University of Virginia Library

ACT I

SCENE I

[The Saxon Fastness in Athelney.]
PLEGMUND.
Know you the tidings?

ETHELNOTH.
No, nor crave to hear,
In these ill days.

WEREFRITH.
Withal, to know the worst
Is the one way whereby to better it.

ETHELNOTH.
Out with it then!

PLEGMUND.
Buhred hath fled the land
By him for two-and-twenty winters swayed,
Fled oversea, a runaway to Rome,
And in the seat of Mercia Ceowulf rules.
Rules, did I say? Nay, grovels at the nod
Of Guthrum who, forsworn, upholds him there,
A Saxon thane, withal a Danish serf,
Where Alfred's sister sate below her lord,
Helping him rule.

ETHELRED.
And she?

WEREWULF.
Held fast the ground,
With a firm few, against the heathen horde,
Egbert's true grandchild, long as living force
Could break the onset, but at length withdrew,
And, backward-wending pilgrims say, was seen
Treading the streets of Pavia all alone,
Seeking her lord.

WEREFRITH.
From far Northumbria
Blow news as luckless. Breaking up his camp,
That by the Tyne had wintered, Halfdene bursts
Over the land, and, ravaging it, rides
Right to the march and border of the Picts.
Among his thanes he parcels out the soil,
And the long-haired Northumbrian freemen makes
Harrowers and ploughers to their conquerors,
Clipped to the nape.

PLEGMUND.
Aye, and fouler still,
Hingvar and Hubba, since King Edmund slain,
Lashed to a trunk and arrow-shot to death,
Ride through East Anglia rifling shrine and cell,
Ely and Croyland, Bardeney, Peterborough,
Breaking and burning, and at very Mass
Wrenching the chalice from the hand of God,
And trailing through the desecrating dust
Alb, stole, and chasuble. Nor this the worst,
Where worse awaits. From virgins vowed to Heaven,
Virgins as white as is the Yuletide snow,
They strip the veil; who straightway die of shame,
Or, dreader doom, dwell penned within the sty
Of wallowing sea-swine.

ETHELRED.
The outlandish dogs,
Uprooting Egbert's England, and afresh
Untwisting what he bound, and to their will
Enserfing all.

ETHELNOTH.
Nay, Ethelred, not all!
All but Alfred the King!

Ethelred.
Pray Heaven he lives! But, while he roams abroad,
Now in this cloak, now that, swordless, alone,
Spying the where and whither of his foes,
I still must lie with fear for bedfellow.

PLEGMUND.
Nay, sign the cross upon your brow and sleep.
Since by Pope Leo he was hallowed King,
Heaven keeps a watch upon his chosen head.

ETHELRED.
May you rede rightly, Plegmund! And belike
Is mother-wit a sort of Providence,
Whereof is Alfred's brain as stocked as though
It nothing housed beside; for commonly—
Forgive me, good Archbishop!—learning blunts
The native shrewdness of the mind. In him
Are layman sense and cleric wisdom twin;
And though his brain is swayed by thought, his hand
Keeps just as steady on the hilt as though
He knew no more than I or Ethelnoth.

PLEGMUND.
God bless your simpleness! So long as men
Know how like you to strike for Mother-land,
By the rood! they are wise enough.

ETHELNOTH.
O true Archbishop!
May England never lack anointed lips,
Like these, to preach Christ's gospel manfully!

SCENE II

[A clearing in the forest. Edward, sitting on some faggot-wood, is stringing together bluebells and primroses which he has just gathered. A misselthrush is singing overhead.]
EDWARD.
[He hears a rustling in the leaves, and bounds to his feet.]

[He swings himself on to a bough, and swarms the tree. Alfred, disguised as a vagrant, passes underneath, pausing an instant, and taking up the flowers that are lying on the ground.]
ALFRED.
Children, or lovers, must have passed this way,
Or lovers therefore children; for the twain
Have this in common, that they lightly cull
The sweets of nature, but to throw away
And let them wilt when gathered.

[He lays the flowers on the ground and passes on.]
EDWARD.
He mutters to himself some droneful saw,
After his kind. The very primroses
To his sad gaze beseem but ruefully;
And little kens he that those bluebells keep,
There where they lie, within their threaded stems,
The secret of a joy unspeakable.
But lo! a nest, and five blue eggs still warm
With love's close brooding! If the misselthrush
That shrilled so gleefully till scared away
Had mated here, I must have spared his crib.
But never doth he build as high as this.
True poet that he is, he nesteth low,
Only to soar in song! These eggs bespeak
The satin-shining starling, whistling thief,
Who mocks his betters and parades aloft
On borrowed notes. So will I filch these beads,
To make my woodland wreath still worthier
For her white throat.
[He descends the tree, blows the eggs, and threads them with the primroses and bluebells. Holding them out before him]
A necklace for a queen.

EDGIVA
(coming noiselessly from behind the faggot-stack, and kneeling in front of him).
The queen is here!
For love can seat the lowliest on a throne,
And—do you love me?

EDWARD
(raising her).
Sceptre is there none,
Sceptre nor sword, should these be mine to give,
I would not halve with you.

EDGIVA.
Halve but yourself,
And 'twere enough. Nay, give it all to me,
And never take away! But will you not,
For true love's sake, entrust to me your name,
That I may say it when you are not near,
And, saying it, may fancy you less far?

EDWARD.
Know me as Edward; 'tis a princely name:
And if the world should ever call me prince,
Be sure that you my princess then would be.

EDGIVA.
Noble you must be: noble too am I,
If true the tale that Danewulf loves to tell
When twilight duskens round the crackling logs;
How, striding hearthward through the forest glade,
He heard a mewling in an eagle's nest,
And, swarming to the wychelm's topmost fork,
Found me, strange callow nestling, not yet fledged,
A golden fillet round my dimpled wrist,
Awake and wailing; cradled there, he deems,
By widowed chieftain worsened in the fight,
And fleeing for his life.

EDWARD.
No! dropped from Heaven.
Too fair, too sweet, for any seed of earth,
My blossom of the air, my sky-sent gift,
My love from otherwhere, with not a touch
Of the gross ground!

EDGIVA.
O woodland way of love!
Wealthiest of all, that never says enough
Till every flower be hired by lordly speech
To bear its burden.

EDWARD.
More, much more, than speech!
Look! I have made a necklace for your neck,
Worthy its fresh and fair simplicity.
The Pagans have our gold and jewels filched,
And left us nought but steel, wherewith, please Heaven!
We'll have the gold and jewels back again:
So for your throat I have neither ore nor gem.
Yet gaze hereon! These golden primroses,
These topaz shells, these bells of amethyst,
Are—nay, but let me round them on your neck,
And then with kisses pay your jewel-smith.

[He fastens them round her throat.]
EDGIVA.
How you all spoil me! You, the most of all!
My mother,—other mother have I none,
And she no other child,—Danewulf's free wife,
Is fain to hinder me when I would drudge,
Vowing that hand of woman noble-born
Should touch nought baser than the dainty task
Of pirn or needle; but I heed her not:
And these poor arms you fold about you now,
Oft scrub the settle, scour the pans, and knead
The homely dough. You handle but the sword! [Breaking away from him.]

I am not meet for you.

EDWARD
(embracing her tenderly).
So much more meet,
Because you are a woman, scorning not
A woman's duty. For my father says,
Work is the noblest lot and life of man,
While war is but the weapon wrought to clear
A path for peaceful labour.

EDGIVA.
I should love
To know your father.

EDWARD.
So you shall, some day,
When, Alfred's peaceful daydreams all fulfilled,
Men may beneath their roof-tree safely sit,
Not harried by these rovers of the sea,
This way, and that, finding no settled home
For such a winsome tenderling as thou!

EDGIVA.
Last night I had a dream, a foolish dream,—
Nay, shall I tell it you? for still you count
My folly wisdom,—an unmeaning dream,
Withal that haunts me waking,—how there shone
Out of my body in the ebon night
A light—a light!—that, steady as a star,
But dazzling as the noonday sun in heaven,
Lighted all England!

EDWARD
(folding his arms round her).
Dream that may come true,
My fair soothsayer! But till then, no word
Of this . . . the highest, heavenliest thing on earth!

EDGIVA.
Now come and see my home. The needfire burns
With no more tell-tale watch than one old serf,
That craved for passing bit and sup within,
And whom my mother set beside the hearth
To heed the griddle-cakes, the while she sped
To milk the wayward goats; and Danewulf too
Is far amid the clearing, raking mast,
To fat the hogs. Come! just a little while.

SCENE III

[The interior of Danewulf's Hut. Alfred is sitting before the hearth, scanning a map of England, sketched by himself.]
ALFRED.
[He folds the map, and takes out his hornbook.]

[He resumes the writing of the Chronicle. Meanwhile, Edward and Edgiva have approached the Hut, and are about to enter.]
EDGIVA.
Hist! Mother is within: I hear her voice.
Bide here awhile; I will be back anon.
Quit me not yet! Love still hath more to say.

[Edward remains without. Edgiva, entering, finds her mother upbraiding Alfred for allowing the cakes to scorch.]
EDGIVA.
Nay, mother, but you must not flout him thus.
Heed his gray hairs, look on his furrowed brow,
And that strange something which nor you, nor I,
Nor any of the level breed of folk,
Have in their seeming. 'Tis a scholar's face,
With far-off gaze, away in other lands,
Whither we may not fare nor follow him.
Look on his inkhorn. Nay, be quieted:
I'll rasp the cakes; they're but a trifle singed,
And we shall sup in plenty.

[Danewulf's wife, still muttering her laments, leaves Alfred and Edgiva alone.]
EDGIVA
Heed her not.
She is a faithful housewife, and her thought
Ran on the loaves so keenly, that you feel
The sharpness of its edge.

ALFRED.
And rightfully
She rates my fault. I should have watched the hearth,
Nor failed in the plain task she set me to,
The price of shelter.

EDGIVA
Who would heed such things,
With a great book before him?

ALFRED.
But he should,
My kindly maid, if such his hiring be;
And I am sore to blame. Life's needful work
Should be done best by him that reads and writes,
Not absently forgone; for 'tis no gain
To be in letters wiser than your kind,
Withal in life more witless.

EDGIVA.
Would that I
Could read and write!

ALFRED.
[He observes the golden bracelet on her arm.]

EDGIVA.
Where myself was got,
In the green cradle of a rocking elm:
Left by a flying father, so 'tis guessed,—
But 'tis a longsome story. Say me when
You'll come and make me bookish, like yourself;
And then together will we watch the cakes,
Nor let them scorch.

ALFRED.
[He takes out of the folds of his peasant's smock a polished oval crystal, inlaid with mosaic enamel, green and yellow, representing the outline of a human figure, which is seated, and holds in each hand a lilystalk. On the back of the crystal is a thin plate of gold, on which a flower is indicated. The oval-shaped side of the crystal is surrounded by a setting of gold filigree-work, on which are engraved the words, Aelfred Mec Heht Gewyrcan.]

EDGIVA.
Every bright star in Heaven
Shine on your going!

[Alfred quits the Hut, and goes his way. Edgiva comes out to look for Edward, but cannot find him.]
EDGIVA.
O, he has gone, albeit I begged him stay,
And no word said when come he will again,
Leaving me reckon the time without the hope
That makes it shorter.

EDWARD
(from his hiding-place).
Follow, if you can!

[He runs into the forest, Edgiva following, and is recognised by Alfred as he does so.]
ALFRED
(to himself).
Edward! . . . Unkingly boy! In these stern times
To fleet the May thus softly! But, in youth,
As in these springtime saplings of the glade,
Floweth the mead of heedless wantonness,
That will not take life gravely! And the maid?
Sooth, he hath chosen well,—if honestly;
And she, being honest, needs will keep him so,—
Since 'tis the woman that keeps clean the man,—
Till I make inquest of his purposes.

[He passes on.]
EDGIVA.
Stop! stop! I can no more; you are too fleet
For feeble feet to follow!

[She sinks on the ground, and Edward goes back to her.]
EDWARD.
Out of breath!
So, weaker for my wooing! Woo me back!
Not even strength for that, my panting prize,
Whom I have caught since me she could not catch,
So keep within my toils! Buy off the spear,
Or bear it, says the saw.

EDGIVA.
There! there! enough!
You would outdo the doves upon the bough,
And, save you cease, there will be nothing, soon,
To hold a captive.

EDWARD.
Pay lip ransom then,
And so be free, until enslaved again—
Again—again—and ever yet again!

EDGIVA.
Be seemly in your sweetness. Should he turn,
Who dwindles in the distance, he would spy
Your madcap ways, and—

EDWARD.
What! the muttering hind?
What should he reck of Mayday merriment,
That hinders not his going?

EDGIVA.
He a hind!
'Tis a skilled clerk, who reads—and writes—and gave
This crystal to my care. . . . Oh! I forgot!
Show it to none, he said. But you, you are
Only myself—my—

EDWARD.
Well, then show it me.

[She shows him the crystal.]
EDWARD.
The King's!

EDGIVA.
What said you, dear? I did not understand.

EDWARD.
That 'tis a crystal of no common worth.
What said he with the gift?

EDGIVA.
[Seeing him still pensive.]

EDWARD.
Nothing, dear maid, save wonder at the wealth
Entrusted to your keeping.

EDGIVA.
Do you fear
The gem is stolen? I can catch him up,
And give it back to him.

EDWARD.
No: better bide;
Choosing a timelier hour to test its spell,
And his who gave it you.

EDGIVA.
He promised me
That I should learn to read; and—

EDWARD.
Nay, forbear!
Nor with sour learning curdle your sweet soul,
Now all as fresh as newly-uddered milk.
Unlettered love is lore enough for you,
And eke for me.

EDGIVA.
But you can read and write;
And, did I read, you then could write to me,
And, did I write, you then of me could read,
Some trusty bearer running twixt us twain,
And keeping us together all the while,
No longer held apart for days on days,
Days—weeks—O, should it stretch into a month,
I could not bear it.

EDWARD.
Yet, forsooth, it may!
Now listen, and be staid! I love you, sweet!
But, when the sword is out, why then farewell
To fondlings of the forest; and the time
Is big with blows of blade and battle-axe;
And, should the looked-for shock be on us soon,
I must be there!

EDGIVA.
Then so indeed must I.

EDWARD.
That, you must not; nor yet to Athelney
Hie, ere I bring, or send, you greeting word.
For, as I trust my sword, do you trust me,
And know that, should it strike as straight and true
As is my purpose, I will bring it back,
Shut in its sheath, and lay it at your feet.

EDGIVA.
When will that be?

EDWARD.
No man can tell his weird.
God knows, Who sits above us, and to Him
I you entrust. So be nor sad nor lone.

EDGIVA.
I never can be lonely nor yet sad
With such a love as yours to hearten me.
Only, I pray you, do not die, nor leave
Me utterly without you. While you live,
I can bear all things.

EDWARD.
Spoken as I wished.

EDGIVA.
I have no wish except to do your wish;
For man is masterful, and so should be,
And I am but a woman; having strength
To hide my weakness, thus to keep you strong,
But feeble all beside. You love me, don't you?

EDWARD.
This morning when I rose to wend your way,
'Twas barely dawn, and herding night had not
Yet folded all her stars. But, as I clove
Straight through the low-lying marsh, then leaped to land,
Tethering my boat among the reedy swamps
Where fish the flapping herons, soon the East
Crimsoned like hedgerose yet but half unclosed,
Then opened, and the day waxed frank and fresh
As she towards whom with hither-hastening feet
I fared, I flew. The treble-throated lark
Shook his wet wings, and, soon an unseen sound,
Carolled his matin at the gate of Heaven.
But whether like a fountain he went up,
Or in melodious spray fell bubbling back,
Upward or downward, still he seemed to trill
“Edgiva” and “Edgiva,” till your name
Soared into space, and summered all the air.
Why do you weep?

EDGIVA.
There is no tongue save tears
To say how happy your fond madness makes me.

EDWARD.
Then, as I crossed the Parrett where it swirls
Swelled by the Ile and Yeo, a mottled trout,
That motionless beneath an alder kept
Its poise against the current, sudden scared,
Flashed like a flying shadow through the stream,
And was no more; and like to it I sped,
Swift up the windings of the wave that points
The pathway to your home. The ladysmocks
Smiled on me as I passed, “She waits! she waits!”
And every wilding windflower that I bruised
Seemed to upbraid the slowness of my feet.
And so I was too soon,—love always is,—
And made a pastime of this flowery chain
To link you to me still when I am gone.
Look! when it fades, frame you another like it,
And then another, that the woven bond
Betwixt us twain may never be undone.

EDGIVA.
Nay, when this wilteth, I will wear it still,
Not round my neck, but nearer, next my heart,
Until you come again.

EDWARD.
Then, now farewell!
See! Kiss my sword, and pray upon your knees
Nightly, and with each quivering of the dawn,
That it may strike as true as is my troth,
For God and England!