Chapter 9

THE CORONATION.

Nothing could exceed in solemnity the “hallowing of the king,” as the coronation ceremony was termed in Anglo-Saxon times. It was looked upon as an event of both civil and ecclesiastical importance, and therefore nothing was omitted which could lend dignity to the occasion.

The Witan, or parliament, had already met and given its consent to the coronation of Edwy. It was not, as we have already remarked, a mere matter of course that the direct heir should occupy the throne. Edred had already ascended, while Edwy, the son of his elder brother, was an infant, not as regent, but as king; and in any case of unfitness on the part of the heir apparent, it was in the power of the Witan to pass him over, and to choose for the public good some other member of the royal house. The same Witan conferred upon Edgar the title of sub-king of Mercia under his brother.

Solemn and imposing was the meeting of the Witenagemot, or “assembly of the wise.” It was divided into three estates. The first consisted of the only class who, as a rule, had any learning in those days—the clergy, represented by the bishop, abbot, and their principal officials: the second consisted of the vassal kings of Scotland, Cumbria, Wales, Mona, the Hebrides, and other dependent states, the great earls, as of Mercia or East Anglia, and other mighty magnates: the third, of the lesser thanes, who were the especial vassals of the king, or the great landholders, for the possession of land was an essential part of a title to nobility.

Amongst these sat Ella of Æscendune, who, in spite of his age, had come to the metropolis to testify his loyalty and fealty to the son of the murdered Edmund, his old friend and companion in arms, and to behold his own eldest son once more.

It was the morning of a beautiful day in early spring, one of those days of which the poet has written—

“Sweet day, so calm, so pure, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky”

—when winter seems to have loosed its stern hold upon the frozen earth, and the songs of countless birds welcome the bright sunlight, the harbinger of approaching summer.

The roads leading to Kingston-on-Thames were thronged with travellers of every degree—the ealdorman or earl with his numerous attendants, the bishop with rude ecclesiastical pomp, the peasant in his rough jerkin—all hastening to the approaching ceremony, which, as it had been definitely fixed, was to take place at that royal city.

There Athelstane had been crowned with great pomp and splendour, for it was peculiarly “_Cynges tun_” or the King’s Town, and after the coronation it was customary for the newly-crowned monarch to take formal possession of his kingdom by standing on a great stone in the churchyard.

The previous night, Archbishop Odo had arrived from Canterbury, and his bosom friend and brother, Dunstan, from Glastonbury, as also Cynesige, Bishop of Lichfield, a man in every way like-minded with them; while nearly all the other prelates, abbots, and nobles, arrived in the early morn of the eventful day.

The solemn service of the coronation mass was about to commence, and the people were assembling in the great church of St. Mary, filling every inch of available room. Every figure was bent forward in earnest gaze, and every heart seemed to beat more quickly, as the faint and distant sound of deep solemn music, the monastic choirs chanting the processional psalms, drew near.

Suddenly the jubilant strains filled the whole church, as the white-robed train entered the sacred building while they sang:

“_Quoniam prævenisti eum in benedictionibus dulcedinis, posuisti in capiti ejus coronam de lapide pretioso_.” xii

Incense ascended in clouds to the lofty roof; torches were uplifted, banners floated in the air, every eye was now strained to catch a glimpse of the youthful monarch.

He came at last. Oh, how lovely the ill-fated boy looked that day! His beauty was of a somewhat fragile character, his complexion almost too fair, his hair shone around his shoulders in waves of gold, for men then wore their hair long, his eyes blue as the azure vault on that sweet spring morning: alas, that his spiritual being should not have been equally fair!

Elfric stood by his father, amidst the crowd of thanes, near the rood screen, for he had spent the last few days at Kingston, and there his father had found him, and had embraced him with joy, little dreaming of the change which had come over his darling boy.

“Look, father, is he not every inch a king?” Elfric could not help exclaiming, forgetting the place and the occasion in his pride in his king and his friend.

He would have been one of the four boys who bore the royal train, but it had not seemed advisable on such a day to offend Dunstan too seriously.

The mass proceeded after the royal party had all taken their places, and the coronation service was incorporated into the rite, following the Nicene Creed and preceding the canon.

Kneeling before the altar, the young prince might well tremble with emotion. Before him stood the archbishop, clad in full pontifical vestments; around were the most noted prelates and wisest abbots of England; behind him the nobility, gentry, and commonalty of the whole country—all gazing upon him, as the archbishop dictated the solemn words of the oath, which Edwy repeated with trembling voice after him.

“In the name of the ever-blessed Trinity, I promise three things to the Christian people, my subjects:

“First, that the Church of God within my realm shall enjoy peace, free from any molestation.”

“Second, that I will prevent, to the utmost of my power, theft and every fraud in all ranks of men.”

“Thirdly, that I will preserve and maintain justice and mercy in all judicial proceedings, so that the good and merciful God may, according to His mercy, forgive us all our sins, Who liveth and reigneth for ever and ever. Amen.”

Then followed a most solemn charge from “Odo the Good,” setting forth all the deep responsibilities of the oath Edwy had taken, and of the awful account to be rendered to God of the flock committed to his youthful charge, at the great and awful day of judgment.

Then the holy oil was solemnly poured upon the head of the kneeling boy, after which he made the usual offertory of “gold, frankincense, and myrrh,” at the altar, emblematical of the visit of the three kings of old, who from Sheba bore their gold and incense to the Lord.

Then was the sacred bracelet put upon his arm, the crown on his head, the sceptre in his hand, after which the mass proceeded.

It is touching to recall the worship of those far-off days, when all the surrounding circumstances differed so widely from those of the present hour; yet the Church, in her holy conservatism, has kept intact and almost changeless all that is hers; that day the “Nicene Creed,” “Sanctus,” “Agnus Dei,” “Gloria in Excelsis,” rolled as now in strains of melody towards heaven, and the “Te Deum” which concluded the jubilant service is our Te Deum still, albeit in the vulgar tongue.

The sacred rites concluded, the royal procession left the church and proceeded to the churchyard, when Edwy took formal possession of Wessex, by the ceremony of standing upon a large rock called the King’s Stone, whence the town derived its name.

The feast was spread in the palace hard by, and all the nobles and thanes (if the words are not synonymous) flocked thither, while the multitude had their liberal feast spread at various tables throughout the town, at the royal expense.

Elfric followed his father to the palace, and was about to take his place at the board, when a page appeared and summoned him to the presence of Edwy.

“I shall keep a vacant place for you by my side,” said Ella, “so that we may feast together, my son, when the king releases you; it is a great honour that he should think of you now.”

Elfric followed the messenger, who led him into the interior of the palace, where he found Edwy impatiently awaiting him in the royal dressing chamber.

Elfric had expected to find the newly-crowned king deeply impressed, but if such had been the case, at the moment it had passed away.

“Thanks to all the saints, including St. George, and especially the dragon, that I can look into your jolly face again, Elfric, it is a relief after all the grim-beards who have surrounded me today. I shudder when I think of them.”

Elfric had been about to kneel and kiss the royal hand, in token of homage, but Edwy saw the intention and prohibited him.

“No more of that an thou lovest me, Elfric; my poor hand is almost worn out already.”

“The day must have tired you, the scene was so exciting.”

Edwy yawned as he replied, “Thank God it is over; I thought Odo was going to preach to me all day, and the incense almost stifled me; the one good thing is that it is done now, and all England—Kent, Sussex, Wessex, Essex, Northumbria, East Anglia, and Mercia —have all acknowledged me as their liege lord, the Basileus of Britain. What is done can’t be undone, and Dunstan may eat his leek now, and go to fight Satan again.”

Elfric looked up in some surprise.

“What do you think, my friend; who do you suppose is here in the palace, in the royal apartments?”

“Who?”

“Elgiva, the fair Elgiva, the lovely Elgiva, dear Elgiva, and her mother. Oh, but I shall love to look upon her face when the feast is done, and the grim-beards have gone!”

“But Dunstan?”

“Dunstan may go and hang himself; he can’t scrape off the consecrated oil, or carry away crown, bracelet, and sceptre, to hide with the other royal treasures at Glastonbury; but the feast is beginning, and you must come and sit on my right hand.”

“No, no,” said Elfric, who saw at once what an impropriety this would be, “not yet; besides, my old father is here, and has kept a seat beside himself for me.”

“Well, goodbye for the present; I shall expect you after the feast. Elgiva will be glad to see you.”

Elfric returned to his father, but a feeling of sadness had taken possession of him, an apprehension of coming evil.

The feast began; the clergy and the nobility of the land were assembled in the great hail of the palace, and there was that profusion of good cheer which befitted the day, for the English were, like their German ancestors, in the habit of considering the feast an essential part of any solemnity.

How much was eaten and drunk upon the occasion it would be dangerous to say, for it would probably exceed all modern experience, but it seemed to the impatient Edwy that the feast and the subsequent drinking of pledges and healths would never end, and he was impatient the whole time to get away and be in the company of the charmer.

An opportunity seemed at last to offer itself to his immature judgment. Gleemen had sung, harpers had harped, but the excitement culminated when Siward, a Northumbrian noble, who was a great musician, and skilful in improvisation, did not disdain, like the royal Alfred, to take the harp and pour forth an extemporary ode of great beauty, whereupon the whole multitude rose to their feet and waved their wine cups in the air, in ardent appreciation of the patriotic sentiments he had uttered, and the beauty of the music and poetry.

During the full din of their heated applause, when all eyes were fixed upon the accomplished musician, Edwy rose softly from his chair; a door was just behind him, and he took advantage of it to leave the hail and thread the passages quickly, till he came to the room where he had left Elgiva, when he threw aside his royal mantle and all his restraint at the same time.

It was not for a few moments that the company in the hall discovered the absence of their king, but when they did there was a sudden hush, and men looked at each other in mute astonishment; it appeared to all, with scarce an exception, a gross insult to the assembled majesty of the nation. xiii

Poor Edwy, in his thoughtlessness and want of proper feeling, little knew the deep anger such a proceeding would cause; in his lack of a reverential spirit he was constantly, as we have seen, offending against the respect due to the Church, the State, or himself—first as heir presumptive, then as king.

Men stood mute, as we have said, then murmurs of indignation at the slight arose, and all looked at Dunstan.

He beckoned to Cynesige of Lichfield, who came to his side.

“We must bring this thoughtless boy back,” he said, “or great harm will be done.”

“But how?”

“By persuasion, if possible. Follow me.”

The two prelates entered the interior of the palace, and sought the king’s private chamber.

As they drew near they heard the sound of merry laughter, and each of them frowned as men might do who were little accustomed to condone the weakness of human flesh. Entering the chamber very unceremoniously, they paused, as if aghast, when they beheld the king in the company of Elgiva, his royal diadem cast upon the ground.

He started in surprise, and for a moment in fear; then, remembering who he was, he exclaimed, angrily—“How dare you, sir monk, intrude upon the privacy of your king, unbidden?”

“We do so as the ambassadors of the King of kings.”

It is out of our power to describe the scene which followed, the fiery words of Edwy, the stern yet quiet rejoinders of the churchmen, the tears of the mother and daughter; but it is well known how the scene ended. Edwy absolutely refused to return to the assembled guests, saying he would forfeit his kingdom first; and Dunstan replied that for his (Edwy’s) own sake he should then be compelled to use force, and suiting the action to the word, he and Cynesige took each an arm of the youthful king, and led him back by compulsion to the assembled nobles and clergy.

Before condemning Dunstan, we must remember that Elgiva could not stand in the relation of the affianced bride of the king; that Edwy really seemed to set the laws of both Church and State at defiance, those very laws which but that day he had sworn solemnly to maintain; and that but recently he had stood in the relation of pupil to Dunstan, so that in his zeal for Church and State, the abbot forgot the respect due to the king. He saw only the boy, and forgot the sovereign.

The guests assembled in the banqueting hall had seen the desertion of their royal master with murmurs both loud and deep; but when they saw him return escorted by Dunstan and Cynesige, their unanimous approval showed that in their eyes the churchmen had taken a proper step.

Yet, although Edwy tried to make a show of having returned of his own free will, an innocent device at which his captors connived when they entered the hall with him, the bitterest passions were rankling in his heart, and he determined to take a terrible revenge, should it ever be in his power, upon Dunstan.

There was comparatively little show of merriment during the rest of the feast, and the noble company separated earlier than was usual on such occasions.

“If this be the way King Edwy treats his guests,” said the Earl of Mercia, “he will find scant loyalty north of the Thames.”

“Nor in East Anglia,” said another.

“There is another of the line of Cerdic living.”

“Yes, Edgar, his brother.”

“Dunstan and Cynesige brought him back with some difficulty, I’ll be bound.”

“Yes; although he tried to smile, I saw the black frown hidden beneath.”

“He will take revenge for all this.”

“Upon whom?”

“Why, upon Dunstan to be sure.”

“But how can he? Dunstan is too powerful for that.”

“Wait and see.”

Such was the general tone of the conversation, from which the sentiments of the community might be inferred.

Elfric went, as he had been bidden to do, at the conclusion of the feast, to seek Edwy, and found him, it is needless to state, in a towering rage.

“Elfric,” he said, “am I a king? or did I dream I was crowned today?”

“You certainly were.”

“And yet these insolent monks have dared to force me from the company of Elgiva to return to that sottish feast, and what is worse, I find they have dared to send her and her mother home under an escort, so that I cannot even apologise to them. As I live, if I am a king I will have revenge.”

“I trust so, indeed,” said Elfric, “they deserve death.”

“I would it were in my power to inflict it; but this accursed monk—I go mad when I mention his name—is all too powerful. I believe Satan helps him.”

“Still there may be ways, if you only wait till you can look around you.”

“There may indeed.”

“Only have patience; all will be in your hands some day.”

“And if it be in my power I will restore the worship of Woden and Thor, and burn every monk’s nest in the land.”

“They were at least the gods of warriors.”

“Elfric, you will stand by me, will you not?”

“With my life.”

“Come to the window, now; see the old sots departing. There a priest, there a thane, there an earl—all drunk, I do believe; don’t you think so?”

“Yes, yes,” said Elfric, disregarding the testimony of both his eyes that they were all perfectly sober.

Just then his eye caught a very disagreeable object, and he turned somewhat pale.

“What are you looking at?” said Edwy.

“There is that old fox, Dunstan, talking with my father; he will learn that I am here.”

“What does it matter?”

“Only that he will easily persuade my father to take me home.”

“Then the commands of a king must outweigh those of a father. I have heard Dunstan say a king is the father of all his people, and I command you to stay.”

“I want to stay with all my heart.”

“Then you shall, even if I have to make a pretence of detaining you by force.”

The anticipations of Elfric were not far wrong. Dunstan had found out the truth. He had sought out the old thane to condole with him upon the pain he supposed he must recently have inflicted by his letter.

“I cannot express to you, my old friend and brother,” he said, “the great pain with which I sent your poor boy Elfric home, but it was a necessity.”

“Sent him home?” said Ella.

“Yes, at the time our lamented Edred died.”

“Sent him home!” repeated Ella, in such undisguised amazement that Dunstan soon perceived something was amiss, and in a few short minutes became possessed of the whole facts, while Ella learnt his son’s disgrace.

They conferred long and earnestly. The father’s heart was sorely wounded, but he could not think that Elfric would resist his commands, and he promised to take him back at once to Æscendune, where he hoped all would soon be well—“soon, very soon,” he said falteringly.

So the old thane went to his lodgings, hard by the palace, where he awaited his son.

Late in the evening Elfric arrived, his countenance flushed with wine: he had been seeking courage for the part he had to play in the wine cup.

Long and painful, most painful, was the interview that followed. Hardened in his rebellion, the unhappy Elfric defied his father’s authority and justified his sin, flatly refusing to return home, in which he pretended to be justified by “the duty a subject owed to his sovereign.”

Thus roused to energy, Ella solemnly adjured his boy to remember the story of his uncle Oswald, and the sad fate he had met with. It was very seldom indeed that Ella alluded to his unhappy brother, the story was too painful; but now that Elfric seemed to be commencing a similar course of disobedience, the example of the miserable outlaw came too forcibly to his mind to be altogether suppressed.

“Beware, my son,” added Ella, “lest the curse which fell upon Oswald fall upon you, and your younger brother succeed to your inheritance.”

“It is not a large one,” said Elfric, “and in that case, the king whom I serve will find me a better one.”

“Is it not written, ‘Put not your trust in princes?’ O my son, my son; you will bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave!”

It was of no avail. The old thane arose in the morning with the intention of taking Elfric home even by force, such force as Dunstan had used, if necessary, but found that the youth had disappeared in the night; neither could he learn what had become of him, but he shrewdly guessed that the young king could have told him.

Broken-hearted by his son’s cruel desertion, the thane of Æscendune returned home alone.