OF THE FEAST IN SIEGFRIED’S HALL
Long time he lay, till at length he became ware of one kneeling beside
him, while strong wine was poured between his teeth; then soft lips
kissed his forehead and a soft voice whispered in his ear, “Awake, oh,
awake! Oh, what aileth thee, my Feargus? Now thou openest thine eyes.
Thanks be to God! hadst thou died I would have slain myself—there, drink
a little.” And then she kissed him again and wept and kissed, between joy
and grief. “Canst thou arise,” she said at length, “for there is danger
in lying here lest any should come. Better sit in my chamber till thou
art well—my tire-woman is abed.”
So Feargus arose and stepped into the light, but he no longer dare
look at her, but stood before her shamefaced and cringed on the ground
beneath, kissing her feet and asking forgiveness.
“I know not what it is that I must forgive; what hast thou ever done
that should need my forgiveness?”
Then Feargus told her and she went white and trembled, and wept again,
and refused his kisses and turned from him, till at last she forgave him
and he arose. And she told him all that had happened since she was taken
captive, and how she had set the tapestry on fire and been beaten by the
earl’s mother and had tried to find the battlements to fling herself from
them, and how she had gone instead into the hall where her enemy was and
been again sorely beaten. And he was full of rage and indignation and
grief and shame at his own doubts of one so noble and devoted.
“Then,” said she, “know that I knew thee the moment thou didst enter
despite thy disguise, for no other harper that ever me saw doth hold his
harp as fondly and strike it just as thou dost; but even had this not
been so, I should have known thee for Feargus among ten thousand, and so
overjoyed was I at seeing thee that I could scarce contain myself, for
never did I think the ring would betray him so quickly and I had little
hope indeed. Now thou must go, and at thy signal I will do as thou hast
bidden me, to-morrow, and I pray we may get hence with whole skins, but
my heart fails me at the thought.”
“Much have we come through and it will go hard if we do not escape from
this place.”
So he departed to the hall and lay among the rushes on the floor, where
he slept soundly, many dangers having taught him to sleep when he might,
that his strength should be husbanded. When the folk began to stir about
the castle he arose, and, breakfasting with the soldiers, waited in the
hall while they got ready a great feast, for that day the prince was to
wed the strange lady and he and his friends were to make merry. So the
hour of the feast drew nigh and the nobles entered and took their places
at the board on either side the prince. On the right hand was Torfrida,
dressed in a long white gown, about which in cunning wise was drawn a
sash of gold. The veil which had half hidden her face yesterday had gone,
and her fair hair with its shining depths of red and gold fell down over
her shoulders in simple fashion. So lovely she looked, and so young and
fresh and ruddy, that a murmur arose from the rough soldiers and serving
men as she entered, and even the loose, low sots who sat round the board
gazed upon her for a moment open-mouthed. And they ceased to wonder how
it was that the strange maiden had been able to make their master put
off the wedding, day by day. Feargus, who sat among the servants at the
opposite end of the table, had been playing, but as she entered his hand
had fallen, and he stopped to gaze with the rest. Seeing this the prince
turned and said, “Why stoppest thou, minstrel? When I bid thee thou
mayest stop.”
Then there entered a few other women, wives of the nobles, coarse and
red-faced like their lords with much eating and drinking. By them
Torfrida looked the fairer. The feast began, and thereafter the wine cup
went round and Feargus played his merriest music that they might drink
the more. Soon there was no man among them that had not taken more than
enough and some grew noisy, and shouts and oaths filled the hall, while
some lay asleeping with their heads on the board. And so mad was the
music that many drank still, till at length the prince arose, his face
flushed and hand unsteady, and cried, “A toast with me, my friends; I
pledge the bonniest lady in Lothian!”
“Nay, now, sir prince, how shall they know that thy words be true unless
thou tellest whose lady she is that thou dost pledge, for there may be
some here who hold their own ladies the bonniest.”
“Thou hast over much to say for thyself, sir minstrel. I tell thee I will
break the head of him who will refuse to drink this toast with me: the
lady I speak of is mine.”
“Nay, then, prince, my head must thou break, for her I hold to be the
fairest lady in this company is mine.”
“Ha, ha! what new foolery is this to please the company? Go on, minstrel,
it must be something of great wit to warrant thy assurance. Here is an
old coxcomb indeed, friends.” And the laugh went round. And Feargus sang
this song, thinking to sober the company a little and hoping to escape
without bloodshed:—
AH, YES, ’TWERE WELL!
I take my lyre—what should I sing
Of love who makes my soul her harp,
Whose frowns awake each stented string
To tones how sad, how sweet, how sharp!
At other times love is my guide
And to the sunlight leads my feet,
By silver streams and leafy ways
And langourous meadows cool and sweet.
Yet life it hath a toilsome road,
With many a heart-break, many a thorn;
And all men stagger ’neath their load
From twilight unto morn.
Yet had life nothing good but she,
Love’s laughing eyes would grief dispel;
So it were well, content I’d be,
If but love came, ah, yes! ’twere well!
The song pleased the love-sick prince and there was a round of cheers ere
Feargus had done.
“Thou art indeed a good minstrel,” said the prince, “but now to the
toast.”
“Yea, he singeth well, but he hath had over much wine and his head is not
so strong as it once was,” said one.
“Nay, good sir knight, thou art mistaken, wine hath not passed these lips
to-day, for I drink wine but sparingly; but I hold that no man may drink
this pledge an he hath a lady whom he holdeth fairest.”
“Thou art mad; sit thee down,” roared the prince, “or a halter shall sit
where thy lady’s arm should be.”
“Thou wilt at least put me to the proof, and ye gentlemen all. I swear
that when I ask, the bonniest lady shall arise and walk to me across the
hall, or, an she doth not, thou mayest hang me forthwith.”
Then followed roars of rude laughter, and shouts of, “Where is she?”
“Bring her forth,” and others shouted, “’Twill be a good jest; let the
minstrel have his way.”
“Go on then, minstrel,” said the prince, “since it is the wish of the
company.”
“That will I, but thou must first give me thy pledge that if I fail not,
then wilt thou allow my lady and myself to leave thy halls unmolested and
without scath, and will leave us to wend our way as we may list, on two
good beasts of thy stable.”
“Thou art beside thyself. How could it profit us to keep the lady of such
as thou?”
Then the nobles, who began to feel a kind of curiosity stirring them,
said, “This is so persistent a madman that we must needs let him have his
way.”
“I swear to thee, minstrel,” said the prince, “to do as thou sayest, an
thou succeed, and, moreover, I swear to hang thee an thou failest.”
Feargus turned to the knights and called them to witness, and then rose
and taking his long staff bound round with thongs, and his harp, he
walked down the hall to the door and standing with his back against it
struck a few notes on his harp and sang this verse in strong, clear
tones:—
“When I call she will arise
’Spite the fears that fill her eyes;
When I suffer she will weep
For her love is boundless deep.
Yet than I she’s nobler far,
Beautiful as still streams are,
Pure as is the purest thought,
Or as dew the night hath brought.
Yet she is my willing slave,
Full of fears, she will be brave
When I call, and come to me,
For her love is as the sea.”
The passionate tones of the singer had stirred his hearers and the laugh
died out on their lips ere he had finished the first bar. Mere curiosity
had become keen interest, and there was a pause in the buzz and murmur
that had filled the hall. He reached his right hand to his left shoulder
and from beneath the loose red plaid he wore drew forth his great
sword. This was the signal. Torfrida arose from her place and, ere the
astonished prince could collect his senses, tripped lightly down the hall
and stood beside the aged minstrel, the company being too much astonished
to hinder her. Siegfried started up in great rage, and made towards
them. Quickly and with wondrous strength did Feargus draw some ponderous
benches that lay about to the front of him as a fence, and warned the
prince back.
“Prince, thou hast sworn, and all the company hath witnessed; be not
rash, for an thou break promise given, thou wilt lose such worship as is
left to thee. And I ask ye, knights and gentlemen, to see right done.”
Many were for Feargus, but the prince still advanced, slowly and with
great labour clearing the benches from before him as he went. Then
Feargus set down his harp, and handed his long staff, which was his bow,
to Torfrida that she might free it of the thongs which had served to hide
it, and he started to his full height and cast off his grey beard and his
rags and stood big and strong in his byrny with his great sword in his
palm. Then those who had unwillingly followed their master held back, for
they knew him the captain of the king’s guard.
“Thou hast stolen my lady, and I am come to rescue her, and be he earl or
boor, he that goeth to stay me shall die.”
Then the prince, mad with rage, drew forth his sword and with many
oaths advanced upon him, followed by those of his own Northumbrians
who were present. The others, Britons from Strathclyde and Lothian and
Southern Picts who had submitted to the rule of the strangers, saw that
the minstrel was a Pict, and their jealousy of the Northumbrians being
aroused they were less ready to see so gross a wrong done to one of their
race.
“Now he is a coward and recreant chief who keeps not his pledge,” cried
Feargus, “and they be coward knights who help a lying leader.”
Then the Britons tried to reason with the prince, but in vain, still he
came on, followed by his drunken rout.
“Back, prince, or thou shalt die,” said Feargus once more, wishing to
spare the spilling of blood. Drunk and mad with anger, however, the
prince heeded not, but laid his steel against that of Feargus, though it
was only a moment ere the sword of Feargus was buried in his body, and
the blood of him leaped up suddenly from his mouth and, to the horror of
his men, he fell back dead. Then Feargus tried to stop the Northumbrians,
stout fighting men and big of body, but they would not hearken to him,
coming on crying, “Down with him! he hath killed the prince!” They
pressed against him on the right hand and the left, but so close the one
upon the other that they had little space to move, while lightly Feargus
swung his brand from behind the benches, so that they could not get into
him, and legs and arms were shorn in its sweep, until there lay before
him a confused and bloody mound, mixed up with wine cups and meat and
drink and table gear, and still the Picts and Britons withheld from the
strife. But Feargus knew that the fight must go against him, so thick and
fast they came, wounding and trampling on each other in their eagerness
to get at him. Then, wounded and weary of so much sword play, in a pause
of the fight he cried out in Gaelic, “Now here am I, Feargus, son to
king Nechtan of the Hundred Fights, and kin to all ye Picts and Britons,
and my lady is of the South Albanich by her mother’s side. Yet though of
these Northumbrians I have slain some and maimed more, till I am sick of
slaughter, yet my lady and I must fall, so many are our enemies. Never
a friend shall he lack though all the world be turned against him who
helpeth me.”
Then said one to his fellows, “This must indeed be Feargus, king Penda’s
captain, for never saw I man so giant-like or of so great strength and
hardihood. All that man can do hath he done; shameful and unknightly
of us were it to see him, our kin, who is in his right, destroyed.”
Then many of the others agreed, though they were loth to join the fray,
fearing for their own lands. But he who had spoken first, one Llewellin
of the Gwynedd tribe of Britons whose lands had stretched up into the
Lothians, stepped to the leader of the Northumbrians and for a moment the
fight ceased.
“Now,” said he, “ye men of Northumbria, ye have had your fill of fighting
and it is dastardly of all ye to attack one, though he hath ye at some
advantage. Surely your king would little admire ye.”
“Hath he not slain our prince? right angry will be the king. Not one of
us dare face him without this man’s head, stark though he be, for he is
son to king Nechtan and it must be he who was Penda’s captain.”
“Then no hand will we have in this unknightly work; but we bid ye desist,
or an ye do not we will join with Feargus, and what could we not do under
so mighty a leader?”
Feargus spoke out to the Lindeseymen. “Now, ye men of Lindesey, this, my
lady, is Torfrida, daughter of Sigmund, your king, and ye, men of Mercia,
I have bled for your king, and two hundred of my men fought for him when
others fled, and all died for him at the last. If ye do not help me we
must fall.”
Then one Lindeseyman said: “I saw him save prince Edwy and his thanes
from the Mercians. I will help him.”
“And I saw him stop the slaughter of the Lindeseymen,” said another.
“And I was with him when he held the cliffs for Penda on Trent water,”
said a Mercian.
“And I when he saved the day for Mercia at Camulodunum in East Anglia.”
“And I, and I,” said others.
So all these who had held aloof came down over the barriers and stood
beside him.
“And I and all Lindeseymen will fight for Torfrida,” said another thane.
And he cried, “Lindesey! Lindesey!” and behind him followed the rest of
the Lindeseymen crying, “Lindesey! Lindesey!” And the Mercian thanes
cried the cry of “Penda! Penda!” that held armies spellbound with fear in
the old days, and all the Mercians joined them.
Then said Llewellin of the Gwynedd to the Northumbrians, “Let no more
blood be spilt. We do not want to fight ye, Northumbrians; we would be
friends.”
Getting scornful reply they drew their swords and fell mightily upon
the Northumbrians. And the clang of sword on helm, and the rushing and
hurrying of mailed feet, and the cries of “Lindesey! Lindesey!” “Penda!
Penda!” filled the hall, where late had been merriment and a different
music. And no more terrible and savage sight fell ever on the eye of
Feargus. Torfrida had long fainted for very horror of it. And when the
din ceased there was no Northumbrian left standing unwounded out of all
that throng.