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) 📗

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.