NAKED THOUGH LOCKED IN STEEL.
Early in the morning the whole household was astir, and the breakfast
alone preceded the preparations for the departure of Edwy and his
retinue. Redwald did not appear, and they became uneasy at his
prolonged absence, until, sending to his room, they found him suffering
from sudden, but severe illness; which, as the leech shortly decided,
would absolutely prevent his travelling that day.
It was evident that Edwy was annoyed by this, but it was not until
after a long conference with Redwald that he took Ella aside, and
pointing out to him the exposed position of the hall, besought his
permission to leave a garrison of fifty men under the command of this
trusty officer, which would ensure their safety, in case of any sudden
attack on the part of Edgar’s troops.
“I can hardly feel that I need such protection, my royal master,”
replied Ella; “I dwell among my own people, and am perhaps safer when
quite unprotected.”
“In that case, may I press my own poor claims?” replied the king. “In
case of the worst, I should have Æscendune to fall back upon, a retreat
secured by chosen men behind me, where one might halt and turn to bay;
again, Redwald’s sudden illness necessitates my leaving him to your
hospitality.”
Thus pressed on every side, Ella felt he could but yield to a request
which the speaker had not only the power but the right, as his feudal
superior, to enforce; for Ella was not prepared to throw off his
allegiance, as most of his neighbours had done, and to make common
cause with Edgar. Again, the conversation of the previous night had
given him more confidence in Edwy, and more hope of seeing Elfric
again, like the returning prodigal, than he had previously had.
Edwy saw this, and continued:
“And it is but a few days hence, ere I propose to return with
Elfric—whom I could indeed put in command of such forces as are
necessary to secure you against our mutual foes, when I return
southward. Redwald and his troops will hold the place in trust for
Elfric, till he arrives.”
The last lingering feeling of reluctance was now forcibly banished, and
Ella consented to receive Redwald as his guest, with a picked troop of
fifty men.
“They shall be the best behaved warriors you have ever seen, my own
hus-carles—men who go to mass every morning, and shrift every week,”
added the deceitful prince; “at least,” he added, as he saw the look of
incredulity Ella could not suppress, “some of them do, I can’t say how
many.”
In the course of an hour from this conversation, the royal party took
its departure, reduced to half its numbers.
Edwy left amidst the regret of all, so amiable had been his manners, so
winning his ways.
“I take a son’s liberty,” said he, as he saluted the venerable cheek of
the lady Edith; “but I will bring your other son back with me in a few
days.”
The road leading over the hill and through the forest had swallowed up
the retreating force, when Ella personally superintended the
distribution of quarters to the guard of Redwald, many of whom
afterwards volunteered to follow him to the harvest field, and
displayed uncommon alacrity in carrying the wheat safely to its
granaries, saying the rebels should never have the reaping thereof.
There was, however, a kind of gloom over the whole party through that
day. The thought that deadly strife impended close at hand weighed upon
the spirits of Ella, but they brightened again at the renewed hope of
meeting his prodigal, and he now hoped repentant, son in peace.
Meanwhile, very different scenes were on the point of being enacted
only twice ten miles from the spot.
The main body of the army left its quarters on the right bank of the
Avon, at the same hour in which Edwy left Æscendune to join them on
their march and they proceeded in safety all through the morning. At
midday they lay down to feed and to rest, and while thus resigning
themselves to repose, with the guards posted carefully around, the
sound of cavalry was heard in the distance, and shortly the royal party
appeared. Elfric was alert to receive them, but could not conceal his
surprise when he saw their diminished numbers, and perceived the
absence of Redwald.
Edwy saw his look of embarrassment, and hastened to reply to the
question it conveyed.
“They are left at Æscendune, fifty under the command of Redwald, to
fortify the house until we return. You must go home this time, and you
need not fear, for I have been a very saint at Æscendune, and they are
expecting Dunstan will speedily return and canonise me. Elfric, I have
used my sanctity for your advantage, since I have represented you as
sharing it at least in some degree.”
“I fear me, my father is too wise to be so easily deceived.”
“Nothing of the kind; he really seemed to believe in it; at all events,
I have promised you shall return with me.”
“Did they really seem to wish to see me?”
“They did really, especially your brother Alfred.”
Elfric started as if an arrow had struck him.
“Alfred. Alfred!” he said.
“Yes, why not Alfred?”
“And you saw him alive and well?”
“To be sure, why not? Did you think he was dead.”
Elfric became confused, and muttered some incoherent answer, but he
rejoiced in his very heart; he felt as if a mountain were removed from
him, and a sweet longing for home, such as he had not felt since a
certain Good Friday, sprang up in his mind, so strongly that he would
have gone then and there, had circumstances permitted.
Alas, poor boy! his wish was not thus easily to be gratified: he had
sinned very deeply—his penance had yet to be accomplished; well has the
poet written:
“_Facilis descensus Averno . . . . Sed retrograre gradum, superasque
evadere ad auras, Hoc opus—hic labor est._” xxvii
The midday halt concluded, the troops resumed their march for Alcester,
where they hoped to arrive about nightfall, and to surprise Edgar and
his few followers. All that afternoon they proceeded through a dense
woodland country; and the evening was setting in upon them, when
suddenly the scouts in front came galloping back, and gave the
startling information that entrenchments were thrown up across their
path, and that a large force was evidently entrenched behind.
At first Edwy could scarcely believe the report; but Cynewulf, the
experienced commander upon whom, as we have said, the real command of
the force devolved, rode forward, and soon returned, having previously
ordered a general halt, and that entrenchments should be thrown up for
their own protection during the night.
“Ealdorman,” said Edwy, impatiently, “why throw up entrenchments? can
we not carry theirs by storm? we are all ready, are we not, for a
valiant charge?”
“Nay, my lord, we are but ill prepared,” was the reply, “for such
desperate measures. I am not certain they do not outnumber us; even so,
we probably excel them in discipline and skill, and have every chance
of victory tomorrow, which we should lose by fighting in the dark.”
So Edwy, who did not lack personal courage, and would gladly have ended
the short raid then and there, was forced to be governed by wiser
heads, and accordingly the bivouacs were made, the fires lighted, and
the royal tent pitched upon the slope of a gentle valley, which
descended to a brook in the bottom, where the ground rose similarly on
the other side, and was crowned by the hostile entrenchment, behind
which rose the smoke of the enemy’s fires. The heads of numerous
soldiers, seen over the mound, showed how well they were prepared.
The entrenchment was dug, the mound thrown up, the sentinels posted,
and all in so short a space of time that to the uninitiated in the art
of war, it would have seemed little short of miraculous; but the
discipline of the Danes, who owed their success generally to the skill
with which they fortified their camps, had been partially inherited by
their adversaries, and the hus-carles were not even all English: there
were many Danes amongst them.
The suppers were soon cooked and eaten, the wine circulated freely, and
patriotic songs began to be heard: but there was one who seemed to have
no heart for them—Elfric. At the huge fire, which blazed near the royal
tent, Edwy sat as master of the feast, and he was in a state of
boisterous merriment. But all Elfric’s efforts could not hide the
depression of his spirits, and Edwy, who loved him sincerely—for the
reader has seen that he was quite capable of love—tried to rouse him
from it, anxious that no one should suspect the courage of his
favourite.
Once or twice Elfric seemed to make great efforts to overcome this
feeling of depression, and partially succeeded in veiling it from all
but the observant young king.
At last the feast was over.
“My friends,” said the king, “we must be stirring early in the morning,
so we will now disperse for the night.”
They drank a parting cup, then separated, while the king took Elfric’s
arm and led him aside.
“Elfric,” said he, “did I not know my friend and most faithful
follower, I should suspect that he feared the morrow’s conflict.”
“I cannot help it,” said Elfric; “perhaps I do fear it, yet, had I but
my father’s forgiveness, could I but see him once more, I could laugh
at the danger. It is not pain or death I fear, but I long to be where
you have been, I would I had gone with you now.”
“So do I.”
“And now I have my forebodings that I shall never hear my father’s
forgiveness; and, Edwy, if I die without it, I believe my spirit cannot
rest; I shall haunt the spot till the day of doom.”
“This is all moonshine, Elfric. You have not been such a bad fellow
after all; if you go wrong, what will happen to the greater part of
those amongst us who may die tomorrow? When you once get into the
fight, and your blood gets warm, you will be all right; it is only the
first battle that gives one all these fancies.”
“No; it is not that. I am of a race of warriors, and I do not suppose
one of that race ever felt like this in his first battle. I have often
looked forward to mine with joy, but now my mind is full of gloomy
forebodings: I feel as if some terrible danger, not that of the fight,
were hanging over me and mine, and as if I should never meet those I
did love once, either in this world or the next.”
“The next! all we know about that comes from the priestly pratings. I
think, of the two heavens, Valhalla,xxviii with its hunting or fighting
by day, its feasting by night, would suit me best. I don’t know why we
should think ourselves wiser than our ancestors; they were most likely
right about the matter, if there be another world at all.”
“I cannot disbelieve, if you can,” replied poor Elfric, “I have tried
to, but I can’t. Well, I daresay I shall know all about it by this time
tomorrow.”
“Pshaw! let tomorrow take care of itself; ’tis our first fight, Elfric,
and we will have no cowardly forebodings; we shall live to laugh at
them all. What shall we do with Edgar, if we get him tomorrow? I
suppose one must not shed a brother’s blood, even if he be a rebel?”
“Certainly not; no, no.”
“Perhaps it will be shed for me, and a lucky thrust with sword or lance
may end all our trouble, and leave me sole king; but won’t the holy fox
Dunstan grieve if his pet, his favourite, gets hurt? Come, cheer up,
Elfric, my boy; dismiss dull care, and be yourself again!”
Elfric tried very hard to do so, and again partly succeeded. They had
extended their walk all round the limits of the camp. It was a
beautiful starlit night: there was a new moon, which was just going
down, and an uncertain light hung about the field which was to be the
scene of the conflict. It was one of those bright nights when the very
aspect of nature suggests thoughts of the Eternal and the Infinite;
when the most untutored being, gazing up into the deep blue void, finds
his mind struggle vainly to grasp the hidden secrets those depths
conceal; when the soul seems to claim her birthright, and dreams of an
existence boundless, illimitable, as the starry wastes around. Such
were, perhaps, the ideas which animated the philosophers of the old
heathen world when they placed their departed heroes amongst the
constellations; such, perhaps, the thoughts which led the dying
apostate Julian to bid his followers weep no more for a prince about to
be numbered with the stars.
Thoughts of peace would those radiant orbs have spoken, under any other
circumstances, to the ardent youth as he gazed upon them; but now they
oppressed him with the consciousness that he was at enmity with the
mighty Unknown, that he was in danger, such danger as he could not
comprehend; not that which comes from the lance point or the sword
blade, but danger which fills the soul with the consciousness of its
existence, yet is impalpable, not having revealed itself, only its
presence.
“Goodnight, Elfric,” said Edwy, as they reached the camp on their
return; “goodnight. I hope you will be in better spirits in the
morning.”
Edwy retired within the folds which concealed the entrance to his own
tent. Close by was the tent appointed for Elfric, who acted as his
page; and the latter entered also, and sat down on a camp stool.
His bed did not seem to invite him; he sat on the seat, his face buried
in his hands; then he suddenly rose, threw himself on his knees, only
for a moment, rose up again:
“I can’t, I can’t pray; if my fate be death, then come death and
welcome the worst. There will at least be nothing hidden then, nothing
behind the scenes. I will not be a coward.”
The phrase was not yet written—“Conscience makes cowards of us all;”
yet how true the principle then as now—true before Troy’s renown had
birth, true in these days of modern civilisation.
He could not sleep peacefully, although he laid himself down; his hands
moved in the air, as if to drive off some unseen enemy, as if the
danger whose presence was impalpable to the waking mind revealed itself
in sleep.
“No, no” he muttered; “let the blow fall on me, on me, on me alone!”
then he rose as if he would defend some third person from the attack of
an enemy, and the word “Father” once or twice escaped his lips; yet he
was only dreaming.
“Father!” again he cried, in the accents of warning, as if some
imminent danger menaced the loved one.
He awoke, stared about, hardly recognising where he was.
“What can I have been dreaming about?” he cried; “what can it all mean?
I thought I was at Æscendune;” and he strove vainly to recall the
scenes of his dream.
The tread of the passing guard was the only sound which broke the
stillness of the camp.
“I cannot sleep,” said Elfric, and walked forth.
The night was waning, and in the east a red glow was creeping upwards;
the stars were, however, still brilliant. Opposite, at the distance of
less than a mile, the reflection of the camp fires, now low, revealed
the presence of the enemy; before him the mist slowly arose in white
thin smoke-like wreaths, from the grass whereon many should soon sleep
their last sleep, now in unconsciousness of their fate.
“I wonder where I shall lie?” thought Elfric, as if it were certain he
would fall.
He felt cooler now, as the hour drew near; he watched the red light
creeping upward, and saw the light clouds above catch the glow, until
the birds began their songs, the glorious orb arose to gild the coming
strife, and the shrill trumpet in the camp was answered by the distant
notes in the camp of the foe, like an echo afar off.