Alfgar the Dane or the Second Chronicle of Aescendune

  CHAPTER XIX. THE ROYAL DEATHBED.

  It was the evening of a stormy day in April when a band of fivehundred men, well armed and equipped, were seen approaching the MoorGate of London. Their leader rode in front, a stalwart warrior, whoseeagle eye and dauntless brow told of one born to command. By his siderode a younger warrior, yet one who had nearly reached the prime oflife, and who bore the traces of a life of warfare most legiblystamped upon him. There was this difference between them, that menwould have recognised the elder at once as an Englishman, while theyounger had all the outward physiognomy of a Dane.

  "Look, Alfgar, and see whether you can see the flag of Wessex floatingover the gates; your eyes are better than mine," said the elder to hiscompanion.

  "I can barely see through the driving rain and darkening sky, but Ithink I discern the royal banner."

  "Then the city yet holds out, and Canute has not arrived. We are yetin time."

  "The messenger said that their ships could not ascend the river whilethe west wind blew, and it is blowing hard enough tonight."

  "Well, when they come they may find London a hard nut even for Canuteto crack. The citizens of London are true as steel."

  "See, we are espied, and they man the gates."

  "Doubtless they think Canute is approaching. Ride rapidly, we shallsoon undeceive them."

  They rode within bow shot of the gates, which were closed, and therethey paused, for a score of bowmen held their shafts to their ears.Edmund, for our readers have long recognised him, bade his forceshalt, and advanced alone, with Alfgar, holding up his hand in sign ofpeace.

  "What, ho! men of London," he cried, "do you not recognise Edmund theEtheling?"

  A joyous cry of recognition burst forth, the gates were thrown open ina minute, and as Edmund, followed by his train, rode in, cries ofwelcome and exultation burst forth on all sides, while women andchildren, sharing the general joy, kissed even the hem of his mantle.

  Well they might, for their need was sore. Canute was near, his shipshad been seen entering the Thames, and his determination to take thecity, which had so often resisted the Danish arms, had been freely andfrankly expressed.

  "Ah, well you know me, my countrymen, for a true Englishman!--one inwhose veins your blood flows, and who will be only too happy to fightthe Danish wolves at your head."

  The cry, "Long live the Etheling Edmund!" had wakened the city, andthe narrow tortuous streets were becoming thronged by the crowd, sothat their farther progress threatened to be slow. Edmund perceivedthis, and, turning to the captain of the guard, inquired anxiously:

  "How fares the king, my father?"

  "They say he is at death's door," was the reply.

  "Then I may not tarry, good people. All thanks for your welcome, whichI hope I may live to repay, but just now my place is by my father'sside. I may not now delay till I come to him."

  So the people made way without discontinuing their acclamations, andEdmund and his train rode on till they reached the precincts of St.Paul's cathedral church. Night was now coming on apace, amidst showersof rain and hail, and gusts of wind, which caused the wooden spire torock visibly. Here and there faint lights twinkled through the opendoors, where people could be dimly seen on their knees.

  "They pray for the king," whispered an officer of the guard who rodeby the side of the prince. "The bishop Elfhelm has gone forth with theviaticum."

  Edmund replied not, but hurried his pace as he gazed at the darkeningoutlines of the rude structure, which stood within the outer walls,yet remaining, of the temple of Diana, which in Roman times hadoccupied the same spot.

  They descended the hill towards the Fleet, but paused while yet withinthe walls. The ancient palace without the gates had been long sinceburned by the Danes in one of their various attempts to take the city,and the court had occupied a large palace, if such it could be called,once belonging to a powerful noble who had perished in one of thesanguinary battles of the time.

  The outer portal stood open, but sentinels of the hus-carles wereposted thereat, who at once came forward as Edmund paused at the gate.

  He dismounted, saying, "Alfgar, follow me;" and commended his troopsto the hospitality of the citizens, bidding them to reassemble beforeSt. Paul's by eight of the morning.

  And the troops broke up to receive such hospitality as the straitenedtimes permitted men to indulge in. The officers found a welcome in thepalace, amongst the royal guard. The citizens contended who shouldentertain the rest.

  Edmund passed through the great hall, where the general silence struckhim forcibly, telling of the extremity to which the monarch wasreduced, and entered an inner apartment, where several dignitariesboth of church and state were waiting. They welcomed him in gravesilence, and the chamberlain who was present spoke in a low voice:

  "Your royal father has long pined for you, my prince; may I conductyou to him at once?"

  "Who is with him now?"

  "Your royal brothers, the Ethelings Edward and Alfred, the PrincessEdgitha, and the Queen {xv}."

  "Has not the bishop arrived?"

  "He is in the chapel at this moment; the king declined to see him, hewill not believe he is dying; but the bishop waits in prayer."

  "Lead me to his chamber," said Edmund.

  Re-entering the great hall, the chamberlain and prince ascended thebroad staircase which conducted to the upper chambers, and passingalong a passage thickly strewn with rushes to deaden the sound, forcarpets were unknown, they came to a door at the end, where thechamberlain paused and knocked.

  Loud ravings, as of one in delirium, penetrated the passage from thechamber, amidst which the chamberlain knocked again.

  "There! there!" cried an agonised voice, "he knocks again; 'tisElfhelm of Shrewsbury, whom Edric slew; 'twasn't I, 'twas Edric, Ionly shared the spoil; keep him out, I tell you, keep him out."

  The door was not opened; probably those within feared to excite theking; and the chamberlain whispered to Edmund:

  "He is in delirium, his ravings are very painful."

  "I hear," said Edmund; "how long has he been in this state?"

  "Only a few hours, and he has constantly imagined that men, who arelong since dead, were about him; especially he calls upon Dunstan,then upon St. Brice, then he calls for his son-in-law, Edric."

  "Ah, Edric!"

  "Yes; but Edric is with Canute, I hear."

  "I wish he were with Satan, in his own place," said Edmund, fiercely,forgetting all Christian charity at the hated name.

  "It is devoutly to be wished; but he is quiet, we may enter now."

  The king, exhausted by his own violent emotions, lay back upon thebed, which occupied the centre of the room, surmounted by a woodencanopy, richly carved, from which curtains depended on either side.

  His face, which time and evil passions had deeply wrinkled, was of adeadly paleness; his eyes were encircled by a livid tint, and staredas if they would start from their orbits; his breathing was rapid andinterrupted, but at the moment when Edmund entered he was silent.Standing on his left hand, wiping the perspiration from his brow, wasEmma, the queen, her face yet comely, and bearing trace of that beautywhich had once earned her the title of the "Pearl of Normandy." Herevident solicitude and loving care was the one picture of the roomupon which the eye could rest with most contentment.

  Alfred, her eldest son--for Edmund was the offspring of an early amourof the king--was on the other side of the bed, a well-made youth,combining in his features the haughty bearing of his Norman maternalancestors with the English traits of his father; but now hisexpression was one of distress and anxiety, which was yet more deeplyshared by his younger brother, Edward, who even at this periodmanifested that strong sense of religious obligation and that earlydevotion which in later years caused him to be numbered amongstcanonised saints.

  He knelt at the bedside, and his hand grasped the cold damp hand ofhis sire, as if he would strengthen him by his sympathy.

  "O father," he cried; "neglect not longer to make
your peace with along-suffering God; even in this eleventh hour He will not reject thepenitent."

  He was interrupted by the entrance of Edmund, his half-brother, whomhe feared, because he could not understand so different a nature.

  "Our father has long pined for you," he said, in a timid voice; "Ifear you are too late, and that he will hardly know you."

  "I have ridden from Aescendune day and night since the news of hisdanger was brought me.

  "Father," he said, as he bent over the bed, "do you not know me?"

  The dying man raised himself up and looked him full in the face, and alook of recognition came slowly.

  "Edmund!" he said, "I am so glad, you will protect me; take yourbattle-axe, you are strong. Sigeferth and Morcar, whom Edric slew atOxford, have been here, and they said they would come back and drag mewith them to some judgment seat; now take thine axe, Edmund, my son,and slay them when they enter; they want killing again."

  A look of indescribable pain passed over the features of Edmund.

  The door opened, and Edward left the room after a conference with thephysician, who sat in a corner of the room compounding drugs at asmall table; a few minutes passed in silence, when he returned andheld the door open for the bishop of London, who entered, bearing theviaticum, as the last communion of the sick was then called, andattended by an acolyte, who bore a lighted taper before him andcarried a bell.

  The king rose up in his bed, glared fixedly at the prelate, and thenshrieked aloud:

  "St. Brice! St. Brice! art thou come again? What dost thou glare at mefor? 'Twas not I who defiled thy festival with blood. It was Edric,Edric! Why does he not come to answer for his own sin?"

  "If he did, I would brain him," muttered Edmund.

  "There! do not glare upon me. Hast thou brought me the blood of thevictims to drink? Ah! there is Gunhilda. What right hast thou tocomplain if I slew thee, which I did not, at least not with my ownhands: thy brother Sweyn has slain thousands. I did not at least killmy father; I have only disgraced his name, as you will say.

  "O Edmund! Edmund! protect me."

  "My son," said the bishop, in a deep calm voice, which seemed to stillthe ravings of the king, "think of thy sins, repent, confess; theChurch hath power to loose in her Lord's name, Who came to savesinners."

  "Yes, father, heed him," said Edward. "Father, you are dying, theleech says; you have not a day to live. Waste not the precious hours."

  The patient sank back upon his bed, and for a few minutes only thesound of his breathing could be heard; the difficulty with which hedrew his breath seemed to increase each moment.

  The bishop held the crucifix before his eyes.

  "Gaze, my son," said he, "at the emblem of Him who died that thoumightest live, and say, 'O my God, I put Thy most pitiful passionbetween Thee and my sins!'"

  "Yes, father, hearken," said Edward.

  "I bethink me now that Gunhilda clung to the crucifix, and said shewas a Christian. But what of that? She was a Dane, and they did rightin dragging her from it and slaying her."

  "My son, my son, you throw away your salvation!" cried the bishop.

  "Father, show him the viaticum," said Emma.

  "It is useless; without repentance and faith 'twould but increase--"and the prelate paused. "Let us pray. It is all we can do."

  And all present knelt round the bed, while the plaintive cry arosefrom the lips of the prelate, and was echoed from all around:

  "Kyrie eleeson: Christe eleeson: kyrie eleeson."

  And so the litany for the dying rolled solemnly along, with itsintense burning words of supplication, its deep agony of prayer, itsloving earnestness of intercession. But upon the dying sinner's earsit fell as an echo of the long, long past; of that day when the litanyarose before his coronation at Kingston, and the prophetic curse ofDunstan.

  "Listen!" he said. "I hear the voice of Dunstan.

  "Oh, why didst thou lay thy curse upon me? Did I murder my brotherEdward? Nay, 'twas my cruel mother, who murdered her own husband thatshe might become queen. Her sins are visited upon me. Nay, recall thycurse. Alas! it is uttered in thunders before the eternal judgmentseat.

  "See, they come to drag me thither; they all come--Edward; the victimswhom I slew sixteen years agone in Cumbria; the slain on St. Brice'sday; Elfhelm of Shrewsbury and his sons, with their empty sockets, andtheir eyes hanging down; Sigeferth, Morcar, and a thousand others.See, Dunstan bids them all await me at the judgment seat. I will notcome; nay, they drag me.

  "Edric, wilt thou not answer for me now? Accursed be thy name,accursed!"

  His frightful maledictions overpowered the supplications around hisbed; but they died away in silence--silence so long continued, thatsuspicion soon became certainty.

  Ethelred the Unready was dead.

  "We must leave him to God's mercy," said the bishop, as he closed theeyes, while the wife and children of the unhappy king sobbed around."He knoweth whereof we are made; He remembereth that we are but dust."

  Yet he trembled as he spoke, and, kneeling down, completed withfaltering voice the office for the commendation of the departed soul.