University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

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.]

Scene II.

Malmesbury. The Orchard.
Enter Edmund and Elgiva.
Edmund.
Elgiva, I am come for you, my wife.
Kiss me! You come out in the orchard, sweet,
Lest envious nuns should leer at our encounter,
As the unclean at innocence. That woman
Who can bear witness of a stolen kiss
I would abandon to the rosary's
Perpetual toil; but who should brag of lovers,
New-mating lovers, as we twain, should never
Look on the sun again. Dear, we are free;
It is the summer morning of our love;
And now my little, flushing, English rose
Can open all the treasures of her breast
To the benignant air. Give me your lips.

Elgiva.
I will not, Edmund; in my very sight
My lord was basely murdered. There he sat
Haughty and awkward, my great, trustful Dane,
At Edric's board. I noted that the princess
Was pale, she twitched her hand, she beckoned me
Aside, and looking up, I saw the room
Full of armed men, my husband in the midst,
Astonished, fighting with tremendous fists,
The lady pressed me to her bosom close
To hide me from the slaughter, but I broke
Away, and climbing to the casement saw
The chapel blazing where the hunted guests
Had fled for sanctuary. It is reported
That Edric is the Atheling's counsellor,
Edric—the lying tongue, the false, false lip.
I am an Englishwoman, and I cherish
My country to this plot of orchard-ground:
I would not cede an inch of English earth,
No, nor the seas, they should be English too,
With cities of strong ships. And I would love
The line of Cerdic; but I must abhor
The fitful, shifty, dismal, obstinate,
Untoward Ethelred, who damps the hopes
Of his stout, rallying subjects, who at Council,
Where men should meet for justice, planned the murder
Of my great Danish earl: and if his son
Knew of the vile intent—O Edmund, Edmund!

Edmund
[walking apart].
Arraigned a traitor by the girl I love,
I cannot speak. I will return to her
When the last Dane is driven to his ship.
And yet, without her woman's faith, I go
Unharnessed to the field.
[Approaching her.]
Then you dismiss me,
Uncomforted, to raise an English band,
That will grow sullen, and refuse to fight,
As you refuse to love, because I bear
The name of Ethelred the Redeless' son?
Yet, lady, you have seen me in the midst
Of strong temptation play no miscreant's part.
That day you looked up from your wedding-veil,
I knew I was beloved. A deadly wrench!
I saw you yielded to the Danish earl,
Your precious body, the pure maidenhood,
I would have crowned with queenship, and I swore
Never again to look upon your face;
I banished you my heart's realm, nor revoked
The sentence, till this day a messenger
Told of your husband's death, and how you fled
To seek protection in these holy walls.

Elgiva.
O Edmund, my great lover, my dear prince,
Speak to me, pardon me, ask o'er again
For what you asked.

Edmund.
Give me those honest eyes,
Where there is nothing hidden. What a mirror!
Love, I would look down in the golden depths,
And find reflection.

Elgiva.
Dearest heart, believe,
As in the orchard every part o' the tree
Is apple, from the blossom to the drooping
O' the rosy, laden branches,—you will find
No part of me, my first, girlish joy
In your young, royal face, that is not worship.
Give me the freedom of your brow, my kisses
Long to set record there.

Edmund.
The lips, the lips!
[passionately kissing her.]
Elgiva, we are lord and lady here
I' the flecking sunlight; but Canute would rend
Our England from us.

Elgiva.
He shall be repulsed;
For I have great possessions, and have suffered
To see my goodly acres in the hands
Of a sea-farer and a foreigner.

Edmund.
Heir to your husband's confiscated fiefs—
Then I will seek my father, and demand
The lordships.

Elgiva.
Edmund, let them be my gift;
Exact no rights. Why should men force a boon,
Grasp masterful, and take from us our joy—
To give, to give? My lands are yours for ever,
Yours with their wealth of stalwart fighting-men,
Yours for the muster, for the battlefield,
The bloodshed, and the triumph; yours at last
For pasture, blessèd as this golden sward,
When you are England's king.

[Enter messenger.]
Edmund.
A messenger!

Elgiva.
And from his aspect I believe he bears
Some weighty news.
[Edmund meets the messenger. They converse apart.]
To lie down on the grass,
Look up to him, and feel he is my own!
His face grows solemn, and a majesty
Darkens his quiet eyes.

[Exit messenger.]
Edmund.
King Ethelred
Hath died in London. My true-hearted city,
Thee I possess; but of my ravaged kingdom
What part beside? The bishops, aldermen,
Are all without the walls, and will elect
The valiant young Dane who rules the north,
And 'gainst the stronghold of our English life
Presses his splendid fleet.

Elgiva.
But you are king;
Shire will help shire now you are in command,
And render you their services as freely
As I confer my love; for I am England,
Who, when I doubted, would have none of you,
Who pleaded that the Dane had qualities
Meet for men's reverence; and rally now
All native forces in me to proclaim
Edmund my lord. Oh, there are faithful souls;
Trust in your people, give your heart to them,
And put for ever from your side the churl,
False-speaking Edric.

Edmund.
Let him come and go;
He is ill-governed. Doubtless he fulfilled,
Murdering the Danish earl, some infamous
Plot of my father's. I shall treat him well;
The reign of vile suspicion is at end,
And honour to the fore.

Elgiva.
O happy country!
I never saw this level orchard-ground
So full of gleams and shades. I am right glad
That you made love beneath the apple-trees;
They are so English, and their rosy fruit
Is plucked in tranquil, happy, autumn days,
Such as our Edmund will restore to us,
When the great wars are ended. A sweet spot!

[Exeunt.]

Scene III.

London. Ethelred's corpse, on a great bed, in a large room.
Enter Emma.
Emma.
Thou infamy, the harlots found thee fair!
Vindictive, mercenary, treacherous, vile,
A laggard, and a waverer; how well
Did nature fit thee for thine enemies,
Thy mistresses, and all corrupting things.
The worm that eats thy body will revolt
At the unvirgin soil. Yea, I will speak.
Death gives us widows opportunity
To put such questions as at judgment-day
Will rise in accusation. From my anger
Thou canst not hide; thy face is bare and fixed
Before my eyes and lips. Didst thou not sport
With other women, while I bore thee sons
With Saxon faces, boys so like their father
I loathed to give them suck, young heritors
Of thy unfeatured kingship, timid lads,
For whom I begged a refuge at the table
Of my great Norman brother? Dost thou hear?
Wilt thou not bribe me from my inquisition?
Nay, but thy Danish foe shall take thy place,
In my own inmost bower. Ah me, ah me!
Bride to the Viking! What deep modesty
Restrains me from the thought? I grew a girl,
When, from the walls of London, I looked down
On his young, glittering, tempestuous face,
And blushed, and gave him all the terms he sought
To win one smile. I look about the chamber;
Do I resign my queenship? I am fair,
My finger-tips can thrill men to their doom,
And my whole body is for empery.
I do not crave to rule; I crave to spend
The flower o' my years, my faculties, my grace,
In service of a simple, king-like man,
Clean as the ocean, and as terrible
I' the day of tempest.
[Going up to the corpse.]
Redeless thing, thou'rt dead.
My soul peals to the echo—dead, dead, dead!
[Enter Edric.]
What brings you hither, my fair son-in-law?
Has faithful London looked upon your face,
And suffered quiet passage through her streets?
You leave the Dane?

Edric.
Since you would have me give
My services to this young cub of Swend,
I give them; and report in Edmund's ear
That I am rallying forces in the north.
But for my presence—do not feign surprise;
You summoned me to bear you to the court
Of Normandy. I am obedient
To your least whim, but fear that I have journeyed
O'er hastily. I find you at your vigils.

Emma.
Weeping the man who has dishonoured me.

Edric.
There is a sure revenge. Now is your time
For freedom and for pleasure.

Emma.
Insolence!
[Aside, glancing toward the bed.]
I would not be his mate in anything,
Nor re-enact his lewdness. I am free,
Free, till I love.—How fares the Danish monarch?
We met once. Edric, does he speak my name
In the same way as yours?

Edric.
'Tis never breathed
Within my hearing.

Emma.
Time is in my hair.
[Aside, taking a mirror.]
I am a matron and a queen, and yet
There is a starving girlhood in this face,
That bitterly contrasts.

Edric.
Now cheerly! Once
I named you, and he started to his feet,
Calling his men to vanquish Ethelred;
That day the foe was routed.

Emma.
Thane, on you
I build my future and my blessedness.
Let not his ears forget my syllables;
Picture my destiny.

Edric.
I'll make it ring.

Emma.
You shall not mention me—except my pride.

Edric.
A young man soon forgets.

Emma.
False, false; in youth
There is a warm fidelity; all's cold
When greybeards hug the past. [Aside.]
Oh, my beloved!

Edric.
Lady, take heart. I am a counsellor
The raw, young soldier may not well despise;
And I will show him the advantage. What!
You blench; I mean I will extol the beauty
Of my fair mistress. Yet I claim reward.
Come now, a kiss.

Emma.
My lips are put away
For some high festival.

Edric.
You yield your hand?

Emma.
As I were still a queen. It costs some pangs
To part with royalty. My blessèd crown,
My fond, familiar circlet. Ah, alas!
My hair falls unsupported by this wreath
Of gold.

Edric.
A fair decline. Put this aside,
[Touching the crown.]
Or rather, press it to your lips, and swear
To give me of your widowhood some hours,
Ere you again are royal.

Emma.
Edric, hush!
'Tis my ambition makes me amorous;
And I will give you sweeter recompense
Than any woman's favour may confer.
Share this my royal passion; make me queen,
And I will win for you the highest place
In the young Viking's trust. You will not sway
My second husband as you swayed my first;
But I have tracked allegiance in your eyes,
You feel he is your master.

Edric.
Ironsides
Has valour.

Emma.
And a child's simplicity;
A melancholy, brave, clear-purposed man,
Whom any knave may cozen. Let it be
Your part to circumvent him. Love the Dane,
And you shall rise in honour.

Edric.
Well, I swear—
Give me your hand to print my oath upon.

Emma.
Edric, refrain! My step-son at the door,
Must not behold us in close colloquy.
[Edric advances to the door, and greets Edmund.]
Safe, safe! He has not touched me.
[Looking toward the bed.]
Safe from him,
The licensed to defile. And now how sweet
My maidenhood returns on me. To fill
Some narrow convent bed in Normandy,
Dream of Canute, and all day say my prayers!
But that is not so cleansing. Oh, this love
Is a diviner power than holiness;
It puts all evil past imagining,
And crowds the soul as full as Paradise
With rapturous desires. Ah me, they come,
And I must to my tears.

[Drooping over the corpse.]
Edric
[to Edmund].
You give consent,
Most noble Atheling, that I bear away
Your lady-mother to Duke Richard's court?

Edmund.
She doubtless will be welcome there, and here
Adds to confusion. Take her oversea.

Emma
[half-aside].
I cannot leave him, such a proper man
He looks, with that great brow and curling hair.
He has won many hearts.

[Enter Edith and the child.]
Edmund.
My sister comes
To pray for the great dead. Disturb her not
By more than briefest parting.

Edric.
My sweet wife,
You bring our boy to look upon your sire;
May he repeat his virtues!

[Edith shudders.]
Edmund
[to the child, drawing him away from the bed].
Ah, my man,
Your grandsire was so loved, when wicked Swend
Was smitten by St. Edmund, whose dear name
I bear, the English people called him home
To govern them again. They rally now
Round me, his son, your king. Down on your knees;
You rascal, do me homage!

Child
[glancing fearfully at the corpse].
Who has made him
Like that? O father!

Edric.
See the lad! He thinks
That I have power of life and death. [Aside.]
I train him
To wither at a look. Though terrified,
He shall be forced to creep up to the corpse,
And toucn it.— [Aloud.]
Come now, kiss your grandfather.
He cannot hurt you. Never be afraid.
[The child goes straight up to the king's body, and shrieks.]
[To Edmund.]
He does whate'er I tell him; I can count
On that.—Now, sirrah, down upon your knees;
You must learn all your duty. Swear to fight
For good King Edmund.

Child.
I shall be a priest,
But I will bless your armies. I am glad
That you will rule.

Edric
[to Edith].
I go to Normandy,
My saintly princess. To your brother's care
And your just grief I leave you. But our boy—

Edmund.
I will instruct my nephew.

Emma
[embracing the child].
Dearest child,
My infant Ethelred, thy living cheek
Shall take the print of my last English kiss;
For, oh, I cannot give my lips again
To that cold, marble brow. [To Edmund.]
Our elder son,
Recover our lost kingdom.

Edric.
Noble prince,
I shall make haste to hear the proclamation
Of your new royalties, when this fair lady
Is rendered to her kinsman. [Aside.]
Mark my purpose;
To rid you of the dowager means friendship,—
No step-dame on the throne!

Edmund.
Lady, farewell.

[Exeunt Emma and Edric.]
Edith.
My brother! What, together and alone
By this dear bed—to clasp you in my arms,
To feel that you are here, our country's lord
And saviour, and that no usurper's hand
Will tear our father's crown!

Edmund.
Dear, send the boy
Away; his eyes are wandering fearfully,
Too shy to look upon this stranger, Death,
That puts us from our ease, who every day
Encounter him.

Edith.
Go, darling, to your prayers
In the near chamber. [Exit child.]
All the Londoners
Are staunchly yours?

Edmund.
Edith, all Englishmen
Are mine; they lack a leader, but their faith
Is without flaw.

Edith.
You think there will be peace?

Edmund.
Hard fighting rather. We will give our blood
To these invaders, and our gold shall feed
The sick and hungry. Glorious battlefields
Shall glow upon our southern pasture plains;
Where the sheep graze such victories shall be won
As shall not need the cairn to chronicle.
Edith, I bear my people in my heart
As bard his unbreathed song.

Edith.
Yet stay to mourn
Our father; he is desolate and cold.
Let me draw back the curtain.

Edmund
[looking steadfastly at Ethelred].
Ah, no bribes,
No hostages, thyself,
To pay the penalty when death exacts.
No more evasion, the straight road to hell,
And Judas' bag for thy blood-rusted gold.
Away, to the true miser!

Edith.
Edmund, Edmund!
Give him your prayers; we may redeem him still.

Edmund.
From his deserts? Then I shake off religion.
Heaven looks facts in the face; he sold his country,
Which in a king is as he sold his God.
He made all fearful, for he put no trust
In any man, and he has died a stranger
To life's sweet faiths and holy confidence.
He leaves a Danish heir, but honest Edric
Makes secret preparation for my rule.

Edith
[nervously caressing him].
When we were children, and your play-fellows
Would cheat at games, you let me counsel you,
And show who played you false. As king, beware;
Lean not on Edric's love.

Edmund.
Edith, your husband!
I never will be warned the damnèd way
Of vile suspicion. You misjudge the thane,
And irritate his plain, outspoken nature
With timid reticence.

Edith.
One cannot love
A stranger as one loves the face one knows
As early as the sky.

Edmund.
Dear heart, although
The pompous Emma from our mother's tomb
Hath turned the people's thoughts, we two possess,
Each in the other, a fair gift of hers
For keepsake and remembrance. Hast thou heard
Of my great joy? Elgiva is my wife,
And of her frank, sweet nature I will get
A race clear as the stars. Your pretty lad,
For his sake I could wish a brood of girls;
All Cerdic's majesty is in his face;
Though he is sickly. . . Alfred as a child
Was fragile, loved his missal. Never fear
But he will make a man, though full of thought,
And blue-eyed as an angel. Comfort, love!
Will you not come along? The priests attend.
Then I must bid farewell.

[They kiss. Exit Edmund.]
Edith.
How angrily
They all turn from his pillow! In the midst
Of the great winter storms I often sighed
To be with those whom the encircling sea,
When it blew inward on our isle, submerged.
I think they will lie quiet in the deep,
Unharassed by the Judgment: no account
Is left of them; their villages and towns
Have all escaped taxation and distress;
They are no more bewildered by the dread
Of an invader;—whilst, alas! these kings
Can lay no hold upon oblivion.
There is great beauty still upon his face;
It hath not been beloved. Infirmity
Sows sorer rancour in men's hearts than crime:
I know not why. He shall have many prayers.

[She kneels by the bed. Enter monks chanting.]

Scene IV.

Southampton.
Enter Canute, Hardegon, English and Danes.
Canute.
Ye have proclaimed me king! 'Tis said at London
The citizens choose otherwise; no more
In terror of my girding troops, they give
Oaths to the untried son of Ethelred.
Where lies your loyalty? Has Ironsides
Your secret love? Or do you give your hearts
To me, receive me as your rightful lord,
Trust me to cleanse the country of all robbers,
Liars and cheats, and ever doom just dooms
Alike to rich and poor? Will ye exalt
My dignity, and follow my command,
As mindful all ye do in faithfulness
Is to your own behoof?

English.
We will maintain
Our choice, and with a strict fidelity
Cleave to our King Canute.

Canute.
Now ye are mine
I will re-knit your virtue, make your throne
A seat of glory. Think not whence I am;
Let Danes and Englishmen beneath my sway
Become a world-known race. Bear witness all
How I love England,—her enfolding seas,
Her woods, her valley-hayfields, river-sheds
Where cattle graze the meadows. I was born
In haunts of desolation; here abides
A sense of times gone by, of ancient law,
Religious benediction. My wild home
Seems but mere earth on which to breathe and eat;
This island has a human, blessèd bond
Between itself and men.

English.
'Tis yours to hold,
And govern as you will; we bow beneath
The dictates of your pleasure; there is nought
On earth that may resist you.

Canute
[aside].
Flattery!
They think me a dull savage.—Ye have spoken
Beyond the truth. I bid you turn and look
Upon those billows sweeping to the shore,
With augment, arch, depression. Do you tell me
That they would stay their muster, check their onslaught
And fury of defiance at my bidding?
If you would love me, give me faithful tongues
In all you say—I have no appetite
For adulation. Go ye hence, and gather
An army meet to grapple with great Edmund:
For ye have chosen me, but your election
Hard fighting must confirm.

English.
Long live the king!

[Exeunt.]
Hardegon.

We gave these pretty Englishmen the
breath of flames and the smoke of homesteads. Now it
is all excellent England. Enemies, I take it, are as natural
to a man as babes to a woman. Ghosts of the Vikings!
Would our mothers know our voices?

Canute.

I am king now in a country where there is
corn-growing and the sound of bells. I must be a Christian.

Hardegon.

And you know not a word of the mystery.
You a Christian! Ay, stick your great hands in your hair
and redden. They'll have the laugh of you.

Canute.

I will learn, I must alter. I am not simply
the grand-child of Gorm. These battle-fields are just the
beginning. Afterwards. . . .

Hardegon.

The folly! Rob a man of his ancestors,
you take all. My best hope is to become an ancestor
—no hold on posterity, if you be not a god to it. Then
just think what a time it takes a bit of coast to vary!
When I sail up the fiords, the water-falls drop from the
same cliff, the walls of the white steeps have not budged.
And we reckon on these things. If they fail, there is no
stability. I ask you, are not the gods changeless, must
not divinity dwell among the old ways?

Canute.

O Hardegon, there are answers to these
questions; they are coming on the waves to me. [Looking

out on the sea abstractedly.]

[Enter Thororin.]
Thororin.

Listen! my harp is tuned; it shivers to
praise you. I have had a great madness to sing as I saw the
warriors gather, and heard the blast take your name inland.

Canute
[unheeding].

No wisdom near me,—a dunce
and a ruler! Oh, this shame of ignorance, that will not
hide itself; that must come out, and suffer, and be
mocked! I sob all night for the misery. 'Tis a secret
that cannot be kept, yet the breaking it. . . If one
loved me! [seeing Thororin.]
Oh, how horrible! More
praise of my big sinews. I'll be sullen. [Turns away.]

Thororin.

Deaf to my exaltation, no ear for a poet!
Let me beg, Sire, you listen to my song; it is short.

Canute.

And I am the subject. The insolence of these
verse-makers! They would have all life a general ear for
their bit of piping breath, or they stare and begin to rail.
Off with you, minstrel! Thirty strophes more of your
theme, or you lose your head to-morrow.

Thororin.

Pshaw!—but the threat is nothing. The
wind, a sand-hill, and a cry for dreams, and I am full of
singing that instant.

Canute.

Thirty strophes, and stuffed with comparisons
and reverence.

[Exit Thororin.]
Hardegon.

How he twirls his finger round the flames
on his lip, all impatience for me to go. He has a sea-
bred face. 'Tis a shame for the true, old things to
lose him. I will bring one who can speak—with a voice
that is like the rush of water from amid the foam of her
hair—Gunhild, the prophetess.

[To Canute.]

Strange, you should have taken to
fretting, and all since the siege of London!
[Exit.]

Canute.
All, all since then. Ah, yes! Above me bent
A sweet, soft-shouldered woman, with supreme,
Abashing eyes, and such maturity—
The perfect flower of years—such June of face . . .
So ceremonious, and yet so fearless
In passionate grace, that I was struck with shame,
And knew not where I was, nor how to speak,
Confounded to the heart. She made me feel
That I was lawless and uncivilized,—
Barbarian! In all my brave array
I shrank from her, as she had caught me stripped
For some brute pastime. Is this womanhood?
There's more to see each time one looks at her,
There's music in her; she has listened much,
Pored o'er the lustrous missals, learnt how soft
One speaks to God, with silky filaments
Woven weird pictures of the fates of men.
Her smile is not a new-born thing, 'tis old,
And mellow as the uncut, timeless jewel.
Her forehead's runic,—it is just to-day
On other faces, but this lady's brows
Are full of fond tradition and romance.
I'll be her scholar, she shall teach me all,
And change—yea, as I love her, I am changed
In my ambition, in my appetites,
In my blood, and aspiration. [Turning to some parchments.]
For her sake
I wrestle with these laws. My eyes are dim,
Worn out with gazing, and my brain is slow
To take the import. Sometimes on my vessel
When my dull brain is drowsy with the salt,
I muse on this new wisdom, till its weight
Oppresses me with slumber, as it rises
In such great bulk before me.

[Reads the parchments, sitting.]
[Re-enter Hardegon with Gunhild.]
Hardegon.
At his learning!
Deal with him, spare him not.

Canute.
Whom hast thou brought?
A brooding face, with windy sea of hair,
And eyes whose ample vision ebbs no more
Than waters from a fiord. I conceive
A dread of things familiar as she breathes.

Gunhild.
O king.

Canute.
Ay, Scandinavia.

Gunhild.
He sees
How with a country's might I cross his door;
How in me all his youth was spent, in me
His ancestors are buried; on my brows
Inscribed in his religion; through my frame
Press the great, goading forces of the waves.

Canute.
Art thou a woman?

Gunhild.
Not to thee. I am
Thy past.

Canute.
Her arms are knotted in her bosom
Like ivy-stems. What does she here, so fixed
Before my seat?

Gunhild.
Hearken! I wandered out
Among the brake-fern, and the upright flags,
And snatching brambles, when the sun was gone,
And the west yellow underneath the night.
A fir-bough rolled its mass athwart my way,
With a black fowl thereon. All eve I stood
And gathered in your fate. You raise your hands
To other gods, you speak another tongue,
You learn strange things on which is Odin's seal
That men should know them not, you cast the billows
Behind your back, and leap upon the horse.
You love no more the North that fashioned you,
The ancestors whose blood is in your heart:—
These things you have forgotten.

Canute.
Yes.

Gunhild.
But they
Will have a longer memory. Alas,
The mournfulness that draws about my breasts!
Woe, Woe! There is a justice of the Norn,
Who sings about the cradle.

Canute.
Speak thy worst.
[Aside, rising and pacing apart.]
How different my queen! How liberal
The splendour of her smile! This woman's frown
Is tyrannous. So will my country look,
When I sail back next year; for I shall feel
A dread, a disappointment, and a love
I loathe, it comes up from so deep a well,
Where I am sod and darkness.

Gunhild.
At thy birth
Sang Urd of foregone things, of thy wild race,
Of rocks and fir-trees that for ages past
Stood in thy native bounds, of creeping seas,
That call thy countrymen to journey forth
Among strange people; and her song went on
As flesh was woven for thee in the womb;
It cannot be forgotten, for she sang
Beginnings.

Canute.
O grey-headed tyrannies
Of yore, I will escape you.

Gunhild.
Verily,
They have requital. Thou wilt get a child:
Will it not draw from the deep parts of life;
Will it not take of thee that disposition,
Old as the hills, and as the waterfall,
Whose foam alone was ever seen by man?
Thou wilt produce a being of thy past,
And all thy change avail not.

Hardegon.
How these women
Can sing foundations!

Canute.
If in those I breed
It work no blessing, to myself this new,
Unsettled energy within my brain
Is worth all odds. I cannot understand
Half that is meeting me. Go hence, your face
Is sheer confusion to me; it brings back
The load of ignorance, the brutishness,
The fetters of nativity.

Gunhild.
I go:
But wrathful leave behind me what was told
When the crow bent from the swirled plume of fir,
And held me like a statue.

Canute.
O my past,
I loved thine aspect once, but now my mind
Drives thee away. It seems to me that thought
Is as a moving on along the air—
I cannot yet find language. You oppress,
And hinder me; but when I brood alone,
Hope stirs, and there is tumult of a joy,
That flashes through my nature, like a sword,
Cutting the knots.

Gunhild.
Oh, indestructible
Are the first bonds of living. Fare thee well.
Thou wilt engender thine own ancestry;
Nature will have her permanence.

Canute.
And I
Will have my impulse.

Gunhild.
Oh, the blue fir-bough,
The bird, the fern, and iris at my feet!
The whole world talks of birth, it is the secret
That shudders through all sap.

[Exit.]
Canute.
She turns away
With rigid shoulders, and is vanishing
For ever. 'Tis in wrestles with her like
We are transformed.
[To Hardegon.]
Call Edric, do you hear!
And say no other word as you would live;
My temper will not bear it.
[Exit Hardegon]
Winsome queen,
Emma, great lady, could I reach thy feet,
Thou hadst ne'er known such homage. It is youth,
Youth in its awful kindling; it is love,
When all the body is possessed by want
Of what it would be worthy of;—such youth,
Such love I give thee. Deeper than my race,
Deeper than all my past thy sway is set;
So able are thy brows, such strength is thine,
Thou art beneath all other elements,
They are no more the same. Oh, wonderful!
For I have clipped a woman in my arms,
The silent Elfgifu, my Danish wife;
And I have known the pleasures, but they passed;
I was not altered; in my head no light,
No current through my faculties, no whirl
Of giddy charm.
[Enter Edric.]
Edric, you are the man;
You have the opportunity that chance
Withholds from me.

Edric.
[aside].
He tramps about and catches
His garment's hem, a burning in his eyes.—
Speak out, and plainly.

Canute.
Ha!—The troops come in?
Do they not muster? I am thinking, Edric,
'Tis time now for my tactics, for the plan
Of conquest and repulse. You'll find me keen,
And ready as a captain.

Edric.
I could swear
You have resource. You are a soldier's son,
And know how valid is the right of craft
Toward foemen.

Canute.
Yes, to take them unawares
By artifice and ambush. Look you, thane,
I must possess this kingdom. I am moved
To actions of vast consequence, and need
Space for great laws, the power to mould a nation
To flawless homage. What the means you choose
I care not; anything I hold as just
That will establish justice.

Edric.
So I think.

Canute
[aside].
My breath draws back her name from off my tongue;
I cannot utter it.

Edric.
The army grows,
The Raven flaps for victory, my pate
Teems with its stratagems. Soon will you be
A single ruler; though perchance you'll ask
Another for her company. [Aside.]
He's red,
As if the northern light leapt through his face;
Ho, ho! Can't keep his counsel.—Is your mind
Set on the empire of a bachelor?
You own too hot a pulse.

Canute.
I have no doubt
But I shall marry.

Edric.
Where's the wife to match
An eagle of your plumage?

Canute.
All the world
Is full of stately women.

Edric.
I have seen
But one, the late king's widow. She is prime
Among all dames.

Canute.
You think that you have seen her,
Because you know she has a radiant skin,
And strange, proud eyes!

Edric.
Ah, you are touched, young man!
But she is twice your age.

Canute.
She is beloved
Past any other woman, who was dear
In former times. She holds her century's
Most choice attainments.

Edric.
Will it flatter you
To learn that she would throw away her veil,
Her husband being buried but a week,
To kiss that lip of yours?

Canute.
Impossible!
A brute like me, a child in all but strength,
A Christian but in name, her enemy,
A spoiler, temple-burner, pirate,—she,
Wise, excellent in grace.

Edric.
Yet she is yours,
With all a woman's haste; you are the theme
On which she spends her wisdom.

Canute.
Such a moment—
My future—

Edric.
He is deaf to what I say.
All fire and trembling, ho!

Canute.
My fate is turned
Like a great river from its primal bed
Round by new thorpes and fields. My thankfulness
Is this: she stoops to love me, but a man
Grows up within me she may proudly call
Her lover. Edric, I will never ask
The honour of her fairest hand, will never
Take from her lips the glory of a kiss,
Till I am firmly king.

Edric.
I'll drop some words
To keep her merry, she will bide her time;
Women can wait by nature.

Canute.
Scheme, have ready
Arms and provision. I will go elsewhere,
And study. Read this passage from the scroll;
The language puzzles me. It runs—

Edric.
Like this—

If a man be slain, we estimate all equally dear at forty
talents of pure gold.

Canute.
These laws will I remodel, when I read
The meanings plainly. They shall be enforced
Through the land's length and breadth; and he who kills
Pay the due sum. [Aside.]
I must out to the air,
And splash of the full tide. My joy as yet
Is lightning, thunder in my sense, a storm
Knit up to break in fury.—Give me this,
That parchment, and let no one follow me.

Edric.
A word of dalliance, a sugared speech
To carry to the widow, come!

Canute
[aside].
The fool!
I cannot speak.—Take her my silence, thane.

[Exeunt severally.]