“_Ill luck is the end of ill redes_”
—Northern saying.
It was three weeks later. A group of old fur-traders stood in the porch
of the Jarl’s feasting-hall, answering in chorus the remark of one of
their number:
“A favorite so soon? Time is not allowed to go to seed when a young man
gets the rule!”
“Ah, the good old days of peace and order!”
“More than ever, now, the doubt works in me whether it is Helvin’s good
training or his bad temper that will be uppermost.”
“It is not to be looked for that he will get tame counsel from his new
friend,” returned the man who had spoken first. “My son, who brought the
tidings home last week, says that already the forester has fought with
Olaf, Thorgrim’s son, and so won his way to great love with the young
courtmen, who are all jealous of Olaf’s favor with Starkad’s daughter.”
The chorus interrupted him, growling in their beards.
“Though he came off with honor from the young men, still it is not
settled that he will fare in the same way with us!”
“No man has brought back such accomplishments as Olaf the French—”
“It is plain in everything that little good-will come from this
sea-rover’s son—”
“I am getting curious to see him.”
“You will not have to wait long—”
“As soon as this pine-mast of a hunter gets out of the road—”
That was not very soon for a great throng was ahead of the hunter, and
no hurrying or struggling competition marked their progress, since the
course of a river between its banks is not more fixed than was the place
of each. Dropping out or pushing on, they settled leisurely into orderly
rows upon the long benches against the wainscot—advice-givers and
courtmen and guards along the southern wall, priests and lawmen and
land-owners along the northern, the eastern cross-bench for women
guests, the western for the women of the court, such small-fry as
armorers and harpers and tumblers filling the draughty corners by the
doors. The time came at last, however, when the hunter’s tow head
brushed under the lintel; and pushing after him, the traders came into
the cheer of the heir’s inheritance feast.
Gone was the darkness and coldness and silence of mourning that for
three Norse weeks had brooded over the mighty pillared hall. Once more,
the light of fragrant juniper torches played upon pictured tapestry and
garlanded column. Once more, the round gilded shields hanging above the
benches were turned into so many suns by the ruddy glow of fires leaping
on the stone hearths down the middle of the long nave. At the
white-spread tables that formed an oblong around the fires, the gorgeous
feasting dresses of the court-folk made streaks of rainbow color through
the brightness.
Running his eye up the line of the southern wall, the trader who had
spoken last said over his shoulder: “Yonder he is, on Helvin’s left, as
was to be expected.”
He might have done better to say, “on the left of the high-seat,” whose
towering carven posts marked plainly its place midway the length of the
hall, for the heir was in no way conspicuous in the line of his guests
as he sat on the footstool of the ruler’s seat, awaiting the ceremony
which should elevate him to its empty cushions. But the traders found
the spot at once where the new face looked out over the scene, and they
studied it critically as they moved forward.
What they saw was a superbly proportioned young fellow of
four-and-twenty, rising as erectly tall beside the guardsmen as a
pine-tree beside oaks. Level as pine branches was the line of his thick
dark brows, and no gold but the sun’s glowing burnish was on the mass of
hair that shadowed his sun-ripened face. Of the might of the primeval
wastes and of the wilderness’s virile beauty, he was expressive. One of
the old men spoke for them all when he said:
“Since Helvin, Starkad’s son, has been likened to a captive eagle, it
would not be amiss to call this fellow an eagle of the forest that has
come to perch beside him because of a kinship between their natures. The
Fates alone can tell what will come of such a partnership!” Doubt was
heavy in the wagging of their heads as they turned away to follow the
overseer of guests to the seats appointed them.
Following after them went the eyes of Randvar the Songsmith. Though
their words had not carried across the fire, their scrutiny had, so that
gradually his mouth took on a satirical twist. Presently he spoke to the
heir on the footstool—spoke without having been spoken to—to the
indignation of the old counsellors on the right of the high-seat.
“Lord, when I see how your people stare at me as at a black Jotun, I
realize it is not a dream that I am in your court. Other times it seems
to me as if I must be lying on the cedar branches by the Tower fire and
imagining what I should wish to happen.”
To the added displeasure of the old chieftains, Helvin justified the
familiarity by returning it. He had been sitting with his chin on his
hand, a figure of weary splendor in his furred and jewelled dress of
state; now he straightened and resting his elbow on the seat-cushion,
entered into conversation with the son of the sea-rover,—it was
fortunate that the old men could not also hear his frank remarks.
“Your luck is great, Songsmith, that you can get interest out of this.
Just before you spoke, I was thinking that though I were blindfolded, I
should still be able to describe every tapestry on the walls, put every
man, woman, and thrall in place, count up every dish and goblet and
knife on the table. At times, when I sat where you sit now, I used to
amuse myself by rearranging the people in my imagination, beginning by
putting yonder fat-chopped buffoon in the proud priest’s place. I can
tell you that it came the nearest to making sport of anything I have had
in this hall.”
The song-maker’s smile came readily as he glanced across at the
high-seat of the northern wall, which had been held during Starkad’s
time by that warrior-bishop of Saint Olaf who was known as Magnus
Fire-and-Sword, but which now awaited in emptiness the pleasure of the
new ruler.
“It will be rearranging them in earnest this time, Jarl. Lord, is it
possible that you do not feel the excitement in the air as every person
here draws breath with hope or fear of your rule? The force of their
eyes upon you is like the beat of waves upon the shore.”
As brand from brand, the face of the Jarl’s son kindled; but before he
was ready to reply, the Songsmith’s glance had flown past him and
lighted on the eastern door.
Through the broad portal was advancing a train of court-women, walking
far apart because of the trailing length of their silken robes, stately
matrons with towering head-dresses, and white-armed maidens whose bright
tresses fell free from golden bands, and moving before them—the jewel
for whom all their splendor was but a setting—Brynhild the Proud,
bending now her queenly head to the greeting of some old warrior, now
yielding a smile to some young courtman’s eager salute.
It was the first glimpse Randvar had had of her since that day in the
forest, so rigidly had mourning custom secluded her in her bower. As a
man who has lived long on a memory, he drank thirstily of the wine of
her beauty, felt it course hotly through his veins. He was still leaning
forward when he felt the Jarl’s gaze upon him, and knew that his face
had betrayed him. In confusion he dropped his eyes.
Helvin said dryly: “It is seen that you did not reject my sister’s favor
because you did not find her good to look upon, Songsmith.”
Randvar overcame enough of his embarrassment to mutter that no one could
find her otherwise.
The Jarl’s son shook his head as he watched his sister advance. “Here
you may see how much man differs from man. To Olaf, Thorgrim’s son,
yonder, she looks like the goddess Sif after the dwarfs wove her hair of
red gold, as no doubt he is telling her now with his smile. To me”—he
turned wearily as her approach made rising incumbent—“to me she looks
only like a rune standing for a life I hate.” Rising, he faced her with
cold civility.
Splendid in her feasting dress of shining gold color, she came towards
them, bent in a deep courtesy before the high-seat, mocked the lowliness
of the salutation by the loftiness to which she rose.
“Brother,” she said, “will you grant me a boon which I would beg of
you?”
He answered: “Grant it I would before it were asked if I were not
desirous to hear how you would beg; but what is it you wish?”
Her white lids drooped haughtily. “It is known far and wide, brother,
how you hate formalities, so it is not to be expected that you will hold
to them now that you can do what you like about everything. What I want
is your leave to retire with my women as soon as the amusements begin. I
dislike brawling freedom.”
Curling like the petals of a rose, her beautiful lips curved
disdainfully. Helvin’s smoke-gray eyes showed a spark as they rested on
her.
“It is well that my face is not set against what you ask, kinswoman,” he
said, “for your way of entreating would be unlikely to move a man to
much gentleness. This I grant you willingly, that you may leave as soon
as any brawling begins.”
She thanked him in the formal phrase, and mocking him again with the
bend of courtly submission, made as though she would have passed on.
Then, seemingly for the first time, she saw the deerskin-clad figure
leaning on the arm of the high-seat, and paused to look him up and down
in displeasure.
“Greeting, Randvar, Rolf’s son, and welcome to you!” she said. “Yet I
think, after all, you would have done better to take service with me, if
my brother’s generosity towards you is to be measured by the clothes you
wear.”
Deep in the cave of his breast, Randvar felt his temper stir like a
sleeping bear; but craving a smile from her starry eyes, he made an
attempt at conciliation.
“I had thought you would guess, gold-bright maiden, that it is the
Jarl’s forbearance which lets me be slow in shedding my bark.”
The tilt of her chin showed how little his deprecation had helped him.
“An economical virtue is the Jarl’s forbearance,” she said, “and Freya’s
son is more than expectedly dull at learning what beseems him.”
The bear awoke then with a snarl. Randvar gasped afterwards at
remembering what he would have answered if Helvin had not taken the
word, laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Do not grudge me one plain man, my kinswoman, while you have so many
gay ones at your beck. It is at my desire he has kept on the woodland
garb; that seeing how different the outside of him is from all around
me, I may ever be reminded how much of new interest I have found inside
him.”
Too courtly was she bred to dispute a ruler’s whim; to that she gave
prompt if haughty acquiescence.
“In this as in everything, it must be done as you wish, brother, only I
take it upon me to urge you to show us the inside of him as soon as you
can,” she made answer. Then she passed on; and her women went rustling
by, moving to laughter as to music.
Randvar’s bitter reflections were interrupted by the pressure of
Helvin’s hand upon his shoulder.
“If I had not taken the word out of your mouth, my friend,” the Jarl
said in his ear, “your hot head would have got you into further
difficulties; but I like you none the worse for that. I liked it less
when I thought that after the manner of all other men, you were going to
fall on your knees to her only because she is beautiful of face. It
would have been the first matter in which our minds did not match as
blade matches sheath. So long as you have manfulness enough to resent
her pride, I forgive it to you that her fairness has bewitched your
eyes.”
Again embarrassment left the song-maker speechless. Under the Jarl’s
hand he stood so constrainedly that the old men who were watching
imagined him to be cast down by some rebuke, and experienced a sense of
satisfaction. And their relief was no greater than his when the duties
of the heir’s station put an end to further confidences.
Bearing the baton of state, two pages advanced and took their place
before the Jarl’s son. While one received his sword from him with many
flourishes, the other delivered to him the gilded wand. Stretching it
forth, a bar of light, he gave the signal for the feasting to begin.
Like white-robed statues called to life, the thralls waiting at the
doors moved forward with their burdens of gilded flagons and silver
chargers. Through the fragrance of the juniper torches and the pine-tips
of the floor-covering rose the savor of roasted meats and the spicy
aroma of mead and wine. To the hum of blended voices was added the clink
of silver-rimmed horns. The oftener the resounding salute rang out, the
louder the hum arose, the merrier the laughter that burst forth where
groups of young men were scattered among the old ones like poppies among
wheat.
No higher note of noisy revelry was left to strike when at last the
moment came for the old advice-giver, Mord, to lead the heir up into his
father’s seat and put in his hands the sacred horn that he might make
his inheritance-vow. From high mirth they passed to deep feeling, as
each man rose holding his shining horn above his head. Excitement shook
some of the young hands so that their wine was spilled—excitement and
exultation at the spectacle of a young ruler in the high-seat!—and to
some of the old eyes tears came unconsciously, so that they seemed to
look through a mist at the figure of their old leader’s son.
Noble in splendor was Helvin Jarl as the firelight caught the golden
embroideries and jewelled clasps of his sweeping robes; and noble in
purpose was his pale finely cut face under the mass of blood-red hair
when he raised the great horn and spoke so that all could hear him.
“I drink the toast to the old gods and to the new,” he said, “and to
those who have gone before me; but the vow I make is no vow that I shall
be great. What I promise is that I shall make no other man small. I take
oath that under my rule every man shall live a free life in all such
matters as concern himself, nor shall any be forced into ways against
which his mind rebels. I take Heaven and all of you as witnesses!”
Putting the horn to his lips, he drank.
Mechanically, the ranks of standing men imitated the motion, their eyes
continuing to stare at him over their cup rims. But before the draught
was down, the call of free blood to free blood had been heard. From
young courtmen and young guardsmen went up ringing cheers. It counted
for little that some of the lawmen murmured, and Magnus Fire-and-Sword
spoke to his neighbor from under a frown.
Only the Jarl noticed that, and noticing, smiled mockingly. When the
tumult had sunk once more he spoke, the smile dwindling to a droop of
his mouth-corner.
“The first thing that I must try my hand on is the filling of the other
high-seat with the man I hold highest in honor. That would be to take a
great deal on my hands if custom did not say that he must be a holy man,
which makes the choice easy.”
He paused to clear his throat with a swallow of wine, and perhaps to
note how the arrogant face of Magnus was losing some of its displeasure.
Then he went on, his voice so cool and keen that it bit like a blade:
“As for you, priests, I know only one of you for whom I have any honor
at all. I have heard many talk of the mercy of Christ, whose hands had
cut blood-eagles in other men only for being unable to believe as they
did. I have heard not a few talk of Christ’s humbleness whose tempers
were so overbearing that men would have risen up and slain them if they
had not held up their holy names for shields. I have seen many Odinmen
who put on the Christ-faith like a kirtle, but I have seen only one who
made it a part of his nature and showed it forth in his acts. He is the
Swede whom men call the Shepherd Priest. It is my offer and will that he
shall come forward and take the place opposite me.”
At the eastern end of the room, in the lowliest seat by the door, a man
rose hastily—an ungainly old man in rusty robes—and lifted a hand in
protest; and in the same instant the stately velvet-draped form of
Magnus became wrathfully erect before his place.
“This—this is sacrilege!” he thundered. “I call all Christian men to
resist this mockery—this—”
“Sacrilege?” The young Jarl’s voice pierced like a spear, scorn-barbed.
“This I have often said, that it was a sacrilege that you should give
rein to a devil’s nature in the name of Christ! That I honor the cause
by honoring the man who stands most truly for it—be he king-born or
thrall-born—that is honesty. Had you any love of your faith amid your
self-love, you would see it.”
If the rage-purpled face of the Fire-and-Sword had not been the face of
a bishop, they might have thought it the face of a Berserker. The names
which he called his godson were the names that fighting-men use when
their tempers pressed hardest for relief. Upon the openest-minded of the
old counsellors was forced slowly a doubt whether there really was much
holiness about him; and the young men broke loose and drowned his voice
in hisses.
But Helvin Jarl rose in his high-seat, his glance like the outleaping of
flame.
“I am all that which you call me, and more,” he said, “and it is because
I am—because I need only to bring forward the straits I have fallen in
to prove what kind of harvests spring from your sowing—that I vow you
shall never sow again while my rule is in New Norway. In the spring,
ships shall take you back whence you came; meanwhile, come you no more
before my face, hypocrite that you are to your marrow!”
Starkad’s own inexorableness in the gesture, he levelled his baton at
the door; then before the aghast silence could give rise to any sign, he
turned where the Shepherd Priest waited and spoke to him respectfully
and yet sternly.
“You whose sincereness has won my honor, bear in mind that cowardice no
less than arrogance is love of self. If your faith is indeed first with
you, remember that I offer you a chance to do great work for it, and
forget any lesser thing.”
With the ceasing of his voice there was again silence, but the Shepherd
Priest made no attempt to use it for his protests. After a time he
lifted his bent head, and his rugged face was as a mean lantern through
which a light is shining. Amid breathless stillness, the velvet-clad
form of Magnus stalked out of the western door, and the ungainly form in
rusty black walked slowly to the northern high-seat, walking uncertainly
like a man in the dark, holding to his crucifix as to a guiding hand.
Again the Jarl forestalled an outburst, speaking once more with the
graciousness of a noble heir on his inheritance-night.
“One thing more I wish to tell you, then I will no longer hinder you
from your amusements. It has to do with the Skraellings. Always it has
seemed to me that much good might come of having them for partners in
this business of settling the new lands, and now I have heard that of
them which makes me want them also for friends. So have I sent a message
to their lord which asks him to meet me ten days hence at some middle
point between our abodes, and over a feast talk about how we can get
good from each other. That is the end of my speaking.”
It was the beginning of uproar. All at once the half-dozen old traders,
who had entered the hall in such doubting humor, rose to their feet,
swung their horns above their heads and cried as with one voice:
“I drink to Helvin Jarl!”
Then: “Young blood for gainfulness!”
“New ways for new—”
“Down with old boundaries—”
“Spread out! Spread out!”
“Luck to the new rule!”
The new step being approved by such undoubted authorities, the other old
men joined for the first time in the applause; while the young men were
brought to the point of handling their cups like gavels, and one whose
wine did not sit well upon his wits clambered upon the seat and began to
use shields from the wall for cymbals. Even to the women’s cross-bench
it sped. Eagerly Yrsa the Lovely spoke to her young mistress by whom she
sat.
“Jarl’s sister, do you call to mind how fair and fine we thought that
bead-embroidery we saw last trading-day? Now we can get a Skraelling
woman to teach us how to do it,—if so be there are women among them,”
she added doubtfully.
It seemed that Brynhild spoke because she had been addressed rather than
because she heeded what was said to her. Fingering her jewelled
necklace, she continued frowning at the fire.
“Never saw I aught to equal it,” she said. “That Magnus should behave so
boorishly—And yet that we should have a thrall-born bishop—And yet it
seems to me that Helvin behaved well—It must be that the earth is coming
loose from its moorings!”
From her place farther down the line, the pretty matron who had laughed
at the forester bent forward urgently. “Jarl’s sister, is it your will
that we should take our leave now? The amusements are beginning. Yonder
deerskin fellow has just beckoned to the harp-bearer.” She motioned with
her lace-crowned head. Brynhild’s gaze, however, did not follow the
motion, but remained upon her, gathering displeasure.
“Deerskin fellow!” she repeated. “Is it in that manner, Sigrid, that you
speak of Freya’s son? However he forgets it himself, it behooves you to
remember that he has king’s blood in him.” Arranging her gold-colored
draperies about her and settling to formal attention, she finished
severely: “Had he no blood at all, a song-maker has the right to
courteous treatment. I expect that you will, all of you, leave off
chattering and give him the attention due a man of accomplishments.”
When she had seen her orders carried out, she fixed her eyes calmly upon
the spot where Randvar stood beside the towering gilded harp of the
court-skald.
The Songsmith’s heart leaped and tried to strangle him as he met her
gaze, yet it was not long that his hands swept aimlessly across the
strings. In him had awakened a desire to interpret to these folk of
Norse blood the lives of the forest men, whose creed was so like theirs
in strong simplicity.
Soon he struck a chord and sang with a voice as untaught as a bird’s,
and as full of unconscious ecstasy, the story of the Skraelling chief
who gave his life to save his followers from the wrath of their offended
god.
Singing, he forgot that he sang among strangers. Listening, they forgot
that he told a stranger’s story; as at the deeds of a brother, their
minds quickened with understanding. A stillness gathered over the room
that lasted even after the song was ended, and was broken only when
cries for more rose from every direction.
But it was not their applause that was the crown of his success. It was
turning to find little Eric standing beside him—bewildered and
ruffled—holding out an arm-ring of golden filigree, saying as one
repeating a lesson:
“Starkad’s daughter bids you cover some of the deerskin with this.”