Riding swift on his errands
On the bit-gripping steed.
SONG OF ATLI.
Though reared on the iron coast of Northern Norway, Olvir Thorbiornson
had coursed more than one good horse over the flat shores of Jutland and
Frisia. What was no less to his present advantage, he held clearly in
mind all that Otkar Jotuntop had told him, in his childhood, of the
emir's red racers of the desert. Yet, confident as he felt of Zora's
endurance, throughout the first day's ride he restrained his desire to
course at full speed, and held the willing mare in check. Even a
Frankish horse, if spurred, might have kept the road with them to the
first night's rest,--at a Gothic farmstede just beyond Perigueux.
On the second day, however, Olvir held a looser rein, and Zora's long
stride swept him forward through the fertile country of mid-Aquitania at
a pace to astonish the dark-featured Gallo-Roman serfs toiling in the
fields beside the road. Even the occasional Frankish noble and pompous
bishop faring along the ancient highway could not but halt to stare,
with gaping mouth, as the bright Northman shot past them on the red
mare.
It might be that they would first catch sight of the rider in the
distance, attracted by the sun-rays glittering on his mail and helmet.
Then he would be rushing upon them, and they would draw aside to see him
pass. Scarcely a glance would they have as horse and rider dashed by;
but it was a glance not soon to be forgotten,--the rider, with the sun
glinting on his war-gear and jewelled sword, staring eagerly ahead along
the road; the red mare, with outstretched head and trumpet nostrils,
sweeping over the ground with long, easy strides.
But not all saw the king's messenger so. Now and then Olvir leaped from
the small Arab saddle and ran beside Zora, lightly as a deer, his hand
upon her withers. The change rested both mare and rider, and slackened
the pace but little. A hunter who could boast of having run down the
grey wolf afoot in fair chase was not apt to lag in the pace with a hand
on his horse. Another aid to Zora was the fair condition of the main
route across the rich province. Before the king had marched south, the
counts of Aquitania, spurred to unwonted activity by the prospect of his
coming, had put both highroad and bridges in moderately good repair.
So it chanced that, shortly before sunset, Olvir halted for the night at
a monastery a round ninety miles from where he had mounted at dawn. The
sight of the warlike rider as he rode through their gates brought the
black-robed Benedictines flocking about him with hospitable greetings;
and when Olvir showed the king's signet, the abbot himself sought the
privilege of kissing the royal ring.
But Olvir declined the wassail-feast with which the silk-clad priest
would have honored him. Instead, he groomed Zora with his own hands,
and, having eaten as plain and scanty a meal as he had doled out for the
mare, he withdrew at once to a common bed in the hospice.
Dawn found Zora munching the last of her measure of barley from the
stone manger, while her master, his hunger already satisfied by a share
of the porter's breakfast, paced up and down the monastery court to rid
himself of the stiffness yet lingering in his joints. At the first ray
of sunrise, master and mare were passing out through the gates, leaving
the porter to mumble his blessing over the handful of silver pennies
which had fallen from the rider's hand.
The morning was yet early when, without stopping, Olvir rode past
beneath the turreted walls of Poitiers, and noon found the red mare
racing over the plains of Touraine. From both Otkar and Roland, Olvir
had heard the tale of the fateful battle in which the Hammer of the
Franks had shattered the victorious hordes of Saracen invaders. Only
forty-six years had passed since that terrible slaughter of the
Moslemah, and as Zora coursed along the smooth highway which stretched
across the wide scene of the struggle, her rider's glance rested on
luxuriant fields where the serfs yet ploughed up fragments of outland
war-gear from the blood-drenched soil.
The young Northman was, however, less impressed by the thought of the
great battle than by the grand monuments of the ancient Roman
occupancy,--the lofty towers and walls, massive arched bridges and
aqueducts which, where uninjured by man, still stood about the land,
huge and uncrumbling after centuries of use. Often as Otkar had
described to him the buildings of the old Romans, Olvir found himself
staring at them in no little astonishment and wonder. His learning,
however, spared him the awe which would have been felt by his simpler
countrymen or the forest-dwelling Saxons, among whom the mighty stone
burgs and aqueducts were commonly regarded as the works of giants.
The interest of the king's messenger was at last drawn from these Roman
structures to the rapidly increasing numbers of wayfarers, journeying
like himself to the north. Every class of society was represented, from
counts and mitred bishops, travelling with princely retinues, to
wretched poor folk, forced into a life of wandering and beggary by the
ever-increasing oppression of brutal lords.
In the well-tilled fields which bordered the highway, Olvir could see
numbers of toiling husbandmen, part of the fifteen thousand and odd
serfs owned by the Abbey of Saint Martin. Here was Christianity
exemplified,--the priests of the rueful White Christ sitting in purple
and cloth of gold, while their fellowmen sweated and slaved to bring
them wealth! The thought filled Olvir with such loathing that when he
crossed the Cher and approached Tours, in the thick of the crowd, it was
all he could do to bring himself to accept the hospitality of the famous
abbey. Nor was his aversion to his monkish hosts lessened when the
almoner, overflowing with pride for his monastery, insisted upon showing
the king's messenger all the treasures of the church and shrine.
The gold-wrought hangings and the screens of brass and precious metals,
the silver candelabra and the gemmed images, at first half dazzled the
unaccustomed eyes of the Northman. But while those black eyes glistened
with wonder and admiration of so many precious and beautiful things, the
lip beneath curled in scorn of the manner in which the hoard had been
gathered, and of the images, to which devout worshippers were offering
praise and adoration, alike sanctioned and commended by the Bishop of
Rome.
"By the Beard!" muttered Olvir, in Arabic; "and these folk call the
Saracens pagans!"
The outlying buildings of the monastery, where monks in short-skirted
working frocks plied various trades and handicrafts, tended somewhat to
lessen the Northman's scorn of the woman-clad priests. But in the
morning he gave to the almoner the exact amount which he thought his
lodging was worth, and rode on his way, glad to leave behind him the
shuffling black figures, the tinkling bells, and the melancholy chants.
Once on the road again, all bitterness soon passed from Olvir's mind.
The day was fair, the road smooth, and already Zora's steel limbs had
borne him far on his journey. He cried aloud in sheer gladness of heart,
and from the pouch which the king's own hand had fastened to his saddle
he flung a fistful of pennies to the rabble of pilgrims by the wayside.
Then Zora lengthened her stride; and the wind whistled in his ears a
song of hope and love.
And so Aquitania was left to the south, and the king's messenger rode up
the Loire's right bank into Neustria, where were to be seen more Franks
and no Goths, but still a vast body of subject Gallo-Romans. Swiftly as
he passed, Olvir saw much of the beautiful land, whose tilled fields
were interspersed with woodlands and meadows. Yet pleasant as was the
land to the eye, Olvir observed that the few Frankish husbandmen whom he
passed differed little in dress and bearing from the dark-haired serfs.
What hope for the future could the free Franks hold, when even the iron
rule of their mightiest king could not shield them from the greed and
rapacity of their lords?
But Olvir had little commiseration to waste on Christian freemen. Why
did they not stand to their ancient rights, like the Norse commonfolk,
and cut off the heads of all lawbreakers, whether thralls or kings?
With a scornful smile he put the weaklings from his thoughts, and sped
on across Neustria as he had sped across Aquitania.
As he approached Paris, Olvir began to fear that Zora's hoofs would soon
crack from the continual beating on the hard roads. So he sought out
the most noted ironsmith in the city, and he and Zora lodged that night
in the hovel of the low-born sledge-wielder.
Never had Zora been groomed as she was groomed by the smith that night
and in the morning; and when it came to the shoeing, one would have
thought the mare a queen, with such care and delicacy did the man fit on
the light iron running shoes. While he then spent the forenoon in yet
more grooming, Olvir took a stroll into the city. He found gardens and
convents, hovels and palaces, spread over all the Island of Notre Dame
and along both banks of the Seine opposite. Undeterred by the
narrowness and filth of the streets, he crossed the ancient Roman bridge
to the island, and visited the palaces of Clovis and Julian the
Apostate, and the great domchurches of Saint Genevieve and Saint
Merdicus.
Noon, however, saw the king's messenger not only back at the hut, but
ready for the road. He had found Zora sleek as silk and bright-eyed,
eager to start. When he mounted he said nothing of pay; but the smith
bowed and smiled, and wished the princely king's rider a hearty
_God-speed_. Smiling in turn, Olvir put his hand to one of the gold
spirals on his left arm; and when the smith, who had not heeded the
quick movement, grasped the Northman's hand, he felt an angular piece of
heavy metal pressed into his palm. The giver's hand was withdrawn, and
the smith stood gaping at the lump of yellow gold that was worth more
than his forge and his home and all else he possessed, though he threw
in the very shirt upon his back.
Before the man could recover wit enough to cry out his thanks, Olvir was
riding away down the crooked street. It was the hour when most of the
Franks were seeking the customary noon-rest, and there were few folk
abroad to admire and wonder at the king's messenger as he threaded the
narrow ways and passed over the Roman bridges to the north bank. Before
long Zora bore him through the main gate of the suburban walls, and
galloped away on the road to Mayence.
A short ride to the Convent of Chelles on the Marne, where Olvir
delivered a message to the abbess for young Gisela, the king's sister;
then Zora was given free rein. The Frankish smith had shod the mare so
skilfully that she at once fell into her stride, and the race swept on
across Neustria, north and east into Austrasia.
Day after day Zora held on at coursing speed, never faltering, her steel
limbs seemingly tireless. But now the roads were rougher, and more than
one bridge was missing. Twice horse and rider were carried down from
treacherous fords, and once Zora sank in a bog. Neither master nor
mare, however, met with injury; and, despite all hindrance, the long
miles melted swiftly away before the mare's easy swinging stride.
And so the king's messenger sped through Austrasia, where corners of
ancient forest yet stood unhewn, and few men tilled the fields who could
not show visible proof of Germanic blood. From Rheims to Treves, Treves
to Mayence, thence across the Rhine, and along the Thuringian
trade-route which led up the Main and on into the primeval
forest,--these were the last stages of the great race.
But the king's messenger was spared at least one day of his expected
journeying. At Mayence he learned that Count Rudulf had lately been
staying at the Monastery of Fulda, and that it was possible the old hero
had not yet returned to his mark.
When, midmorning of the next day, Olvir came at last to Fulda, he found
that great centre of civilization in the heart of the beech-wood vastly
different from the gilded abbey of Tours, with its slaves and precious
hoard. The rude mass of log structures was a very beehive of skilled
workers,--sturdy brothers of Northern blood, who found it more to their
liking to toil at husbandry and the handicrafts, or to practise with the
pen and study the seven liberal arts, than to chant the dirge-like hymns
of Holy Church.
Above all was Olvir drawn to Abbot Sturm, whose manly and dignified
welcome of the king's messenger all but conquered the young man's
aversion to Christian priests. Not all the bluff old abbot's urgings,
however, could hold Olvir over the day, when he learned that Rudulf and
his Wend wife had gone to the count's homestede in the adjoining shire.
Again Zora stretched out her lean neck, and raced away down the forest
road. By midday she had reached the journey's end. On a rocky knoll,
close by the Fulda's bank, stood Rudulf's burg,--a walled enclosure in
which were grouped the hall and bower and outbuildings familiar to the
Norse eye, and, beside all these, the rude stone keep of the Franks and
Southern Saxons, adopted centuries since in imitation of the Roman
tower.