CHAPTER I

Produced by Al Haines.

[Illustration: Cover]

[Illustration: "'Bend lower, king's daughter--little vala with eyes like

dewy violets!'" (Page 250)]

FOR THE

WHITE CHRIST

A Story

of

The Days of Charlemagne

BY

Robert Ames Bennet

Having Pictures and Designs by

Troy & Margaret West Kinney

Chicago

A. C. McClurg & Co.

1905

Copyright,

By A. C. McClurg & Co.

1905

Published March 18, 1905

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London

All rights reserved

The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A.

When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne,

In the free schools of Aix, how kings should rule.

LONGFELLOW.

To the Memory

of

My Mother

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

All the chapter headings of this story are taken from lays which were

sung by harpers and skalds before the high-seats of heathen Norse chiefs

and in the halls of the Anglo-Saxon kings, while England was yet a

heptarchy and the name of Mohammed but little known to men even on the

shores of the far-distant Bosphorus.

In most instances the selections are from Magnusson and Morris's

beautiful translations of "The Volsunga Saga, and Certain Songs from the

Elder Edda." The spirited lines from "Beowulf," "Maldon," "Finnesburh,"

and "Andreas" were found in Gummerle's "Germanic Origins." The

translation of "Brunanburh" is by Tennyson.

Apology is due for occasional alterations and elisions, all of which

will readily be detected by students of the wonderful poetic fragments

which have come down to us from our Norse and Teutonic forefathers.

R. A. B.

Denver, January 1, 1905.

ILLUSTRATIONS

"'Bend lower, king's daughter--little vala with eyes like dewy

violets!'" . . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece

"White to the lips, the young sea-king turned to his enemy"

"'Love!' she cried, half hissing the word. 'You speak of love,--you, the

heathen outlander!'"

"'Go, Olvir!' muttered the king, thickly; 'go--before I forget that I

once loved you'"

FOR THE WHITE CHRIST

BOOK ONE

Now death has seized--

Bale and terror--my trusty people,

Laid down life have my liegemen all.

BEOWULF.

CHAPTER I

Swans of the Dane-folk--

The ships of Sigmund--

Heads all gilt over,

And prows fair graven.

LAY OF GUDRUN.

Early of an April morning of the year 778, a broad-beamed Frisian

trade-ship was drifting with the ebb-tide down the Seine estuary.

Wrapped about by the morning vapors, the deeply laden little craft

floated on the stream like a dreamship. The mists shut out all view of

sky and land and sea. From the quarter-deck, the two men beside the

steer-oar could scarcely see across the open cargo-heaped waist to

where, gathered silently about the mast, a dozen or so drowsy sailors

stood waiting for the morning breeze.

The remainder of the crew lay sprawled upon the casks and bales of

merchandise, side by side with a score of Frankish warriors. All alike

were heavy with drunken slumber. The shipmaster, a squat red-haired man

of great girth, regarded the overcome wassailers with an indifferent

eye; but the tall warrior beside him appeared far from pleased by the

sight.

"Is it so you rule your ship, Frisian?" he demanded. "You should have

stopped the wassail by midnight. Here we swim on the treacherous sea,

while our men lie in drunken stupor."

"We are yet in the stream, lord count," replied the shipmaster. "As to

my Frisians, a dash of salt water will soon rouse them. If your

landsmen are farther gone, what odds? Drunk or sober, they 'll be alike

useless when we strike rough seas."

The Frank's face lit with a smile as quick as its frown.

"There you are mistaken, Frisian," he said. "A man may bear the wild

waters no love, yet owe them no fear. Twice I have crossed this narrow

sea, as envoy of our Lord Karl to the kings of the Anglo-Saxons, and my

henchmen sailed with me."

"Yours are king's men, lord count,--all busked like chiefs."

"Man for man, I would pit them against the followers of any leader.

Better a few picked warriors, so armed, than twice their number of

common freemen."

"Well said!" muttered the Frisian; "a choice following. I 'd wager on

them, even against Dane steel--except the sea-wolves of Olvir Elfkin."

"Olvir Elfkin? You speak of a liegeman of Sigfrid, King of the

Nordmannian Danes?"

"No, lord count; Earl Olvir is far too proud to let himself be called

the man of any king. I sail far on my trade-farings. At the fair of

Gardariki, across the great gulf from the Swedes, I saw the Norse hero.

His father was one-time king of the Trondir, a folk who dwell beneath

the very eaves of the ice-giants. His mother was an elf-maiden from the

far Eastland. Another time I will tell you that tale, lord count. I

had it from Floki the Crane, my Norse sword-brother. But now I speak of

Earl Olvir's following. He is so famed in the North that the greatest

heroes think it honor to fight beneath his banner; and he rules the

mail-clad giants as our great King Karl rules his counts. Six seasons

in all he has come swooping south from his ice-cliffs to harry the

coasts of Jutland and Nordmannia; and though even now he is little more

than a bairn in years, each time that he steered about for his home

fiord he left a war-trail of sunken longships to mark his outbound

course."

"I heard much of such sea-fights from that mighty Dane hero Otkar,--he

who went over to King Desiderius and fought against our Lord Karl in the

Lombard war."

"Ay; who has not heard of Otkar Jotuntop,--Otkar the Dane? This very

Earl Olvir of whom I spoke is of kin to the hero."

"Even I have heard of Lord Otkar," called out a childish voice, and the

speaker sprang lightly up the deck ladder. She was a lissome little

maiden, barely out of childhood, yet possessed of an unconscious dignity

of look and bearing that well matched her rich costume.

The warrior bowed low to her half-shy, half-gay greeting, and smiling

down into her violet eyes, he replied in a tone of tender deference,

"The Princess Rothada is early awake. Shall I not call the

tiring-woman?"

The girl put up her hand to touch the coronet which bound her chestnut

hair, and her glance passed in naive admiration down the

gold-embroidered border of her loose-sleeved overdress.

"Princess! princess!" she cried gayly. "To think that only four days

have gone since with Gisela and the other maidens I waited upon the

blessed sisters! And now I wear a ring and silken dresses, and the

greatest war-count of the king my father--but are you not my kinsman,

lord count?"

"Your cousin, little princess. My mother was a sister of our lord

king."

"Then you shall no longer call me princess, but Rothada, and I shall

call you Roland. Few maidens can own kinsmen so tall and grand!" and

Rothada stared up in half-awed admiration at the count's war-dinted

helmet and shining scale-hauberk.

The warrior's blue eyes glowed, but there was no vanity with his frank

pleasure.

"Saint Michael give me skill to shield you from all harm!" he said.

"Surely he has already strengthened your arm. In all the land you stand

second only to the king my father!--But you spoke of Otkar the Dane.

Tell me more about him, cousin. Already I know that he was a heathen

count from the far North, more learned than any monk or priest, and in

battle mightier even than my father. Two winters ago there came to

Chelles a maiden who knew many tales of the Saxon and Lombard

wars,--Fastrada--"

Roland's cheeks flushed, and he stooped forward eagerly.

"Fastrada!" he exclaimed. "You knew her?"

"For a winter's time---"

"You will meet her again. She is now one of the queen's maidens,--the

fairest of them all."

"Then you like her, cousin," replied Rothada, with innocent candor. "It

was different with Gisela and me. Many of the maidens feared her, and

she broke the holy rules and talked so much of warriors that the good

abbess sent her away. Yet that is long since--she may have changed."

"None could but like her now, child," replied Roland, softly. Yet even

as he spoke, some unwelcome thought blotted the smile from his face. He

frowned and stared moodily out into the wavering mists.

The girl followed his look, and the sight of the water alongside

recalled her to the present.

"See, kinsman," she said, with a sudden return of gayety, "the sailors

spread the sail. How long shall we be upon the sea until we reach the

Garonne?"

"Were we travelling by land, I could tell you, little princess. But I

am no sea-count. Our shipmaster can best answer you."

The Frisian turned to the daughter of the great king with an uncouth

attempt at a bow.

"Wind and wave are fickle, maiden, and no sea is rougher than the Vascon

Bay," he grumbled. "But with fair wind I land you at Casseneuil while

the lord count's horsemen yet ride in Aquitania."

"That I doubt, man," said Roland. "Yet here is promise of fair sailing.

The sun melts the mists, and with it comes the breeze to sweep them

away."

"Ay; the fog breaks. Between sun and wind we 'll see both shores before

the ship gains full headway."

"I already see-- Look, man! Can we be so close inshore? What flashes

so brightly?"

The Frisian wheeled about, an anxious frown lowering beneath his shaggy

forelock. His alarm was only too well founded. A puff of the

freshening breeze swept before it the last bank of vapor, and revealed

with startling clearness two grim black hulls, along whose sweeping

bulwarks hung rows of yellow shields. On the lofty prows shone the

gilded dragon-heads whose glitter had first caught Roland's eye. The

single masts were bare of yard and sail; but along each side a dozen or

more great sweeps thrust out beneath the scaly shield-row like the legs

of a dragon.

"Danes!" gasped the Frisian, and from the grimly beautiful viking ships,

every line of which spoke of grace and speed, he turned a despairing eye

upon his clumsy trade-ship.

"Lost! lost!" he cried. "Already they come about to give chase--Garpike

and the lame duck! Paul seize all vikings!"

"No, Frisian," rejoined Roland. "These, in truth, are war-ships; yet

they come in peace. Dane or other, they dare not attack us on the coast

of Neustria."

As though in retort to this proud boast, a red shield swung up to each

Danish masthead, and across the water rolled a fierce war-cry. Roused

by the wild shout, all the sleepers in the trade-ship's waist sprang to

their feet. But while the Frisians huddled about the mast like

frightened sheep, the Franks met the sudden danger with the steadiness

of seasoned warriors. At a sign from their lord, they crept aft, sword

and axe in hand, and crouched on the deck behind the bulwarks. As they

made ready for battle, Roland caught up the hand of Rothada, who stood

gazing at the viking ships in mingled terror and admiration.

"Princess," he said, "the heathen shoot far with bow and sling. It is

time you sought shelter below. For a while you can there lie in

safety."

"But you, cousin? The Dane ships swarm with warriors. You and your men

will all be slain! Do not fight them, Roland! Let there be no

bloodshed."

"A wise maiden!" cried the shipmaster. "Mark the odds,--one stroke

brings death to us all. Yield, lord Frank! What if they give two or

three to Odin? The rest they 'll spare for thralls or set free for

wergild."

"Ah, Roland, yield, then! Do not anger the terrible heathen. My father

will soon ransom us."

"And what will he say to his daughter's faithless warder,--to the coward

who, without a blow, yielded a king's child into heathen thraldom?--By

my sword, the Danes take you only over the corpse of the last Frank in

this ship!"

But proudly as he spoke, when he swung the girl down from the deck, the

count's heart sickened at thought of her helplessness. How would the

little cloister-maiden fare in the hands of the fierce sea-thieves? The

anguish of the thought filled him with renewed rage. He gripped his

sword-hilt.

"Now to die, with a score of Danes for death-bed," he muttered.

Then a sudden hope flashed from his blue eyes. He seized the steersman

by the shoulder, and shouted joyfully: "Ho, Frisian; we may yet go free!

Cast over the cargo! The breeze freshens; we 'll outsail the thieves!"

"Only another viking could do that--yet the cloth bales will float--the

Danes may linger to pick them up. A good trick, if old-- But what--

Curse of the foul fiend! Look to seaward--three more longships--across

our course!"

"The race is run! Strike sail, man, and go forward to your sailors.

You and they may so save your skins. I and my men die here."

"I, too, can die," answered the shipmaster, stolidly, and he drew a

curved sword-knife from his belt.

"Go; you wear no war-gear," commanded Roland.

"I will fight berserk, as they say in the North."

"Then take my shield, and with it the thanks of a Frankish count. No

braver man ever fought beside me."

The Frisian took the shield, unmoved by the praise.

"Once I had a Northman for sword-fellow. They called him Floki the

Crane. From him I learned the ways of vikings. They know how to die."

"No less do my henchmen," rejoined Roland, and he shook the great mane

of tawny hair which fell about his shoulders. Here was no Romanized

Neustrian, tainted and weakened by the vices of a corrupt civilization,

but a German warrior,--an Austrasian of pure blood. He watched the

approaching Danes, eager for battle.

The Frisian, as he slipped the shield upon his arm, stared at the Frank

with a look of dull admiration. But when an arrow whistled close

overhead, he wheeled hastily about and shouted command to strike sail.

The order was obeyed with zeal, for the crew stood trembling in dread of

the Danish missiles. Down rushed the great wool sheet, and an exultant

shout rolled out from the pursuing longships. Count Roland smiled

grimly.

"Hearken, men!" he said; "the heathen think we yield. They lay aside

bow and sling. All will be axe and sword play. They shall learn the

taste of Frankish steel!"

The Frisian shook his head: "No, no, lord count. They 'll board on

either quarter, and overwhelm us. Your men are too scattered. The

Danes--"

"No, by my sword! The leading craft sheers off."

"She steers to meet the seaward ships! The Norns smile upon us, Frank.

We are doomed; but many a Dane goes before us to Hel's Land!"

"Brave words, man, though strange on the lips of a Christian," replied

Roland, and he drew his short-hafted battle-axe. "Now, men, make ready.

The Dane ship closes like a hound on the deer's flank. It will find the

stag at bay! When I cast my axe, leap up and strike for Christ and

king."

A low murmur came back from the crouching Franks, and they gripped their

weapons with added firmness. They were picked men, who had fought in all

the wars of Karl and of Pepin his father. One, a hoary giant of sixty,

could even boast that as a boy he had swung a sword in the fateful

battle of Tours, when Karl the Hammer had shattered the conquering hosts

of Mohammed. Death had no terrors for such iron-hearted warriors. All

they asked was the chance to sell their lives dearly. Like hunted

wolves, they lay in wait, while the shouting Danes rowed up to seize

their prize.