Chapter 23

It was the latter end of November, and St. Andrew's day drew near, when a small but select party of friends met together in an old mansion hard by St. Frideswide's Cathedral, at Oxenford, to enjoy the evening banquet.

First and foremost was the king of Southern England, the valiant Ironside, and his attendant and friend Alfgar; Elfwyn and Father Cuthbert from Aescendune, with the Lady Hilda and Ethelgiva; Herstan, his wife Bertha, and son Hermann, from Clifton, with his sisters; and Ethelm, the new bishop of Dorchester, the successor of the martyred Ednoth.

These, our old acquaintances, had all been gathered together in view of the approaching union of Alfgar with Ethelgiva, which was to be solemnised on St. Andrew's day, in the presence of the king. They were a happy party; all the woes of the past seemed forgotten in the happy present, or were only remembered in the spirit of the well-known line:

"Haec olim meminisse juvabit."

The more substantial viands were removed, generous wines from warmer climes were introduced, but there was no need of a harper or of minstrels, save Edmund himself, or of legends and tales to those whose lives had passed amidst scenes of excitement. They were such as make history for future generations.

"How the wind howls without tonight!" observed Edmund; "it makes one value the blessing of a quiet home and a cheerful fireside. How often, Alfgar, have you and I lain on such nights under the shelter of a canvas tent, or even of a bush."

"Often, indeed, my liege; but those days are gone, perhaps for ever."

"They had their joys, nevertheless. There is something in a life of adventure which warms the blood and makes time pass swiftly; my goodwife and I sometimes tire of each other's company, as I expect Ethelgiva and you will in time."

"Never!" said Alfgar, so fervently that there was a general smile.

"Well, time will show; meanwhile, how is the new hall at Aescendune getting on, Elfwyn?"

"It will be ready by next spring; then the young people must make it their home. Our home in the woods has proved a shelter to us through such troublous days that Hilda and I are loath to leave it. But, meanwhile, they must live with us."

"And how about the priory?"

"It will be ready before the hall."

"That is well," observed the bishop, "and as it should be--God's house first, and then man's."

"Well, Hermann," said Edmund, addressing his young friend, whose career in arms he had closely watched since the attack upon the hall at Clifton, "how do you like the prospect of a long peace?"

"A peaceful life has its delights," replied Hermann, "but war has also its charms."

"Well, thou hast passed unscathed through five great battles, or at least without any serious wound; but remember all are not so fortunate, and many a poor cripple sighs over Penn, Sherston, Brentford, Otford, or Assingdun."

"The excitement of war blinds one to the risk."

"So it should, or there would be no war at all. What does my father the bishop think of the matter?"

"That wars are necessary evils, only justifiable when fighting, as you, my lord, have done, for home and altar, but they are no true children of the Prince of Peace who delight in bloodshed and strife."

Edmund pondered.

"And yet I fear I must plead guilty of delighting in a gallant charge. It stirs the blood, till it flows like fire in the veins. The feeling is glorious."

"Yet not one to be encouraged, save when it enables one to perform necessary deeds of daring for some worthy object, such as holy Scripture praises in the heroes of old."

The conversation now became general. Elfwyn and Herstan talked of the old days of Dunstan; Alfgar and Hermann of the events of the recent war; the good bishop and Father Cuthbert on ecclesiastical topics; the ladies upon some question of dresses and embroidery for the approaching festivity, which seemed to interest them deeply, when an attendant entered, and approaching the king, whispered a message in his ear.

"What! in this house? I will not have it. He knows how hateful his very presence must be."

"Your sister, the Princess Elgitha?"

"Well, I will see her. No, I will not."

"It is too late, Edmund. You must see me," said a sweet voice, and a lady, attired in mourning weeds, stood beside him. "It is but seven months, Edmund, since we lost our father. Shall his children rend and devour each other?"

"I do not want to rend and devour. I am no cannibal; but, Elgitha, your wicked husband--"

"Stay, Edmund, do not slander the husband before his wife."

"This is a business! What am I to say? I cannot dissemble, and pretend to love him, were he ten times my brother-in-law."

"Nor can I ask it," said a deep voice behind, and Edric stood before Edmund, his eyes cast down, his hands meekly clasped. "Edmund, I have often deeply injured you, and betrayed your confidence."

"You have indeed."

"But now I repent me of my wickedness. It burdens me so heavily that, but for your sister, I would retire into a monastery, and there end my days."

"It would be the best thing you could do."

"It would indeed."

This conference had taken place at the end of the great hall, which was a very spacious chamber, and the speakers were separated by a screen from the company.

"Edmund," cried his sister, "I see what you will do. You will make me a widow; for Edric cannot live if you refuse him forgiveness. Night after night he tosses on his uneasy bed, and wishes that it were day. Surely, Edmund, you have need of forgiveness yourself, yet you refuse to forgive."

"You preach like a bishop, but--"

"Well, you have a real bishop here. Call him, and let him judge between us."

Edmund mechanically obeyed, and he called Father Cuthbert also, in whose judgment he had great faith.

"What am I to do?" he said. "My country's wounds, inflicted by this man, yet bleed. Am I to give him the hand of friendship?"

"I do not deserve it," said Edric, meekly.

"My lord," said the bishop, gravely, "man may not refuse forgiveness to his fellow worm; but, Edric, hast thou truly repented of thy sin before God and his Church?"

"I have indeed. I have fasted in sackcloth and ashes, I have eaten the bread of affliction."

"Where?"

"In my sad retreat, my castle in Mercia."

"But some public reparation is due. Art thou willing to accept such penance as the Church, in consideration of thy perjuries, thy murders, which man may not avenge, since treaties protect thee--but which God will surely remember, if thou repent not--to accept such penance, I say, as the Church shall impose?"

"I submit myself to your judgment, most reverend father."

"It shall be duly considered and delivered to thee; and in consideration of that fact, I think, my lord, you cannot, as a Christian man, refuse to be reconciled."

"O Edmund, my brother, be merciful!" said Elgitha.

"I yield," said Edmund, "but not tonight," he said, as Edric stretched out his hand, reddened by many a dark deed of murder; "tomorrow, before God's altar. I shall be at St. Frideswide's at the early mass."

And he returned to the company.

A cloud was evidently on his spirits that night, which did not wear off the rest of the evening. The party separated at what would now be called an early hour. The bishop and Father Cuthbert lodged at the monastic house of Osney; Elfwyn, his wife and child, as also Herstan, with his little party, were accommodated in the mansion.

The chamber occupied by the king was a long roomy place, containing a single bedstead of carved wood, surmounted by the usual distinctive canopy, from which tapestried hangings depended, and upon which scriptural subjects were woven; the furniture of the room partook of the usual meagreness of the times. The entrance was through a small antechamber, wherein, on a humbler bedstead, Alfgar slept. Both rooms were hung with tapestry, which concealed rough walls, such as a builder would blush to own as his handiwork in these luxurious days.

Before retiring to rest, Edmund turned with much affection to his attendant.

"Alfgar, I have promised to forgive our enemy."

"Edric Streorn?"

Alfgar added no more.

"Couldst thou forgive him?"

"I would try."

"His hand is red with blood. Think of Sigeferth, of Morcar, of Elfhelm, nay, of a hundred others; then think not how he has plotted against my life, but how he made my own father hate and disown me; while he, the pampered favourite, swayed all the councils and betrayed the land. O Alfgar! couldst thou forgive him?"

"He plotted against my life and my honour, too," said Alfgar, "and strove to deprive me of both; yet I am too happy now to harbour revenge."

"Well, I meet him at St. Frideswide's tomorrow, and we shall be formally reconciled in the presence of the bishop and his clergy, wherewith I trust he will be content, and not trouble me too often with his presence."

"Where is he staying now?"

"I hardly know; but after the reconciliation I must admit him as my guest, for my sister is with him, if he chooses to stay; but I hope that will not be the case."

"His ill-omened presence would cast a gloom upon St. Andrew's day."

"It would indeed; it shall be avoided if possible. And now let us commend ourselves to the Lord, who died that we might be forgiven. 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.'"

And they slept.

On the morrow before the altar of St. Frideswide, the king and Edric had their places in the choir.

One very touching ceremony, handed down from early times, was still observed in England--the "kiss of peace," occurring at some period before the close of the canon of the mass, when all the members of the cathedral chapter, or of the choir, as the case might be, solemnly saluted each other.

And for this reason Edmund and Edric had been placed next each other. So when this most solemn moment arrived, they looked each other full in the face, and gave and received the sign of Christian brotherhood.

After this they both communicated.

When the holy rite was ended, Edmund invited Edric and Elgitha to become his guests.

Edric knew the old palace well. He had occupied it one well-remembered season, during which, in that very banqueting hall where we have introduced our readers, Sigeferth and Morcar, the earls of the seven burghs, were treacherously murdered at the banquet after Edric had previously made them heavy with wine.

There was the usual gathering that evening. Did Edric remember the place, and the bloody event which only he and one other present connected with the spot?--for Edmund had been far away, and the matter had been hushed up, as far as was possible, by all the power and influence Ethelred could exert in his favourite's cause, or rather his own, for he, the royal villain, shared the ill-gotten spoil.

If he did remember it, he took care not to show it that night. He was as calm and self-possessed as a man could be--as a smiling sea under the summer sky--smiling so that the heedless voyager knows not what hideous trophies or past storms the smiling depths conceal.

So was it with this treacherous penitent.

His presence, however, somewhat chilled the conversation, and they broke up early; the more so as it was a vigil, the vigil of St. Andrew, and men strictly observed the law of the Church on such subjects in those days.

When he bade Edmund goodnight, Edric said:

"You cannot tell how true a peace has found its home in my breast since our reconciliation, which I feel I owe greatly to the intercession of your patron St. Edmund, to whose tomb I made a pilgrimage, where I besought this one grace--our reconciliation."

Edmund thought of the holy thorn; but Edric continued:

"And you will be glad to hear that the bishop has decided upon my penance. It is to be a pilgrimage to the Holy Land."

"I am heartily glad to hear it," said Edmund, speaking the very truth, although he did try to forgive as he hoped to be forgiven.

And they separated.

Meanwhile happiness and expectation were high in the breasts of the happy lovers, Alfgar and Ethelgiva. The morrow was to unite them. The ladies sat up nearly all night making the wedding robes complete, and richly adorning them--Hilda, Bertha, and Ethelgiva, with many skilful handmaidens.

They had almost finished their task, and were about to separate, when St. Frideswide's bell tolled the first hour of the morning (one o'clock).

"We are very late," said the lady Hilda, as well she might, for our ancestors generally retired early, as they rose early; and they bade each other goodnight.

"Happy, happy Ethelgiva!" said the mother as she kissed her darling, not without a maternal sigh, for she felt as if she were losing her only child, who had for so many a year been the light of their woodland home--her only child, who had filled not simply her own place in their affections, but as far as she might the place of the loved Bertric.

But the kiss was suspended. The whole party stood silent and breathless; for a loud and bitter cry, as of one in extreme anguish, broke upon the silence of the night.

Ethelgiva uttered but one word as she bounded towards the staircase, for she knew the voice:

"Alfgar!"