It was the evening of a stormy day in April when a band of five
hundred men, well armed and equipped, were seen approaching the Moor
Gate of London. Their leader rode in front, a stalwart warrior, whose
eagle eye and dauntless brow told of one born to command. By his side
rode a younger warrior, yet one who had nearly reached the prime of
life, and who bore the traces of a life of warfare most legibly
stamped upon him. There was this difference between them, that men
would have recognised the elder at once as an Englishman, while the
younger had all the outward physiognomy of a Dane.
"Look, Alfgar, and see whether you can see the flag of Wessex floating
over the gates; your eyes are better than mine," said the elder to his
companion.
"I can barely see through the driving rain and darkening sky, but I
think I discern the royal banner."
"Then the city yet holds out, and Canute has not arrived. We are yet
in time."
"The messenger said that their ships could not ascend the river while
the west wind blew, and it is blowing hard enough tonight."
"Well, when they come they may find London a hard nut even for Canute
to crack. The citizens of London are true as steel."
"See, we are espied, and they man the gates."
"Doubtless they think Canute is approaching. Ride rapidly, we shall
soon undeceive them."
They rode within bow shot of the gates, which were closed, and there
they paused, for a score of bowmen held their shafts to their ears.
Edmund, for our readers have long recognised him, bade his forces
halt, and advanced alone, with Alfgar, holding up his hand in sign of
peace.
"What, ho! men of London," he cried, "do you not recognise Edmund the
Etheling?"
A joyous cry of recognition burst forth, the gates were thrown open in
a minute, and as Edmund, followed by his train, rode in, cries of
welcome and exultation burst forth on all sides, while women and
children, sharing the general joy, kissed even the hem of his mantle.
Well they might, for their need was sore. Canute was near, his ships
had been seen entering the Thames, and his determination to take the
city, which had so often resisted the Danish arms, had been freely and
frankly expressed.
"Ah, well you know me, my countrymen, for a true Englishman!--one in
whose veins your blood flows, and who will be only too happy to fight
the Danish wolves at your head."
The cry, "Long live the Etheling Edmund!" had wakened the city, and
the narrow tortuous streets were becoming thronged by the crowd, so
that their farther progress threatened to be slow. Edmund perceived
this, and, turning to the captain of the guard, inquired anxiously:
"How fares the king, my father?"
"They say he is at death's door," was the reply.
"Then I may not tarry, good people. All thanks for your welcome, which
I hope I may live to repay, but just now my place is by my father's
side. I may not now delay till I come to him."
So the people made way without discontinuing their acclamations, and
Edmund and his train rode on till they reached the precincts of St.
Paul's cathedral church. Night was now coming on apace, amidst showers
of rain and hail, and gusts of wind, which caused the wooden spire to
rock visibly. Here and there faint lights twinkled through the open
doors, where people could be dimly seen on their knees.
"They pray for the king," whispered an officer of the guard who rode
by the side of the prince. "The bishop Elfhelm has gone forth with the
viaticum."
Edmund replied not, but hurried his pace as he gazed at the darkening
outlines of the rude structure, which stood within the outer walls,
yet remaining, of the temple of Diana, which in Roman times had
occupied the same spot.
They descended the hill towards the Fleet, but paused while yet within
the walls. The ancient palace without the gates had been long since
burned by the Danes in one of their various attempts to take the city,
and the court had occupied a large palace, if such it could be called,
once belonging to a powerful noble who had perished in one of the
sanguinary battles of the time.
The outer portal stood open, but sentinels of the hus-carles were
posted thereat, who at once came forward as Edmund paused at the gate.
He dismounted, saying, "Alfgar, follow me;" and commended his troops
to the hospitality of the citizens, bidding them to reassemble before
St. Paul's by eight of the morning.
And the troops broke up to receive such hospitality as the straitened
times permitted men to indulge in. The officers found a welcome in the
palace, amongst the royal guard. The citizens contended who should
entertain the rest.
Edmund passed through the great hall, where the general silence struck
him forcibly, telling of the extremity to which the monarch was
reduced, and entered an inner apartment, where several dignitaries
both of church and state were waiting. They welcomed him in grave
silence, and the chamberlain who was present spoke in a low voice:
"Your royal father has long pined for you, my prince; may I conduct
you to him at once?"
"Who is with him now?"
"Your royal brothers, the Ethelings Edward and Alfred, the Princess
Edgitha, and the Queen {xv}."
"Has not the bishop arrived?"
"He is in the chapel at this moment; the king declined to see him, he
will not believe he is dying; but the bishop waits in prayer."
"Lead me to his chamber," said Edmund.
Re-entering the great hall, the chamberlain and prince ascended the
broad staircase which conducted to the upper chambers, and passing
along a passage thickly strewn with rushes to deaden the sound, for
carpets were unknown, they came to a door at the end, where the
chamberlain paused and knocked.
Loud ravings, as of one in delirium, penetrated the passage from the
chamber, amidst which the chamberlain knocked again.
"There! there!" cried an agonised voice, "he knocks again; 'tis
Elfhelm of Shrewsbury, whom Edric slew; 'twasn't I, 'twas Edric, I
only shared the spoil; keep him out, I tell you, keep him out."
The door was not opened; probably those within feared to excite the
king; and the chamberlain whispered to Edmund:
"He is in delirium, his ravings are very painful."
"I hear," said Edmund; "how long has he been in this state?"
"Only a few hours, and he has constantly imagined that men, who are
long since dead, were about him; especially he calls upon Dunstan,
then upon St. Brice, then he calls for his son-in-law, Edric."
"Ah, Edric!"
"Yes; but Edric is with Canute, I hear."
"I wish he were with Satan, in his own place," said Edmund, fiercely,
forgetting all Christian charity at the hated name.
"It is devoutly to be wished; but he is quiet, we may enter now."
The king, exhausted by his own violent emotions, lay back upon the
bed, which occupied the centre of the room, surmounted by a wooden
canopy, richly carved, from which curtains depended on either side.
His face, which time and evil passions had deeply wrinkled, was of a
deadly paleness; his eyes were encircled by a livid tint, and stared
as if they would start from their orbits; his breathing was rapid and
interrupted, but at the moment when Edmund entered he was silent.
Standing on his left hand, wiping the perspiration from his brow, was
Emma, the queen, her face yet comely, and bearing trace of that beauty
which had once earned her the title of the "Pearl of Normandy." Her
evident solicitude and loving care was the one picture of the room
upon which the eye could rest with most contentment.
Alfred, her eldest son--for Edmund was the offspring of an early amour
of the king--was on the other side of the bed, a well-made youth,
combining in his features the haughty bearing of his Norman maternal
ancestors with the English traits of his father; but now his
expression was one of distress and anxiety, which was yet more deeply
shared by his younger brother, Edward, who even at this period
manifested that strong sense of religious obligation and that early
devotion which in later years caused him to be numbered amongst
canonised saints.
He knelt at the bedside, and his hand grasped the cold damp hand of
his sire, as if he would strengthen him by his sympathy.
"O father," he cried; "neglect not longer to make your peace with a
long-suffering God; even in this eleventh hour He will not reject the
penitent."
He was interrupted by the entrance of Edmund, his half-brother, whom
he feared, because he could not understand so different a nature.
"Our father has long pined for you," he said, in a timid voice; "I
fear you are too late, and that he will hardly know you."
"I have ridden from Aescendune day and night since the news of his
danger was brought me.
"Father," he said, as he bent over the bed, "do you not know me?"
The dying man raised himself up and looked him full in the face, and a
look of recognition came slowly.
"Edmund!" he said, "I am so glad, you will protect me; take your
battle-axe, you are strong. Sigeferth and Morcar, whom Edric slew at
Oxford, have been here, and they said they would come back and drag me
with them to some judgment seat; now take thine axe, Edmund, my son,
and slay them when they enter; they want killing again."
A look of indescribable pain passed over the features of Edmund.
The door opened, and Edward left the room after a conference with the
physician, who sat in a corner of the room compounding drugs at a
small table; a few minutes passed in silence, when he returned and
held the door open for the bishop of London, who entered, bearing the
viaticum, as the last communion of the sick was then called, and
attended by an acolyte, who bore a lighted taper before him and
carried a bell.
The king rose up in his bed, glared fixedly at the prelate, and then
shrieked aloud:
"St. Brice! St. Brice! art thou come again? What dost thou glare at me
for? 'Twas not I who defiled thy festival with blood. It was Edric,
Edric! Why does he not come to answer for his own sin?"
"If he did, I would brain him," muttered Edmund.
"There! do not glare upon me. Hast thou brought me the blood of the
victims to drink? Ah! there is Gunhilda. What right hast thou to
complain if I slew thee, which I did not, at least not with my own
hands: thy brother Sweyn has slain thousands. I did not at least kill
my father; I have only disgraced his name, as you will say.
"O Edmund! Edmund! protect me."
"My son," said the bishop, in a deep calm voice, which seemed to still
the ravings of the king, "think of thy sins, repent, confess; the
Church hath power to loose in her Lord's name, Who came to save
sinners."
"Yes, father, heed him," said Edward. "Father, you are dying, the
leech says; you have not a day to live. Waste not the precious hours."
The patient sank back upon his bed, and for a few minutes only the
sound of his breathing could be heard; the difficulty with which he
drew his breath seemed to increase each moment.
The bishop held the crucifix before his eyes.
"Gaze, my son," said he, "at the emblem of Him who died that thou
mightest live, and say, 'O my God, I put Thy most pitiful passion
between Thee and my sins!'"
"Yes, father, hearken," said Edward.
"I bethink me now that Gunhilda clung to the crucifix, and said she
was a Christian. But what of that? She was a Dane, and they did right
in dragging her from it and slaying her."
"My son, my son, you throw away your salvation!" cried the bishop.
"Father, show him the viaticum," said Emma.
"It is useless; without repentance and faith 'twould but increase--"
and the prelate paused. "Let us pray. It is all we can do."
And all present knelt round the bed, while the plaintive cry arose
from the lips of the prelate, and was echoed from all around:
"Kyrie eleeson: Christe eleeson: kyrie eleeson."
And so the litany for the dying rolled solemnly along, with its
intense burning words of supplication, its deep agony of prayer, its
loving earnestness of intercession. But upon the dying sinner's ears
it fell as an echo of the long, long past; of that day when the litany
arose before his coronation at Kingston, and the prophetic curse of
Dunstan.
"Listen!" he said. "I hear the voice of Dunstan.
"Oh, why didst thou lay thy curse upon me? Did I murder my brother
Edward? Nay, 'twas my cruel mother, who murdered her own husband that
she might become queen. Her sins are visited upon me. Nay, recall thy
curse. Alas! it is uttered in thunders before the eternal judgment
seat.
"See, they come to drag me thither; they all come--Edward; the victims
whom I slew sixteen years agone in Cumbria; the slain on St. Brice's
day; Elfhelm of Shrewsbury and his sons, with their empty sockets, and
their eyes hanging down; Sigeferth, Morcar, and a thousand others.
See, Dunstan bids them all await me at the judgment seat. I will not
come; nay, they drag me.
"Edric, wilt thou not answer for me now? Accursed be thy name,
accursed!"
His frightful maledictions overpowered the supplications around his
bed; but they died away in silence--silence so long continued, that
suspicion soon became certainty.
Ethelred the Unready was dead.
"We must leave him to God's mercy," said the bishop, as he closed the
eyes, while the wife and children of the unhappy king sobbed around.
"He knoweth whereof we are made; He remembereth that we are but dust."
Yet he trembled as he spoke, and, kneeling down, completed with
faltering voice the office for the commendation of the departed soul.