University of Virginia Library

ACT III

SCENE I

[The Fens north-east of Athelney. The Atheling and Edgiva on the water; Edward rowing, Edgiva steering.]
EDGIVA.
It might be March, not May, so crisp the wind
Curls the sleek water, and besets the keel,
Driving it slantwise.

EDWARD.
Then, sweet, keep her straight.
For, says the King, pondering on mightier things,
Face a head gust and it will steady you.
See! 'tis nor May nor March, but April's self,
That runs along the ripples of the mere,
Sunning gray wrinkles into golden smiles. . . .
Look! look!

EDGIVA.
What was't?

EDWARD.
A feeding kingfisher
Jewelled the air a moment, and is gone.

EDGIVA.
As you are going!

EDWARD.
Nay, sweet, not for long.
Let us but root the heathen from the isle,
And then once more we many a time and oft
Will in the dark-green gloamings of moist May
Link hands in silence.

EDGIVA.
Can you hit the spot
Where we must meet the King?

EDWARD.
Aye, to a rood.
'Tis hard beyond where now the wild swans breed:
She with husht pinions furled upon the nest,
He tacking fierce, and shrilling through his sails
Against intruding footstep.

EDGIVA.
Have a care!
The water waxeth shallower, and ahead
The reedmace stouter grows.

EDWARD.
I mind them well.
How often have I crushed their crackling stems,
Sered by the wind and manacled in ice,
When first we came to crouch in Athelney!
There's not a tangle in this stubborn world
I had not pushed through then, for straight my will
Was straining to your threshold! O, how long
Remorseful Winter, wishing to be Spring,
Kept feebly slipping back from sun to cloud,
From bud to snowflake! Now 'tis May! 'tis May!
The Mother-month that fosters all things good,
And, with the white renewal of the thorn,
Arrays our hearts for battle!

EDGIVA.
Not for me!
Nay, but I would not have it otherwise.
Love England first, Edgiva afterward,
Till Peace shall make them twin. Why hath the King
Laid this great meed on my unworth, that now
We wend together unto Guthrum's camp,
Minstrel and daughter? I am sore afeard,
Not of the danger,—danger there is none
With him to lead,—no, but of his high thoughts
And my mean mind to mate them.

EDWARD.
Have no fear.
Though low unto the lofty may not reach,
The lofty to the low doth easy stoop:
Beside, my father loves you.

EDGIVA.
For your sake.

EDWARD.
Nay, but I know he loves you for your own;
And sure in love is neither high nor low,
But even only. More: he needs your help,
In that vexed country that you roamed a child
Ere Danewulf changed his lord, and came to dwell
Nigher to Athelney; where Deverel dips
Dark underground to suckle Wiley's stream,
And Egbert's Stone remains a mark unmoved
By war or time.

EDGIVA.
How well I can recall
Each runnel, thicket, clearing, garth, and stead,
Lowland and upland, dimple in the hills,
As free from fear as I who gazed at them.
To think that I should live to help the King!
There is a lofty sorrow in his gaze,
Like to the moon, high up in Heaven alone.

EDWARD.
Be you the star tending his loneliness.

EDGIVA.
I never could be that, but sometimes hope
He may deign weep, that I may stay his tears.

EDWARD.
Nay, never think to see him weep or wail!
Like clouds that are not low enough for rain,
His grief is far too high to fall in tears.
But now, please Heaven, his woe shall roll away,
And only sunshine sit on Alfred's brow.
But hush! we near the place. By Nicor's Thorn
The King awaits me. Bide you by the bank
Till I wend back to you.

[He leaps from the boat, fastens it to the shore, helps Edgiva to land, then leaves her.]

SCENE II

[Nicor's Thorn.]
ALFRED
(addressing EDWARD).
Hold fast by that. Bring but the best to front,
And keep the unsteady well in hand behind.
'Tis not the biggest udder gives most milk;
And with a trusty handful one may deal
A deadlier stroke than with a land in arms.
Husband these likewise, and ferment their hearts
With eagerness themselves to rise to best,
By showing them what manhood ripe can do.
Our Saxon spearmen you may trust to stand,
Though falls their lord. Yourself must lead the Celts,
And they will then make merry mock of death.
But, on the way, be lord of their loose wills,
And keep them silent as the disciplined stars:
Nor let them thunder till you've lightened, lest
The foe, forewarned, find shelter from the bolt.
Be mindful, too, to leave no tell-tale trail.
Learn wisdom from the blind and witless mole,
That self-discovering burrower that upheaves
The ground wherethrough he travels, and for that
Is easy trapped. Guthrum and Oskytel
Yet lie at Ethandune, keeping no watch,
But waste the weeks in rest and rioting,
Deeming I still am fast in Athelney.
Edgiva knows each winding of the ways
That creep unto their camp. Fear not for us,
But do my bidding to the uttermost.
Hear you nought more, be sure that, when the sun
Hath thrice upon the heathen Army set,
We twain shall be within. So, when the night
Throbs unto dawn, and the May moon turns pale
Because her lord is coming, then shrill loud
With noise of battle, and strike straight where waves
The unclean Raven over Guthrum's tent.
Till then, farewell! Remember Who you are,
And Who you will be! Mereward wend you now
Unto Edgiva. Dally not, but bend
Hither her feet. Then swift unto your oars,
And speed where all that's best in England waits you.
God edge your sword!

SCENE III

EDWARD.
Nay, you must wend alone. The King is stern,
And bids me speed. One kiss, and then farewell.

[He leaps into the boat.]
EDGIVA.
If you are slain!

EDWARD.
Then we shall meet in Heaven!
If not, keep tryst with love at Ethandune.

SCENE IV

[In Selwood Forest. Alfred teaching Edgiva to read.]
ALFRED.
Now must we up and forward. You have threshed
Enough to-day to garner till to-morrow.

EDGIVA.
I would that I were not so slow of wit.

ALFRED.
And I were happy if my people could
Learn half as sharply. Well, they shall, some day.
But in these cloudy times men's thoughts fly low,
And soar not mindward. . . .
How I remember my dear Mother bringing
Unto my brothers and myself a book,
Saying it should be his who spelled it first;
And by God's pleasure, fell the book to me,—
Too late a scholar! No such friend as books.
For they with unreproachful looks and lips
Bear with our going, greet us when we come,
Misunderstood bewail not, ne'er upbraid
Though we be dull, and teach without a rod.
When you shall sit below your sceptred lord,
Lead him to honour books, and those who write them,
For to his people an unlettered King
Is as a lanthorn lacking of its light.

EDGIVA.
I will be mindful. Tell me more of Rome,
Whereof we read but now.

ALFRED.
I was a child,
With stammering tongue and half-awakened gaze,
When Ethelred, my father, now with God,
Bore me to Rome. But, an I close mine eyes,
I can behold, in dream as clear as day,
Its hills, and all the wonders throned upon them.
Rome once was Overlord to all the world,
But not for Empire now, nay, for bare life,
Is ofttimes hard beset: a fallen Rome,
Yet awful in its fall; bemocked and scourged,
Humbled and thorn-crowned, as meseems is fit
For Christ's own city, mastering still mankind
By the rood-token of His martyrdom.
My father gave a hundred mancuses
For oil wherewith to keep the lamp alight
By Peter's tomb from Easter Eve till dawn,
As I too will, when better days shall come.
For 'tis my wish to see, in this strong land,
A manly State wed to a wifely Church,
The helpmeet this, but that one still the lord.
For, as the woman, so too is the Church
Of a diviner nature, but on earth
They should but meekly counsel, then obey.

[They walk on in silence.]
ALFRED.
Wot you the hour?

EDGIVA.
It must be long past noon,
Because the shepherd's weather-wise hath shut,
As doth the goatsbeard in the waning year.

ALFRED.
That is a lore not to be had from books,
Withal more helpful. Know you all the flowers?

EDGIVA.
All were too many. Some there be I know,
Taught me by Danewulf and my foster-mother.
She tells their uses, he their home and name.
Is that a wound you have upon your hand?

ALFRED.
'Tis but a scratch I haply got that day
I cheered me by your hearth.

EDGIVA.
Nay, show it me.
Lay but the plantain-leaf upon the wound,
By Danewulf waybread cleped, 'twill cure it straight.

ALFRED.
There's nothing wasteful in this housewife world,
Would men themselves be heedful. I have heard
Cider gone sour will scour the foul egg white.

EDGIVA.
I've seen my mother do't a score of times.

ALFRED.
Tell me what else she doth with leaves and simples.

EDGIVA.
With pewterwort she burnishes the pans,
Makes lye of betony to soothe the brow,
And healing salve from early primroses.
She steeps for Danewulf leaves of ladysmock,
For they keep strong the heart; fresh woodruff soaks
To brew cool drink, and keep away the moth;
And, in the month when earth and sky are one,
Squeezes the bluebell 'gainst the adder's bite.
With windflower honey are my tresses smoothed,
My freckles with the speedwell's juices washed,
And sleepy breath made sweet with galingale.

ALFRED.
Nay, you should leave the freckles, since begot
By sun and wind, an honourable birth;
And Edward in his love-dream swears you are
As freckled as the foxglove, and as fair.

EDGIVA.
What, my dear lord, is that?

ALFRED.
Nay, but you know it.
Look! there is one, half-blown before its time.

EDGIVA.
We call that thimble-flower.

ALFRED.
A better name,
As all names are, when given by simple lips.
How call you this?

EDGIVA.
We call it golden-withy.
This is bog-asphodel the Danish Jarls
Cull, so they say, to dye their yellow hair.
And this is Baldmoyne.

ALFRED.
From great Balder named,
The son of Odin.

EDGIVA.
Which, when steeped with hop,
Makes bright and brisk strong ale.

ALFRED.
Now name me this.

EDGIVA.
Milkwort, or gang-flower.

ALFRED.
Which the learnëd call
Rogation-Flower.

EDGIVA.
And this? This is the spearmint
That steadies giddiness, and that the consound,
Whereby the lungs are easëd of their grief.
The eyebright this, whereof, when steeped in wine,
I now must eat, as every learner should,
Because it strengthens mindfulness.

ALFRED.
Daughter mine,
You have as much to teach as to be taught;
Nor let new learning drive old lore away.
Rashly I spoke: There is a better friend,
A better, and a truer, even than books.
'Tis with us now, God's plainly written page.
For learned and simple, all may read who will.

SCENE V

[Evening in the Forest.]
EDGIVA.
The goldings by the brooklet all are closed.
'Twill soon be nightfall.

ALFRED.
And, like them, your lids
Droop on your eyes. 'Tis time for you to rest.

EDGIVA.
First let me smooth for you a mossy bed,
Under this oak.

ALFRED.
Think not, my child, of me;
For I am wakeful, and there yet is light
Whereby to read a little. But your limbs
Are fain to doff the heavy load of day,
And sink upon their weariness. Lie there,
Within the hollow of that puckered yew,
Whose boughs hath fashioned many a Saxon bow.

EDGIVA.
They say the Virgin Mother sought its shade,
Fleeing to Egypt; so no bolt will smite
Its hallowed trunk.

[She falls asleep.]
ALFRED.
[He places a posy of cowslips in her hand.]