So soon as the news of the death of Ethelred travelled abroad, the
bishops, abbots, ealdormen, and thanes of southern England, despairing
of the cause of the house of Cerdic, met together at Southampton, and
renouncing Ethelred and his descendants, elected Canute to be their
king, while he swore that both in things spiritual and temporal he
would maintain their liberties.
But the citizens of London were of nobler mould, and, disdaining
submission, chose Edmund to be their king. A council was at once held,
and it became apparent that the allegiance of the greater part of
Wessex depended upon Edmund's prompt appearance amongst them, while,
on the other hand, the rapid approach of Canute made his presence in
the city very essential to the safety of the inhabitants.
Up rose a noble thane, and spake his mind.
"Surely we can defend our own city until the valiant Edmund brings us
aid. We have kept off Canute before, and his father before him, and we
can do as much again. Meanwhile Edmund will soon have all Wessex at
his back, and Canute will find his match for once."
The words of the gallant speaker found their echo in many a breast,
and it was decided that Edmund should be advised to hurry into Wessex,
and leave London to defend itself.
A deputation from the council at once waited upon Edmund, and in the
name of the city, and, as they took the liberty of adding, of every
true man in England, they proferred him his father's crown. Like the
citizens of a certain modern capital, they constituted themselves the
representatives of the nation.
Edmund, who certainly did not lack confidence, and who could not help
knowing that he alone was able to cope with the Danes, took scant time
to consider their proposal.
"I accept the crown," he said; "a thorny one it is like to prove, but
I thank you for your love and trust."
In the course of a day or two Ethelred the Unready was buried by
Archbishop Lyfing in St. Paul's minster, with the assistance of the
cathedral body. Emma and her children, as also Edwy, the son of
Ethelred by his first wife, were the chief mourners, nay, the only
real ones. Most men felt as when a cloud passes away. The sad
procession passed through the streets, the people flocked into the
church, and in the presence of all the "wise men" of London, they
solemnly committed the frail tabernacle in which the living spirit had
sinned and suffered to the parent earth, where the rush and roar of a
mighty city should ever peal around it.
A few days later the archbishop was called upon to perform a very
different ceremony, the coronation of King Edmund, which also took
place in St. Paul's Cathedral, amidst tears of joy, and cries which
even the sanctity of the place could not wholly restrain, "God bless
King Edmund!" The solemn oath of fidelity was administered, and when
all was over, with mingled tears and acclamations, those who had met
to bury the late king greeted with joy his son and successor.
It yet remained to be seen whether the choice of the realm would
ratify this decisive step on the part of the citizens of London.
Emma, the queen dowager, was deeply mortified, even while she
confessed the heritage was hardly worth having. Still her boy Alfred
seemed slighted by the choice, and she left England at once, with
Alfred and Edward, for Normandy, while Elgitha departed secretly from
London to join her husband Edric, and tell him all that had been done.
Edmund delayed his journey into Wessex until he had duly provided for
the defence of the capital, and had personally examined all the
defences with a warrior's eye. At length the messengers who watched
the Danish fleet announced its arrival at Greenwich, and that bands of
warriors, numerous as locusts, were issuing thence, and advancing upon
London.
Reluctant as Edmund was to leave the city, it was evident that if he
delayed another day he might indeed share the perils of the
inhabitants, but would probably lose Wessex, where his immediate
presence was all-important. Therefore he called Alfgar, and bade him
prepare at once for a journey to the west.
Their intended route led them, in the first instance, to Dorchester,
where a large force from Mercia, including most of the men whom Edmund
had so long disciplined himself, and who were under the temporary
charge of Hermann, were to meet him. However, it was late before their
final arrangements could be made, and the sun had already set when the
citizens accompanied them to the Ludgate, and bade them an earnest
farewell.
They were both clad in light defensive armour, such as could be worn
on a rapid journey, and armed with sword and battle-axe. Their own
steeds, two of the finest horses England could produce, famous for
speed and bottom, awaited them at the gate. Edmund criticised their
condition with a jealous eye, and then expressed approval.
"Farewell, Englishmen of the loyal and true city! Until we meet in
happier times, farewell! You will know how to guard hearths and homes.
Till we return to aid you, farewell!"
And, striking spurs into his steed, he and Alfgar rode across the
Fleet river, and, ascending the rising ground, pursued their course
along the Strand.
"We shall have a moonlight ride," said the king. "Look, Alfgar, 'tis
nearly full."
"My Lord, do you see those dark spots on the river near Thorney Isle?"
"Ah! I see them, and recognise the cutthroats. They are the Danes, who
are bent on surrounding the city. Had I my five hundred, I would soon
give some account of that detachment."
"But now, my Lord, had we not better strike into the northern road at
once, before they see us? We are but two."
"No; I should like to see them a little closer, and then across the
heath for Windsor. They must have fleet steeds that catch us."
So they persevered until they had attained a rising ground from which
they perceived the whole force, nearly a thousand strong, of whom one
half had crossed the stream. But the figures of our two adventurers,
outlined on the hill, were too distinct to elude their observation,
and a dozen dark horsemen rode after them at full gallop.
"Now for a brisk ride," said Edmund; and the two dashed wildly onward,
clearing ditch or hedge until they attained the rising ground
afterwards known as Hounslow Heath, still followed by their pursuers.
Here Edmund paused and looked round. The speed at which they rode had
separated their pursuers, as he had expected, and one was far the
foremost.
"Stand by, Alfgar," he said; "two to one is not fair. I thirst for the
blood of this accursed Dane."
Alfgar knew that he must not dispute the royal will, although he
thought the risk of delay very perilous, with a crowd of foes upon
their track. While he waited up came the Dane, powerfully mounted,
swinging his heavy battle-axe. He swooped upon Edmund, who caused his
horse to start aside, avoided the stroke, and then, guiding his horse
by his knees, and raising his axe in both hands, cleft his antagonist
to the chin before he could recover.
"Here come two more. Now, Alfgar, there is one apiece. The rest are a
mile behind them. You may take the one on the light grey, I will take
the rascal on the dark steed."
Another moment and they were both engaged. Alfgar foiled his
opponent's first stroke, and wounded him slightly in return. Now the
battle became desperate, attack succeeding attack, and parry, parry.
Meanwhile Edmund had again laid his foe prostrate in the dust, but did
not interfere; such was his chivalrous spirit in what he considered an
equal combat, although he cast anxious looks behind, where two or
three other riders were rapidly approaching.
At last victory inclined to Alfgar's side. Parrying a tremendous
stroke with his axe, he returned it with such vigour that the next
moment the Dane lay quivering in the dust.
"There appear to be only three or four more. I think we might engage
them. By the by, Alfgar, you missed one splendid chance through your
steed not answering your guidance to the moment. But I am tired of the
battle-axe, and shall use my sword for a change.
"Ah! there come half-a-dozen more round those firs. We must ride
forward and give up the sport."
Their enemies saw them and quickened their pace. They came to the spot
where their countrymen lay prostrate, and the cry of revenge they
raised, and the manner in which they urged their steeds forward,
showed how strongly the sight appealed to their feelings.
Onward flew pursuers and pursued--onward till Windsor's height, with
its castled hall, appeared in sight, and tempted them to seek
refreshment for man and beast. But they dared not linger on their
journey, and passed the town without entering.
They rode all night through a most desolate country, wasted by fire
and sword in all directions. Only in a few spots was there any
appearance of cultivation, for who would sow when they knew not who
should reap? Not one lonely country house, such as abounded in the
days of Edgar the Pacific, did they see standing, although they passed
the blackened ruins of many an abode, showing where once the joys of
home held sway. Here and there they came upon the relics of strife, in
the shape of bodies of men and horses left to rot, and in one spot,
where a ford had been defended, the rival nations had left their
fallen representatives by hundreds. It must have been months before,
yet no one had buried the bodies. Such people as still existed without
the fortified towns had betaken themselves to the woods, or the
recesses of the deep swamps and forests, as the people of Aescendune
had done.
As they drew near Dorchester, they found yet more sanguinary traces of
recent war, for the Thames had been the scene of constant warfare.
Bensington, half burned, had partially recovered, and had renewed her
fortifications; Wallingford, hard by, had never risen since the
frightful Christmas of 1006.
Dorchester now rose before them. They had accomplished fifty miles of
hard riding that night. They were seen, challenged, and recognised, by
a patrol without the gates, and the cry, "Long live King Edmund!"
echoed from all sides. A thousand gallant Mercians, the nucleus of an
army, each man fit to be a captain, awaited them there, and Edmund
felt his spirits revive within him, and his hope for England; and
Alfgar met Hermann with great gladness.
It was pitiful to see the blackened ruins of churches and palace,
which had not been rebuilt since the Danish raid of 1010, but the
commoner dwellings were rising with rapidity from their ashes, or had
already risen, for the shelter of the earthworks and other
fortifications was not to be despised, and prevented the place from
being utterly abandoned.
Yet it may be noted that Dorchester never fully recovered the events
of that dreadful year, and that its decay probably dates from the
period.
Resting only a few hours, during which they were the guests of Ednoth,
the bishop, they departed with his fervent blessing and earnest
prayers for their success, and rode westward, attended by their whole
troop.
Every town they reached received them with enthusiasm. They were now
near the birthplace of the great Alfred, where the hearts of the
people were all thoroughly with their native princes; and men left all
their ordinary occupations to strike one blow for King Edmund and
England. Onward, and like a rolling snowball, they gathered as they
went, until they entered Wiltshire with ten thousand men, and,
crossing the country, reached the opposite border with all the brave
men of Wilts added to their numbers.
They were now approaching Dorsetshire, and saw before them a rising
ground, with a large stone set in a conspicuous position.
"What stone is that?" inquired Edmund of a thane, whose habitation was
hard by, and who had joined him with his whole household.
"It is called the county stone. It marks the place where three
counties meet--Somerset, Wilts, and Dorset; it is in the village of
Penn."
At this moment a horseman was seen riding wildly after them from the
country in the rear.
"See that man; he brings news," said Edmund, and the whole party
paused.
"Alfgar," whispered Edmund to his confidential attendant, "there is
hot work coming; I have long since scented the foe behind."
The messenger arrived, bowed low to the king, and waited permission to
speak, while his panting breath betrayed his haste and his excitement.
"Well, your message?" said Edmund; "you have ridden fast to bring it."
"My lord, Canute, with an army of fifty thousand men, is following
behind with all his speed."
Edmund looked proudly around upon his host; it was almost equal in
number. Then he looked with a soldier's eye on the ground before him,
and saw that it was the very place where a stand could be made with
every advantage of ground.
"It is well," said Edmund; "we will wait for him here."
A loud cheer from those around him showed how he had succeeded in
imparting his own brave spirit to others. The trumpets commanded a
halt; and Alfgar and other riders bore the commands of the king to the
extremities of the host.
Each division took up rapidly the position assigned; for in this
domestic war men fought side by side with those they had known from
childhood, and were commanded immediately by their own hereditary
chieftains.
The broken nature of the ground protected them well from an attack on
either flank, and they strengthened this advantage by throwing up a
mound and digging a ditch, with the greatest rapidity.
While thus engaged, they saw the flashing of spear and shield in the
east, reflecting the setting sun, and speedily the whole country
seemed to glow with the sheen of weapons.
Edmund raised himself in the stirrups.
"Englishmen! brethren!" he cried, "you see your foe, the ruthless
destroyers of your land and kinsfolk; the pagan murderers of your
archbishop, the sainted Alphege. God will help them that help
themselves. It shall be ours to strike one glorious blow for liberty
and for just vengeance on this field. I vow to the God of battles I
will conquer or die."
He took off his helmet and looked solemnly to Heaven, as he called on
the Supreme Being to register his vow, and a deep murmur of sympathy
arose around, until it found loud utterance in the cry, "We will
conquer with our king or die," from a thousand voices, until the
glorious enthusiasm spread throughout the camp. Glorious when men
fight for hearth and altar.
Edmund looked proudly around.
"With such warriors," he said, "I need not fear Canute."
The trench and mound were completed, but the enemy did not advance. He
planted his black raven banner two miles off in the plain, arranged
his forces, and halted for the night.
"We must fight tomorrow at dawn of day," said Edmund. "Now, bid the
campfires be lighted; we have plenty of meat and bread, mead and wine;
bid each man eat and drink his fill. Men never fight well on empty
stomachs. Then return yourself to my side, and share my tent this
night; perhaps--perhaps--for the last time."
"If so, woe to England--woe!" said Alfgar. "But I have confidence that
her day of tribulation is passing from her. The blood of the martyred
saints cries aloud for vengeance on the Danes."