University of Virginia Library

2. PART THE SECOND.

THE INTRIGUERS.
The Palace in London.
Enter Edmund, Northumberland, Bulloign.
EDMUND.
Ha! ha!—Now, Bulloign, had I been born a pagan,
As, in my conscience, I'm disposed to think
Our father confessor hath bred me one,
I should convince you, by such precedents,
Drawn from authentic tales of ancient writ,
That, when I kneel to such a shape as hers
I have romanced away this hour in painting,
There is much reason in idolatry.
Why, brother, she,—I say again—

BULLOIGN.
I grant you,
Without again retouching a fair picture,
That she is beautiful, and may be chaste.

EDMUND.
May! why she is; or I should hate her.

BULLOIGN.
So—
As you have tried, or will, I grant it: but, sir,
Take heed: this wife, or daughter, of old Sigiferth,—
(No matter which)—this miracle—this paragon—
May, like the caged bird, well be credited
For a most wanton wish to fly at large.
Nay, rob not the old pigeon of his mate.

EDMUND.
Absurd! you have not seen her. Wives will have
An air that shows the matron, staid and comely;
Collected in their virtue, as becomes such
Who, knowing what vice may be, can restrain it;
A wide benignity of eye, that smiles
(Like mother Nature in her gentlest mood)
With the soft gaze of pleased maternity,
On all around that's good. But she I wot of
Has all the virgin's shyness, and her foot
A fawn-like elasticity, that suits not
Forms that have been the shrine of infant life.
She is the mountain flower, whom never eye
Hath mark'd but mine, and never hand shall gather
From its sweet nest but mine. No more—Lord Edric.
Leave us together.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Why will you trust that man?

EDMUND.
Aha! you 've not forgot your fencing match
I' the council yester eve. Eustace, how think you?
Play'd not the Duke of Mercia his foil well?
Methinks he touch'd my Lord Northumberland
Once and again: 'twas well the point was hooded.

BULLOIGN.
Hush!

EDMUND.
Pshaw! I care not.— [To Edric, entering.]
—Gentle potentate!
Cousin of Mercia! most renown'd co-regent!
How fares your grace? I have just pluck'd the sleeve
Of memory, for these lords, touching that feat
Of prowess, wherewith you surprised the court
Last night.

BULLOIGN.
Dear madcap coz, adieu! We may not
The ear of needful business intercept.
Good day, my lord of Mercia.

[Exeunt Bulloign and Northumberland.
EDMUND.
Brother Edric,
There seem'd in that fastidious bow, and smile
Of, how shall I name it, supercilious meekness,
Feelings far alien to a brother's heart.
How's this?—I would have concord.

EDRIC.
You shall command
Whate'er you will—my heart: but pardon me,
If somewhat yet of chill clings to my spirit.
The earliest ice will skin the scalded cup.
You summon'd me?

EDMUND.
Ay, to as light a council
As ever prince call'd minister. I love.
You smile; and think 'twere well to talk of war,
Canute, and those most waspish Danes. Observe me;
I am prepared for all; and, sans advice,
Have ta'en such steps as shall affright these Danes.
But 'twas not that I sought to speak on—love,
Love is my theme to-day, and shall this night
Be my best business. You must aid me.

EDRIC.
I?—

EDMUND.
Ay, sage viceregent! but seek not with whom.
Let me have masquers, minstrels, poets—all
Who best may give night serenades a zest.
Know you Lord Sigiferth—the Dane? You seem
Surprised.

EDRIC
(aside).
What! love another's wife?—a Dane's?
And seek her? This breeds mischief.— (Aloud.)
—Ay, my lord,
The dotard who has married the young wife—

EDMUND.
Should be consulted?—should he not? Th' emergency
Presses—he is a Dane, and yet most trusty:
A noble of much weight, and wisely gifted.

EDRIC
(aside).
Prince Edwy, too, lays his suit here. Even brothers
May not, in love, be bloodless rivals.

EDMUND.
Fie!
Your apprehension's dull. 'Twere well, methinks,
To call this lord to conference: he will
Be flatter'd, and detain'd, till—

EDRIC.
'Till the jewel
He loves is filch'd from him?

EDMUND.
You know me not.
Govern your forward fancy more discreetly.

EDRIC.
My will is yours alone. When purpose you
To try th' adventure?

EDMUND.
When the moon first rises.

EDRIC.
That will be nine.

EDMUND.
No later. I must feed
My midnight lamp with studious oil, and forfeit
To th' public weal my rest; but, first, would gladly
Strike from the flinty edge of care one spark
Of perishable joy.

EDRIC.
You are determined?

EDMUND.
Fully.

EDRIC.
My lord, reflect—it is my duty.

EDMUND.
Nay,
Talk on; I have made up my mind. Say, therefore,
E'en what you will. Deal you in most sage saws,
I shall most merrily interpret them.

EDRIC.
I know my duty, prince—but love for you
Hoodwinks my judgment.

EDMUND.
Oh, no doubt, no doubt—
No more of that.

EDRIC.
Will you not name your lady?—
She is some flaring, summer-dighted dame,
Ambling through love's hot atmosphere, and turning
Her throbbing bosom to young Cupid's beams,
As to yon sun the flower that bears his name.
I would I knew how deep this shaft hath sped;
[Aside.
How keenly barb'd.

EDMUND.
Thou libeller of beauty!

EDRIC.
I know not that. What stature bears she?—say
What colour on her cheek?—fair as the morning?
Is that the tint? or beautiful as night;
Around whose umber'd brow the opal moon
Gathers a diamond diadem of stars?—
Where is your limner's skill?

EDMUND.
How should I paint her?
By what quaint alchemy could I distil
Tints of aerial delicacy, such
As Iris arches o'er a summer shower,
To sketch the evanescent charms that wander
About her beautiful presence!

EDRIC.
Thus 'tis ever
With beauty—perfect, as love.

EDMUND.
Nay, 'tis not
The grace of her meek, bending, snowy neck;
The delicate budding of her tender bosom,
Above a waist a stripling's hand might compass;
The flowing outline of proportion'd limbs,
Moving with health's elastic lightness, blent
With all that nameless suavity of air
That marks high birth; 'tis not, alone, a face
Whose features are all symmetry; an eye
In whose etherial blue Love sits enshrined,
A spirit in a star; cheeks eloquent
In changeful blushes, as her sweetest lips
In the harmonious utterance of pure thoughts:
'Tis not all these—the palpable ornaments
Of the material mould, love's pageantry
Floating o'er beauty's surface (as the galley
That, in its proud trim, bore the Egyptian queen
Along the rosy-tinted waves, reflecting
The blazon of that mock divinity):
No, no! it is not these that win my heart:
But 'tis the pure intelligence of mind
That, like some inborn light, beams from her soul;
The virtuous thoughts, that clothe her as a garment;
The chastity, the candour, and the meekness,
That, through her parted hair, look from a brow
And features, where the seal of heaven is set!
Oh, Edric! 'tis, in truth, a countenance
Whereon a saint might look, loving yet passionless;
A record of philosophy; a page
Where Wisdom might peruse and learn, as in
A leaf of holy writ.

EDRIC.
Draw breath, fair brother!
This is, indeed, to be enamour'd—but
True as the portrait may be, is it quite
In character? What hope you from a—wife—
Suiting your rhapsody?

EDMUND.
A wife!—by Heaven!
You all are in one plot to madden me.
I love the daughter, not the wife.

EDRIC.
Cry mercy!
Heaven speed your wooing! So, as yet, you have not
Whisper'd what ladies love to hear?

EDMUND.
I have
But gazed—and gazed: yet can I read the heart
In the fair superscription of the face;
And all I name I pledge myself she is.

EDRIC.
Whate'er you please; I shall believe it all.
And you, here, aim—

EDMUND.
No matter what my aim is.
At nine—remember. Ho! Lord Edric—hearken—
Be in my chamber, ere to-morrow's sun:
We shall have need of counsel—trusty and wise.
Till then, farewell!
[Exit Edmund.

EDRIC.
I do begin to think there's virtue in
My new ambition; Fate so leagues herself
Accomplice to my will. The brothers woo
One mistress—prosperously may they woo!
It is a charitable wish, and likely
To yield contentment, 'till each knows his wrong.
What then?—Am I to blame, should accident,
Or overweening zeal, tear off the bandage
From either's eyes; and if ('tis natural)
Evil should grow of this, and, from the heart,
Wherein 'tis 'gender'd, travel to the hand?
Let me consider.—This course is too slow.
To-night this gallant visits his unknown,
(For such she seems to him) this Algitha,
Late wedded to her guardian, Sigiferth;
In some fantastic freak of age, men say,
Churlish to watch what it may not enjoy.
This maiden, too, hath caught the eye of Edwy;
And he is savage in his appetite.
What if both choose one moment for one suit?
What if both meet in rage—can I help that?
What if one slay the other—is't my fault?
At least 'twill be my gain whate'er befal.
Shall I not turn it in my thought?—I will.
In that there's risk to none.

[Exit.
The open Country.
Enter Canute, Gothmund, Turkill, Anlaffe, and Suite.
CANUTE.
Thus far my father's wishes are fulfill'd,
And our lance quivers in fair England's heart.
Earl Gothmund, bear these tidings to the king,
Whose age-worn frame, and sorrow-stricken soul,
Need such refreshment: you may say thus farther,
That plots, now ripening, promise early fruit:
We gain alike by battle or by parley.

GOTHMUND.
I go, my lord.
[Exit Gothmund.

CANUTE.
Turkill, this enemy,
Marshall'd by youths, bear them right cautiously.

TURKILL.
Our spies report, the sons of Ethelred,
And the co-regent Duke of Mercia,
Still haunt the court, leaving to graver heads
The toils of war.

CANUTE.
Methinks, Northumberland
Had shown more soldiership, had he maintain'd
Yon hill's bold brow some hours. Flank'd by that river,
We durst not have affronted his main battle.

TURKILL.
Cornwall, who, as Duke Edric's creature, holds
High influence o'er their councils, writes to me,
That, by Prince Edmund's order, who allows
No second in command, they may not hazard
One doubtful field, till join'd by his new levies,
Which are immediate. Young as he is, methinks
Your grace will find no worthless foe in Edmund.

CANUTE.
Such is my trust. I have not given my youth
A scholarship of arms, to waste my prime
In tilting for a pastime; or, in blunting
My sword on silken-coated chamber-gallants.
I would do something that, while it serves the state,
May, for itself, be worth a memory:
Something of prowess in the shock of steel;
Or the wise combinations of plann'd fields,
Where thought does more than weapon; or repute
For skill in conduct of successful plots,
Where the pen saves the sword a world of blood.

TURKILL.
We soldiers, good my lord, would rather wade,
Even to the knees, in blood, than toil a league
Of a rough road to avoid it. Yet, I own,
Plots promise well; perhaps at lighter risk.

CANUTE.
Cornwall is Mercia's friend. How well I hate
That man thou know'st: yet, in this game we play
Deep stakes, and must, though prompt, be cautious still.
If, by to-morrow's sunset, we can force
No 'vantage in the field, we then essay
A wilier game. What think you? Ethelred
May his last hour gladly absolve from care,
And leave th' adjustment of our difference
To the arbitrement of umpires: I
Would not reject, and he will name Duke Edric.

TURKILL.
Why, 'tis a hopeful scheme: impediment
I can see none—save, in your vow of vengeance.

CANUTE.
That shall be kept; but may be kept as surely
In future council as this battle-field.
Yes—I will meet, with a sheath'd sword, this Edric
Now; 'tis my policy:—the instant welfare
Of kings and nations rest upon my conduct.
In private quarrel these shall not be peril'd.

TURKILL.
A surer time may come.

CANUTE.
A sure time shall come—
My oath is register'd. But, first, my arm
Must, from his throne, pluck down this bloody Saxon,
Whose crown a Dane shall wear more gloriously.
Then, Edric, at thy heart!—but not i' th' dark.
I shall strike at thee in an open field—
Then give thy forfeit limbs to feed the crow.
Now, nobles, for the present be it your care
To plume our squadrons for the morrow's sun,
As if we had no thought but to display
Our prowess 'neath his eye. Meantime, within
My tent, will I, with slow and wary thought,
Address my mind to either chance.—Depart.

[Exeunt severally.
The Garden of Sigiferth.
Enter Edmund.
EDMUND.
This is the gate—softly—ay, there 's her chamber.
The light looks from her casement on the moon,
With a red eye, as one who watches. See!
What passes o'er the window?—now 'tis gone—
And now (her own sweet shade, as 'twere a spirit,
Gracing this lonely hour) 'tis come again.
How beautiful, to one who loves, is such
A night as this! breathless as he who stills
His heart to catch love's sigh, dearer than words.
No sound of life disturbs the air:—the moon
Sits in her cloudy temple; like a priestess,
White-stoled, and radiant with the inward light
Of wisdom, holy thoughts, most pure desires,
And dreams that hold her in community
With yon angelic choir, whose sounding spheres
Peal hymns of adoration, through the depths
Of the calm, boundless, and eternal heaven!
Most soothing are the thoughts great Nature breathes
Into the human soul!—as if from heaven,
Upon the altar of the heart, direct,
A purer flame descended, there to light
Th' accepted sacrifice! How blest art thou,
Love, in thy garb of purity! how base
In all thy meretricious braveries!
Thou art the blossom of the heart, that heralds
A various fruitage: some, like dead-sea apples,
That break in bitter dust within the lips;
Some, of a cloying sweetness, which leave after
A legacy of sickening qualms; some pungent,
That stimulate the craving sense, then pall it;
But some have such blest flavour, wholesome substance,
That appetite, unsated, still returns;
As love's requital makes us doubly love.
She moves again, between the light and window—
How gracefully her shadow bends! and now
Her arm is raised—haply, to loose her tresses,
And fling them forth, a fountain of bright ringlets,
As waters round a statue. Come, sweet music!
Carry love's soul into her ear, and witch her
Unto my suit. Hist, hist! ye laggart minstrels!
Where do ye linger?

[He steps aside.
Enter Edwy and Osmer.
EDWY.
Nay, nay! I might have any woman so.
I would not love her, knave, beyond a week.
Ha! see you there, whom Edric told me of?
My blood's on fire.

[Catching at his dagger.
OSMER.
Think of her husband, prince.

EDWY.
A sly gift to the church may absolve much.
See! here he comes again! Hell blister him!
Bastard, wilt thou stand by me?

OSMER.
Prove me.

EDWY.
By hell!
The villain tempts me strangely.

Enter Sigiferth, cloaked. He knocks at the door.
SIGIFERTH.
Algitha!

EDWY.
His fancy is already in her chamber—
Damn him!

[Edwy and Osmer assail Sigiferth.
EDWY.
Hot liver! take this to thy core!

SIGIFERTH.
Oh! I am slain.

ALGITHA
(rushing out in terror).
Help! help!

EDWY.
Sweet mistress—pr'ythee!
Thou shalt have usage such as ladies love.
Nay, then, I 'll stop your mouth with kisses.

Enter Edmund, from behind.
EDMUND.
Fiend!
Whoe'er thou art, defend thyself! Unhand
The lady! Look to thy life.

EDWY
(aside).
My brother's voice!
Osmer, upon him!

[They both fight with Edmund. Osmer flies.
EDWY.
Coward!—Hold, Edmund, hold!
I'm wounded to the death!

EDMUND.
What!—speak again.
Lights there!—what ho!—hold up thy head!—who art thou?
My brother?—say not that thou art my brother.

EDWY.
Leave me!—begone!

Enter Edric, and Attendants with torches.
EDRIC.
What means this broil?
(Aside).
By death!
The churl it is that's hurt.

EDMUND.
Turn down your torches:
Lift not night's pall from such a sight as this.
Edric, the dæmons have been loosed on earth,
And ta'en men's shapes, and wrought such bloody pranks
As should draw down th' avenging lightnings. See
How to the bloody corse of Sigiferth
Yon weeping woman clings. There lies my brother,
Smote in his crime by an unconscious hand,
A brother's hand—his blood is on my sword.
See here! and on my head, and in my heart.
Oh, Edwy!

EDWY.
Touch me not! avaunt! I am
Revived again! Lord Edric, take me hence.

EDMUND.
Brother! your hand.

EDWY
(to EDRIC).
Your arm, sir; lead me hence.

[Exit Edwy with Edric.
EDMUND
(to ALGITHA).
Lady, permit a friend, who loved your father,
Gently to draw you from this scene.

ALGITHA.
My father!
Oh, yes! he was a father to me. Sigiferth!
My husband! my poor husband!

EDMUND.
Sacred Heaven!
Lady, forgive, that I—Thou bleeding clay
Forgive, that even in thought I wrong'd thee. Lady,
How may I serve thee?

ALGITHA.
Oh, had you known him, sir,
And seen how fondly from my infancy
He cherish'd me; and, when the world grew strong
In wickedness around me, gave in his age
The ægis of an honour'd name and house
To shield my friendless, maiden helplessness.

EDMUND.
Oh, say no more—

ALGITHA.
And can I view him now,
Defaced by murder's ruthless hand, nor feel
My desolation, and his fate?—My husband!
Friend! father! pardon that I think of aught
Than this, thy breathless clay—oh misery!

EDMUND.
Pray you permit that, with a friendly force,
I draw you from this sorrow. Sirs, take up
These poor remains; and to Saint Stephen's bear them.
I shall take charge that honourable rites
And holy masses grace his sepulture.
Lady, I shall but lead you to your home,
And so commit you to your handmaid's care.

[Exeunt severally.
The Palace in London.
Enter Edmund, Edric, Bulloign, &c.
EDMUND.
My lord of Mercia, I insist you waive
This topic. Whilst in my hand lies deputed
The sceptre, I will grasp it as a sword.

EDRIC.
I do but urge your father's express will,
The weakness of the times—fair policy—

EDMUND.
Away with policy! and, for the times,
Our firmness and unshrinking will shall nerve
The puny muscles of misrule. I bow,
As doth become a son, with filial sorrow,
Before a father's weakness; but, as a prince,
A patriot, and a man, I dare to think
And act as may advantage our poor country—
Albeit amenable to cavilling fools
Touching this charge of disobedience. Gentlemen,
Who feel as Englishmen should feel, already
Have three most precious weeks vainly been wasted
In this most aimless conference.

EDRIC.
Sir,—

EDMUND.
Speak not!
I'll have no more on't. Bulloign, to horse! and bear
My orders to Northumberland and Cornwall,
That by to-morrow's sun, on Ashdown field,
Our power stand militant. Before the dawn
I shall be at their head.

BULLOIGN.
I haste, my prince;
And with a light heart shall essay the journey,
Bearing such worthy tidings.

[Exit Bulloign, attended.
EDMUND.
Edric, I take
Your hand, in pledge that with no angry thought
Do I reject your well-meant counsel. Further,
I here commit to your fraternal care
That dearest hope I hold on earth, the beautiful,
The virtuous, and, though widow'd, virgin Algitha.
She knows that with no selfish aim I strive
To win her from past grief. She shall be mine—
Your eye falls from me.

EDRIC
(aside).
Dolt! I have conjured up
Nought but despair by my vain plots. The death
Of Sigiferth hath help'd him to a wife,
Me to new crimes. Shall I proceed—or pause?

EDMUND.
Why muse you?

EDRIC.
Thoughts, my lord, are very worthless.
So, when the stress of battle comes, my station
Is with weak woman and a death-bed! Take
My sword; a distaff, or a crucifix,
Suit better my new dignity.

EDMUND.
I seek not
Aught so unworthy of your character.
Your Mercian levies, and the tardier Angles,
(Who with strong bit and sharp spur must be ruled),
To your experience we commit. Though somewhat
Of loiterers on the skirts of our main battle,
They shall well back us in to-morrow's fight.
Take, then, this post, as one of honour: trust me,
A firm mind and a skilful never yet
Were more in need. We purpose to enact
That which may ask prompt succour. Are you content?

EDRIC.
Of force I must be.

EDMUND.
Now, to thee, fair Algitha,
I shall but whisper one soft word—and then—
I must not dwell on this. Commend me, Edric,
Unto the queen; and, though her love for me
Be scant, tell her, whate'er betide, there lives not
A heart more firm in honourable faith
To her, and her fair children.
[Exit Edmund.

EDRIC.
The scale of fate is in my hands again!
Hope breathes once more! Who waits?
Enter a Servant.
Send to my chamber
The Earl of Cornwall's messenger. My pact
Shall with the Dane be kept—though yet my claim
Upon Northumbria be in suspense.
Should Edmund lose to-morrow's day?—Why, then,
I hold the key, by whose most cunning wards
Empire within these turrets is shut in.
To-morrow! ay, that is the staff I lean on;
Round whose charm'd stem, as o'er a wizard's wand,
The serpent, Hope, coils up his glittering folds.
Adieu to Edmund, should that day be lost;
And that he wins it not be it my care.
Edwy!—thou art an ill weed in my path,
From whence some poisonous drug may be distill'd.
Thou hast a venom rankling in thy veins
Which a false tongue hath breathed into thy sense
Of that chance blow, dealt by a brother's hand.
I'll prompt him to some post of trust to-morrow,
And with a hawk's-eye watch the flight of chance.
The king will soon be dead: brief be, thereafter,
Thy widow's weeds, fair Emma! I know no guardian
More worthy of thy royal brood than I.
Oh! trust me in thy dove-cote, I shall be
As plausible a fox as ever wiled
Bold chanticleer from roost; and, for a kite,
The mildest bird that ever stoop'd to feather.
So, welcome Power; and guide me to a gem
Of a yet brighter and more royal water!
Now wend I to the queen. Unholy love!
Dæmon ambition! in your fiercest flames
Kindle your torches; and, upon my tongue,
And in her heart, pour all your subtlest fires,
To win a jealous woman to my will!

[Exit.