Edwy the Fair or the First Chronicle of Aescendune<br />A Tale of the Days of Saint Dunstan by A. D. Crake (books to read romance .TXT) 📗

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