Chapter 5

LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.

London, in the days of King Edred, differed widely from the stately and populous city we know in these days, and almost as widely from the elegant “_Colonia Augusta_,” or Londinium, of the Roman period. Narrow, crooked, and unpaved lanes wound between houses, or rather lowly cottages, built of timber, and roofed with thatch, so that it is not wonderful that a conflagration was an event to be dreaded.

Evidence met the eye on every side how utterly the first Englishmen had failed to preserve the cities they had conquered, and how far inferior they were in cultivation, or rather civilisation, to the softer race they had so ruthlessly expelled; for on every side broken pedestal and shattered column appeared clumsily imbedded in the rude domestic architecture of our forefathers.

St. Paul’s Cathedral rose on the hill once sacred to Diana but was wholly built within the ruins of the vast temple which had once occupied the site, and which, magnificent in decay, still surrounded it like an outwork. Further on were the wrecks of the citadel, where once the stern legionary had watched by day and night, and where Roman discipline and order had held sway, while the wall raised by Constantine, broken and imperfect, still rose on the banks of the river. Near the Ludgate was the palace of the Saxon king, and the ruins of an aqueduct overshadowed its humbler portal, while without the walls the river Fleet rolled, amidst vineyards and pleasant meadows dotted with houses, to join the mighty Thames.

Edred, the reigning king of England, was the brother of the murdered Edmund, and, in accordance with the custom of the day, had ascended the throne on the death of his brother, seeing that the two infant sons of the late king, Edwy and Edgar, were too young to reign, and the idea of hereditary right was not sufficiently developed in the minds of our forefathers to suggest the notion of a regency. It must also be remembered that, within certain limits, there was an elective power in the Witenagemot or Parliament, although generally limited in its scope to members of the royal family.

Edred was of very delicate constitution, and suffered from an inward disease which seldom allowed him an interval of rest and ease. Like so many sufferers he had found his consolation in religion, and the only crime ever laid to his charge (if it were a crime) was that he loved the Church too much. Still he had repeatedly proved that he was strong in purpose and will, and the insurgent Danes who had settled in Northumbria had owned his prowess. In the internal affairs of his kingdom he was chiefly governed by the advice of the great ecclesiastic and statesman, with whose name our readers will shortly become familiar.

Upon the morning after the arrival of Elfric in London, Edwy, the young prince, and his new companion, sat in a room on the upper floor of the palace, which had but two floors, and would have been considered in these days very deficient in architectural beauty.

The window of the room opened upon the river, and commanded a pleasant view of the woods and meadows on the Surrey side, then almost uninhabited, being completely unprotected in case of invasion, a contingency never long absent from the mind in the days of the sea kings.

A table covered with manuscripts, both in Latin and Anglo-Saxon, occupied the centre of the room, and there Elfric was seated, looking somewhat aimlessly at a Latin vocabulary, while Edwy was standing listlessly at the window. The “library,” if it deserved the name, was very unlike a modern library; books were few, and yet very expensive, so that perhaps there was no fuller collection in any layman’s house in the kingdom. There were Alfred’s translations into Anglo-Saxon, the “_Chronicle of Orosius_,” or the history of the World; the “_History of the Venerable Bede_,” both in his original Latin and in English; Boethius on the “_Consolations of Philosophy_;” narratives from ancient mythology; extracts from the works of St. Augustine and St. Gregory; and the Apologues or Fables from Æsop.viii

“Oh, put those stupid books aside,” exclaimed the prince; “this is your first day in town, and I mean to take a holiday; that surly old Dunstan should have left word to that effect last night.”

“Will he not be here soon?”

“Yes, he is coming this morning, the old bear, to superintend my progress, and I wish him joy thereof.”

“What has he given you to do?” inquired Elfric.

“Why, a wretched exercise to write out. There, you see it before you; isn’t it a nuisance?”

“It is not very hard, is it?”

“Don’t you think it hard? See whether you can do it!”

Elfric smiled, and wrote out the simple Latin with ease, for he had been well instructed by Father Cuthbert at Æscendune.

He had scarcely finished when a firm step was heard upon the stairs.

“Hush,” said Edwy; “here comes Dunstan. Be sure you look solemn enough,” and he composed his own countenance into an expression of preternatural gravity.

The door opened, and an ecclesiastic in the prime of life entered the room, one whose mien impressed the beholder with an indefinable awe.

He was dressed in the Benedictine habit, just then becoming common in England, and his features were those of a man formed by nature to command, while they reconciled the beholder to the admission of the fact by the sad yet sweet smile which frequently played on the shapely countenance. He was now in the thirtieth year of his age, having been born in the first year of King Athelstane, and had been abbot of Glastonbury for several years, although his services as counsellor to King Edred had led him to spend much of his time in town, and he had therefore accepted the general direction of the education of the heir to the throne. Such was Dunstan.

He seemed but little welcome to Edwy, and the benediction with which he greeted his pupil was but coldly received.

Not appearing to notice this, he mildly said, “You must introduce your young companion to me, my prince. Am I not right in concluding that I see before me Elfric, heir to the lands of Æscendune?”

Elfric blushed as he bent the knee to the great churchman to receive the priestly benediction with which he was greeted, but remained silent.

“Father Cuthbert, whom I knew well years agone, has told me about you, and your brother Alfred; is not that his name?”

“He is so named, my father.”

“I am glad to perceive that my royal pupil has chosen so meet a companion, for Father Cuthbert speaks well of your learning. You write the Latin tongue, he tells me, with some little facility.”

Elfric feared his powers had been overrated.

“I trust you have resumed your studies after your long holiday,” continued Dunstan. “Youth is the season for sowing, age for reaping.”

“I have had a very bad headache,” said Edwy, “and have only been able to write a page of Latin. Here it is, father.”

And he extended the exercise Elfric had written to the abbot, who looked at the writing for one moment, and then glanced severely at the prince. The character was very like his own, but there was a difference.

“Is this your handwriting, Prince Edwy?” he asked.

“Of course. Elfric saw me write it, did you not?”

Elfric was not used to falsehood; he could not frame his lips to say “Yes.”

Dunstan observed his confusion, and he turned to the prince with a look in which contempt seemed to struggle with passive self-possession.

“I trust, Edwy,” he said, “you will remember that the word of a king is said to be his bond, and so should the word of a prince be if he ever hopes to reign. I shall give Father Benedict charge to superintend your studies as usual.”

He wished them a grave good morning, and left the room.

As soon as the last sound of his steps had ceased, Edwy turned sharply to Elfric—“Why did you not say yes at once? Surely you have a tongue?”

“It has never learnt to lie.”

“Pooh! What is the harm of such a white lie as that would have been? If you cannot give the credit of a Latin exercise, which you happen to have written, to your future king, you must be selfish; it is my writing, if you give it me, isn’t it?”

Elfric did not quite see the matter in that light, yet did not care to dispute the point; but his conscience was ill at ease, and he was glad to change the subject.

“When can we go out?” he said, for he was anxious to see the city.

“Oh, not till after the midday meal, and you must see the palace first; come now.”

So they descended and traversed the various courts of the building; the dormitories, the great dining hall, the audience chambers where Edred was then receiving his subjects, who waited in the anteroom, which alone the two boys ventured to enter. Finally, after traversing several courts and passages, they reached the guardroom.

Three or four of the “hus-carles” or household guards were here on duty. But in the embrasure of the window, poring over a map, sat one of very different mien from the common soldiers, and whose air and manner, no less than his dress, proclaimed the officer.

“Redwald,” said the prince, advancing to the window, “let me make you acquainted with my friend and companion, Elfric of Æscendune.”

The officer started, as if with some sudden surprise, but it passed away so quickly that the beholder might fancy the start had only existed in imagination, as perhaps it did.

“This gallant warrior,” said Edwy to Elfric, “is my friend and counsellor in many ways; and if he lives there shall not be a thane in England who shall stand above him. You will soon find out his value, Elfric.”

“My prince is pleased to flatter his humble servant,” said Redwald.

But Elfric was gazing upon the soldier with feelings he could scarcely analyse. There was something in his look and the tone of his voice which struck a hidden chord, and awoke recollections as if of a previous existence.

“Redwald,” as Edwy named him, was tall and dark, with many of the characteristics of the Danish race about him. His nose was slightly aquiline, his eyes hid beneath bushy eyebrows, while his massive jaw denoted energy of character—energy which one instinctively felt was quite as likely to be exerted for evil as for good.

He was captain of the hus-carles, and had but recently entered the royal service. Few knew his lineage. He spoke the Anglo-Saxon tongue with great fluency, and bore testimonials certifying his valour and faithfulness from the court of Normandy, where the Northmen under Rollo had some half-century earlier founded a flourishing state, then ruled over by the noble Duke “Richard the Fearless.”

Edwy seemed to be on intimate terms with this soldier of fortune; in fact, with all his proud anticipation of his future greatness, he was never haughty to his inferiors, perhaps we should say seldom, for we shall hereafter note exceptions to this rule. It would be a great mistake to suppose that the pomp and ceremony of our Norman kings was shared by their English predecessors: the manners and customs of the court of Edred were simplicity itself.

After a few moments of private conversation with Redwald, the boys returned to their chamber to prepare for dinner.

“You noted that man,” said Edwy; “well, I don’t know how I should live without him.”

Elfric’s looks expressed surprise.

“You will find out by and by; you have little idea how strictly we are kept here, and how much one is indebted to one’s servants for the gift of liberty, especially in Lent and on fast days, when one does not get half enough to eat, and must sometimes escape the gloom and starvation of the palace.”

“Starvation?”

“What else do you call it, when you get nothing but fish, fish, fish, and bread and water to help it down. My uncle is awfully religious. I can hardly stand it sometimes. He would like to spend half the day in chapel, but, happily for all the rest of us, the affairs of state are too urgent for that, so we do get a little breathing time, or else I should have to twist my mouth all of one side singing dolorous chants and tunes which are worse than a Danish war whoop, for he likes, he says, to hear the service hearty.”

“But it helps you on with your Latin.”

“Not much of that, for I sing anything that comes into my head; the singing men make such a noise, they can hear no one else, and I fancy they don’t know what a word of the Latin prayers means.”

“But isn’t it irreverent—too irreverent, I mean. Father Cuthbert made me afraid to mock God, he told such stories about judgment.”

“All fudge and nonsense—oh, I beg your pardon, it is all very godly and pious, and really I expect to be greatly edified by your piety in chapel. Pray, when shall you be canonised?”

Elfric could not bear ridicule, and blushed for the second time that morning. Just then the bell rang for dinner, or rather was struck with a mallet by the master of the ceremonies.

King Edred dined that day, as one might say, in the bosom of his family; only Dunstan was present, besides the boys Edwy, Edgar his younger brother, and Elfric. It was then that Elfric first saw the younger prince, a pale studious-looking boy of twelve, but with a very firm and intellectual expression of countenance. He was a great favourite with Dunstan, whom the boy, unlike his brother, regarded with the greatest respect and reverence.

The conversation was somewhat stiff; Edred spoke a few kind words to the young stranger, and then conversed in an undertone with Dunstan, the whole dinner time; the princes themselves were awed by the presence of their uncle and his spiritual guide.

But at last, like all other things, it was over, and with feelings of joy the boys broke forth from the restraint. The whole afternoon was spent in seeing the sights of London, and they all three, for Edgar accompanied them, returned to the evening meal, fatigued in body, but in high spirits. Compline in the royal chapel terminated the day, as mass had begun it.