LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.
London, in the days of King Edred, differed widely from the stately and
populous city we know in these days, and almost as widely from the
elegant “_Colonia Augusta_,” or Londinium, of the Roman period. Narrow,
crooked, and unpaved lanes wound between houses, or rather lowly
cottages, built of timber, and roofed with thatch, so that it is not
wonderful that a conflagration was an event to be dreaded.
Evidence met the eye on every side how utterly the first Englishmen had
failed to preserve the cities they had conquered, and how far inferior
they were in cultivation, or rather civilisation, to the softer race
they had so ruthlessly expelled; for on every side broken pedestal and
shattered column appeared clumsily imbedded in the rude domestic
architecture of our forefathers.
St. Paul’s Cathedral rose on the hill once sacred to Diana but was
wholly built within the ruins of the vast temple which had once
occupied the site, and which, magnificent in decay, still surrounded it
like an outwork. Further on were the wrecks of the citadel, where once
the stern legionary had watched by day and night, and where Roman
discipline and order had held sway, while the wall raised by
Constantine, broken and imperfect, still rose on the banks of the
river. Near the Ludgate was the palace of the Saxon king, and the ruins
of an aqueduct overshadowed its humbler portal, while without the walls
the river Fleet rolled, amidst vineyards and pleasant meadows dotted
with houses, to join the mighty Thames.
Edred, the reigning king of England, was the brother of the murdered
Edmund, and, in accordance with the custom of the day, had ascended the
throne on the death of his brother, seeing that the two infant sons of
the late king, Edwy and Edgar, were too young to reign, and the idea of
hereditary right was not sufficiently developed in the minds of our
forefathers to suggest the notion of a regency. It must also be
remembered that, within certain limits, there was an elective power in
the Witenagemot or Parliament, although generally limited in its scope
to members of the royal family.
Edred was of very delicate constitution, and suffered from an inward
disease which seldom allowed him an interval of rest and ease. Like so
many sufferers he had found his consolation in religion, and the only
crime ever laid to his charge (if it were a crime) was that he loved
the Church too much. Still he had repeatedly proved that he was strong
in purpose and will, and the insurgent Danes who had settled in
Northumbria had owned his prowess. In the internal affairs of his
kingdom he was chiefly governed by the advice of the great ecclesiastic
and statesman, with whose name our readers will shortly become
familiar.
Upon the morning after the arrival of Elfric in London, Edwy, the young
prince, and his new companion, sat in a room on the upper floor of the
palace, which had but two floors, and would have been considered in
these days very deficient in architectural beauty.
The window of the room opened upon the river, and commanded a pleasant
view of the woods and meadows on the Surrey side, then almost
uninhabited, being completely unprotected in case of invasion, a
contingency never long absent from the mind in the days of the sea
kings.
A table covered with manuscripts, both in Latin and Anglo-Saxon,
occupied the centre of the room, and there Elfric was seated, looking
somewhat aimlessly at a Latin vocabulary, while Edwy was standing
listlessly at the window. The “library,” if it deserved the name, was
very unlike a modern library; books were few, and yet very expensive,
so that perhaps there was no fuller collection in any layman’s house in
the kingdom. There were Alfred’s translations into Anglo-Saxon, the
“_Chronicle of Orosius_,” or the history of the World; the “_History of
the Venerable Bede_,” both in his original Latin and in English;
Boethius on the “_Consolations of Philosophy_;” narratives from ancient
mythology; extracts from the works of St. Augustine and St. Gregory;
and the Apologues or Fables from Æsop.viii
“Oh, put those stupid books aside,” exclaimed the prince; “this is your
first day in town, and I mean to take a holiday; that surly old Dunstan
should have left word to that effect last night.”
“Will he not be here soon?”
“Yes, he is coming this morning, the old bear, to superintend my
progress, and I wish him joy thereof.”
“What has he given you to do?” inquired Elfric.
“Why, a wretched exercise to write out. There, you see it before you;
isn’t it a nuisance?”
“It is not very hard, is it?”
“Don’t you think it hard? See whether you can do it!”
Elfric smiled, and wrote out the simple Latin with ease, for he had
been well instructed by Father Cuthbert at Æscendune.
He had scarcely finished when a firm step was heard upon the stairs.
“Hush,” said Edwy; “here comes Dunstan. Be sure you look solemn
enough,” and he composed his own countenance into an expression of
preternatural gravity.
The door opened, and an ecclesiastic in the prime of life entered the
room, one whose mien impressed the beholder with an indefinable awe.
He was dressed in the Benedictine habit, just then becoming common in
England, and his features were those of a man formed by nature to
command, while they reconciled the beholder to the admission of the
fact by the sad yet sweet smile which frequently played on the shapely
countenance. He was now in the thirtieth year of his age, having been
born in the first year of King Athelstane, and had been abbot of
Glastonbury for several years, although his services as counsellor to
King Edred had led him to spend much of his time in town, and he had
therefore accepted the general direction of the education of the heir
to the throne. Such was Dunstan.
He seemed but little welcome to Edwy, and the benediction with which he
greeted his pupil was but coldly received.
Not appearing to notice this, he mildly said, “You must introduce your
young companion to me, my prince. Am I not right in concluding that I
see before me Elfric, heir to the lands of Æscendune?”
Elfric blushed as he bent the knee to the great churchman to receive
the priestly benediction with which he was greeted, but remained
silent.
“Father Cuthbert, whom I knew well years agone, has told me about you,
and your brother Alfred; is not that his name?”
“He is so named, my father.”
“I am glad to perceive that my royal pupil has chosen so meet a
companion, for Father Cuthbert speaks well of your learning. You write
the Latin tongue, he tells me, with some little facility.”
Elfric feared his powers had been overrated.
“I trust you have resumed your studies after your long holiday,”
continued Dunstan. “Youth is the season for sowing, age for reaping.”
“I have had a very bad headache,” said Edwy, “and have only been able
to write a page of Latin. Here it is, father.”
And he extended the exercise Elfric had written to the abbot, who
looked at the writing for one moment, and then glanced severely at the
prince. The character was very like his own, but there was a
difference.
“Is this your handwriting, Prince Edwy?” he asked.
“Of course. Elfric saw me write it, did you not?”
Elfric was not used to falsehood; he could not frame his lips to say
“Yes.”
Dunstan observed his confusion, and he turned to the prince with a look
in which contempt seemed to struggle with passive self-possession.
“I trust, Edwy,” he said, “you will remember that the word of a king is
said to be his bond, and so should the word of a prince be if he ever
hopes to reign. I shall give Father Benedict charge to superintend your
studies as usual.”
He wished them a grave good morning, and left the room.
As soon as the last sound of his steps had ceased, Edwy turned sharply
to Elfric—“Why did you not say yes at once? Surely you have a tongue?”
“It has never learnt to lie.”
“Pooh! What is the harm of such a white lie as that would have been? If
you cannot give the credit of a Latin exercise, which you happen to
have written, to your future king, you must be selfish; it is my
writing, if you give it me, isn’t it?”
Elfric did not quite see the matter in that light, yet did not care to
dispute the point; but his conscience was ill at ease, and he was glad
to change the subject.
“When can we go out?” he said, for he was anxious to see the city.
“Oh, not till after the midday meal, and you must see the palace first;
come now.”
So they descended and traversed the various courts of the building; the
dormitories, the great dining hall, the audience chambers where Edred
was then receiving his subjects, who waited in the anteroom, which
alone the two boys ventured to enter. Finally, after traversing several
courts and passages, they reached the guardroom.
Three or four of the “hus-carles” or household guards were here on
duty. But in the embrasure of the window, poring over a map, sat one of
very different mien from the common soldiers, and whose air and manner,
no less than his dress, proclaimed the officer.
“Redwald,” said the prince, advancing to the window, “let me make you
acquainted with my friend and companion, Elfric of Æscendune.”
The officer started, as if with some sudden surprise, but it passed
away so quickly that the beholder might fancy the start had only
existed in imagination, as perhaps it did.
“This gallant warrior,” said Edwy to Elfric, “is my friend and
counsellor in many ways; and if he lives there shall not be a thane in
England who shall stand above him. You will soon find out his value,
Elfric.”
“My prince is pleased to flatter his humble servant,” said Redwald.
But Elfric was gazing upon the soldier with feelings he could scarcely
analyse. There was something in his look and the tone of his voice
which struck a hidden chord, and awoke recollections as if of a
previous existence.
“Redwald,” as Edwy named him, was tall and dark, with many of the
characteristics of the Danish race about him. His nose was slightly
aquiline, his eyes hid beneath bushy eyebrows, while his massive jaw
denoted energy of character—energy which one instinctively felt was
quite as likely to be exerted for evil as for good.
He was captain of the hus-carles, and had but recently entered the
royal service. Few knew his lineage. He spoke the Anglo-Saxon tongue
with great fluency, and bore testimonials certifying his valour and
faithfulness from the court of Normandy, where the Northmen under Rollo
had some half-century earlier founded a flourishing state, then ruled
over by the noble Duke “Richard the Fearless.”
Edwy seemed to be on intimate terms with this soldier of fortune; in
fact, with all his proud anticipation of his future greatness, he was
never haughty to his inferiors, perhaps we should say seldom, for we
shall hereafter note exceptions to this rule. It would be a great
mistake to suppose that the pomp and ceremony of our Norman kings was
shared by their English predecessors: the manners and customs of the
court of Edred were simplicity itself.
After a few moments of private conversation with Redwald, the boys
returned to their chamber to prepare for dinner.
“You noted that man,” said Edwy; “well, I don’t know how I should live
without him.”
Elfric’s looks expressed surprise.
“You will find out by and by; you have little idea how strictly we are
kept here, and how much one is indebted to one’s servants for the gift
of liberty, especially in Lent and on fast days, when one does not get
half enough to eat, and must sometimes escape the gloom and starvation
of the palace.”
“Starvation?”
“What else do you call it, when you get nothing but fish, fish, fish,
and bread and water to help it down. My uncle is awfully religious. I
can hardly stand it sometimes. He would like to spend half the day in
chapel, but, happily for all the rest of us, the affairs of state are
too urgent for that, so we do get a little breathing time, or else I
should have to twist my mouth all of one side singing dolorous chants
and tunes which are worse than a Danish war whoop, for he likes, he
says, to hear the service hearty.”
“But it helps you on with your Latin.”
“Not much of that, for I sing anything that comes into my head; the
singing men make such a noise, they can hear no one else, and I fancy
they don’t know what a word of the Latin prayers means.”
“But isn’t it irreverent—too irreverent, I mean. Father Cuthbert made
me afraid to mock God, he told such stories about judgment.”
“All fudge and nonsense—oh, I beg your pardon, it is all very godly and
pious, and really I expect to be greatly edified by your piety in
chapel. Pray, when shall you be canonised?”
Elfric could not bear ridicule, and blushed for the second time that
morning. Just then the bell rang for dinner, or rather was struck with
a mallet by the master of the ceremonies.
King Edred dined that day, as one might say, in the bosom of his
family; only Dunstan was present, besides the boys Edwy, Edgar his
younger brother, and Elfric. It was then that Elfric first saw the
younger prince, a pale studious-looking boy of twelve, but with a very
firm and intellectual expression of countenance. He was a great
favourite with Dunstan, whom the boy, unlike his brother, regarded with
the greatest respect and reverence.
The conversation was somewhat stiff; Edred spoke a few kind words to
the young stranger, and then conversed in an undertone with Dunstan,
the whole dinner time; the princes themselves were awed by the presence
of their uncle and his spiritual guide.
But at last, like all other things, it was over, and with feelings of
joy the boys broke forth from the restraint. The whole afternoon was
spent in seeing the sights of London, and they all three, for Edgar
accompanied them, returned to the evening meal, fatigued in body, but
in high spirits. Compline in the royal chapel terminated the day, as
mass had begun it.