University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

The Danish Fleet at Gainsborough.
Enter Canute, Thororin, and Hardegon.
Canute.
My father dead! O Skulda, not in sight!
At eve among our slaughtered warriors
The fierce Valkyries missed him. On his couch
He groaned and died ignoble.

Hardegon.
With no scar,
And yet he swore he bled.

Thororin.
In health and valour
He stood among his men, a mighty man,
Straight as a fir-tree on Norwegian hills,
When of a sudden limb and eye were cowed;
He shivered as a trunk before the axe;
And crying,—Help! St. Edmund comes to slay!
He fell to earth a madman. All night through
He called the surgeon to his uncut flesh
In torment and despair. At early dawn
He started and turned quivering to the light,
Then broke into a shriek, He comes again!
And, pulling up the skins about his eyes,
Sank breathless.

Canute.
O my father, hadst thou lain
Within thy lighted ship upon the sea,
And felt the gnawing of thy funeral fire
In every failing member, I, thy son,
Had joyously beheld. But on thy pillow!—

Hardegon.
Would he had left St. Edmund's town in peace!
He saw a spectre. Well I deem the dead
A people by themselves; come of what stock
They will, it's in a ghost to freeze the blood.
I doubt not that St. Edmund wore a frock
White like a girl's, and yet was bright as Baldur
About the head. These Christians have a way
Of shining that dumbfounders. I have stopped
Hacking the bald-heads, frighted by that clear,
Fixed smiling. There is magic in these monks;
They must not be insulted; and our king
Sneered at the dead man's altar.

Canute.
Thororin—
These saints we slay, these peaceful priories
We burn to blackness in their green retreats,
Have deep, compelling power and ordered sway,
That trouble and subdue me. I have stood
Among the smouldering orchards, and a sound
Of strange, invisible woe has struck my ear,
Wandering around the ruins. When I leap
On board my dragon-vessel, loose my soul
To the dark blast, scent the accustomed foam,
I call on Odin; when the sea grows calm,
I think of those still churches, their grey priests,
With gracious, learnèd faces. They rebuke
My lawless blood, yet satisfy a want
That lurks within my brain.

Hardegon.
What is this folly?
It is the things of old that keep us men.

Thororin.
A gentle worship is not for a people
Whose mothers nurse them in a shaggy land
Of pines, and scarpèd rocks, and howling wolves;
Whose fathers row their children out to sea,
And make the waves their playfellows, the storm
Their foster-sire; who all their after days
Dwell in the whirl of nature.

Canute.
I am back
With my old gods when there's a mighty wind,
That sets my locks a-sail. O Hardegon,
I am a Viking still. I, as my sires,
Worship All-father's Raven, as I mow
My way through corpses underneath its pinions;
Yet with a curious dread I pause to hear
The monks chant in the vales.

Thororin.
I know the music;
It cannot match the short sweep of our verse,
That hath a wind behind it.

Canute.
I shall live
To be the grandest theme, my Thororin,
Harp ever sounded. Hardegon, take cheer;
I will hold sway in all the northern lands,
And in this well-loved England base a throne
That Cerdic's race shall shake not.

Hardegon.
Sense at last!

Thororin.
And inspiration. Oh, he fires my heart!

Canute.
Who enters?

[Enter Edric.]
Hardegon.
Edric, the sly alderman
That overtops all England.

Canute.
Then a fellow
To use with skill and caution.

Edric.
On my knees
I greet the king. I have vast influence,
Am husband to the princess, own a store
Of schemes and secret counsels. Verily
In me you have a God-send.

Canute.
Whom we greet.

Edric.
I come to tell of treason.

Hardegon.
Let us hear
Your lies.

Edric.
I bring a mouthful of sour news;
But if the Northmen cannot brook the truth—

Canute.
Speak openly.

Edric.
Then let them not believe.
The English Witan, breaking every oath
Sworn to the Dane, despatch their messengers
To Ethelred, entreating his return
From Normandy, his refuge and retreat.
They will receive him, so he govern better;
You they will outlaw.

Canute.
Yet with hostages
They sealed a compact to obey King Swend.
Traitors!

Edric.
Heyday! This whelp has deadly ire.

Canute.
I pant for vengeance on the perjurers.
No honour, and no faith!

Hardegon.
The viking spirit!
This is the ancient mood.

Edric.
What means his silence?

Thororin.
His eyes are sharp with lightning, and his forehead
Like a black sea-cliff on which nods the corn.

Canute.
It was a bond, they gave us hostages.
By Odin, Thor, and Frey,
I swear I will exact the penalty
Of broken faith. As they have lost my trust,
Their children now shall lose hands, noses, all
That tempts the knife. Forth with the prisoners! Hack,
Lop them like saplings, make them bare of features
As woodmen leave their trees.

[Thororin sweeps his harp.]
Hardegon.
I hear the order
With joy;—so like old Gorm's commands, right manly,
Just, pitiless!

[Exit Hardegon.]
Canute.
[To Thororin.]
Look on. There will be moods
When, with your harp, you must rehearse this scene;
My nature will require it. They are boys;
Yet—Thororin, I will not take their lives;
Let them learn horror of their fathers' sin,
Return them branded to their infamous
Begetters. [Exit Thororin.]
Englishman, a bond with you
To work my cause with honesty and skill.
This Edmund—

Edric.
Is a foe to circumvent.
The stripling is already on his way,
Sent by his exiled father to the Witan
With promises;—speeches will have small weight
Spoken for Ethelred, who lolls his tongue
Which way is best for scraping off the flies;
But this young prince has something in his look
So prompt and trusty—comely-faced like you,
And fresh, but more the bearing of a man.

Canute.
He seeks the Witan; let him come to me,
And I will make him captain of a band
Of most efficient youths.

Edric.
No menaces!
We must have patience; when he heads the army,
I promise you to draw his forces off
Under his very nose. I simply ask
A twelvemonth for his ruin. Give me time.

[A deep cry is heard.]
Canute.
They suffer, Edric—your young countrymen.

Edric.
A shifty folk, these English.

Canute.
Traitors' ways!
Mine is the land; I will reconquer it,
Will ravage, leave these waving, marshy flats,
These crumbling bays, and strike into the corn.
The horse-hoof gives possession. I will ride.

Edric.
Your father fell a victim to a saint;
Best get him under ground.

Canute.
King Swend shall rest
At Roskild with his ancestors. Declare
Among your countrymen his death was caused
By stumbling of his horse.

Edric.
Ah, no more lies,
All honesty, and yet—A vicious brute,
That flung his rider, kicked his skull, the rest
Was all delirium from injury.
I have the cue.

Canute
[pacing excitedly].
It is my father's land:
Hath it not felt his mutilating mark
From north to south? Hath the corn e'er been reaped
He hath not trampled? Is there town or hamlet
Unblackened by his fires? Hath he not quelled
These English hinds? I will lay siege to London,
And snatch his fame from Edmund. As a tempest
Travels the kingdoms of a mighty plain,
Then breaks on one doomed spot, I will descend
On him in sudden ruin. He shall feel
In me the power and pressure of the North;
The strength of fighting Asi; all that happened
In Gorm's fierce bosom when he eyed a coast,
And the lust seized him for its ravaging.
A taunt, a challenge, and the waves are black
With dragon-fleets. I summon to my blood
The terrors of dead sea-kings.

[Re-enter Thororin and Hardegon.]
Hardegon.
They are ready,
This English band. Will you not look on them?
As useless as old women, these fine youths.
They felt it when we lopped away their hands.

Canute
[laying his hand on his sword].
Did I say that? . . . I was infuriate.
You are not in the service of King Swend;
Wait till I cool ere you obey my orders.
Where lies my father? I will learn the truth,
Handle, and scan his body. Oh, to think
That there should be no wounds, no gory issue
For his tremendous soul!

Hardegon.
They covered him
Most carefully, such fear was in his eye.

Canute.
But I will cow this Edmund, this young Christian
Who bribes his saint for executioner.
Pull down your harp, my Thororin, the chords
May bring some colour to the dead man's cheek.
[Aside.]
And, Hardegon, learn the full policy
Of yon ill-spoken, braggart Englishman.
When you have brought me to my father's corpse,
Look to his motives.

[Exeunt Canute, Thororin, and Hardegon. Edric, having overheard Canute's last words, stretches himself on the royal chair vacated by him.]
Edric.

Look to his motives.
They will be clever who
get at them. I haven't a brain to hatch them. Wide-awake
and no scruples—a man can do wonders by just
keeping an eye on the weather-cock. Motives! They
think I married the king's daughter for the sake of the
blood royal—and I took her to bring down her pride
with low jokes, for she once curled her lip at me. To
pour one's ribaldry on a delicate princess, with the
Church to tell her all is innocent in wedlock, it has been
a rare pastime! But last year I had better company, the
king sent me to escort his Old Lady, as they call her, to
Normandy. She has the wit of the couple and a grace—
'tis a pleasure to be near her, for she bows over your ear as
softly as she would with the fellows at court. If I could

but have her for my mistress when King Ethelred has
done languishing. But she is too keen and lofty. I
could never cure her of her condescension, and besides
I am not amorous. I like to play with fools and turn them
round my fingers. There is nothing to appeal to in me
—no conjuring by Odin—or our Lady. I am careful
to scrape away association from fact. Significance, suggestion!
—they are the bane of life. That banner floating
there, they have worked a raven on it, and they worship
the black image like an idol. Flap a bit of cloth in the
wind, and you can lead men like sheep to the slaughter.
But I am not gulled. That banner is to me an indifferent
shred of cloth,—and everything is what it seems. I care
no more for a parchment than for the leather on my
shield. And this young Prince Edmund, with his open
face and hope of redeeming his father's honour! He is
full of superstition and cannot thrive.

[Re-enter Hardegon.]

Well, you wonder what has brought me to your
master? Old statesman, it is this: your master is going
to win; and I am the only Englishman who can bring
my own prophecy to pass, for he will not conquer without
artifice. The English prince hates cunning, so I
hate him; every man likes to have employment for his
faculties.

Hardegon
[aside].

He is as ugly as foul weather at sea.
Report to your young prince how we served his hostages,
but don't brag you sat sprawling in my master's royal seat.
It is unnatural to see you here at all. You are by rights
our enemy.

Edric
[rising and yawning].

Oh, you will not have
me long a spy on your tactics. I have no particular
ambition. I just rode over here as a friend to let you
know what was chancing. I am indolent by nature; you
must take my time; but you will find it worth your while
to make me comfortable. Just give me fodder for my
nag, and your best flavoured Danish dishes.

Hardegon.

My own lads shall serve you [aside]
,
and keep a watch on you too, till you turn your reins
southward. Here, Harold, Ralf, an English alderman
wants feeding. These youngsters will be your squires;
but have a care. Return to your own folk. English
faces will have to suffer now for their saint turning
murderer.

[Exit Edric attended.]

They were fine boys we hacked; that is a fellow wants
pelting with the bones one has gnawed, till he is punched
in. I would do it myself, if it were not for orders.
Orders, forsooth, from my young Viking! I shall have
hard times with him; he is uncertain and masterful.

[Exit.]