 | Edwin the Fair |  |
174
Scene IX.
—Malpas.Bridferth and Ruold.
Bridferth.
He is in much perplexity of mind;
You cannot see him. Since his mother's death
He comes not from his chamber, save at night
When the sad brethren of St. Benedict
Say masses for her soul.
Ruold.
His mother dead!
Bridferth.
At Glastonbury she lay sick, and thence
Driven by the Dane, the terror of her flight,
Conspiring with her malady, put out
Her spark of life. To her great son she sent
Her dying charge that he as best he might
Should heal his country's wounds and give it peace,
And rescue from the Northmen's ravages
Its poor remains.
Ruold.
Indeed! His mother dead!
Well, had he lost ten mothers ten times told
Still must I see him.
Bridferth.
What's your errand, then,
That is so instant? Of the Queen's escape
He knows already.
Ruold.
That is not the last
Nor yet the sharpest of the untoward strokes
That destiny hath dealt us. What I know
I fear to tell, save to the Abbot's self.
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From telling it to him. Stand back a space.
[They retire. Dunstan enters.
Dunstan.
Why did I quit the cloister? I have fought
The battles of Jehovah; I have braved
The perfidies of courts, the wrath of Kings,
Desertion, treachery,—and I murmured not,—
The fall from puissance, the shame of flight,
The secret knife, the public proclamation,—
And how am I rewarded? God hath raised
New enemies against me,—from without
The furious Northman,—from within, far worse,
Heart-sickness and a subjugating grief.
She was my friend—I had but her—no more,
No other upon earth—and as for Heaven,
I am as they that seek a sign, to whom
No sign is given. My mother! Oh, my mother!
—Who's this? What are you, Sir? What brings you here?
Oh, ho! I know you; you are Ruold; well,
What news from Chester? Easy watch you kept
Upon Elgiva. Let that pass. What more?
Your father's merits have redeemed your head
That else was forfeited.
Ruold.
Lord Abbot, still
It stands a forfeit, if adversity,
Loss and disaster make a forfeiture.
Chester is burnt. The Dane came up the Dee,
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Slew half my force and fired the town.
Dunstan.
So! so!
Deemedst thou that this should jeopardize thy head?
Far otherwise. But send Harcather here.
This news is welcome.
[Exeunt Ruold and Bridferth.
Is it not welcome? Yes;
It rings a shrill alarum in mine ears,
Telling me that the murderers of my mother
Are come to judgment. Give me back, O God,
My health of heart, and waken me to wield
The weapons of thine anger. Oh, my mother!
Thy deathbed was illuminate from Heaven
And in the glory of prophetic light
Thy soul departed. From thy place thou seest
Thy word fulfilled—the Heathen hems us round—
Next shalt thou see thy son perform thy bidding,
And gathering into one the broken force
Of this divided realm, with headlong might
Reject the Northmen to their native rocks.
Enter Harcather.
Harcather, we are threatened, hear'st thou not?
The raven that was watching from afar
Our mortal throes, deems that she now can tear
The body of the land. Nay, ravenous Dane,
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That ever dreamt that they were Christians, join
To fight against these robbers of the sea
And hurl them backward to their brine. Proclaim
A peace betwixt King Edwin and the Church—
In furtherance whereof will I divulge
Letters of absolution for those Earls
And others that are excommunicate.
Send me a Herald to King Edwin's camp.
What staggering knave is this, with bloodstain'd pate
And livid lips? 'Tis Gurmo. What bring'st thou?
The Queen? Where is she? Hast thou got her safe?
He cannot speak.
Gurmo
(who has entered).
Lord Abbot, she is dead.
Dunstan.
Dead! By what chance? Alive I bid thee take her,
And wherefore is she dead?
Gurmo.
Her horse was fleet,
But fleeter is an arrow than a horse.
An arrow from my bow is in her heart.
And Leolf, too, is slain. But lo! I bleed;
For ere they slew him, I was hurt to death
And by his hand. Short shrift for me I wot!
A priest—a priest—not you, Lord Abbot, no—
King Edwin now comes rushing on—look out
Or you shall be surprised.
Dunstan.
Harcather, fly;
The forces that are scattered draw together
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I say again, with overtures to Edwin,
Inviting him to peace. A priest, good Gurmo?
No, 'tis myself must shrive thee; to my cell
Supporthim. Is he dead? Not yet—not yet.
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