Thought shall be the harder, heart the keener,
Mood shall be the more, as our might lessens.
Grief and sorrow forever
On the man that leaves this sword-play!
SONG OF MALDON.
Already the longship lay close astern. A harsh command sent the oars
rattling in through their ports; and as the dragon prow overlapped the
flank of the quarry, a dozen grappling-hooks fell clanking across the
bulwark. Half the longship's crew swarmed in the bows,--a wild-eyed,
skin-clad band, staring with fierce greed at the casks and bales with
which the trade-ship was laden. None of them looked twice at the two
men standing so quietly in the middle of the deck. In their eagerness
for loot, all pressed forward to board the trade-ship, and so little did
they dream of resistance that many bore their weapons sheathed.
They were soon to learn their mistake. As the first Dane leaped upon
the bulwark, Roland swept his axe overhead and hurled it at the luckless
viking. Across the front the Dane's wolfskin serk was thickly sewn with
iron rings; but the axe-blade shore through iron and hide like cloth,
and buried itself in the viking's breast.
The surprise could not have been more complete. As the axe flashed over
their heads, the hidden warriors sprang up and fell upon the Danes with
all the fury of despair. Their lord and the Frisian sprang forward
beside them, and the Frankish blades threshed across the bulwarks in
swift strokes that cut down a dozen vikings before they could guard
themselves. More in astonishment than dismay, the foremost Danes
recoiled upon their fellows, causing a jam and confusion that prolonged
the vantage of the Franks. Like flails the weapons of the grey warriors
beat upon the round shields of the heathen.
"Strike! strike!" they shouted in the fierce joy of battle. "Christ and
king! Down with the pagans! death to the sea-thieves!"
On the right the shipmaster thrust his pointed sword-knife into the
faces of the enemy; on the left the axe of the hoary giant of Tours fell
like Thor's hammer; while between the two, Roland, wielding his sword in
both hands, cut down a Dane with every blow. His eyes flashed with the
fire of battle, and as he struck he shouted tauntingly: "Ho, Danes! ho,
sea-thieves! here is sword-play! Run, cast your spears from shelter!
Frank steel bites deep!"
The answer was a roar of fury. The death of their fellows only roused
the Danes to wild rage. Their huge bodies quivered, and eyes yet more
fiery than Roland's flamed with the battle-light. The air rang with the
clash of weapons, and the terrible war-cry swelled into a deafening
roar,--"Thor aid! Thor aid! Death to the Frank dogs!"
In a mass the vikings surged forward and leaped at the bulwark. Vainly
the Franks sought to withstand the shock. The crashing strokes of
Roland's sword kept clear all the space within its sweep; but on either
side the vikings burst across the bulwark in overwhelming numbers.
Shield clashed against shield, and blades beat upon helmet and hauberk
with the clang of a hundred smithies. No warriors could long withstand
such odds. Down went the Frisian under the blade of a berserk axe, and
after him fell the old giant of Tours, a throttled Dane in his grip.
Then four more Franks fell, all together, and the whole line reeled back
across the deck. The defence was broken. The Danes yelled in fierce
triumph and surged forward to thrust their handful of foes over into the
sea. Many warriors so hard pressed would have flung down their weapons
and begged for quarter. Not so the henchmen of the king's kin.
"Back to back!" called their count, and for a moment he checked the
Danish rush by the sweep of his single sword. Brief as was the respite,
it gave his followers time to rally. They sprang together and ringed
about their leader in a shieldburg that all the wild fury of the vikings
could not break. Like their lord, these grey warriors were Rhinemen of
pure German blood. Between them and their foes was slight difference
other than the veneer of a nominal Christianity. Drunk with the wine of
battle, they whirled their reddened blades and rejoiced to slay and be
slain in Odin's game. One by one, they staggered and fell, striking
even in the death-agony. Those who were left only narrowed their ring to
close the gaps, and fought on.
Of all the virtues, Northman and Teuton alike gave first place to
courage. Wonder seized the Danes at the very height of their
blood-fury. Never before had even they, the fierce sea-wolves,
witnessed such sword-play. Overcome by admiration, many drew back as the
last few Franks fell dying. When Roland stood alone within their
circle, by common impulse they lowered their weapons and shouted to
spare the hero. Only one voice dissented--but it was the voice of the
Danish chief.
The sea-king had been steering his ship, and so unexpected and furious
was the fight that its end came before he could force a way through the
press of his own men. Enraged that he had failed to come to blows, he
now pushed to the front, a grand and imposing figure in his scale
hauberk and gold-winged helmet. But beneath the helmet's bright rim
lowered a face more brutal and ferocious than a Saxon outlaw's.
"Way!" he shouted; and as the vikings parted, he stepped over the slain
to where Roland leaned heavily upon his sword.
"So-ho!" he jeered, and he eyed the gasping Frank with cruel
satisfaction. "They breed bears in the South worth the baiting."
Roland's eyes flashed as he answered: "Heathen boar! you may well talk
of baiting. Count your men who have fallen. Had I half my strength, I
'd send you with them to burn in Tartarus!"
"Had you all your strength, Frank, I should strike off your hands with
Ironbiter my sword, and cast you overboard to the sea-god. As it is, I
'll take you thrall and break your back on Thor's Stone at the Winter
Sacrifice. Next Yule the followers of Hroar the Cruel shall drink to
Thor and Frey from the skull of Earl Roland, the kin of the Frank king."
The count started in astonishment.
"Tell me, Dane!" he cried; "how do you know my name? Not by chance did
you lie in the Seine Mouth!"
"True, thrall; I can swear to that," answered Hroar, and he laughed.
"Be certain I would not risk King Sigfrid's longships thus far south
without sure gain. It is no harm to speak truth to a man who is
doomed,--dead men tell no tales. May you have joy of your answer!"
"I laugh at death. Now tell me, Dane!"
"Know then, my merry thrall, that tidings of your sailing flew to
Nordmannia straight from the hall of your king. Sigfrid had word from
Wittikind the Saxon, and he from well-wishers across the Rhine. Not all
your king's foes dwell without his borders. Some speak Frankish for
mother-tongue--"
"You lie! No Frank is traitor."
Hroar only laughed and answered jeeringly: "Maybe a little bird told how
Earl Roland should sail south from the Seine with the Frank king's
daughter,--a little bird in Frankish plumage. He sang a golden song for
me. Your ship rides deep with her cargo, and Frisian thralls fetch a
good price at the Gardariki fair.--But I would see your princess. If
she is young and comely, I may have other use for her than to grind
meal."
At the brutal words, fury seized upon Roland. His eyes blazed, and rage
lent sudden strength to his tottering frame.
"Heathen dog!" he gasped; "never shall your eyes look on Rothada!"
Before Hroar could guard or leap aside, the Frank's sword swung overhead
and whirled down upon his helmet like a sledge. Had the casque been of
common make, Hroar would have met his fate on the spot. As it was, the
blow beat a great dint in the gilded steel and sent the sea-king reeling
backward, stunned and blinded. A dozen vikings sprang between to shield
him, but Roland's sword dropped at their feet. Faint from loss of
blood, and utterly spent by that last great blow, the count swayed
forward. Darkness shut out from him the ring of shouting heathen. He
fell swooning upon the heap of corpses.
"A champion! a champion! The Frank has won his freedom!" cried the
vikings, and they pressed about to raise the fallen warrior. Heedless
of their own wounds, they sought to bind up his injuries. Their warlike
but generous natures yielded homage to the hero who had met overwhelming
odds without dismay and had struck a berserk blow even when falling.
They forgot the boasted cruelty of their leader.
Never before had the sea-king suffered such a helmet stroke. For
several moments he stood dazed, blinking at the stars which flashed
before his eyes, while his head hummed like a kettle. Then his vision
cleared, and he saw what his men were about. Into their midst he
sprang, gnashing his teeth like a wolf.
"Aside, dogs!" he yelled. "Give me my thrall. I will tear out his
lying tongue!"
The Danes gave back before the threatening dagger of their chief, and he
sprang upon his victim with a yell of triumph. The Frank should pay
dearly for that blow!
Some of the milder vikings muttered against the deed. This Frank was no
whining coward, no low-born outlander, but a fair-haired hero, such as
the Sigurds and Beowulfs of the olden days.
At the best, the Danes bore little love for the cruel Jutland champion
whom King Sigfrid had set over them. So now they murmured openly. But
Hroar was no less fearless than he was cruel. Regardless of their
protests, he turned the fallen Frank upon his back. No wolf ever fell
upon his prey with fiercer greed.
Already he had set about his deed, when a cry of surprise from his
followers caused him to look up. The crowd had opened, and through the
midst of the warriors came a little child-maid, the like of whom the
brutal Dane had never seen. Utterly lost to self in her fear for her
kinsman, the girl advanced with outstretched arms, her tender eyes full
of reproach, her pure young face aglow with spiritual light. Had she
been Skuld, youngest of the Norns, the Dane could not have been more
astonished. He glared at the child in dull wonder. Could this be
Freya's maid,--Gifion, Goddess of Innocence and Maidenhood? At the
thought, he started back, a superstitious dread clutching at his heart.
But when the first shock of surprise had passed, he perceived the
Frankish fashion of the girl's double tunic and the circlet that marked
her rank.
"Spawn of Loki!" he snarled. "It's only the Frank king's daughter."
"I am Rothada, and Karl the King is my father," said the girl, with
simple dignity. "Are you not the Dane count?"
Hroar scowled assent.
"Speak," he said.
The girl's courage began to falter before the ferocity of the sea-king's
stare, and, shuddering, she gazed about her at the heaps of dead and
wounded warriors. But she saw friendly looks upon many of the viking
faces, and forgot her fears once more in the thought of her
fellow-captives.
"I come to offer ransom," she said,--"wergild for all who yet live. My
father will pay for every one,--Frank and Frisian alike."
"Doubtless!" sneered Hroar. "But we will talk of that in Nordmannia
before King Sigfrid. Wittikind may have a word to say in the matter.
One thrall at least I keep as my share of the loot. Stand aside while I
put my mark on him."
For the second time the Dane turned to his victim. But Rothada was
quicker than he. With a piteous cry for mercy, she flung herself upon
Roland and sought to shield him from the knife with her own slender
body. The sight would have melted any heart that held the slightest
trace of nobleness. It stirred the vikings to open mutiny. They
renewed their protests, with deeper menace in their tones, and when
Hroar bent and grasped the maiden roughly by the shoulder, one of the
foremost swung up his sword.
"Stay, Hroar!" he commanded. "I am not used to looking on at foul
deeds. You must first pluck out my eyes before you take the Frank's
tongue."
"Ay, and mine!" growled a second viking.
Hroar stood erect and glared at the daring men. But neither gave way
before his terrible look. They had the backing of their fellows. The
sea-king saw this, yet his hand went to the hilt of his heavy sword.
The fight was averted, none too soon, by a scarred old berserk.
"Bear wisdom to Urd!" he called scoffingly. "Hroar bickers with his
wolves, while the Norse hawks swoop upon him."
At the warning, every Dane aboard the trade-ship wheeled about and
stared seaward. The harsh alarm of a war-horn, braying over the water,
was not needed to explain the situation. A bowshot away they saw their
second longship surging at full speed up the estuary. A fountain of
white spray spouted from under its forefoot, and the boiling sea
alongside, threshed to foam by the oar-blades, told that every bench was
full, every rower pulling to the utmost of his strength. Not without
cause! Close in the Dane's wake the three longships of the outer
estuary came gliding over the water in swift pursuit. Each lay far over
under the pressure of its great square sail, and from the mail-clad
crews packed along the fighting gangway behind the weather bulwarks,
rose jeers and grim laughter at the efforts of the Danes to escape.
"Norse!" shouted Hroar. "Thor! they mean to attack us! Aboard ship and
man the oars--yet stay! First scuttle the trader. We leave no booty for
the fiordmen!"
"They strike sail!" cried the old berserk. "Wait a little. They do not
swing the red shield. It may be a jest."
"A bitter jest-- Ho! the foremost comes on alone. Aboard ship, all, and
stand ready to cast off. I wait the Norse earl here."