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 becomes our painful duty to record that from the date of the feast, described in our last chapter, the character of poor Elfric underwent rapid deterioration. In the first place, the fact of his having yielded to the forbidden indulgence, and—as he felt—disgraced himself, gave Edwy, as the master of the secret, great power over him, and he never failed to use this power whenever he saw any inclination on the part of his vassal to throw off the servitude. It was not that he deliberately intended to injure Elfric, but he had come to regard virtue as either weakness or hypocrisy, at least such virtues as temperance, purity, or self restraint.

The great change which was creeping over Elfric became visible to others: he seemed to lose his bright smile; the look of boyish innocence faded from his countenance, and gave place to an expression of sullen reserve; he showed less ardour in all his sports and pastimes, became subject to fits of melancholy, and often seemed lost in thought, anxious thought, in the midst of his studies.

He seldom had the power, even if the will, to communicate with home. Mercia was in many respects an independent state, subject to the same king, but governed by a code of laws differing from those of Wessex; and it was only when a royal messenger or some chance traveller left court for the banks of the Midland Avon, that Elfric could use the art of writing, a knowledge he was singular in possessing, thanks to the wisdom of his sire.

So the home authorities knew little of the absent one, for whom they offered up many a fervent prayer, and of whom they constantly spoke and thought. And yet, so mysterious are the ways of Providence, it seemed as if these prayers were unanswered—seemed indeed, yet they were not forgotten before God.

Seemed forgotten; for Elfric was rapidly becoming reckless. Many subsequent scenes of indulgence had followed the first one, and other haunts, residences of licentious young nobles, or taverns, had been sought out by the youths, and always by Redwald’s connivance.

He was Edwy’s evil genius, and always seemed at hand whensoever the prince sought occasion to sin. Still, he was not at all suspected by Edred, before whom he kept up an appearance of the strictest morality—always punctual in his attendance at mass, matins, and evensong, and with a various stock of phrases of pious import ready at tongue in case of need or opportunity of using them to advantage.

To Elfric, his behaviour was always reserved, yet he seemed even more ready to lend him a helping hand downward than did the prince.

So time passed on; weeks became months; and Christmas with all its hallowed associations had passed; it had been Elfric’s first Christmas away from home, and he was sad at heart, in spite of the boisterous merriment of his companions. The spring of the year 955 came on, and Lent drew near, a season to which Edwy looked forward with great dread, for, as he said, there would be nothing in the whole palace to eat until Easter, and he could not even hope to bribe the cook.

The canons of the church required all persons to make confession, and so enter upon the fast tide, having “thus purified their minds;” x it may, alas! be easily guessed how the guilty lads performed this duty, how enforced confession only led to their adding the sin of further deceit, and that of a deadly kind.

Thus they entered upon Lent: their abstinence was entirely compulsory, not voluntary; and although they made up for it in some degree when they could get away from the palace, yet even this was difficult, for it was positively unlawful for butchers to sell or for people to buy meat at the prohibited seasons, and the law was not easily evaded. But it was a prayerless Lent also to Elfric, for he had, alas! even discontinued his habit of daily prayer, a habit he had hitherto maintained from childhood, a habit first learned at his mother’s knee.

Holy Week came, and was spent with great strictness; the king seemed to divide his whole time between the business of state and the duties of religion.

Dunstan was absent at Glastonbury, but other ecclesiastics thronged the palace, and there were few, save the guilty boys and Redwald, who seemed uninfluenced by the solemn commemoration.

But it must not be supposed that Elfric was wholly uninfluenced: after the preaching of the Passion by a poor simple monk on Good Friday, he retired to his own little room, where he wept as if his heart would break. Had Dunstan been then in town, the whole story would have been told, and much misery saved, for Elfric felt he could trust him if he could trust anybody; but unhappily Dunstan was, as we have seen, keeping Passiontide at his abbey.

Still, Elfric felt he must tell all, and submit to the advice and penance which might be imposed; and as he sat weeping over his sin that Good Friday night, with the thought that he might find pardon and peace through the Great Sacrifice so touchingly pleaded that day, he felt that the first step to amendment must lie in a full and frank confession of all; he knew he should grievously offend Edwy, and that he should lose the favour of his future king, but he could not help it.

“Why, oh why did I leave Æscendune, dear Æscendune?—fool that I was—I will go back.”

And a sweet desire of home and kindred rose up before him—of his father’s loving welcome, his fond mother’s chaste kiss, and of the dear old woods and waters—the hallowed associations of his home life. He rose up to seek Father Benedict, determined to enter upon the path of peace at any cost, when Edwy entered.

He did not see in the gathering darkness the traces of emotion visible on poor Elfric’s countenance, and he began in his usual careless way—“How are you, Elfric, my boy; glad Lent is nearly over? What a dismal time that wretched monk preached this morning!”

“Edwy, I am utterly miserable: I must tell all; I cannot live like this any longer.”

“What a burst of penitence! go to confession; to be sure it looks well, and if one can only manage to get out a few tears they account him a saint; tell me the receipt.”

“But, Edwy, I must tell all!”

“Not if you are wise.”

“Why not? It is all in secrecy.”

“No it is not; you will be required as a penance to go and tell the king all that we have done; you may do so, and I will manage to represent matters so as to throw the whole blame on you; you will be sent home in disgrace.”

Poor Elfric hung down his head; the thought of his disgrace reaching home had not occurred to him.

“Come,” said Edwy, “I don’t want to be hard upon you. Cheer up, my man. What have you done amiss? Only enjoyed yourself as nature has guided you. Why should you think God meant us to pass through life like those miserable shavelings Edred delights to honour? Cheer up, Elfric; your bright face was never meant for that of a hypocrite. If you are so dreadfully bad, you are in a pretty numerous company; and I don’t think the shavelings believe their own tales about fire and torment hereafter. They are merry enough, considering.”

In short, poor Elfric’s short-lived penitence was given to the winds. Edwy went alone to be shriven on the morrow.

On Easter Day they both received the Holy Communion in the royal chapel.

From that time remorse ceased to visit the heir of Æscendune, as if he had at last quenched the Spirit, and he became so utterly wild and reckless, that at last Dunstan thought it necessary to speak to him privately on the subject. It was nearly six months after Easter.

The boy entered the study set apart for the use of the great monk and statesman with a palpitating heart, but he managed to repress its beatings, and put on a perfectly unconcerned expression of countenance. He had gained in self control if in nothing else.

“I wished to speak with you, Elfric,” said the abbot, “upon a very serious matter. When you first came here, I was delighted to have you as a companion to the prince. You were evidently well brought up, and bore an excellent character; but, I grieve to say, you have greatly changed for the worse. Are you not aware of it?”

“No, father. What have I done?”

Dunstan sighed at the tone of the reply, and continued—“It is not any particular action of which I wish to accuse you, but of the general tenor of your conduct. I do not speak harshly, my boy; but if truth be told, you are as idle as you were once diligent, as sullen and reserved as once candid and open: and, my son, your face tells a tale of even worse things, and, but that I am puzzled to know where you could obtain the means of self indulgence, I should attribute more serious vices to you.”

“Who has accused me, father?”

“Yourself—that is, your own face and manner. Did you ever contemplate yourself in a mirror when at home? There is a steel one against that wall, go and look at yourself now.”

Elfric blushed deeply.

“My face is still the same,” he said.

“It is the same, and yet not the same. Innocence once took her place at its portals, and had sealed it as her own; the expression is all changed; my boy, I am absolutely certain that all is not well with you. For your own sake, delay no longer to avoid the danger of losing your salvation, for the habits you form now will perhaps cling to you through life. Turn now to your own self; confess your sin, and be at peace.”

“I came to confession at Shrovetide; I am not required to come now, am I?”

“Required? No, my boy, it is your own sense of guilt, alone, which should draw you. The Church, since there has been no public scandal, leaves you to your own judgment at such a time as this. Have you never felt such remorse of conscience as would tell you your duty?”

“Never.”

He thought of Good Friday, and blushed.

“Your tone and words belie each other, my boy. God grant you repentance; you will not accept my help now, but the time may come when you will seek help in vain.”

Elfric bowed, without reply, and at a sign left the chamber.

A few weeks later, at the beginning of November, Edred left London for a tour in the west, and quitted his nephews with more than his usual affection, although his goodbye to Elfric was more constrained, for the good old king, not knowing the whole truth, was beginning to fear that Elfric was a dangerous companion. He little thought that he was rather sinned against than sinning.

Dunstan was to follow him in a week, and only remained behind to discharge necessary business.

The heart of the amorous Edwy beat with delight as he saw his uncle depart, and he made arrangements at once to spend the night after Dunstan’s departure in mirth and jollity at the house of Ethelgiva and her fair daughter.

He came back after an interview with Redwald on the subject, and found Elfric in their common study. There was an alcove in the room, and it was covered by a curtain.

“O Elfric,” said the prince, “is it not delightful? The two tyrants, the king and the monk, will soon be gone. I wish the Evil One would fly off with them both, and when the cat is away will not the mice play? I have made all the arrangements; we shall have such a night at the lady Ethelgiva’s.”

“How is the fair Elgiva?”

It was now Edwy’s turn to blush and look confused.

“I wish I had the power of teasing you, Elfric. But if you have a secret you keep it close. Remember old Dunstan vanishes on the fifteenth, and the same evening, oh, won’t it be joyful? But I am tired of work. Come and let us take some fresh air.”

They left the room, when the curtain parted, and the astonished countenance of Father Benedict, who had been quietly reading in the deep embrasure of the window, presently appeared. He looked like a man at whose feet a thunderbolt had fallen, and hastily left the room.

The week passed rapidly away, and at