“That holy fox Dunstan! Would Redwald had slain him!” muttered Edwy.
“Secondly,” continued Odo, not heeding the interruption, “so far from preventing thefts and fraud in all manner of men, you have maintained notorious oppressors amongst your officers, and in your own person you have broken the oath; for did you not even rob your aged grandmother, and consume her substance in riotous living?”
“What could the old woman do with it all?”
“Thirdly, you have not maintained justice in your judicial proceedings, but have spent all your time, like Rehoboam of old, with the young and giddy, and in chastising your people with scorpions.”
“Would I had a scorpion to chastise you! This is unbearable.
“My lords and counsellors, have you not a word to say for me?”
“Alas!” said Athelwold, “it is all too true; but give up Elgiva now, and all will be well!”
“It will be at least the beginning of reformation,” said Odo.
“And the end, I suppose,” said Edwy, “will be that I shall shave my head like a monk, banquet sumptuously upon herbs and water, spend three-fourths of the day singing psalms through my nose, wear a hair shirt, look as starved as a weasel, and at last, after sundry combats with the devil, pinch his nose, and go off to heaven in all the odour of sanctity. Go and preach all this to Edgar; I am not fool enough to listen to it. You have got him to be your obedient slave and vassal; you have bought him, body and soul, and the price has been Mercia, and now you want to add Wessex. Well, I wish you joy of him, and him of you all; for my part, if I could do it, I would restore the worship of Odin and Thor, and offer you priests as bloody sacrifices to him: I would!”
“Peace, my lord and king! peace! this is horrible,” said Athelwold.
“Horrible!” said another. “He is possessed. My lord Odo, you had better exorcise him.”
But Edwy had given way—he was young—and burst into a passionate fit of weeping, his royal dignity all forgotten.
“Give him time! give him time, father!” said they all.
“One day; he must then submit, or I must do my duty; I have no choice—none,” replied the archbishop.
And the council sadly broke up; but Athelwold sought a private interview with Elgiva.
It was the evening of the same day, and the fair Elgiva sat alone in her apartment, into which the westering sun was casting his last beams of liquid light; tears had stained her cheeks and reddened her eyes, but she looked beautiful as ever, like the poet’s or painter’s conception of the goddess of love. Around her were numerous evidences of a woman’s delicate tastes, of tastes too in advance of her day. The harp, which Edwy had given her the day of their inauspicious union, stood in one corner of the apartment; richly ornamented manuscripts lay scattered about—not, as usual, legends of the saints, and breviaries, but the writings of the heathen poets, especially those who sang most of love: for she was learned in such lore.