University of Virginia Library

ENGLAND'S DARLING.

PERSONAGES

• Alfred . . . . Surnamed the Great.
• Edward . . . . His Son.
• Plegmund . . . . Archbishop of Canterbury.
• Werefrith . . . Bishop of Worcester.
• Ethelred . . . . Alfred's Son-in-law (afterwards Ealdorman of Mercia).
• Ethelnoth . . . Ealdorman of Somerset.
• Ethelswitha . . . Alfred's Wife.
• Ethelfrida . . . His Daughter (married to Ethelred).
• Edgiva . . . . A Danish Maiden.
• Thanes, Ealdormen, Freemen, Serfs, etc.

Place. Athelney—Selwood—Ethandune. Time—a.d. 878.

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!

ACT II

SCENE I

[Athelney. Serfs are carrying loads to a barn near the King's Camp.]
FIRST SERF.
Fetch me a hunk of salted flitch,
And a jug of sweetened ale,
And off I trudge to bank the ditch,
Or bang about the flail.
Who reeks of summer sweat and swink,
Or winter's icy pang?
Tilt up the mug, my mates, and drink,
And let the world go hang,
Go hang,
And let the world go hang.

SECOND SERF.
Now, youngsters, snap the fallen sticks,
Now, hearthwife, boil the pot,
For we have thatched the barley ricks,
And ploughed the gafol plot.
The shepherd's star begins to wink,
The she-wolf whets her fang;
Up with the mead-bowl, mates, and drink,
And let the world go hang,
Go hang,
And let the world go hang!

THIRD SERF.

'Tis but a lean life we lead in Athelney. More tuns of marsh water, I warrant, than combs of smooth ale.

FIRST SERF.

Aye, and with sopping sedge to lie on, o'nights. But, after bearing planks to make ready the Witan for the King and the King's thanes, one 'ud sleep on a midden heap, were it dead froze. But that's done with; and now to stack all this gear afore noon.

[Alfred, still disguised as a peasant, passes by.]
SECOND SERF
(to Alfred).

Lend us a hand, gaffer, with this amber o' meal; none o' your sharps nor dog-bran, but real Earl's barley-meal, white as an Easter smock.

[Alfred helps, first one, then the other, in carrying the loads.]
THIRD SERF.

They won't starve, anyhow. Ten score ambers have been lodged in the King's Barn, since rising-time, along with two dozen staters of cheese.

FIRST SERF.

Aye, and more weys of bacon than I have fingers to score with, and gafolwood enow to brew as many combs of ale as 'ud drown all the Danes in Wessex.

SECOND SERF.

Trust Alfred for sousing them less wastefully nor that, before gangdays come round anew. (To ALFRED.)
Why, thou hast more thews than any twain of us, though thou'rt not goodly grown, nor seemst fit for bearing loads. But thou liftst with a will.

ALFRED.

'Tis the will does half the work. Heave but with the heart, and no sack feels heavy.

FIRST SERF.

And here are clews of net yarn for the weaving women, that no hands hang idle in Alfred's Camp.

ALFRED.

Am I free to go, masters?

SECOND SERF.

Aye, as free as a boor may fare.

[Alfred leaves them.]
THIRD SERF.

He's a rare hand at a pack, though we top him by a poll.

FIRST SERF.

An awry song for the lambing season, and with the cuckoo a-chuckling over the foster hedge-sparrow.

THIRD SERF.

No song's out o' season that cheers a man up. There's more warmth in an old song than in green faggots.

SECOND SERF.

Aye, and singing's a posset that suits summer and winter alike. They say Alfred the King wrote rare ditties before the Army broke out anew; though more anent spear-thrusts than tankards. But gammer rhymes are well enough for honest churls.

SCENE II

[The King's Chamber.]
ETHELNOTH.
Still, Alfred comes not.

PLEGMUND.
He is sure to come
Ere to the socket burns this rushlight down.
He never wantoned with his word, nor now
Will prove untrue to it.

ETHELNOTH.
Not if he live
Nor if he still be free to come. But how
If eyes as searching as his own have stripped
From off his kingly gait the peasant's smock,
And even now within the Danish lines
He dwells a bondman.

ETHELRED.
[Alfred enters.]

[They make obeisance.]
ALFRED.
Yes, I am back, my wistful friends, but not
Ere I have marked where the false Guthrum folds
His savage flock, and whither next he wends,
Seeking fresh pasture; aye, and every track,
Here through the forest, there along the stream,
And clear beyond between the dimpled downs,
That, twisting hither and thither, will lead at length
To covert hollow, whence, with God for guide,
We may upon their present fastness spring,
And send them flying hearthless as the wind,
Over the waste they have made.

ETHELNOTH.
Thank Heaven! you are safe,
Nor for such wayward danger paid with life.

ALFRED.
And if I had! 'Tis not for length of days,
No, but for breadth of days that we should crave.
Life is God's gift for godlike purposes.
'Tis the mere die we play with; that which counts
Is the high stake of honour that we throw for,
And for such worthy gamesters Heaven provides.
Not in safe coffer should we lock our lives,
But put them out to peril, that our sons
May be the richer for the stake we won.
Withal, my shrewd Archbishop, 'tis allowed,
When dangerous duty doth not bid us spend
Life without thought or reckoning, 'tis so short,
Well must it be to use it thriftily;
So for your helpful hands is further work,
To eke out mine, still hampered by the sword.
Aid me; nay, mend me; for my lesser skill
Needs your large craft. Pope Gregory's Pastoral,
We call his Hindbook in our English tongue,
Worcester's good Bishop, Werefrith, will revise.
And I myself must follow, when I may,
Wulfstan and Othere through those norward seas
Whence came our fathers on their flashing oars,
And with their Finnish voyages enrich
The pages of Orosius. Unto you
The harder task, to render faithfully
The Consolations of Philosophy,
Where I have missed what sage Boethius means.
O Plegmund! Plegmund! Sore is it to scan,
As yesternight I did, in Alcuin's verse,
The list of Latin texts once housed in York,
The envy of the Frankish Emperor,
Great Charles himself, now wandering on the winds,
Or fuel for the fire of these rude Danes,
But all of them to be some day replaced
By God's good help and yours, and written plain
In Saxon speech for English boys to read,
And thereby understand, though, unlike me,
They may not journey thither, that which Rome
Did and still does to better man. But now,
The dwindling rushlight in the lanthorn shows
We must unto the Witan. Ethelnoth,
Come to my side, and you too, Ethelred,
Both craftier with the sword than with the pen,
And help me both with presence and with voice
To rouse my people from their peaceful hives,
And make them swarm for battle!

SCENE III

[The Witanagemote. Alfred, wearing a circlet of gold round his head, and bearing in his hand a wand, is seated on a high oaken settle, with Edward standing on his right. Round him are his Reeves, Thanes, and chief Ealdormen; Plegmund, Archbishop of Canterbury; Werefrith, Bishop of Worcester, and Grimbald, his Mass-priest. In the enclosed space are congregated the lesser Ealdormen and their followers, the armed Freemen. Behind, at a little distance, stand the short-haired unarmed Serfs. The Queen and her daughter Ethelfrida, followed by a train of noble maidens, carry the mead-bowl round to the Thanes and Ealdormen.]
FIRST FREEMAN.
He looks like Justice throned.

SECOND FREEMAN.
And such he is,
And hither will none hie to press their claim,
Save it be true; for Alfred's gaze can pierce
Through densest fogs of falsehood and uncloak
Each hireling lie.

THIRD FREEMAN.
Withal, how mild his look.
A mother's eyes are not more moist with love
Than his, when they are fixed upon his son,
The stalwart Atheling.

FOURTH FREEMAN.
Yet is he stern
As Ethelnoth himself, if he but mark
Some blemish on a forehead unabashed.
I would as lief face God, were I to blame,
As stand, for fault stripped bare, before the King.

FIRST FREEMAN.
Can it be true that he as lettered is
As Grimbald's self?

SECOND FREEMAN.
Aye, ever since the day
He learned the book of pictured Saxon verse
Quickest of all his brothers, he hath stored
His mind with written lore.

THIRD FREEMAN.
I mind me, too,
How in his boyhood was there none more deft
To cope a haggard peregrine, to knit
The bewits to the bells, or smoothly swing
The feathered lure around his head until
The unseamed falcon learned to wing its way
Over the herons homing up the wind,
And, binding, rake its quarry to the ground.

FOURTH FREEMAN.
Aye, and I warrant he could still unhood
A cast, and send them flying on the chase,
As he will stoop upon the Danes, and force
Their filthy pannels to disgorge the food
Poached in our English pools.

FIRST FREEMAN.
In every art
He shows the way. Woodcraft and masonry,
Shoesmith or wheelwright, all are one to him.
He throws the buttressed bridge across the stream,
And plans the sinewy curve of each fresh keel
That bears the roving ramparts of the realm.
Unto the goldsmith's dainty handiwork
He lends his counsel, even while he broods
On the rough shifts and sudden wants of war.
Never, like Buhred, would he quit the land,
Came every Danish oarsman oversea
To hem us in.

SECOND FREEMAN.
Hush! He anon will speak.

ALFRED
(rising).
Ealdormen, and Thanes, and Free Men all,
Whom here I see, banded in battle-gear,
Kin of my sceptre, helpmates of my sword,
To you I come, your King and Overlord,
Offering and seeking wisdom. Let them speak,
So that they fight, both when and how they will,
And only those stand husht who bear no spear.
For 'twere unmeet that those who in a State
Wield no more worthy weapon than the tongue,
Should have or voice or share in ruling it.
In Witanagemote and Folkmote both,
More royal-rich than these marsh fastnesses,
In better days we have met. But let none think
That I am less a King, or you more base,
That of such trappings we awhile are scant
As Peace can hang about a Ruler's hearth.
For he still reigns whose mind is not dethroned,
And, though marauders ravage half his realm,
Upholds unserfed the Sceptre of his soul.
Kings there have been, aye and of Cerdic's blood,
With Woden's thunder moaning in their veins,
Who, even as Inè, doffed a doleful Crown,
Donning the cowl. I shall not do like these.
What though I found within the royal bed,
Where I had lain with this my cleanly Queen,
Littered, the farrow of a forest sow,
Should I bemoan the fashion of the world,
Tonsure the head Pope Leo's very hand
Anointed kingly, and slink hence to Rome
A niddering pilgrim? Never, while you stand
Steadfast about me! Nay, if you should leave
The Crown of Egbert fenceless on my brow,
It should not fall till I had fallen too,
And gone to God to answer for my Rule,
As every shriven soul must answer Him
Whose Sceptre doth not pass. Tell me then, now,
Free Men of Hampshire, Devon, Somerset,
Here mustered in your Hundreds, do you will
That we fare forth anew unto the field,
To put it to the proof of life and death,
If this fair isle be Guthrum's land or ours?

Freemen
(clashing their spears).
Aye! Aye!

ALFRED.
You answer as beseemeth those that clung
Close to my side at Ashdune on the day
When Ethelred, my brother, now with God,
Lingered at mass, and the rough Danish King,
Barsac, along with Osbern, Harold, Frene,
And the two Sidracs, lay upon their backs,
And never stood up more; aye, and who took
Their share with me in those eight sinewy shocks
At Merton, Reading, Wilton, Englefield,
Within one year, whereby, when first I wore
The kingly crown, Guthrum and Oskytel
Swore not alone on relics of the saints,
But on their pagan bracelet smeared with blood,
In sacrifice, the pledges now they break.
Their hostages I hold, but 'tis not meet
That upon these should fall the Christian sword;
And, spared, they now fain fight upon our side,
Betraying their betrayers. But there be
Others, unfree, withal for whom Christ died,
Into whose hands I will entrust the spear,
So they will thrust for England, and your voice
Says aye to mine.

Freemen
(clashing their spears).
Aye! Aye!

ALFRED.
(to the Serfs).
Therefore, in this free Witan, I decree,
Weaponless men, that you be weaponed now;
And, should you fall, your offspring shall be free,
And offspring's offspring, and their locks shall float
Over their necks by no base burden bowed.
Nor yet of these alone I snap the chain;
But unto you, the tonsured serfs of God,
I stretch my hand, and bid you, I your King,
To do as Toli at Kesteven did,
When Hingvar's pagan bands, with Hubba's horde,
Moved against Croyland, now alas! their prey:
The layman's sword he buckled to his frock,
And with the battle-axe avenged the Cross.
Do you as he, and with a better doom,
Reclaiming Croyland, Ely, Huntingdon,
For pious peace, such as at Glastonbury
Still happily abides. Yet, since the land
Which bred you, suckled you, and fosters now,
Hath upon all male thews this righteous toll,
More needful is it still that they whom God
Shaped to be nests and nourishers of life,
Should double now their song and suit to Heaven
For England's weal. Therefore, my Wife, depart,
With all white souls that willing wend with you,
Unto the eastern gate of Shaftesbury,
And build you there a nunnery whose vows
May win the deathless Overlord of War
To lead our van in fight, and fence our rear.
I have your leave for this, Lady and Wife,
Whom still a silent helpmate at my side,
And by that silence keeping me more strong,
I pray to have, till strength avails no more.
And, though my grandsire Egbert left his land
To those that wield the spear, and not to those
That ply the distaff, and his law stands mine,
To you, in endless token of the trust
That you have had in me, and I in you,
I do bequeathe Wantage and Athelney,
My cradle, and my refuge, in this war,
To hold as free as you have held my love.
And may the bane of Christ and all His Saints
Blind him that setteth it aside!

[The Queen, Ethelfrida, and their handmaidens, depart. As they pass out, Asser, followed by a group of Welsh Chieftains, enters.]
ALFRED.
[Recognising Asser.]

ASSER.
Loving Lord and King,
My pupil, yet my master, these scared men
Are gentle in their blood, of princely birth,
Sons of King Mouric, Tendyr, Hemrid, Ris,
Who now on-this-side Britain wield the rod.
They from Demetria followed me, their guide,
To crave your overlordship in their land
Against the unrulier Welsh that harry it,
Leagued with the Danish robbers of the main.

ALFRED.
Asser! to bring good tidings ever first,
You never brought me blither news than this.
Bid them be seated,—aye, more near to me,—
And tell them in their tongue, till they learn ours
Which it will be your happy lot to teach,
That in this Island there must be one lord,
One law, one speech, one bond of blood between
Saxon and Briton, and that Wales must be
Not more nor less than England, but the same.
Their will is still their own, to go or stay,
But, on the word and promise of a King,
So they will aid me to beset the foe,
And we together conquer, they shall dwell,
They and their kindred, free among their hills,
Fenced beyond heathen ravin by my sword.
[Again addressing the Witanagemote.]
Gone are the women. None but men stand here,
And but to men and manly ears I speak.
You know my law, whereby, one half the year,
Each one may keep his hearth and till his land,
Eschewing for that while the toll of war,
But, when the time is past, he must anew
Take shield and spear; and some of you there be
Who now afresh have claim to put these off,
And back unto their homesteads; and the law,
The law shall stand, if 'tis their will to go.
Never shall law be broken in this land,
Leastways by me: so speak who claim to go,
And nurse a liking for the coward's doom,
A grave of mire, with hurdle over it.

[They all remain silent.]
ALFRED.
Nay, but I will not shame you into right,
Nor in the deadly fellowship of war
Have at my side unwilling guild-brothers.
Therefore I say to all, to those that hold
Five hides of land and owe me service for it,
Earl and ceorl, tithing—hundred—man,
Franklin and yeoman, ploughman, goatherd, sower,
Hayward and woodward, all that liefer would
Earn with their sweat what they might win with blood,
You all are free to go, and in the fight
We will make boot without you. House-carles shall
Fill up the gap you leave.

FREEMEN.
We all will stay.

ALFRED.
Then pledge me in the mead-bowl, spearmen all,
Me, your host-leader! While that Ethelred,
My brother, lived, I bowed to him as King,
Though by my father's will I might have claimed
Rule over Kent; and this I did because
'Twas best for England, and for England now
Is it not best I be your Overlord?

Freemen
(striking their shields with their spears).

ALFRED.
Now tell them, Werefrith, that whoever falls
Fighting for England, soul-shot sure shall be,
And wend him straight from battle-doom to Christ.

[All kneel, and Werefrith blesses them.]

SCENE IV

[Alfred's Study. Alfred is shaping models of long-oared boats, meant to cope with the Danish esks.]
ALFRED.
Not till the Sea hath owned us for its lord,
Will England's shore be free. Hence must we lay
Our rod along the waters till it stretch
Wide as they welter, further than they foam.
Who holds the sea, perforce doth hold the land,
And who lose that must lose the other too,
When wave on wave gleams crested with a foe,
And billows given for safety gape with doom
And ruin for the redeless. Right meseem
Stem, stern, and keel, nigh twice the bulk of those
The Frisians use, and with a sharper sweep.
God grant that I may chase them from the seas,
And gird this island with a watery belt
Not all the world in arms can cleave or cross!

[Enter the Atheling.]
EDWARD.
Unto your bidding, Father, am I come.

ALFRED.
Where were you, Edward, yesterday at noon?

EDWARD.
In Selwood Forest, in its very heart,
Hard by the clearing round the hut where dwells
The neatherd Danewulf.

ALFRED.
And why went you there?

EDWARD.
To greet the loveliest maiden in the land.
Forgive me, Sir! but oh, if you could see
How fair, how—

ALFRED.
[Edward is about to speak.]

EDWARD.
Father, I swear,
My love for this fair maiden is as clean
As her unblemished soul, and I would fain,
Having your yea, still woo her for my wife.
Nay, but still hear me, you that ever were
Suffering and mild, blithesome and good to me,
Let me go fetch and bring her to your feet!
The coralled hawthorn in the wayside brake,
When Autumn winds have blown the leaves away,
Hath not the ruddy ripeness of her lips.
June's bluebells are not heavenlier than her eyes,
Nor than her cheek more dewy, and her voice,—
The woodwete's is no sweeter when it soars,
And we look up to hear it!

ALFRED.
Need is none
To tell me that. I heard it yesterday,
Between the whiles you wantoned in the wood,
And heeded not the King that crossed your path,
In tattered seeming.

EDWARD.
Your forgiveness, Father!

ALFRED.
Rise, boy! Your love is loyal; and no maid,
That, bred on English soil and fain to bide
By English hearthfire, hath not in her blood
The blur of bondage, can be held unmeet
To grace the bed and settle of a King.
But, Edward, can it be, in these mirk days,
You dally in the dreamy ways of love,
Now that your one fast thought by day, your one
Fond hope when moist sleep loosens all your limbs,
Should be for England! England, none but England
Clean or unclean, this is no time for love.
Where is your sword? I'll have no Atheling
Lulled in the sleek and sleepy lap of love,
When every heart-beat in his body should
Hasten the hour for death-grip with the Dane!

[Enter a Messenger.]
MESSENGER.
A Danish girl, seen slinking by the stream
Trod by your outmost watchers, hath been brought
Into the camp, and claims to see the King.

ALFRED.
Let her within.

[Edgiva enters.]
EDGIVA.
Edward!

EDWARD
(to Edgiva).
The King!

[Edgiva kneels.]
ALFRED
(to EDWARD, sternly).
Go hence!

[Edward quits the King's presence.]
ALFRED.
Rise, child! But wherefore pry you in our land,
So straitened now, that all beyond it feeds
The heathen Army?

EDGIVA.
But I did not pry.
I am as true to Alfred and his name,
As they that roughly clutched and dragged me here,
Because of Danish bracelet round my wrist;
And, since they would not harken, but led on
My footsteps hitherward, I claimed to see
Yourself, the King, and tell you all my tale.

ALFRED.
Tell it me, then.

EDGIVA.
Who was it that you chid
Out of your sight?

ALFRED.
My son, the Atheling.

EDGIVA.
Oh! [She covers her face.]

Why did he come into my lowly life,
And with his April sunshine cozen it
To blossom back to his! It was not worthy.
I pray you, let me fare unto my home,
To Danewulf and my mother, where I may
Forget him utterly, and never more
Hear words of fond untruth.

ALFRED.
Blame him not thus!
He is my son, and, never since he learned
From Saxon mother this our Saxon tongue,
Or spake or thought untruth. He loves too well,
And hence it was I drove him from your sight.

EDGIVA.
'Twas all unwitting that I gave him first
A love-tryst in the forest. Had I known!
But now meseems I know not what I know,
Save that I never will behold him more.
Nay, be a King! and send me to my home!

ALFRED.
We'll think of that to-morrow. For to-night,
You needs must lie in Athelney. But, child,
What sought you when our wardens, overwise,
As witlessness oft is, enforced you here?

EDGIVA.
It was the path whereby he went when last
He looked farewell, and so I trod the place,
Because it seemed to bring me nearer to him;
And, as I did so, luckless that I am,
I dropped and lost upon the river bank,
Or maybe in the stream, the crystal token
Given me by hoary wanderer who had sought
Rest in our hut, and promised, should I seek
His dwelling with that earnest, he would teach me
To spell and read, and make me learned and wise.
Now is it lost, and everything is lost,
And I shall know nor love nor learning now.

ALFRED.
Would you that withered master know again?

EDGIVA.
Sooth, that I should! I never can forget
His look, his voice. His speech was like to yours,
But he was gone in years, and on his brow
Their snows had drifted.

ALFRED.
Maiden, it was I,
Whose business 'tis to learn what mischief may
Be brewing on our borders, so awhile
Misfeatured thus; and you have nothing lost,
Saving the jewel, easily forgone,
And somewhere lost for other days to find,
Time-token of the trouble England bore,
And, bearing, yet will better. I myself,
True to my word, will teach your tongue to read,
And you teach Edward more than thus you learn,—
Since household lore the truest wisdom is,—
When War's loud shuttle shall have woven peace,
And in this England all who love may live
As safe as nest of whinchat in the brake.
But, child, not now, not now! For never think,
Until the howling pack of Pagan wolves
Are flogged to heel or scattered oversea,
To lift and lay your arms about his neck,
Whose service lies elsewhere! What ho! without. [An attendant enters.]

Unto our Lady lead this guest, and say
It is the bidding of the King she be
With the handmaidens pillowed for the night.

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.]

ACT IV

SCENE I

[The Camp of Guthrum at Ethandune. Guthrum, Oskytel, and their Jarls are feasting in Guthrum's tent.]
OSKYTEL.
Out of the skull of the foe the mead smacks sweet.
Taste of it, Guthrum.

GUTHRUM
(drinking).
Honey-sweet and strong!
For ale-feasts is there no such land as this,
And now 'tis ours to brew with. Do you mind
The day we fired the shrine at Huntingdon,
And supped amid the smoke? I see them now
Lean shavelings huddled round about the shrine
Clutching the silver beakers set with gems,
And yielding but with life the shining robes,
Woven of silk and gold, that in their coffers
Lay thick as leaves fresh ruddled by the frost.

OSKYTEL.
Aye, but at Lindsey was there fatter fare.
Your shrivelled friar is well enough to slay,
But worthless after slaying. Buxom maids,
To while away the weariness of peace,
And fair-haired boys to hand the mead-bowl round,
These are the boons of battle!

GUTHRUM.
This to Woden!
Whose day will dawn with morrow! This to Thor,
Who hammers out the thunder and the flash,
And slays the dragon!

OSKYTEL.
This to boar-helmed Freyr,
The sender of the needfire and the rain! [Turning to the Jarls.]

Why quaff you not?

FIRST JARL.
Because of Weird at hand.
Ask them that read the staves. This crimson-dawn,
The beechen slips on the white cloth spelled out
The runes of death.

SECOND JARL.
And the Shieldmaidens fled
Dim to the wood.

THIRD JARL.
Aye, and the snow-white steeds,
Lashed to the holy chariot, neighed of doom,
Then reared and snorted backward to the stall.

FIRST JARL.
I mind me of the day my lord me gave
Folkright and homestead, and I will not now
Hold back if need befall him, for unmeet
It were that I should homeward bear my shield.
But woeful are the lots.

SECOND JARL.
I mind the time
I in the timbered beer-hall pledged my lord,
When gave he me both helm and ring, that I
Would pay him back my war-gear at his need.
So surely will I. But the runes are foul.

GUTHRUM.
We know it, trusty Jarls! You all speak sooth.
The ebon Raven which the daughters three
Of Regnor Lodbrog in one morning wove
For Hingvar and for Hubba, will not flap
Its wings for war, but droopeth listlessly,
Forewarning rout. So will we not now fight,
But hang our axes on the wall till Thor
Shine on their faces. Meanwhile, let us feast
Blithe in the land we have won.
“I trust my sword, I trust my steed:
But most I trust myself at need.”
He's no true Jarl that doth not drink with me.

FOURTH JARL.
An agëd gleeman, with his daughter, craves
To cheer the night with song. His thews hang loose,
His back is bent like to a bow that keeps,
Unstrung, the bias of its former strain,
And wan as winter is his flaky hair.
But the unwedded helpmeet at his side,
A very bud of freshly-burgeoned May,
Vows in his voice that manhood lingers still,
And he can sing of war, and love, and aught
That's bidden of his craft.

GUTHRUM.
Then bring him in.

SCENE II

[Alfred and Edgiva are led in, and placed, side by side, on a high settle near the opening of the tent, opposite Guthrum and Oskytel.]
OSKYTEL.
Give him to quaff, out of this cup of mine.
He'll troll the lustier if first warmed with ale.

GUTHRUM!
Now for brave singing!

ALFRED.

GUTHRUM.
How lustily he trolls! A glee like this
Would stave off bane and death.

OSKYTEL.
Look on him now!
He gleams as though to-day and yesterday
Had with to-morrow trysted in his gaze.
A Seer! A Seer! Jarls! Drink unto the Seer!

JARLS.
Aye, and to his fair daughter must we quaff!

ALFRED.
But onward and forward,
In far days fairer,
I see this England
Made one and mighty:
Mighty and master
Of all within it.
Mighty and master
Of men high-seated,
Of free-necked labour,
Lowland and upland,
And corn and cattle,
And ploughland peaceful,
Of happy homesteads
That warmly nestle
In holt and hollow.
This is the England,
In fair days forward,
I see and sing of.

GUTHRUM.
And who shall have this England?

JARLS.
Aye, who shall have this England?

ALFRED.
Then, mighty and master of all within her,
Of Celt and Briton,
Angle and Frisian,
Saxon and Norseman,
Shall England plough, like the whale and walrus,
The roaring ridges
Of foam-necked water,
With long-oared warships
And keels high-beakëd;
And never a foeman,
Eastward or westward,
Shall dare to raven
Her salt-sea inlets,
Her grim gray nesses,
But, swift at the sight of her rearing cradles,
Shall scud and scatter,
Like wild geese fleeing
'Twixt wave and welkin,
Away from the dread of the shrilling weapons
Of foam-fenced England!

OSKYTEL.
But who shall have this England?

GUTHRUM.
Aye, who shall have this England?

[A horn sounds, and shouts are heard without. Alfred throws off his disguise, stands erect in kingly garb, and, drawing his sword, exclaims:]
ALFRED.
Alfred shall have this England!
Lord Christ shall have this England!

[Edward, Ethelred, Ethelnoth, and a body of the King's Thanes, rush in. Alfred disarms Guthrum, who has struck at him with his battle-axe. Edward fells and disarms Oskytel, and the Jarls that do not yield are slain.]
EDWARD.
The Golden Dragon floats o'er Ethandune.
We broke upon the Army in its sleep,
And bound the weaponless. Those that awoke
With battle-axe in grip, the ruffled vulture,
The swarthy raven, and the sallow kite,
Are rawly tattering with their tawny nibs;
And wealden wolves will batten on the rest.

ALFRED
(to Guthrum).
Now yet again the Lord of War hath placed
Your life within my hands. Forfeited once,
I gave it back to you, when first you swore,
Upon our sacred tokens and your own,
To dwell in peace with me and mine for aye.
Your hostages I held: I hold you now.
Why should the sword not fall upon your neck?
But, since Lord Christ hath won this fight for me,
And He is pitiful, I fain would spare
And leave you free within East Anglia,
But owning me for King and Overlord,
If you can tend me tighter pledge than that
Forsworn and broken.

GUTHRUM.
Bind me, an you will,
To Christ your King, who henceforth shall be mine.
For He is mightier than our Gods, as you
Are mightier than our Vikings!

ALFRED.
Henceforth then,
Live, like to us, at peace within this land,
Our brothers, not our bane; our were-gild yours,
Our foe your foe, our feud your feud, and you,
No less than we, English in name and heart.
Up from the mouth of Thames along the Lea
To where the Ouse leads on to Watling Street
Hold you the land, but at my bidding still
If need should rise. Beyond, is Mercia;
Which Ethelred, my sister's trusty lord,
Under my rod will rule. You, Ethelnoth,
Rebuild and strengthen London, and make good
Our name along the twistings of the Thames;
While Werefrith, helped by Plegmund, shall renew
God's House at Winchester. Thanes, Freemen, Friends,
Let each one strive to quit him worthily.
For me, I have no other wish on earth,
Save to leave long remembrance after me
Of something done for England!

OSKYTEL
(gazing hard on Edgiva, who is standing by Edward).
What is this token, wound about your wrist?
Are you Sweyne's daughter? my dead comrade's child,
Whom we left, motherless, within the fork
Of a high wychelm, thinking soon to fetch
Her safely from that cradle, on the day
That Ethelwulf and Wulfheard, Saxon Thanes,
Beset our Jarls, and over the White Horse
Drove us in headlong rout across the stream.

EDWARD.
Noble I knew her!

ALFRED.
Nobly wed her then!
And when God calls me to Himself, for men
Know not how long or little they will stay,
May offspring worthy of your fair love and you,
Saxon with Dane, hand down the English Throne!

ETHELRED
(bursting into the tent).
Great news, my Lord! The ships you bade us build
Full nigh on twice the length of pagan esks,
At Swanage on the robber swan-necks rode,
And wedged them through the waves. Their splintered planks
Are weltering with the seaweed; their snapped oars,
Like to their carcases, the gurgling ooze
Sucks down, then belches forth again, to rot
Upon the brackish furrows of the brine.

ALFRED.
Now praised be God! for this is news indeed,
And Swanage crowns us more than Ethandune.
In this strong Isle sequestered by the sea
From tread outlandish, victory upon ground
Our own to keep or lose, is half defeat;
For why on English soil should foe's foot stand?
The battlemented Sea will beat him off,
So we but man it, and our bounding prows
Scatter him flying deathward o'er the foam,
Like loose leaves harried by autumnal wind.
Aye, and in those bright bodings that high Heaven
Vouchsafes at times to man, my ken foresees
That, once this land inviolably free
From threat without, its billow-suckled breed,
Yearning beyond the narrow bonds of birth,
Wherever shine the stars or rolls the tide,
Will lay their lordship on the waves, and be
Rulers and rovers of the widening world.

ALL.
Long live Alfred!
Long rule Alfred!
England's Comfort,
England's Shepherd,
England's Oarsman,
England's Darling!

THE PASSING OF MERLIN