Dead Man's Plack and an Old Thorn

Chapter 12

She was not dead. She recovered from that swoon, but never from the

deep, unbroken sadness caused by those last words of the maid Editha,

which had overcome and nearly slain her. She now abandoned her

seclusion, but the world she returned to was not the old one. The

thought that every person she met was saying in his or her heart: This

is Elfrida; this is the queen who murdered Edward the Martyr, her

step-son, made that world impossible. The men and women she now

consorted with were the religious and ecclesiastics of all degrees, and

abbots and abbesses. These were the people she loved least, yet now into

their hands she deliberately gave herself; and to those who questioned

her, to her spiritual guides, she revealed all her life and thoughts and

passions, opening her soul to their eyes like a manuscript for them to

read and consider; and when they told her that in God's sight she was

guilty of the murder both of Edward and Athelwold, she replied that they

doubtless knew best what was in God's mind, and whatever they commanded

her to do that should be done, and if in her own mind it was not as they

said this could be taken as a defect in her understanding. For in her

heart she was not changed, and had not yet and never would learn the

bitter lesson of humility. Furthermore, she knew better than they what

life and death had in store for her, since it had been revealed to her

by holier lips than those of any priest. Lips on which had been laid a

coal from the heavenly altar, and what they had foretold would come to

pass--that unearthly pilgrimage and purification--that destiny,

dreadful, ineluctable, that made her soul faint to think of it. Here, on

this earth, it was for her to toil, a slave with heavy irons on her

feet, in her master's fields and pleasure-grounds, and these gowned men

with shaven heads, wearing ropes of beads and crucifixes as emblems of

their authority--these were the taskmasters set over her, and to these,

she, Elfrida, one time queen in England, would bend in submission and

humbly confess her sins, and uncomplainingly take whatever austerities

or other punishments they decreed.

Here, then, at Amesbury itself, she began her works of expiation, and

found that she, too, like the unhappy man in the parable, could

experience some relief and satisfaction in her solitary embittered

existence in the work itself.

Having been told that at this village where she was living a monastery

had existed and had been destroyed in the dreadful wars of two to three

centuries ago, she conceived the idea of founding a new one, a nunnery,

and endowing it richly, and accordingly the Abbey of Amesbury was built

and generously endowed by her.

This religious house became famous in after days, and was resorted to by

the noblest ladies in the land who desired to take the veil, including

princesses and widow queens; and it continued to flourish for centuries,

down to the Dissolution.

This work completed, she returned, after nineteen years, to her old home

at Wherwell. Since she had lost sight of her maid Editha, she had been

possessed with a desire to re-visit that spot, where she had been happy

as a young bride and had repined in solitude and had had her glorious

triumph and stained her soul with crime. She craved for it again,

especially to look once more at the crystal current of the Test in which

she had been accustomed to dip her hands. The grave, saintly face of

Editha had reminded her of that stream; and Editha she might not see.

She could not seek for her, nor speak to her, nor cry to her to come

back to her, since she had said that they would meet no more on earth.

Having become possessed of the castle which she had once regarded as her

prison and cage, she ordered its demolition and used the materials in

building the abbey she founded at that spot, and it was taken for

granted by the Church that this was done in expiation of the part she

had taken in Athelwold's murder. At this spot where the stream became

associated in her mind with the thought of Editha, and was a sacred

stream, she resolved to end her days. But the time of her retirement was

not yet, there was much still waiting for her to do in her master's

fields and pleasure-grounds. For no sooner had the tidings of her work

in founding these monasteries and the lavish use she was making of her

great wealth been spread abroad, than from many religious houses all

over the land the cry was sent to her--the Macedonian cry to St. Paul to

come over and help us.

From the houses founded by Edgar the cry was particularly loud and

insistent. There were forty-seven of them, and had not Edgar died so

soon there would have been fifty, that being the number he had set his

heart on in his fervid zeal for religion. All, alas! were insufficiently

endowed; and it was for Elfrida, as they were careful to point out, to

increase their income from her great wealth, seeing that this would

enable them to associate her name with that of Edgar and keep it in

memory, and this would be good for her soul.

To all such calls she listened, and she performed many and long journeys

to the religious houses all over the country to look closely into their

conditions and needs, and to all she gave freely or in moderation, but

not always without a gesture of scorn. For in her heart of hearts she

was still Elfrida and unchanged, albeit outwardly she had attained to

humility; only once during these years of travel and toil when she was

getting rid of her wealth did she allow her secret bitterness and

hostility to her ecclesiastical guides and advisers to break out.

She was at Worcester, engaged in a conference with the bishop and

several of his clergy; they were sitting at an oak table with some

papers and plans before them, when the news was brought into the room

that Archbishop Dunstan was dead.

They all, except Elfrida, started to their feet with the looks and

exclamations of dismay, as if some frightful calamity had come to pass.

Then dropping to their knees with bowed heads and lifted hands they

prayed for the repose of his soul. They prayed silently, but the silence

was broken by a laugh from the queen. Starting to his feet the bishop

turned on her a severe countenance, and asked why she laughed at that

solemn moment.

She replied that she had laughed unthinkingly, as the linnet sings, from

pure joy of heart at the glad tidings that their holy archbishop had

been translated to paradise. For if he had done so much for England when

burdened with the flesh, how much more would he be able to do now from

the seat or throne to which he would be exalted in heaven in virtue of

the position his blessed mother now occupied in that place.

The bishop, angered at her mocking words, turned his back on her, and

the others, following his example, averted their faces, but not one word

did they utter.

They remembered that Dunstan in former years, when striving to make

himself all powerful in the kingdom, had made free use of a supernatural

machinery; that when he wanted something done and it could not be done

in any other way, he received a command from heaven, brought to him by

some saint or angel, to have it done, and the command had then to be

obeyed. They also remembered that when Dunstan, as he informed them, had

been snatched up into the seventh heaven, he did not on his return to

earth modestly, like St. Paul, that it was not lawful for him to speak

of the things which he had heard and seen, but he proclaimed them to an

astonished world in his loudest trumpet voice. Also, that when, by these

means, he had established his power and influence and knew that he could

trust his own subtle brains to maintain his position, he had dropped the

miracles and visions. And it had come to pass that when the archbishop

had seen fit to leave the supernatural element out of his policy, the

heads of the Church in England were only too pleased to have it so. The

world had gaped with astonishment at these revelations long enough, and

its credulity had come near to the breaking point, on which account the

raking up of these perilous matters by the queen was fiercely resented.

But the queen was not yet satisfied that enough had been said by her.

Now she was in full revolt she must give out once for all the hatred of

her old enemy, which his death had not appeased.

What mean you, Fathers, she cried, by turning your backs on me and

keeping silence? Is it an insult to me you intend or to the memory of

that great and holy man who has just quitted the earth? Will you dare to

say that the reports he brought to us of the marvellous doings he

witnessed in heaven, when he was taken there, were false and the lies

and inventions of Satan, whose servant he was?

More than that she was not allowed to say, for now the bishop in a

mighty rage swung round, and dealt a blow on the table with such fury

that his arm was disabled by it, he shouted at her: Not another word!

Hold your mocking tongue, fiendish woman! Then plucking up his gown with

his left hand for fear of being tripped up by it he rushed out of the

room.

The others, still keeping their faces averted from her, followed at a

more dignified pace; and seeing them depart she cried after them: Go,

Fathers, and tell your bishop that if he had not run away so soon he

would have been rewarded for his insolence by a slap in the face.

This outburst on her part caused no lasting break in her relations with

the Church. It was to her merely an incident in her long day's toil in

her master's fields--a quarrel she had had with an overseer; while he,

on his side, even before he recovered the use of his injured arm,

thought it best for their souls, as well as for the interests of the

Church, to say no more about it. Her great works of expiation were

accordingly continued. But the time at length arrived for her to take

her long-desired rest before facing the unknown dreaded future. She was

not old in years, but remorse and a deep settled melancholy and her

frequent fierce wrestlings with her own rebellious nature as with an

untamed dangerous animal chained to her had made her old. Furthermore,

she had by now well-nigh expended all her possessions and wealth, even

to the gems she had once prized and then thrust away out of sight for

many years, and which her maid Editha had rejected with scorn, saying

they were no more to her than pebbles from the brook.

Once more at Wherwell, she entered the Abbey, and albeit she took the

veil herself she was not under the same strict rule as her sister nuns.

The Abbess herself retired to Winchester and ruled the convent from that

city, while Elfrida had the liberty she desired, to live and do as she

liked in her own rooms and attend prayers and meals only when inclined

to do so. There, as always, since Edward's death, her life was a

solitary one, and in the cold season she would have her fire of logs and

sit before it as in the old days in the castle, brooding ever on her

happy and unhappy past and on the awful future, the years and centuries

of suffering and purification.

It was chiefly this thought of the solitariness of that future state,

that companionless way, centuries long, that daunted her. Here in this

earthly state, darkened as it was, there were yet two souls she could

and constantly did hold communion with--Editha still on earth, though

not with her, and Edward in heaven; but in that dreadful desert to which

she would be banished there would be a great gulf set between her soul

and theirs.

But perhaps there would be others she had known, whose lives had been

interwoven with hers, she would be allowed to commune with in that same

place. Edgar of a certainty would be there, although Glastonbury had

built him a chapel and put him in a silver tomb and had begun to call

him Saint Edgar. Would he find her and seek to have speech with her? It

was anguish to her even to think of such an encounter. She would say, Do

not come to me, for rather would I be alone in this dreadful solitude

for a thousand years than have you, Edgar, for company. For I have not

now one thought or memory of you in my soul that is not bitter. It is

true that I once loved you: even before I saw your face I loved you, and

said in my heart that we two were destined to be one. And my love

increased when we were united, and you gave me my heart's desire--the

power I loved, and glory in the sight of the world. And although in my

heart I laughed at your pretended zeal for a pure religion while you

were gratifying your lower desires and chasing after fair women all over

the land, I admired and gloried in your nobler qualities, your activity

and vigilance in keeping the peace within your borders, and in making

England master of the seas, so that the pirate kings of the North

ventured not to approach our shores. But on your own gross appetites you

would put no restraint, but gave yourself up to wine and gluttony and

made a companion of Death, even in the flower of your age you were

playing with Death, and when you had lived but half your years you rode

away with Death and left me alone; you, Edgar, the mighty hunter and

slayer of wolves, you rode away and left me to the wolves, alone, in a

dark forest. Therefore the guilt of Edward's death is yours more than

mine, though my soul is stained red with his blood, seeing that you left

me to fight alone, and in my madness, not knowing what I did, I stained

myself with this crime.

But what you have done to me is of little moment, seeing that mine is

but one soul of the many thousands that were given into your keeping,

and your crime in wasting your life for the sake of base pleasures was

committed against an entire nation, and not of the living only but also

the great and glorious dead of the race of Cerdic--of the men who have

laboured these many centuries, shedding their blood on a hundred

stricken fields, to build up this kingdom of England; and when their

mighty work was completed it was given into your hands to keep and

guard. And you died and abandoned it; Death, your playmate, has taken

you away, and Edgar's peace is no more. Now your ships are scattered or

sunk in the sea, now the invaders are again on your coasts as in the old

dreadful days, burning and slaying, and want is everywhere and fear is

in all hearts throughout the land. And the king, your son, who inherited

your beautiful face and nought beside except your vices and whatever was

least worthy of a king, he too is now taking his pleasure, even as you

took yours, in a gay bejewelled dress, with some shameless woman at his

side and a wine-cup in his hand. O unhappy mother that I am, that I must

curse the day a son was born to me! O grief immitigable that it was my

deed, my dreadful deed, that raised him to the throne--the throne that

was Alfred's and Edmund's and Athelstan's!

These were the thoughts that were her only company as she sat brooding

before her winter fire, day after day, and winter following winter,

while the years deepened the lines of anguish on her face and whitened

the hair that was once red gold.

But in the summer time she was less unhappy, for then she could spend

the long hours out of doors under the sky in the large shaded gardens of

the convent with the stream for boundary on the lower side. This stream

had now become more to her than in the old days when, languishing in

solitude, she had made it a companion and confidant. For now it had

become associated in her mind with the image of the maid Editha, and

when she sat again at the old spot on the bank gazing on the swift

crystal current, then dipping her hand in it and putting the wetted hand

to her lips, the stream and Editha were one.

Then one day she was missed, and for a long time they sought for her all

through the building and in the grounds without finding her. Then the

seekers heard a loud cry, and saw one of the nuns running towards the

convent door, with her hands pressed to her face as if to shut out some

dreadful sight; and when they called to her she pointed back towards the

stream and ran on to the house. Then all the sisters who were out in the

grounds hurried down to the stream to the spot where Elfrida was

accustomed to sit, and were horrified to see her lying drowned in the

water.

It was a hot, dry summer and the stream was low, and in stooping to dip

her hand in the water she had lost her balance and fallen in, and

although the water was but three feet deep she had in her feebleness

been unable to save herself. She was lying on her back on the clearly

seen bed of many-coloured pebbles, her head pointing downstream, and the

swift fretting current had carried away her hood and pulled out her long

abundant silver-white hair, and the current played with her hair, now

pulling it straight out, then spreading it wide over the surface, mixing

its silvery threads with the hair-like green blades of the floating

water-grass. And the dead face was like marble; but the wide-open eyes

that had never wholly lost their brilliance and the beautiful lungwort

blue colour were like living eyes--living and gazing through the

crystal-clear running water at the group of nuns staring down with

horror-struck faces at her.

Thus ended Elfrida's darkened life; nor did it seem an unfit end; for it

was as if she had fallen into the arms of the maiden who had in her

thoughts become one with the stream--the saintly Editha through whose

sacrifice and intercession she had been saved from death everlasting.