THE ROYAL GUEST.
It was the morning of the first of August, and the sun, dispersing the
early mists, gave promise of a bright summer day.
The inhabitants of Æscendune, lord and vassals alike, were astir from
the early daybreak; for that day the harvest was to be commenced, and
the crops were heavier than had been known for many a year. A good
harvest meant peace and prosperity in those times, a bad harvest
famine, and perhaps rebellion; for if the home crop failed, commerce
did not, as now, supply the deficiency.
So it was with joy and gladness that the people went forth that day to
reap with their sharp sickles in their hands, while the freshness of
the early morn filled each heart insensibly with energy and life. The
corn fell on the upland before their sharp strokes, while behind each
reaper the younger labourers gathered it into sheaves.
Old Ella stood in their midst looking on the familiar scene, while his
pious heart returned many a fervent thanksgiving to the Giver of all
good. Under the shade of some spreading beeches, which bordered the
field, the domestics from the manor house were spreading the banquet
for the reapers—mead and ale, corn puddings prepared in various modes
with milk, huge joints of cold roast beef—for the hour when toil should
have sharpened the appetite of the whole party.
By the side of his father stood young Alfred administering with filial
affection to all his wants, as if he felt constrained to supply a
double service in his own person now that Elfric was no more, or, at
least, dead to home ties.
Thicker and thicker fell the wheat, and they thought surely such heavy
sheaves had never fallen to their lot before.
At last the blowing of a horn summoned all the reapers to their dinner,
and when Father Cuthbert had said grace, the whole party fell to—the
thane at the head of them; and when the desire of eating and drinking
was appeased, the labourers lay on the grass, in the cool shade, to
pass away the hour of noontide heat, before resuming their toil.
“Father,” said Alfred, “a horseman is coming.”
“My old eyes are somewhat dim; I do not see any one approaching.”
“Nor I, as yet, but I hear him; listen, he is just crossing the brook;
I can hear the splashing.”
“Some royal messenger, perhaps, from Edgar or from Edwy, my son. I fear
such may be the case; yet I wish I could be left in peace, afar from
the strife which must convulse the land, if the ill-advised brothers
cannot agree to reign—the one over Mercia, the other over Wessex.”
“We have repeatedly said that we should be quite neutral, father.”
“And yet, my son, we offend both parties, and, I fear me, we shall be
forced to defend ourselves in the end. But God is our refuge and
strength, a very present help in trouble. And now that I am old I can
lean more and more upon Him. He will be a father to you, my Alfred,
when these hoary hairs are hidden in the grave.”
It was seldom that the old thane expressed his devotion in this strain;
it seemed to Alfred as if there were a foreboding of coming trial in
it, and he felt as when a cloud veils the face of the sun in early
spring.
The messenger now came in sight—a tall, resolute looking man, well
armed and well mounted, and evidently bound for the hall. But when he
saw the party beneath the trees he bent his course aside, and saluting
the thane with all deference, inquired if he spoke to Ella of
Æscendune.
“I am he,” replied Ella. “I trust you are not the bearer of other than
good tidings; but will you first refresh yourself, since it is ill
talking between the full and the fasting?”
“With gladness do I accept your bounty; for I have ridden since early
dawn, and rider and horse are both exhausted.”
“There is corn for your horse, and food and wine for his master.
“Uhred, take charge of the steed.
“Alfred, my son, place that best joint of beef before the stranger, and
those wheaten cakes.
“I drink to you, fair sir.”
The messenger seemed in no hurry to open his tale until he had eaten
and drunk, and it was with the greatest patience that the thane, who
was one of nature’s gentlemen, awaited his leisure.
At length the messenger looked up, and pushed his wooden platter aside.
“I have come to be the bearer of good tidings to you, noble thane.
Edwy, your king, with a small troop of horse, his royal retinue,
proposes honouring your roof with his presence, and asks bed and board
of his loyal subject, Ella of Æscendune.”
“The king’s will is my law; and since it pleases the son of my late
beloved master, King Edmund, to visit me, he shall find no lack of
hospitality. But may I ask what sudden event has brought him into the
heart of our country?”
“He comes to chastise rebellion. A large force of several thousand men
crosses the river a few miles higher this evening, and, not to
incommode you with numbers, King Edwy comes apart from his followers.”
Although he foresaw grave inconvenience, and even danger, in the
proposal, yet Ella could not appear churlish and inhospitable;
therefore, learning from the messenger that the king might be expected
before sunset, he returned home to make such preparations as should
suggest themselves for the entertainment of his royal master, for so he
still would have styled Edwy, deeply as he felt he had been wronged by
him.
“Father,” said Alfred, as he walked homeward by his side, “think you
Elfric will be in his train? I wish he may be.”
“Alas, my son! I fear I shall never see poor Elfric again. My mind
always seems to misgive me when I think of him; and I have so strong a
foreboding that he has received my last blessing, that I cannot
overcome it. No, Alfred, I fear we shall not see Elfric tonight.”
No more was said upon the subject; they reached the hall in good time,
and startled the lady Edith by their tidings.
Instantly all was in preparation: the best casks of wine were broached,
fowls and wild birds alike had cause to lament that their lives were
shortened, chamberlain and cook were busy, clean rushes were brought in
to adorn the floor of the hall, sweet flowers and aromatic grass for
that of the royal bedchamber; and it was not till a flourish of
trumpets announced the approach of the cavalcade that all was ready,
and the maidens and men servants, arrayed in their best holiday attire,
stood grouped without the gate to receive their king.
At last the glitter of the departing ray upon pointed lances announced
the approach, and soon the whole party might be seen—a hundred horse
accompanying the king’s person, and one or two nobles of distinction,
including Redwald, riding by his side.
When the train first reached the spot from which the castle was
visible, a strange thing occurred. The king’s eyes were fixed upon
Redwald, and, to the royal astonishment, the whole frame of that worthy
seemed shaken by a sudden emotion. His countenance became pale, his
lips were compressed, and his eyes seemed to dart fire.
“What is the matter, my Redwald?” asked the king.
“Oh, nothing, my lord!” said he, resuming his wonted aspect with
difficulty, but at last becoming calm as a lake when the wind has died
away. “Only a sudden spasm.”
“I hope you are not ill?”
“No, my lord; you need not really feel anxious concerning me.
“The hall of Æscendune appears a pleasant place for a summer
residence,” he added.
“I have been there before,” said the king. “Spent some weeks there.
Yes; I thought it a great change for the better then, after the musty
odour of sanctity which reigned in the palace of my uncle the monk, but
all things go by comparison. I might not relish a month there now.”
“Yet it looks like a place formidable for its kind, and it might not be
amiss to persuade the worthy old thane to receive a garrison there, so
that if the worst came to the worst we might have a place of refuge,
otherwise the Mercians would soon have possession of it.”
“Ella is one of themselves.”
“But the rebel Edgar may not forgive him for entertaining us!”
“He can hardly help himself. Still, the smoke of those fires, which, I
trust, betokens good cheer; and the peaceful aspect of that party
coming out to meet us, in the midst of whom I recognise old Ella and
his son Alfred, Elwy’s brother, does not look much like compulsion.”
“Making the best of a bad bargain, perhaps.”
“I prefer to think otherwise.”
At this moment the two parties met, and Edwy at once dismounted from
his courser with that bewitching and kingly grace which became “Edwy
the Fair.” He advanced gracefully to the old thane, and, presenting the
customary mark of homage, embraced him as a son might embrace a
father—“For,” said he, “Elfric has taught me to revere you as a father
even if Æscendune had not taught me before then. I robbed you of your
son, now I offer you two sons, Elfric and myself.”
The tears stood in the old man’s eyes at this reception, and the
mention of his dear prodigal son.
“He is well, I hope?” said he, striving to speak with such sternness
and dignity as sell-respect taught in opposition to natural feeling.
“Well and happy; and I trust you will see him in a day or two, when we
shall have chastised our rebels; justice, mingled with mercy, must
first have its day.”
“Where is he now?”
“With the main body of the army; in fact, he is my right hand. It is my
fault, not his, that he is not here now; but we could not both leave,
and he preferred that I should come and proffer my filial duty first,
and perhaps that I should assure you of his love and duty, however
appearances may have seemed against him.”
Then the eye of Edwy caught Alfred. It must be remembered that Elfric
had kept the secret of his brother’s supposed death, even from the
king.
“And of Alfred, too, I have ever been reminded by his brother; your
name has seldom been long absent from our conversation.”
Alfred reddened.
“I trust now,” he continued, “that I may profitably renew an
acquaintance suspended for three years. I am but young, only in my
eighteenth year, and I have no father; let me find one in the wisest of
the Mercians.”
So bewitching was the grace of the fair speaker that he seemed to carry
all before him. Ella began to think he must have misjudged the king.
Alfred alone, who knew much more of the relations between the king and
the Church than his father, still suspended his belief in these most
gracious words.
Leaning upon the still powerful arm of Ella, his young agile form
contrasting strongly with the powerful build of the old thane —powerful
even in decay—they came in front of the hall, where the serfs and
vassals all received them with joyful acclamations, and amidst the
general homage the king entered the hall.
There he reverentially saluted the lady Edith.
“The mother of my friend, my brother, Elfric, is my mother also,” said
he.
Then he was conducted to his chamber, where the bath was provided for
him, and unguents for anointing himself, after which, accepting the
loan of a change of clothing more suitable than his travelling apparel,
he received the visit of Ella, who came to conduct him to the banquet.
All this while his followers had been received according to their
several degrees; and a board was spread, of necessity, in a barn, for
the due feasting of the soldiers of Edwy and the vassals of Æscendune;
while the officers and the chief tenants of the family met at the royal
table in the great hall once before introduced to our readers.
It boots not to repeat an oft-told tale, to describe the banquet in all
its prodigal luxury, to tell how light the casks in the cellars of
Æscendune seemed afterwards, how empty the larder; suffice it to say
that in due course the banquet was ended, the toasts were drunk, and,
with an occasional interlude in the gleeman’s song and the harper’s
wild music, the conversation was at its height. Wine and wassail
unloosed men’s tongues.
Redwald sat near the king, who had introduced him to Ella as a dear
friend both to him and his son—“a very Mentor,” he said, “who, since
the unhappy quarrel into which my counsellors forced me —yes, forced
me—with Dunstan, has done more to keep Elfric and me straight in our
morals than at one time I should have thought possible for any man to
do.
“Redwald, you need not blush; it is true, and your king is proud to own
it.”
Redwald was not exactly blushing; he had spent the interval before the
banquet in looking eagerly and wistfully all round the house, and now
his countenance had a cold composure, which made it seem as if he had
never known emotion; still he answered fittingly to the king’s humour:
“Alack, my lord, such credit is due only to the blessed saints,
especially St. Wilfred, whom you first learned to love at Æscendune, as
you have often told me.”
“Yes,” said Edwy; “you remember, Ella, how I used to steal away even
from the chase, and visit his chapel at the priory which your worthy
father founded. Truly, I mused upon the saint so much that I marvel he
appeared not to me; I think he did once.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed his auditors.
“Yes; I had been musing upon my condition as a poor orphan boy,
deprived of my brave father—he was your friend, Ella!—when methought a
figure in the dress of a very ancient bishop, stood beside me, yet
immaterial as the breeze of evening. ‘Thy prayer is heard’ said he to
me; ‘thou hast brought many gifts to St. Wilfred; he shall send thee
one, even a friend.’ It was fulfilled in Elfric.”
“Truly, it was marvellous,” said Father Cuthbert, who listened with
open mouth. “I doubt not it was our sainted patron.”
Alfred said nothing; his recollections of Edwy’s days at Æscendune did
not embrace many hours in the chapel of St. Wilfred.
The great wonderment of Ella may be conceived: he had always mourned
over Edwy as a headstrong youth, dead to religion, and now he was
called upon to contemplate him in so different a light. The reader may
wonder at his credulity, but if he had listened to the sweet voice of
the beautiful king, had gazed into that innocent-looking face—those
eyes which always seemed to meet the gaze, and never lowered themselves
or betrayed their owner—he would, perhaps, have been deceived too; yet
Edwy was overdoing it, and a look from Redwald warned him of the fact.
He took the other line.
“Alas!” he said, “I have been very very unworthy of St. Wilfred’s fond
interest in me, and may have done very rash things; but some day the
saint may rejoice in me again, and then he shall not find in me a
rebellious son.”
Further than this he was not disposed to go, for in truth he felt
himself sickened by his very success in deceit, although half disposed
to be proud of it at the same time. But Redwald had taken up the
conversation.
“These halls of yours seem old, venerable thane; has your family long
dwelt under this hospitable roof?”
“My remote ancestor fought by the side of Cynric in the victories which
led to the foundation of Mercia.”
“Ah! many a sad yet glorious tale and legend for the gleeman’s harp,
doubtless, adorns your annals.”
“Not many; we have our traditions.”
“For instance, is there one connected with the foundation of the priory
hard by?”
“It is of recent date, my father built it.”
“Strange, for generally these old places are reared up by repentant
sinners, mourning over the sins they have committed, or the day of
grace they have cast away; is there no tale attached to your
foundation?”
“Alas! there is; but it is one whose stain is all too recent, one we
cannot recount, or suffer gleeman’s harp to set to music, lest we
harrow the yet bleeding wound.”
Redwald could not ask more; the answer was too plain and distinct, and
so he was forced to repress his curiosity.
The conversation then became desultory and, finally, when the gleemen
began the well known _piece de resistance_, the battle of Brunanburgh,
Edwy yawned and Redwald looked sleepy, while the old thane actually
slept in his huge armchair, and was awakened only by the cessation of
the music and singing.
Even in the presence of royalty itself Ella did not suffer the company
to disperse before the chaplain had said the customary compline
service, after which the guard was doubled at the door, and soon the
whole household was buried in sweet and peaceful sleep.
Yet, although they knew it not, they nourished the deadliest foe of
their race in the bosom of the family. There was one at least who could
not sleep that night who now paced his narrow chamber, now looked forth
at the meadows, woods, and hills, sleeping in the summer twilight; now,
unchecked, burst into the wildest excitement, and paced his chamber as
a wild beast might pace the floor of his cage; now calmed down into a
sarcastic smile.
“Yes!” he said in soliloquy, “and here I am at last; here in the halls
which should have been his and mine, and shall be mine yet; here! and
they know it not; here! and the reward of years of patient endurance is
at hand; here! yes, here, in the halls of Æscendune—dreamed of, sighed
after, prayed for at the shrine of such gods as promise vengeance;
here, by Woden and Thor; here by Satan’s help, if there be a
Satan!—here! here! here!”