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THE IRON ARROW HEAD
THE FULL SERIES OF
The Mysteries of the People
"OR"
History of a Proletarian Family
Across the Ages
By EUGENE SUE
_Consisting of the Following Works:_
THE GOLD SICKLE; or, _Hena the Virgin of the Isle of Sen._
THE BRASS BELL; or, _The Chariot of Death._
THE IRON COLLAR; or, _Faustina and Syomara._
THE SILVER CROSS; or, _The Carpenter of Nazareth._
THE CASQUE'S LARK; or, Victoria, the Mother of the Camps.
THE PONIARD'S HILT; or, _Karadeucq and Ronan._
THE BRANDING NEEDLE; or, _The Monastery of Charolles._
THE ABBATIAL CROSIER; or, _Bonaik and Septimine._
THE CARLOVINGIAN COINS; or, _The Daughters of Charlemagne._
THE IRON ARROW-HEAD; or, _The Buckler Maiden._
THE INFANT'S SKULL; or, _The End of the World._
THE PILGRIM'S SHELL; or, _Fergan the Quarryman._
THE IRON PINCERS; or, _Mylio and Karvel._
THE IRON TREVET; or, _Jocelyn the Champion._
THE EXECUTIONER'S KNIFE; or, _Joan of Arc._
THE POCKET BIBLE; or, _Christian the Printer._
THE BLACKSMITH'S HAMMER; or, _The Peasant Code._
THE SWORD OF HONOR; or, _The Foundation of the French Republic._
THE GALLEY SLAVE'S RING; or, _The Family Lebrenn._
Published Uniform With This Volume By
THE NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.
28 CITY HALL PLACE NEW YORK CITY
THE
IRON ARROW HEAD
:: :: OR :: ::
THE BUCKLER MAIDEN
A Tale of the Northman Invasion
By EUGENE SUE
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH
By DANIEL DE LEON
NEW YORK LABOR NEWS COMPANY. 1909
Copyright, 1908, by the
NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.
INDEX
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE v
CHAPTER.
I. ROTHBERT, COUNT OF PARIS 1
II. FATHER FULTRADE 11
III. GAELO AND SHIGNE 23
IV. A BERSERKER 33
V. THE ABBEY OF ST. DENIS 43
VI. SISTER AGNES 58
VII. KOEMPE! 68
VIII. THE RESCUE 74
IX. THE NORTHMAN SEA-KING 78
X. ROLF'S COURTSHIP 83
XI. BRENN--KARNAK 88
XII. ARCHBISHOP FRANCON 101
XIII. THE WEDDING OF ROLF 112
XIV. ON THE SWAN'S ROUTE 128
EPILOGUE 129
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
The invasion of the Normans, or Northmen, or Norsemen--called throughout
this brilliant story the Northmans--bears characteristics that
distinguish it markedly from all the other European invasions. With all
the others the migrations were brought on by home changes of soil and
waterways that drove the invaders westward. War was only a means, the
goal was bread. With the Northman invasion it was otherwise. The goal
was war and adventure. This simple circumstance places a wholly
different stamp upon the Northman invaders. It explains the impulse they
gave to oratory, poetry, music and the fine arts. Their rush from the
frozen north through Europe--conquering and transforming England;
carving for themselves large domains out of the French territory, then
held in the imbecile hands of the imbecile successors of Charlemagne;
startling the populations of southern Italy and Sicily--acted like a
leaven through all the territories that they traversed. And they
traversed none without raising its tone with their poetic-barbarian
spirit.
This story, the tenth of the Eugene Sue series "_The Mysteries of the
People; or, History of a Proletarian Family Across the Ages,_" is a
matchless sketch of the Northman. It reproduces his uncouthness
illumined with his brilliant latent qualities. The characteristics of
the Northman invader have for their setting the physical and
intellectual dullness of the Frankish conquerors of Gaul. The clash of
the two reproduces a historic picture, or a page of history, that is
unique.
The fears entertained by Charlemagne and expressed in the preceding
story--"_The Carlovingian Coins; or, The Daughters of Charlemagne_"--are
verified in this. A race of bold and adventurous invaders steps upon the
scene of France, shocking the ruling class, arousing the ruled, and
introducing a fresh breath into the land.
The Northman invasion of France reads, even in the driest work of
history, like a rollicking Norse tale. That spirit is preserved in this
charming historic novel, which is as instructive as it is entertaining,
and in which again a descendant of the conquered race of Joel witnesses
the degradation of the second royal house of France preparatorily to the
witnessing, a few generations later, by another descendant of Joel, of
the downfall of that second dynasty and the rise of the third, narrated
in the following story, "_The Infant's Skull; or, The End of the
World._"
DANIEL DE LEON.
New York, July, 1908.
THE IRON ARROW HEAD
CHAPTER I.
ROTHBERT, COUNT OF PARIS.
The house of Master Eidiol, the dean of the Skippers' or Mariners' Guild
of Paris, was situated not far from the port of St. Landry and of the
ramparts of that part of the town that is known as the _Cité_, which is
bathed by the two branches of the Seine, and is flanked with towers at
the entrance of the large and the small bridge, its only means of access
from the suburban portions of the larger Paris. No one could cross the
bridge without paying toll to the bishop, the ecclesiastical feudal lord
of the _Cité_. Like all other houses of the common people, Master
Eidiol's was constructed of wooden slats held together by means of
cross-beams; it was only two storeys high, and was roofed with thatch.
Only the basilicas, the rich abbeys of St. Germain-des-Prés, of St.
Germain-d'Auxerre and others, as also the residences of the counts, the
viscounts and the bishops of Paris were built of stone and covered with
lead, not infrequently with gilded roofings. In the upper storey of
Master Eidiol's house, Martha, his wife, was engaged on some needlework,
seated near her daughter Anne the Sweet, who was busy spinning.
Agreeable to a new-fangled style of the time which, started by the royal
families and their grandees, descended to the common towns-people,
Eidiol had given a surname to his children. He called his daughter Anne,
"the Sweet," for there was nothing in the world milder or sweeter than
this child, whose nature was as angelic as her face. His son Guyrion,
Eidiol surnamed "the Plunger", because the daring lad, a skipper like
his father, was one of the most skilful divers that ever cut across the
swift waters of the Seine. Anne the Sweet spun her hemp at the side of
her mother, a good old woman of more than sixty years, delicate in
appearance, clad in black, and wearing a number of relics around her
neck. Pointing to the cheerful rays of the May sun that entered through
the little lead-bordered glass squares of the narrow window of her
chamber, Martha observed to her daughter:
"What a beautiful spring day. We may perhaps see to-day Father Fultrade,
the worthy leader of the choir at St. Denis, out taking a ride on his
fine horse."
"By this beautiful May day, I would prefer to go on foot! Do you
remember, mother, how Rustic the Gay wagered with my brother a tame
quail that he would walk two leagues in an hour? And how he won the
wager, and gave me the quail?"
"How foolish you are! Do you imagine that so distinguished a personage
as the leader of the choir at St. Denis could afford to walk two leagues
and more, like other common people?"
"But Father Fultrade is still young enough, big enough, and robust
enough to walk any such distance. Rustic the Gay would do it in a little
more than half an hour."
"Rustic is not Father Fultrade! What a holy man! It is from him I have
all these sacred relics that I wear. He gave them to me when he lived in
this town as the priest of the Church of Notre Dame, and great favorite
with Seigneur Rothbert, the Count of the City of Paris. Alas! Without
these sacred relics I would certainly have died of that violent cough,
which has not yet quite left me."
"Poor mother, that cough does not cease to cause uneasiness to my
father, my brother and myself. And yet you might now be wholly healed of
it if you would only consent to try the remedy that has been so highly
recommended to us."
"What remedy?"
"The one that the skippers of the port use. They put some tar in a bowl
of water, boil it, and drink it down warm. Rustic the Gay has told us of
the wonderful cures that he knows the potions to have effected."
"You are always talking about Rustic the Gay."
"I?" ingenuously answered the young girl, turning her candid face toward
her mother and without betraying the slightest embarrassment. "If I
frequently talk to you about him it is unintentional."
"I believe you, my child. But how can you expect that any human medicine
could cure me completely, when my distemper resists the relics? You
might as well try to make me believe that any human power could return
to me the dear little girl, who, alas! disappeared from our side ten
years before the birth of your brother. Let us bow before the will of
God!"
"Poor little sister! I weep over her absence, although I have never
known her."
"My poor little daughter could have taken my place near you. She would
now be old enough to be your mother."
A loud noise, interspersed with cries and proceeding from the street,
interrupted at this point the conversation between Martha and her
daughter.
"Oh! Mother," exclaimed Anne with a shudder, "it may be another
penitent whom the mob is falling upon with insults and blows! Only
yesterday, an unfortunate fellow whom they were pursuing in that way
remained bleeding and half dead upon the street. His clothes were in
shreds and his flesh not much better."
"That's right!" answered Martha with a nod of her head. "It was just! I
like to see these penitents thoroughly punished. If they are penitents
it is because they have been convicted of impiousness, or of lack of
faith. I can not pity impious people."
"But, mother, is not the penance that the church imposes upon them in
expiation of their sins severe enough? They must walk bare-footed, with
irons to their limbs, for two or three years, often longer, dressed in
sack-cloth, their heads covered with ashes, and they are compelled to
beg their bread, seeing that the sentence forbids them to work."
"My child, these penitents, upon whom the mobs love to shower blows,
should bless each wound that they receive. Each wound brings them nearer
to salvation. But hark! The noise and the tumult increase. Open the
window. Let us see what is going on in the street."
Anne and her mother rose and hastened to the narrow window, through
which Martha quickly put her head, while her daughter, leaning on her
shoulder, hesitated to look out. Happily for the tender-hearted child it
was not one of those savage hunts in which the good Christians took
delight against the penitents whom they regarded as unclean animals. The
narrow street, bordered with thatched wooden houses, like the one of
Eidiol, offered but a strait passage. A severe rainfall on the previous
day had so soaked the earth that a heavy wagon, driven by two teams of
oxen and loaded high with lumber, sank into the mud up to the hub of
one of the wheels. Too heavy to be pulled out of the deep mud, the
outfit completely blocked the passage, and stood in the way of several
knights, who were riding from the opposite direction, with Rothbert, the
Count of Paris and Duke of France, and brother of Eudes, who had himself
proclaimed King, in prejudice of Charles the Simple, the weak descendant
of Charles the Great, who now, in the year 912, reigned over France.
Escorted by five or six knights Rothbert found his way blocked by the
wagon which, despite all that its driver could do, remained motionless
where it had stuck fast. The count, a man of haughty and flinty
countenance, always armed with casque and cuirass, together with iron
leggings, thigh-pieces and gloves, as if marching to war, now rode a
black horse. He hurled imprecations upon the wagon, the teams of oxen
and the poor serf who drove them, and who, frightened by the threats of
the seigneur, hid himself under the wagon. More and more enraged at the
obstacle in his path, the Count of Paris called out to one of his men:
"Prick the vile slave with the point of your lance and force him to
crawl out from under the wagon. Prick him in the chest; prick him in the
head. Prick hard!"
The knight alighted with his lance, and stooping to the ground sought to
reach the serf, who, bent down upon his hands and knees, jumped back and
to the sides in order to escape the point of the lance. The Frank grew
nettled, began to blaspheme and was angrily prodding with his lance
under the wagon, when unexpectedly he felt a severe blow dealt to his
weapon and immediately saw a hook fastened to a long pole swung under
the wagon, while a firm and sonorous voice cried to him:
"If the knights of the count have their lances, the skippers of Paris
have their iron hooks!"
At the sight of the sharp iron and the sound of the threatening words,
the knight leaped back, while Count Rothbert cried out, pale with rage:
"Where is the villain who dares to threaten one of my men?"
The hook disappeared immediately, and a moment later a tall lad of manly
countenance, wearing a cloth coat and the wide breeches of the skippers
of the port, jumped with one bound on top of the lumber with which the
wagon was loaded, stood up boldly, holding in his hand the long
iron-tipped pole with which he had defended the teamster against the
knight, and challenged the question of the count:
"He who prevented a poor serf from being struck through with lance
thrusts is I! My name is Guyrion the Plunger. I am a skipper of Paris. I
fear neither you nor your men!"
"My brother!" screamed the tender Anne, affrighted and leaning out of
the window; "for the love of God, Guyrion, do not defy the knights!"
The impetuous young man, however, taking no notice of the fears of his
sister and mother, continued to defy the count's men from the height of
the wagon, while brandishing his redoubtable weapon:
"Who wishes to try the assault?" and half turning toward the
horror-stricken serf who had crouched behind the wagon, "Save yourself,
poor man; your master will come himself and reclaim his oxen."
The slave promptly took the wise advice and disappeared. The Count of
Paris, on the other hand, ever more enraged, shook his iron gauntleted
fist at Guyrion the Plunger, and yelled furiously at his men:
"Do you allow yourselves to be insulted by that vile scamp? Alight, all
of you, and seize the river crawfish!"
"Crawfish, no! Scorpion, yes! And here is my dart!" answered Guyrion,
brandishing in his powerful hand the redoubtable hook, which, deftly
handled, became so terrible a weapon that the count's knights, looking
from the corners of their eyes at the rapid gyrations of the nautical
implement, descended from their horses with cautious slowness. Leaning
heavily out of the window, Martha and her daughter were imploring
Guyrion to desist from the dangerous contest, when suddenly a new
personage, grey of hair and beard, and likewise dressed in the garb of a
skipper, climbed upon the wagon behind the bold youth, and placing his
hand on Guyrion's shoulder, said to him deliberately:
"My son, do not expose yourself to the anger of these soldiers."
Guyrion turned around surprised at the presence of his father. The
latter, however, bade him with a sign of authority to keep silent, and
lowering the hook with which the young skipper was armed, the old man
addressed the Count of Paris:
"Rothbert, I arrived only this moment from the port of St Landry, and
have just learned what has happened. My son has yielded to the
impetuosity of his age; he is wrong. But your men also were wrong in
trying to wound an inoffensive serf with their lances. All of us here,
myself, my son and our neighbors will put our shoulders to the wheels of
this wagon and push it out of the rut in which it is fast. We shall make
room for you to pass. That should have been done from the first;" and
turning to his son, who obeyed him unwillingly, "come, Guyrion," said
he, "step down from the wagon! Step down!"
The sensible words of the old skipper did not seem to allay the rage of
the Count of Paris. The latter continued to speak in angry tones and in
a low voice to his men, while, thanks to the efforts of Eidiol, Guyrion
and several of their neighbors, the wheel was raised from the deep rut
into which it had sunk, and the wagon was finally drawn to one side of
the street. The passage was now open to Rothbert and his knights. But
while one of them held the bridles of his companions' horses, the
others, instead of remounting, rushed upon Eidiol and his son. Both,
taken by surprise, and before their neighbors could bring them help,
were speedily overpowered, thrown to the ground, and to the utter dismay
of Martha and Anne, were held prisoners by the count's men. Upon
beholding the old skipper and his son thus maltreated, the two women
left their window precipitately, and rushing out of the house threw
themselves at the feet of Rothbert, imploring his mercy for the two
prisoners. Eidiol saw the action of his wife and daughter, and frowning
with indignation, cried out to them:
"Rise to your feet, my wife! Rise to your feet, my daughter! Go back
into the house!"
Not daring to disobey the aged man, both Martha and Anne rose and
returned sobbing into the house.
"Rothbert," resumed Eidiol, when his wife and daughter had re-entered
the house, "you have no right to hold us prisoners. Thanks to God, we
are not left to the utter mercy of our masters, like the serfs of the
field. We enjoy certain franchises in the city. If we are guilty, we
must, as skippers, be tried before the bourgeois Court of the water
merchants."
"The officer whose duty it is to lop off the ears of bandits of your
kind at the cross of Trahoir, will furnish you with a practical proof of
my right to un-ear you," was the sententious answer made to Eidiol by
the count as he remounted his horse. "Back into the saddle," the count
ordered his men. "Two of you shall follow me; the others will take the
two prisoners to the jail of the Chatelet; my provost will pass sentence
upon them; and to-morrow--to the gallows! They shall both be hanged high
and short."
"Seigneur count," broke in a man, who stepped forward out of the crowd
that had in the meanwhile been gathering in the narrow thoroughfare,
"Seigneur count, I am the sergeant of the Bishop of Paris."
"I see as much by your garb; what is it you want?"
"The jurisdiction of the left side of this street belongs to my
seigneur, the bishop. I claim the prisoners. This crowd will lend me
their physical assistance, if need be, to take the prisoners to the
bishop's court, where they will be judged by our own provost, as is our
right."
"If the left side of the street belongs to the jurisdiction of the
bishop, the right is under my authority," cried the Count of Paris. "I
shall keep the prisoners, and shall bring them before my own court."
"Seigneur, that would be your right if the crime had been committed on
the side of the street that is subject to your fief--"
"The two scamps," Rothbert went on to say, interrupting the sergeant,
"were on top of a wagon that obstructed the street in its whole
breadth. There can be no question of right side or left."
"In that case, seigneur count, the culprits belong to the bishop as well
as to yourself."
"And I," rejoined Eidiol, "claim that only the bourgeois court has
jurisdiction over us."
"I care a fig for the bourgeois court, and not a whit more for the
bishop's court!" cried the count. "The prisoners are mine! Make room
there, canaille!"
Both the sergeant and Eidiol were about to reiterate and insist upon
their respective rights, when a new personage, before whom the crowd
fell devoutly upon their knees, stepped upon the scene.