SOW THE WIND, AND REAP THE WHIRLWIND.
When Alfred rebuilt the city of Winchester, after it had been burned by
the Danes, he erected a royal palace, which became a favourite retreat
of his successors.
Here the unhappy Edwy retired after his defeat, to find consolation in
the company of Elgiva. Indeed he needed it. Northumbria had followed
the example of Mercia, and acknowledged Edgar, and he had no dominions
left north of the Thames, while it was rumoured that worse news might
follow.
In an inner chamber of the palace, and remote from intrusion, sat the
king and his chosen advisers. It was early in the year 958, a spring
day when the sun shone brightly and all things spoke of the coming
summer—the songs of the birds, the opening buds, the blossoming
orchards.
But peace was banished from those who sat in that council chamber. Edwy
was strangely disturbed, his face was flushed, and he bore evidence of
the most violent agitation.
“It must come to that at last, my king,” exclaimed Cynewulf, “or Wessex
will follow the example of Mercia.”
“Better lose my crown then and become a subject, with a subject’s
liberty to love.”
“A subject could never marry within the prohibited degree,” said a
grey-headed counsellor.
“We have messengers from all parts of Wessex, from Kent, from Essex,
from Sussex, and they all unite in their demand that you should submit
to the Church, and put away (forgive me for repeating their words) your
concubine.”
“Concubine!” said Edwy, and his cheek flushed, “she is my wife and your
queen.”
“Pardon me, my liege, I did not make the word my own.”
“You should not have dared to repeat it.”
“If I dare, my lord, it is for your sake, and for our country, which is
dear to us all. Not an Englishman will acknowledge that your connection
is lawful; from Exeter to Canterbury the cry is the same—‘Let him
renounce Elgiva, and we will obey him; but we will not serve a king who
does not obey the voice of the Church or the laws of the land.’”
“Laws of the land! The king is above the laws.”
“Nay, my lord, he is bound to set the first example of obedience, chief
in that as in all things; an example to his people. Remember, my lord,
your coronation oath taken at Kingston three years ago.”
Edwy flushed. “Is this a subject’s language?”
“It is the language of one who loves his king too well to flatter him.”
At this moment an usher of the court knocked at the door, and obtaining
permission to enter, stated that Archbishop Odo had arrived, and
demanded admission to the council.
“I will not see him,” said the king.
“My liege,” exclaimed Athelwold, the old grey-headed counsellor we have
mentioned, “permit one who loves you, as he loved your revered father,
to entreat you to cease from this hopeless resistance. If you refuse to
see him you are no longer a king.”
“Then I will gladly abdicate.”
“And become the scorn of Dunstan, and receive a retiring pension from
Edgar, and put your hand between his, kneeling humbly and saying ‘I am
your man.’”
“No, no. Anything rather than that. Death first.”
“All this may be averted with timely submission. Elgiva herself would
not counsel you to sacrifice all for her.”
“O Athelwold, my father, the only one of my father’s counsellors who
has been faithful to his firstborn, what can I do? She is dearer to me
than life.”
“But not than honour. You have both erred, both disobeyed the law of
the Church, both forgotten the example due from those in high places.”
“Tell Odo to enter,” exclaimed Edwy.
The archbishop was close at hand, patiently awaiting the answer to his
demand, yet determined, in case of a refusal, to take his pastoral
staff in his hand and enter the council room, announced or not. A more
determined priest had never occupied the primacy, yet he was benevolent
as determined, and, as we have mentioned, was known as Odo the Good
amongst the poor. Stern and unyielding to the vices of the rich, he was
gentle as a parent to the repentant sinner.
He had pronounced, as we have seen, the lesser excommunication,xxxi in
consequence of Edwy’s refusal to put away Elgiva, immediately after the
coronation; since which the guilty pair had never communicated at the
altar, or even attended mass. Their lives had been practically
irreligious, nay idolatrous, for they had been gods to each other.
And now, in the full pomp of the archiepiscopal attire, with the mitre
of St. Augustine on his head and the crozier in his hand, Odo advanced,
like one who felt his divine mission, to the centre of the room. His
cross bearer and other attendants remained in the antechamber.
“What dost thou seek, rude priest?” said Edwy.
“I am come in the Name of Him Whose laws thou hast broken, and speak to
thee as the Baptist to Herod. Put away this woman, for it is not lawful
for thee to have her.”
“And would I could reply to thee as the holy fox Dunstan once informed
me Herod replied to the insolent Baptist, and send thine head on a
charger to Elgiva.”
“My lord! my liege! my king! Remember his sacred office,” remonstrated
the counsellors.
“Peace, my lords. His threats or his blandishments would alike fail to
move me. The blood of Englishmen slain in civil war—if indeed any are
found to fight for an excommunicate king—is that which I seek to avert.
“In the Name of my Master, Whom thou hast defied, O king, I offer thee
thy choice. Thou must put away thy concubine, or thou shalt sustain the
greater excommunication, when it will become unlawful for Christian
people even to speak with thee, or wish thee God speed, lest they be
partakers of thy evil deeds.”
“My lord, you must yield,” whispered Cynewulf.
“Son of the noble Edmund, thou must save thy father’s name from
disgrace.”
“I cannot, will not, do Elgiva this foul wrong. I tell thee, priest,
that if thy benediction has never been pronounced upon our union, we
are man and wife before heaven.”
“I await your answer,” said Odo. “Am I to understand you choose the
fearful penalty of excommunication?”
“Nay! nay! he does not; he cannot,” cried the counsellors. “Your
holiness!—father!—in the king’s name we yield!”
“You are all cowards and traitors! Let him do what he will, I cannot
yield.”
“Then, my lord king, I must proceed,” said Odo. “You have not only
acted wickedly in this matter, but you have misgoverned the people
committed to your charge, and broken every clause of your coronation
oath. First, you have not given the Church of God peace, or preserved
her from molestation, but have yourself ravaged her lands, and even
slain her servants with the sword; one, specially honoured of God, you
sought to slay, sending that wicked man, who has been called by fire to
his judgment, to execute your impious will.”
“That holy fox Dunstan! Would Redwald had slain him!” muttered Edwy.
“Secondly,” continued Odo, not heeding the interruption, “so far from
preventing thefts and fraud in all manner of men, you have maintained
notorious oppressors amongst your officers, and in your own person you
have broken the oath; for did you not even rob your aged grandmother,
and consume her substance in riotous living?”
“What could the old woman do with it all?”
“Thirdly, you have not maintained justice in your judicial proceedings,
but have spent all your time, like Rehoboam of old, with the young and
giddy, and in chastising your people with scorpions.”
“Would I had a scorpion to chastise you! This is unbearable.
“My lords and counsellors, have you not a word to say for me?”
“Alas!” said Athelwold, “it is all too true; but give up Elgiva now,
and all will be well!”
“It will be at least the beginning of reformation,” said Odo.
“And the end, I suppose,” said Edwy, “will be that I shall shave my
head like a monk, banquet sumptuously upon herbs and water, spend
three-fourths of the day singing psalms through my nose, wear a hair
shirt, look as starved as a weasel, and at last, after sundry combats
with the devil, pinch his nose, and go off to heaven in all the odour
of sanctity. Go and preach all this to Edgar; I am not fool enough to
listen to it. You have got him to be your obedient slave and vassal;
you have bought him, body and soul, and the price has been Mercia, and
now you want to add Wessex. Well, I wish you joy of him, and him of you
all; for my part, if I could do it, I would restore the worship of Odin
and Thor, and offer you priests as bloody sacrifices to him: I would!”
“Peace, my lord and king! peace! this is horrible,” said Athelwold.
“Horrible!” said another. “He is possessed. My lord Odo, you had better
exorcise him.”
But Edwy had given way—he was young—and burst into a passionate fit of
weeping, his royal dignity all forgotten.
“Give him time! give him time, father!” said they all.
“One day; he must then submit, or I must do my duty; I have no
choice—none,” replied the archbishop.
And the council sadly broke up; but Athelwold sought a private
interview with Elgiva.
It was the evening of the same day, and the fair Elgiva sat alone in
her apartment, into which the westering sun was casting his last beams
of liquid light; tears had stained her cheeks and reddened her eyes,
but she looked beautiful as ever, like the poet’s or painter’s
conception of the goddess of love. Around her were numerous evidences
of a woman’s delicate tastes, of tastes too in advance of her day. The
harp, which Edwy had given her the day of their inauspicious union,
stood in one corner of the apartment; richly ornamented manuscripts lay
scattered about—not, as usual, legends of the saints, and breviaries,
but the writings of the heathen poets, especially those who sang most
of love: for she was learned in such lore.
At last the well-known step was heard approaching, and her heart beat
violently. Edwy entered, his face bearing the traces of his mental
struggle; he threw himself down upon a couch, and did not speak for
some few moments. She arose and stood beside him.
“Edwy, my lord, you are ill at ease.”
“I am indeed, Elgiva; oh! if you knew what I have had to endure this
day!”
“I know it all, my Edwy; you cannot sacrifice your Elgiva, but she can
sacrifice herself.”
“Elgiva! what do you mean?”
“You have to choose between your country and your wife; she has made
the choice for you.”
Here she strove violently to repress her emotion.
“Elgiva! you shall never go—never, never—it will break my heart.”
“It will break mine; but better hearts should break than that civil war
should desolate our country, or that you should be dethroned.”
“No more of this, Elgiva; you shall not go, I swear it! come weal or
woe. Are we not man and wife? Have we not ever been faithful to each
other?”
“But this dreadful Church, my Edwy, which crushes men’s affections and
rules their intellects with a giant’s strength more fearful than the
fabled hammer of Thor. It crushed the sweet mythology of old, with all
that ministered to love, and substituted the shaveling, the nun, the
monk; it has no sympathy with poor hearts like ours; it is remorseless,
as though it never knew pity or fear. You must yield, my Edwy! we must
yield!”
“I cannot,” he said; “we will fly the throne together.”
“But where would you go? this Church is everywhere; who would receive
an excommunicate man?”
“I cannot help it, Elgiva; say no more, it maddens me. Talk of our
early days, before this dark shadow fell upon us.”
She took up her harp, as if, like David, she could thereby soothe the
perturbed spirit; but its sweet sounds woke no answer in his breast,
and so the night came upon them—night upon the earth, night upon their
souls.
Early in the morning she rose, strong in a woman’s affection, while
Edwy yet slept, and hastily arrayed herself; she looked around at her
poor household gods, at the harp, at the many tokens of his love.
“It is for him!” she said. She imprinted her last kiss on his sleeping
forehead, she gazed upon him with fond, fond love; love had been her
all, her heaven: and then she opened the door noiselessly.
Athelwold waited without.
“Well done, noble girl!” he said; “thou keepest thy word right
faithfully.”
She strove to speak, but could not; her pale bloodless lips would not
frame the words. Silently they descended the stairs; the dawn reddened
the sky; a horse with a lady’s equipments waited without, and a guide.
The old thane slipped a purse of gold into her hands.
“You will need it,” he said. “Where are you going? you have not told
us.”
“It is better none should know,” she said; “I will decide my route when
without the city.”
They never heard of her again.xxxii
When Edwy awoke and found her gone he was at first frantic, and sent
messengers in all directions to bring her back; but when one after
another came back unsuccessful, he accepted the heroic sacrifice and
submitted.
Wessex, therefore, remained faithful to him, at least for a time, but
Mercia was utterly lost; and Edgar was recognised as the lawful king
north of the Thames, by all parties; friends and foes, even by Edwy
himself.