‘When he is dead, thou canst take his body out of the postern by stealth, and bury it, and no man will know what hath become of him.’
At the very moment that this wicked scheme was being arranged, the two Kings and their trains had met, and after greeting one another courteously they all came riding, with great joy, home to the Castle.
The black-hearted Queen went out to meet them, but her fair young daughter, Princess Elfrida, was not with her. She was too shy and modest to greet her lover in public, so she had crept up alone to the top of the Castle, and stood there, peering over the battlements, to see what manner of man he had become. For it was not the first time that they had met. They had been playmates in their youth when Ethelbert as Ætheling had visited Sutton with his father, and they had thought much of each other ever since.
And it chanced that Ethelbert glanced up at the battlements, and when he saw the maiden, with her flaxen locks and blue eyes, looking down at him, his heart leaped for joy, and as soon as he had greeted the Queen, and quaffed a cup of mead, he made his way up to where she was, and there they sat together, so the old books tell us, all the sunny afternoon, while the rest of the gallant company, King Offa, and Prince Ecgfrith, and all the knights and nobles, went a-hunting the wild wolves in the forest near by.
And as they sat they talked together, and Ethelbert told the Princess how all the people of East Anglia were looking forward to welcome their young Queen; and, both of them being true Christians, they made a solemn vow that they would rule their land in ‘righteousness and the fear of God, even as King Ethelbert of Kent and Bertha his wife had ruled their kingdom.’[4]
That night a great feast was held in the Palace of Sutton, a feast more magnificent and gorgeous than had ever been held there before. King Offa sat at the head of the table, wearing his royal robes and the golden crown of Mercia on his head. Beside him sat his wife, and close by were the youthful bride and bridegroom, and ‘that noble youth Ecgfrith’ as the old chroniclers call him.
Nobles and thanes and aldermen crowded round the board, and gleemen who sang fierce war-songs of Hengist and of Cerdic, and of Arthur and his Knights, and the red wine was poured out, and they drank long and heartily; more heartily, perhaps, than they ought to have done.
For the Queen made Cymbert, who stood behind the King’s chair, fill his cup again and again with strong, fierce wine, which had been a present from the Frankish King, and when his brain was heated, and he was not master of himself, she leant against him, and whispered in his ear; and the poor half-drunken Monarch muttered that she could do as she would, little recking that from that time the glory would depart from his house.
Then she spoke lightly and gaily to her guest, handing him a golden cup filled with wine as she did so.
‘Now must thou drink to us, fair sir, and to thy bride, even as we have drunk success and long life to thee.’