THE HOUSE OF ÆSCENDUNE.
The earlier fortunes of the house of Æscendune must here obtrude
themselves upon the notice of the reader, in order that he may more
easily comprehend the subsequent pages of our veritable history.
Sebbald, the remote ancestor of the family, was amongst the earliest
Saxon conquerors of Mercia. He fell in battle with the Britons, or
Welshmen as our ancestors called them, leaving sons valiant as their
sire, to whom were given the fertile lands lying between the river Avon
and the mighty midland forests, to which they gave the name
“Æscendune.”
They had held their own for three hundred years with varying fortunes;
once or twice home and hearth were desolated by the fierce tide of
Danish invasion, but the wars subsided, and the old family resumed its
position, amidst the joy of their dependants and serfs, to whom they
were endeared by a thousand memories of past benefits.
But a generation only had passed since the shadow of a great woe fell
on the family of Æscendune.
Offa, who was then the thane, had two sons, Oswald the elder, and Ella
the younger, with whom our readers are already acquainted.
The elder possessed few of the family virtues save brute courage. He
was ever rebellious, even in boyhood, and arrived at man’s estate in
the midst of unsettled times of war and tumult. Weary of the restraints
of home, he joined a band of Danish marauders, and shared their
victories, enriching himself with the spoils of his own countrymen.
Thus he remained an outlaw, for his father disowned him in consequence
of his crime, until, fighting against his own people in the great
battle of Brunanburgh, iv where Athelstane so gloriously conquered the
allied Danes, Scots, and Welsh, he was taken prisoner.
The victor king sat in judgment upon the recreant, surrounded by his
chief nobility and vassal kings. The guilt of the prisoner was evident,
nay undenied, and the respect in which his sire was held alone delayed
the doom of a cruel death from being pronounced upon him.
While the council yet deliberated, Offa appeared amongst them, and,
like a second Brutus, took his place amongst his peers. Disclaiming all
personal interest in the matter, he sternly proposed that the claims of
justice should be satisfied.
Yet they hesitated to shed Oswald’s blood: the alternative they adopted
was perhaps not more merciful—although a common doom in those times.
They selected a crazy worm-eaten boat, and sent the criminal to sea,
without sail, oar, or rudder, with a loaf of bread and cruse of water,
the wind blowing freshly from off the land.
Oswald was never heard of again; but after his supposed death,
information was brought to his father that the outlaw had been married
to a Danish woman, and had left a son—an orphan—for the mother died in
childbirth.
Offa resolved to seek the boy, and to adopt him, as if in reparation
for the past. The effort he had made had cost him a bitter pang, and
the father’s heart was well-nigh broken. For a time the inquiries were
unsuccessful. It was discovered that the mother was dead, that she had
died before the tragedy, but not a word could be learned respecting the
boy, and many had begun to doubt his existence, when, after years had
elapsed, one of the executioners of the cruel doom deposed on his
deathbed that a boy of some ten summers had appeared on the beach, had
called the victim “father,” and had so persistently entreated to share
his doom, that they had allowed him to do so, but had concealed the
fact, rightly fearing blame, if not punishment. The priest who had
attended his dying bed, and heard his last confession, bore the tidings
to Offa at the penitent’s desire.
The old thane never seemed to lift up his head again: the sacrifice his
sense of duty had exacted from him had been too great for a heart
naturally full of domestic affection, and he sank and died after a few
months in the arms of his younger and beloved son Ella.
The foundation of the neighbouring priory and church of St. Wilfred had
been the consolation of his later years, but the work was only half
completed at his death. It was carried on with equal zeal by Ella, now
the Thane of Æscendune.
He married Edith, the daughter of a rich thane of Wessex, and the
marriage proved a most happy one.
Sincerely religious, after the fashion of their day, they honoured God
with their substance, enriched the church of St. Wilfred, where the
dust of the aged Offa awaited the resurrection of the just, and
continued the labour of building the priory. Day after day they were
constant in their attendance at mass and evensong, and strove to live
as foster parents to their dependants and serfs.
The chief man in his hundred, Ella acted as reeve or magistrate,
holding his court for the administration of justice each month, and
giving such just judgment as became one who had the fear of God before
him. No appeal was ever made from him to the ealdorman (earl) or
scirgerefa (sheriff) and the wisdom and mercy of his rule were
universally renowned.
His land was partly cultivated by his own theows, who were in those
days slaves attached to the soil, and partly let out to free husbandmen
(or ceorls) who owed their lord rent in kind or in money, and paid him,
as “his men,” feudal service.
Around his hospitable board the poor of the district found sustenance,
while work was made for all in draining meres, mending roads, building
the priory, or in the various agricultural labours of the year.
In the first year of King Edmund the lady Edith presented her lord with
his first-born son, to whom in baptism they gave the name Elfric, and a
year later Alfred was born, and named after the great king. One
daughter, named Edgitha, completed the fruits of their happy union, and
in their simple fashion they strove to train their children in the fear
of the Lord.
We will now resume the thread of our story.
It was now the hour of eventide, and the time for “laying the board”
drew near. From forest and field came in ceorl and theow, hanging up
their weapons or agricultural implements around the lower end of the
hall. Meanwhile the domestics brought in large tressels, and then huge
heavy boards, which they arranged so as to form the dining table,
shaped like the letter T, the upper portion being furnished with the
richest dainties for the family and their guest, the lower with simpler
fare for the dependents.
A wild boar caught in the forest formed the chief dish, and was placed
at the upper end, while mutton and beef; dressed in various ways,
flanked it on either side.
The thane, Ella, occupied the central seat at the high table: his
chair, rudely carved, had borne the weight of his ancestors before him;
on his left hand was seated the once lovely Edith. Age had deprived her
of her youthful beauty, but not of the sweet expression which told of
her gentleness and purity of heart; they had left their impress on each
line of her speaking countenance; and few left her presence unimpressed
with respect and esteem.
On his right hand sat Prince Edwy, “Edwy the fair” men called him, and
right well he deserved the name. His face was one which inspired
interest at a glance: his large blue eyes, his golden hair which
floated over his shoulders, his sweet voice, his graceful bearing, all
united to impress the beholders.
Elfric, Alfred, and their sister Edgitha, completed the company at the
high table.
The hungry crowd of ceorls and serfs, who were, as we have said, fresh
from field or forest, sat at the lower table, which was spread with
huge joints of roasted meat, loaves of bread, wedges of cheese, piles
of cabbage or other vegetables, rolls or coils of broiled eels, and
huge pieces of boiled pork or bacon.
Around the table sat the hounds and other dogs, open jawed, waiting
such good luck as they might hope to receive at the hands of their
masters, while many “loaf eaters,” as the serfs were called who fed at
their master’s table, stood with the dogs, or sat on the rush-strewn
floor, for want of room at the board.
It was marvellous to see how the food disappeared, as hand after hand
was stretched out to the dishes, in the absence of forks—a modern
invention—and huge horns of ale helped the meat downwards.
Game, steaks of beef and venison on spits, were handed round. The
choicer joints were indeed reserved for the upper board, but profusion
was the rule everywhere throughout the hall, and there was probably not
a serf; nay, not even a dog, whose appetite was not fully satisfied
before the end of the feast.
The prince seemed thoroughly to have recovered his spirits, somewhat
damped perhaps before by his adventure with the wolf; and exerted his
talents to make himself agreeable. He had seen life on an extended
scale, young as he was, and his anecdotes of London and the court, if a
little wild, were still interesting. Elfric and Alfred listened to his
somewhat random talk, with that respect boys ever pay to those who have
seen more of the wide world than themselves—a respect perhaps
heightened by the high rank of their princely guest, who was, however,
only a month or two older than Elfric.
As they heard of the marvels of London, and of the court, home and its
attractions seemed to become dim by comparison, and Elfric especially
longed to share such happiness.
Their father seemed to wish to change the conversation, as he asked the
prince whether he had been long in Mercia.
Edwy replied, “Nay, my host; this is almost my first day of perfect
freedom, and I only left London, and my uncle the king, a few days
back. Dunstan has gone down to Glastonbury, for which the Saints be
thanked, and I am released for a few days from poring over the musty
old manuscripts to which he dooms me.”
“It is well, my prince, that you should have a preceptor so well
qualified to instruct you in the arts your great ancestor King Alfred
so nobly adorned.”
“Ah yes, Alfred,” said Edwy, yawning; “but you know we can’t all be
saints or heroes like him: for my part, I sometimes wish he had never
lived.”
The astonished looks of the company seemed to demand further
explanation.
“Because it is always, ‘Alfred did this,’ and ‘Alfred did that.’ If I
am tired of ‘_hic, hæc, hoc_,’ I am told Alfred was never weary; if I
complain of a headache, Dunstan says Alfred never complained of pain or
illness, but bore all with heroic fortitude, and all the rest of it. If
I want a better dinner than my respected uncle gives us on fast days in
the palace, I am told Alfred never ate anything beyond a handful of
parched corn on such days; if I lose my temper, I am told Alfred never
lost his; and so on, till I get sick of his name; and here it greets me
in the woods of Mercia.”
“I crave pardon, my liege,” said Ella, who hardly knew whether to smile
or frown at the sarcastic petulance of his guest, who went on with a
sly smile—“And now old Dunstan does not know where I am. He left me
with a huge pile of books in musty Latin, or crabbed English, and I had
to read this and to write that, as if I were no prince, but a
scrivener, and had to get my living by my pen; but as soon as he was
gone I had a headache, and persuaded my venerable uncle the king,
through the physician, that I needed change of air.”
“But what will Dunstan say?”
“Oh, he must fight it out with Sigebert the leech, and Sigebert knows
which side his bread is buttered.”
The whole tone of Edwy indicated plainly that the headache was but a
pretence, but he spoke with such sly simplicity that the boys could not
help joining in his contagious laughter; sympathising, doubtless, in
his love of a holiday in the woods.
“Your headache is not gone yet, I trust, my prince,” said Elfric.
“Why?” said Edwy, turning his eyes upon him with a smile.
“Because we have splendid woods near here for hunting, and I must have”
(he whispered these words into Edwy’s ear) “a headache, too.”
Edwy quite understood the request conveyed in these words, and turning
to the old thane requested him to allow his boys to join the sport on
the morrow as a kind of bodyguard, adding some very complimentary words
on the subject of Elfric’s courage shown in the rescue that afternoon.
“Why, yes,” said the old thane, “I have always tried to bring up the
boys so as to fear neither man nor beast, and Elfric did indifferently
well in the tussle. So he has earned a holiday for himself and brother,
with Father Cuthbert’s leave,” and Ella turned to the ecclesiastic.
“They are good boys,” said the priest, “only, my lord, Elfric is
somewhat behind in his studies.”
Elfric’s looks expressed his contempt of the “studies,” but he dared
not express the feeling before his father.
“But I trust, my prince,” said Ella, “that we shall not keep you from
your duties at court. Dunstan is a severe, although a holy man.”
“Oh, he is gone to have another encounter with the Evil One at
Glastonbury, and is fashioning a pair of tongs for the purpose,” said
Edwy, alluding to the legend already current amongst the credulous
populace; “and I wish,” he muttered, “the Evil One would get the best
of it and fly away with him. But” (in a louder tone) “he cannot return
for a month, which means a month’s holiday for me.”
Ella could interpose no further objection, although scarcely satisfied
with the programme.
The conversation here became general. It turned upon the subject of
hunting and war, and the enthusiasm of young Edwy quite captivated the
thane, who seemed to see Edmund, the father of the young prince, before
his eyes, as he had known him in his own impetuous youth. Dear, indeed,
had that prince been to Ella, both before and after his elevation to
the throne, and as he heard the sweet boyish voice of Edwy, his
thoughts were guided by memory to that ill-omened feast at
Pucklechurch, where the vindictive outlaw Leolf had murdered his king.
The sword of Ella had been amongst those which avenged the crime on the
murderer, but they could not call back the vital spark which had fled.
“Edmund the Magnificent,” as they loved to call him, was dead. v
So, as Ella listened, he could hardly help condoning the wild speeches
of the young prince in deference to the memory of the past.
And now they removed the festive board from the hall, while kneeling
serfs offered basin and towel to the thane and his guest to wash their
hands. Wine began to circulate freely in goblets of wood inlaid with
gold or silver; the clinking of cups, the drinking of healths and
pledges opened the revel, cupbearers poured out the wine. The glee-wood
(harp) was introduced, while pipes, flutes, and soft horns accompanied
its strains. So they sang—
Here Athelstane king,
Of earls the lord,
To warriors the ring-giver
Glory world-long
Had won in the strife,
By edge of the sword,
At Brunanburgh.
And Ella—who had stood by his father’s side in that dread field where
Danes, Scots, and Welshmen fled before the English sword—listened with
enthusiasm, till he thought of his brother Oswald, when tears,
unobserved, rolled down his cheeks.
Not so with the boys. They had no secret sorrow to hide, and they
listened like those whose young blood boils at the thought of mighty
deeds, and longed to imitate them. And when the gleeman finished his
lengthy flight of music and poesy, they applauded him till the roof
rang again.
Song followed song, legend legend, the revelry grew louder, while the
lady Edith, with her daughter, retired to their bower, where they
employed their needles on delicate embroidery. A representation in
bright colours of the consecration of the church of St. Wilfred
occupied the hands of the little Edgitha, while her mother wove sacred
pictures to serve as hangings for the sanctuary of the priory church.
But soon the tolling of the bell announced that it was the compline
hour, nine o’clock, and that hour was never allowed to pass unobserved
at Æscendune, but formed the termination of the labour or the feast,
after which it was customary for the whole household to retire, as well
they might who rose with the early dawn.
Neither was it passed by on this occasion, although the boys looked
very disappointed, for they would fain have listened to song or legend
till midnight, if not later.
“Come, my children,” said the thane; “we must rise early, so let us all
commit ourselves to the keeping of God and His holy angels, and seek
our pillows.”
So the whole party repaired to the chapel, where the chaplain said the
compline office or night song, after which Ella saluted his royal guest
with reverent affection, and bestowed his paternal benediction upon his
children. Then the whole party separated for the night.
The household was speedily buried in sleep, save the solitary sentinel
who paced around the building. Not that danger was apprehended from any
source, but precaution had become habitual in those days of turmoil.
Occasionally the howl of the wolf was heard from the woods, and the
sleepers half awoke, then dreamt of the chase as the night flew by.