EDWY AND ELGIVA.
Edwy, King of England, and Elgiva, his queen, gave a great feast at
their royal palace in London, a month after the events recorded in our
last chapter; and a numerous company had assembled to do honour to
their hospitality. Yet the company was very different from that which
had assembled round the same hospitable board in the days of King
Edred. First, the Churchmen were conspicuous by their absence; and
secondly, all the old grey-headed counsellors, who had been the pride
and ornament of the reigns of Edmund and Edred, were not seen; for,
after the rumour of their marriage had reached Odo, he had pronounced
the sentence of the lesser excommunication upon them, severing them
from the sacraments; and this was felt by the old counsellors of Edred
to be a most serious stigma, yet one which they could not call
undeserved: hence they deserted the court.
In their place were the young and giddy, the headstrong sons of wiser
fathers, the spendthrifts, the young fops of the period, those who went
in for a fast life, to use a modern phrase—who spent the night, if not
the day, over the wine cup, and consumed their substance in riotous
living—such were they who gathered around Edwy the Fair and the yet
fairer Elgiva.
And truly king and queen more beautiful in person had never sat upon a
throne; and it was difficult to look upon them and feel aught but
admiration, save when one knew all their history, and then pity and
sorrow might supply the place of admiration, at least with the sober
minded.
Fish, flesh, and fowl; nought was wanting. The earth the air, and the
water, all yielded their tribute; for was it not the anniversary of the
marriage—the uncanonical marriage, alas!—of the royal pair, if marriage
it had truly been?
Eels of enormous size, fine as the Roman lamprey, pike roasted with
puddings in their bellies, tench and carp stewed; while the sea yielded
its skate, its sturgeon, and its porpoise, which the skill of the cook
had so curiously dressed with fragrant spices that it won him great
renown. The very smell, said a young gourmand, was a dinner in itself;
and the wild buck supplied its haunch, and the boar its head, while
fowl of all kinds were handed round on spits.
The drinking was of like sumptuous character, and Rhenish wine
contended with the wines of sunny France for precedence, as they were
passed round in silver cups and gold-mounted horns; for glass was
seldom, if ever, used for such purposes then.
The floor was strewed with the sweetest summer flowers, and exhaled an
odour balmy as the breath of eastern climes, where the breeze plays
with the orange blossoms. The tapestry was beautifully woven by foreign
artists, and represented the loves of the gods; while there was nothing
in keeping with the olden style throughout the whole apartment.
But one seat was vacant near the king’s throne, and every now and then
Edwy seemed to cast a wistful eye upon it, as if he would fain see its
ordinary occupant there.
The gleemen rose and sang, the harpers harped, but something was
wanting; they brought tears to the eyes of the fair queen by their
plaintive songs of hapless lovers, which had superseded alike the war
songs of Athelstane and the monkish odes of Edred.
“Where is Elfric? He promised to be back by our wedding day; why does
he delay, my Edwy?” asked Elgiva.
“It is little less than treason to the queen of youth and beauty to be
thus absent, my Elgiva, but remember he has been unwell, and Redwald
told me that for prudential reasons they delayed his return to court.”
“And your brother Edgar—”
“Is somewhere in Mercia: the churlish boy has declined our invitation
to honour our feast with his presence. We do not want his serious face
at the board. I am sure he would preach on the duty of fasting.”
“He has but seldom been our visitor.”
“No; he is afraid, perhaps, to trust his cold heart within the magic of
my Elgiva’s sunshine, lest the ice should be melted.”
These had been asides, while all the company were listening to the
gleeman; but now Edwy threw himself heart and soul into the current
conversation, and all went merry as a marriage peal, until the
ceremoniarius—for Edwy loved formality in some things—threw open the
folding doors and announced the captain of the hus-carles, and Elfric
of Æscendune.
The whole company rose to receive them, and Elfric in particular
received a warm welcome; but it was at once seen that there was a
marked constraint upon him: his eye was restless and uneasy, and he
seemed like one carrying a load at his breast.
In truth, since that fatal night when, as he believed, he had witnessed
the death of his brother, he had striven in vain to drown care and to
banish remorse: the thought of his aged father deprived of both his
sons—the one by death, the other by desertion—would force its way
unbidden to his mind. Still, he had determined to throw aside reserve
in honour of the occasion, and he made heroic efforts to appear happy
and gay.
Redwald was at his ease, as usual in all company, and seemed to cause
prodigious laughter as he told his adventures to the younger folk at
the bottom of the board. Dark and malign as his demeanour usually was,
yet he could affect a light and airy character at times.
“Redwald, my trusty champion,” said Edwy, “this is the first campaign
thou hast ever returned from unsuccessful. Tell us, how did Dunstan
outwit you?”
“By the aid of the devil, my liege.”
“Doubtless; but we had all hoped for a different result, and that thou
wouldst either have left the traitor no eyes in his head, or no head on
his shoulders.
“Said I not rightly, my Elgiva?”
The eyes of the fair enemy of the abbot flashed fire, and she exchanged
some very significant words with her mother, Ethelgiva, who occupied
the next chair.
“Come, my fairy-given xxvi one, you must not be too hard on Redwald,
who doubtless did his best—
“How was it, Elfric?”
“The devil was certainly on Dunstan’s side: he and no other could have
betrayed our coming, for betrayed it was.”
“How long had he left when you reached the abbey?”
“Only an hour or two; but there was a sound of mocking laughter,
doubtless caused by his incantations, which kept us for some hours
forcing doors and the like.”
“And you could discover no cause?”
“None whatever; however, we found he had taken the Foss Way for the
coast, and followed, and nearly caught him.”
“What prevented you?”
Elfric turned pale as if with great mental emotion, and tried to
proceed in vain.
“You are not well,” said Elgiva, anxiously.
“Not quite,” he said; and then, overcoming his feelings by a vigorous
effort, while no one save Redwald suspected the true cause, he
continued:
“There had been a great storm, and they had broken down the only bridge
which existed for miles over a swollen river: we lost hours.”
“And yet, as your messengers told us, you arrived in time to see him
leave the coast.”
“The vessel which bore him was still distinctly in sight when we stood
on the sands.”
“But had you no means of following?”
“None: it was a lonely fishing village with a small harbour, and his
bark was a mere fishing smack, the only one of the place.”
“I trust the sea has swallowed him,” said the king; “but there is a
rumour today that he is playing the saint in Flanders with great pomp.
Well, only let him show his face in England again, and the devil may
pinch my nose with his tongs if I leave him a head on his shoulders: he
shall be a sacrifice to your outraged dignity, my Elgiva.”
“And yours, my Edwy.”
Husband and wife were quite agreed on this subject: they had never
forgiven Dunstan in the least degree, and, identifying him with
religion, had well-nigh abjured it altogether.
The ordinary dishes being now removed, the guests all partook lavishly
of wine, and, their heads already heated, yielded entirely to the
excitement of the moment. Toast after toast was drunk to the king: he
was compared to Apollo for his beauty, and Elgiva to Venus, while the
old northern mythology was ransacked also for appellations in honour of
the youthful pair.
Adjoining, in the outer hall, the higher domestics had their music and
dancing, and the king and queen came to honour the entertainment by
their presence. So the happy hours wore away, and at length the company
were on the eve of departure, for fatigue was making itself felt, when
an ominous blowing of a horn was heard at the outer gate.
A pause, during which the company looked at each other, so strangely
had the sound struck them, and yet they knew not why, save that it was
an unlikely hour for such an occurrence.
There was one only who knew what the message would probably be
—Redwald; and he had kept the secret purposely from the king.
The doors opened, and an usher brought in a messenger who had only been
allowed a moment to change a dusty dress, ere he broke into the
presence of royalty.
“Speak,” said Edwy, as the messenger bowed before him, and kissed his
hand.
“My lord and king—” and the messenger glanced at Elgiva.
“Let him speak, Edwy, my lord. Are we not one? What you can bear, your
wife must bear also.”
Thus adjured, the messenger spoke his news.
“Mercia has revolted, and proclaimed Edgar king.”
“The cause alleged?”
“I know not, my lord.”
“I can tell you,” said Redwald; “the banishment of the holy fox,
Dunstan, and very shame prevents my adding that—”
“No more,” said Edwy; “I can guess the rest.”
He wished to spare Elgiva.
He walked up and down the hall several times. His festive air had gone.
“And on my wedding day, too,” he said. “Redwald, you knew this.”
“Yes, my lord, but I wished to spare my king upon his wedding day,
still I have not spared myself. The necessary steps are taken, your
immediate vassals are summoned, and my own men are ready to march; we
will sweep these rebels off the field.”
“Elfric,” said the king, “you must be my right hand in the field: you
will be ready to invade your native Mercia tomorrow. Think you your own
friends are firm?”
“My father, although he has disowned me, would never disown his lawful
king; the duty and love he bore to your murdered father would forbid.”
“Well, Redwald, have you known this many hours?”
“I heard it at the frontier town of Mercia, Reading, last night, and
took all my measures immediately.”
“Then, can we really depend upon Wessex?”
“I treat so indeed, my lord, else we should be in a very bad way
indeed.”
“Well, we must rest now. Elgiva, darling, this is a cold termination to
our first anniversary, but your husband’s love shall ever protect you
until he be cold in death.
“Goodnight, Elfric, be ready for the morrow.
“Goodnight, Redwald, trustiest warrior who ever served grateful lord.
“Goodnight, gentlemen all.”
And thus the royal party broke up, and thus ended the first anniversary
of the ill-starred union.
On the morrow all was haste and confusion in the royal palace. Elgiva
departed early for Winchester, which, being farther removed from the
frontier, was safer than London from any sudden excursion on the part
of the Mercians, and the city was also devoted to the royal family. The
citizens of London were directed to provide for the defence of their
city, while the royal guards, attended by the immediate vassals of the
crown, prepared to march into the heart of the rebellious district.
It is too often supposed that the feudal system was of Norman
importation, whereas its very foundation—the act of homage, or of
“becoming your man,”—was brought by the Saxons and Angles from their
German home. The lord was the protector of the vassal, but the vassal
was bound to attend his feudal superior both in peace and war.
So imperative was this obligation, that a vassal who abandoned his lord
in the field of battle was liable to the death of a traitor.
Therefore Edwy soon found himself at the head of a compact body of ten
thousand men, all bound to stand by him to death. But there was one
very disheartening circumstance, which attracted notice. No volunteers
joined the little army, although a royal proclamation had promised
lands from the territories of the rebels to each successful combatant
in the cause of Edwy and Elgiva.
The fear of the Church hung on all, the conviction that the law of both
Church and State had been broken by the young king; the universal
belief in the sanctity of Dunstan, and in the true patriotism of Odo
whom they called “the good;” the thoughtless misgovernment since the
wiser counsellors had dispersed—all these things weakened the hearts of
the followers of Edwy.
There was therefore but little enthusiasm when the inhabitants saw the
soldiers of the king march out by the Watling Street, and the soldiers
themselves looked dispirited.
It was early dawn on the second day from the feast that the departure
took place. Cynewulf, a valiant Earl of Wessex, was the real commander;
nominally, Edwy commanded in person, and Elfric rode out of London by
his side. Redwald’s rank would not have entitled him to the chief
command.
Passing through the environs of the city, they gained the open country,
and marched steadily along the causeway the Romans had so firmly laid,
until they reached Verulam or St. Alban’s, where they passed the night.
It excited great discontent amongst the inhabitants that Edwy did not
visit the shrine of the saint, the glory of their town; and his
departure again took place amidst gloomy silence.
They were now about to cross the frontier and enter Mercia, then in
many respects an independent state; governed, it might be, by the same
monarch and Witan as Wessex, even as Scotland and England are governed
by the same sovereign and Parliament, yet retaining like them its own
peculiar code of laws in many respects.
And now Mercia had sternly refused to be governed any longer by the
“enemy of the Church,” and chose the Etheling, Edgar, to be its king.
Acting with the sanction of Odo, whom he deeply revered, the young
Edgar, then only in his fifteenth year, accepted the offer, and the
whole force of Mercia was gathering to support him when Edwy crossed
the border.
It must not be supposed that either Cynewulf or Redwald expected to
conquer the Mercians with ten thousand men. No, their design was
simpler: they had learned where Edgar was residing, and that the forces
around him were small. One bold stroke might secure his person, and
then Edwy might make his own terms. This was the secret of the advice
they both gave to the young king.
Redwald had, as we shall see, deep designs of his own to serve also,
but they had been locked for years in his own breast, and no servant
could seem more trusty and faithful than he did, or act with more
energy in his master’s cause.
The forces of Edwy, as we have related, left St. Alban’s on the second
morning, and travelled, horse and foot, very rapidly all that day.
Crossing the Icknield Street at Dunstable, where the remains of a huge
temple, once sacred to Diana, were visible, they entered Mercia, and
soon reached Towcester, a town which had been walled round by King
Athelstane; here they found no force prepared to receive them, and the
town opened its gates at once.
They tarried here for a day, while they sent scouts and spies in all
directions, many of whom never returned. The troops were quartered
freely upon the inhabitants, who were evidently very hostile; and, in
return, the soldiers of Edwy insulted the women and bullied the men.
Every hour some quarrel arose, and generally ended in bloodshed; the
citizens being commonly the victims.
Late at night messengers arrived at the royal quarters, bringing
information that Edgar was at Alcester, the ancient Alauna, beyond the
Avon, and that Osric, the great Earl of Mercia, was with him collecting
troops.
A council was held at once, and it was decided to leave the Watling
Street and to march for the Avon by cross-country routes. They rested
that night amidst the ruins of the ancient Brinavæ, and here another
council was held, to deliberate on their future movements, and it was
decided to march westward at once, for tidings came that Edgar’s forces
were rapidly increasing, and prudence suggested prompt measures. Edwy
was becoming very anxious.
The route for the next day was then made out and, with beating heart,
Elfric learned that they purposed crossing the river not far from
Æscendune.
“Elfric, my friend,” said Edwy, “there will be a chance for you to
visit Æscendune, and to obtain the old man’s forgiveness.”
He said this with a slight sneer.
“I cannot go there; I would die first.”
Edwy started at the tone of deep feeling with which the words were
said; he knew nothing of the rencontre of Elfric with his brother.
“Still I think that I must spend this coming night there, and I will
try and act the Christian for the occasion: perhaps I may do you a good
turn, while I renew my acquaintance with your people.”
In his very heart Elfric wished that Edwy might never arrive there, yet
he knew not what to say.
“Well,” said the prince, observing his hesitation, “you may go on with
Cynewulf and the main body of the army, which will cross the Avon
higher up, and I will make excuse that your duties detain you. I must
go—I have special reasons, I wish at least to secure the fidelity of
the few—and Redwald will accompany me; we join the army on the morrow,
without losing any time by the move.”
And so the matter was settled.