What a long
homily ii he preached us this morning —and then that long story about
the saint.”
“You are out of spirits. Father Cuthbert’s tales are not so bad, after
all you seemed to like the legend he told us the other night.”
“Yes, about our ancestor Sebbald and his glorious death; there was
something in that tale worth hearing; it stirred the blood—none of your
moping saints, that Sebbald.”
“I once heard another legend from Father Cuthbert, about the burning of
Croyland Abbey, and how the abbot stood, saying mass at the altar,
without flinching or even turning his head, when the Danes, having
fired the place, broke into the chapel. Do you not think it wanted more
bravery to do that in cold blood than to stand firm in all the
excitement of a battle?”
“You are made to be a monk, Alfred, and I daresay, if you get the
chance, will be a martyr, and get put in the calendar by-and-by. I
suppose they will keep your relics here in the priory church, and you
will be St. Alfred of Æscendune; for me, I would sooner die as the old
sea kings loved to die, surrounded by heaps of slain, with my sword
broken in my hand.”
It was at this moment that their conversation was suddenly interrupted
by a loud crashing of boughs in the adjacent underwood, a rush as of
some wild beast, a loud cry in boyish tones—“Help! help! the wolf! the
wolf!”
Elfric jumped up in an instant, and rushed forward heedless of danger,
followed closely by his younger brother, who was scarcely less eager to
render immediate assistance.
The cries for help became more and more piercing, as if some pressing
danger menaced the utterer. Elfric, who, in spite of his flippant
speech, was by no means destitute of keen sympathies and self devotion,
hurried forward, fearless of danger, bounding through thicket and
underwood, until, arriving upon a small clearing, the whole scene
flashed upon him.
A huge grey wolf, wounded and bleeding, was about to rush for the
second time upon a youth in hunting costume, whose broken spear, broken
in the first encounter with the beast he had disturbed, seemed to
deprive him of all chance of success in the desperate encounter
evidently impending. His trembling limbs showed his extreme
apprehension, and the sweat stood in huge drops on his forehead; his
eyes were fixed upon the beast as if he were fascinated, while the
shaft of his spear, presented feebly against the coming onslaught,
showed that he had lost his self possession, for he neglected the bow
and arrows which were slung at his side—if indeed there was time to use
them.
The beast sprang, but as he did so another spear was stoutly presented
to meet him, and he literally impaled himself in his eager spring on
the weapon of Elfric.
Still, such was his weight that the boy fell backward beneath the
mighty rush, and such the tenacity of life that, though desperately
wounded, even to death, the beast sought the prostrate lad with teeth
and claws, in frantic fury, until a blow from the hunting knife, which
Elfric well knew how to use, laid the wolf lifeless at his side.
Breathless, but not severely injured, he rose from the ground covered
with blood; his garments torn, his face reddened by exertion, and
paused a moment, while he seemed to strive to repress the wild beatings
of his heart, which bounded as if it would burst its prison.
But far more exhausted was the other combatant, yet scarcely so much by
exertion as by fear, of which he still bore the evident traces. After a
few moments he broke the silence, and his words seemed incoherent.
“Where is my horse? the beast threw me—I wish the wolves may get him—I
fear you are hurt; not much, I hope; where can those serfs be? Fine
vassals, to desert their master in peril. I’ll have them hung. But, by
St. Cuthbert, you are all covered with blood.”
“’Tis that of the wolf, then, for I have scarcely a scratch: one of the
beast’s claws ripped up my sleeve, and the skin with it; that was all
he could do before he felt the cold steel between his ribs.”
“Not a moment too soon, or he would have killed you before we could
interfere; why, as you rolled together, I could hardly see which was
boy and which was wolf. But where’s my horse? Did you see a white horse
rush past you?”
“We heard a rush as of some wild animal.”
“Wild enough. I was riding through the glade, and my attendants were on
in front, when we stumbled on this wolf, crouched under that thicket.
The horse started so violently that it threw me almost upon the monster
you have killed.”
Here the speaker paused, and blew impatient blasts upon a horn which
had been slung round his neck. They were soon answered, and some
attendants, dressed in semi-hunting costume, made their appearance with
haste and confusion, which showed their apprehensions.
“Guthred! Eadmer! Why did you get so far away from me? I might have
been killed. Look at this monstrous wolf; why, its teeth are dreadful.
It broke my spear, and would have had me down, but for this—this youth.
“I forgot, I haven’t asked to whom I am indebted. Aren’t you two
brothers?”
“Our father is the Thane of Æscendune. His hall is not far from here.
Will you not go home with us? We have plenty of room for you and
yours.”
“To be sure I will. Æscendune? I have heard the name: I can’t remember
where. Have you horses?”
“No; we were hunting on foot, and expecting to let fly our shafts at
some deer. May I ask, in return, the name of our guest?”
Before the youth could answer, one of the attendants strode forward,
and with an air of importance replied, “You are about to receive the
honour of a visit from the future lord of Britain, Prince Edwy.”
“Keep your lips closed till I give you leave to open them, Guthred. You
may leave me to announce myself.
“I shall be only too glad to go with you both; and these two huntsmen
deserve to be left in the forest to the mercy of your wolves.”
Somewhat startled to find that they had saved the future Basileus or
King of Britain—the hope of the royal line of Cerdic —the brothers led
their guest through the darkening forest until the distant light of a
clearing appeared in the west, and they emerged from the shadow of the
trees upon the brow of a gentle hill.
Below them lay the castle (if such it should be called) of their father
the Thane of Æscendune. Utterly unlike the castellated buildings which,
at a later period, formed the dwellings of the proud Norman nobility,
it was a low irregular building, the lower parts of which were of
stone, and the upper portions, when there was a second story, of thick
timber from the forest.
A river, from which the evening mist was slowly rising, lay beyond, and
supplied water to a moat which surrounded the edifice, for in those
troublous times few country dwellings lacked such necessary protection.
The memory of the Danish invasions was too recent; the marauders of
either nation still lurked in the far recesses of the forest, and
plundered the Saxon inhabitant or the Danish settler indiscriminately,
as occasion served.
On the inner side of the moat a strong palisade of timber completed the
defence. One portal, opening upon a drawbridge, formed the sole
apparent means of ingress or egress.
Passing the drawbridge unquestioned, the boys entered the courtyard,
around which the chief apartments were grouped. Before them a flight of
stone steps led to the great hall where all the members of the
community took their meals in common, and where, around the great fire,
they wiled away the slow hours of a winter evening.
On each side of the great hall stood the bowers, as the small
dormitories were called, furnished very simply for the use of the
higher domestics with small round tables, common stools, and beds in
recesses like boxes or cupboards. Such were commonly the only sleeping
chambers, but at Æscendune, as generally in the halls of the rich, a
wide staircase conducted to a gallery above, from each side of which
opened sleeping and sitting apartments allotted to the use of the
family. It was only in the houses of the wealthy that such an upper
floor was found.
On the right hand, as they entered the courtyard, stood the private
chapel of the household, where mass was said by the chaplain, to whom
allusion has been already made, as the first duty of the day, and where
each night generally saw the household again assembled for compline or
evening prayers.iii On the left hand were domestic offices.
Upon the steps of his hall stood Ella, the Thane of Æscendune, the
representative of a long line of warlike ancestors, who had occupied
the soil since the Saxon conquest of Mercia.
He was clad in a woollen tunic reaching to the knee, over which a cloak
fastened by a clasp of gold was loosely thrown; and his feet were clad
in black pointed boots, while strips of painted leather were wound over
red stockings from the knee to the ankle.
“You are late, my sons,” he said, “and I perceive you have brought us a
visitor. He is welcome.”
“Father,” said Elfric, in a voice somewhat expressive of awe, “it is
Prince Edwy!”
The thane had in his earlier days been at court, and had known the
murdered Edmund, the royal father of his guest, intimately. It was not
without emotion, therefore, that he welcomed the son to his home, and
saluted him with that manly yet reverential homage their relative
positions required of him.
“Welcome, thrice welcome, my prince,” he said, “to these humble halls.”
He added, with some emotion, “I could think the royal Edmund stood
before me, as I knew him while yet myself a youth.”
The domestics, who had assembled, gazed upon their visitor with country
curiosity, yet were not wanting in rude but expressive courtesy; and
soon he was conducted to the best chamber the house afforded, where
change of raiment and every comfort within the reach of his host was
provided, while the cooks were charged to make sumptuous additions to
the approaching supper.