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) 📗

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.