Manful they march by mountain dales,
Stout of heart o'er the stony cliffs,
As far as run the roads before them,
Once built by giants.
ANDREAS.
Dawn of the day of marching found the vikings drawn up on the south bank
of the Garonne; but Zora stood at the head of their column, without a
rider. Olvir had lingered for a last word with the Frisians and disabled
Danes who had been left as ship-watch. With the first glimpse of the
sun, he was stepping aboard his waiting boat, when Gerold rode down the
bank in company with Amalwin the Saxon.
Both eyed the sea-king coldly, and Gerold hastened to be done with his
message: "Count Hardrat has advanced with the horse; after him march the
Austrasian levies. You will follow."
Olvir's dark face, which at first had warmed with a smile of welcome,
hardened at the curt command.
"Your king gave me pledge of the front," he said. "I should at least
follow the horsemen."
"You will follow where his Majesty commands," rejoined Count Amalwin.
Olvir glanced from the Saxon to his dragon-ships, moored along the bank,
and drew himself up haughtily.
"Will!" he retorted. "By Thor, I go where I choose, fellow! If it
please me, I take ship and leave Frank Land; let your Frank king
command!"
"Do so!" growled Amalwin. "The land were well rid of such an outland
wooer! Men call my forest folk barbarous; but, heathen though they be,
they hold pure maidens in honor."
"No less do I!" cried Olvir, hotly. "He who says else, lies!"
"It is well, Dane, I fare Rhineward, and you to Saracen Land. Would
that Rudulf had broken your heathen back!" cried the Saxon, and he shook
his clenched fist at Olvir.
The Northman's eyes glittered, and he smiled.
"Come," he lisped. "There is no better time than now. I will meet you
singly, or together."
"Holy Mother!" protested Gerold. "Why should we fight, Olvir? The
maiden weeps, and Roland is like a bear in the springtime; but--"
"But all listen to the tale of the Wend witch's daughter," added Olvir,
bitterly.
"We would hear you speak, hero. The maiden says nothing. Only,
Lupus--"
"Lupus! Let that fox look to his crooked tongue! When the daughter of
Rudulf speaks, I will answer. Until then my sword speaks for me."
Count Amalwin bent forward, with an altered look.
"You speak rashly, young man," he said; "but your eye is clear,
and--Lupus has a crafty wit. I doubt if you are so greatly in the wrong
as he hints in his twisted talk."
"Believe as you choose," said Olvir. "I have had enough of Frank love
and Frank troth. In the North we are not so hasty to put shame upon a
man. Now, if you are not minded to sword-play, I have only to weigh
anchor."
"By the fiend Odin!" growled Amalwin; "you are a proud blade, even for
Otkar's fostering. Hear me; I am of a mind with Gerold, and,--a
friend's word in your ear,--if you come Rhineward, look that you shun
the Grey Wolf and his mate."
"My thanks for the warning," said Olvir, coldly. "Yet it is needless.
I sail homewards. Your king has broken troth."
"No, Olvir," interrupted Gerold; "the king keeps troth. I myself heard
the command given. Your band is chosen for the king's shieldburg. At
the Pyrenees you will be called to the front."
"So! by the King of Skalds, that is another tune," replied Olvir, and he
turned to the Saxon with a quick smile. "Sharp words have passed,--it
may be mine were sharpest; but none should look for other than snarls
from a baited bear."
Amalwin's scarred face unbent in an answering smile, and he extended his
hand.
"If wrong has been done," he said, "you are not the one at fault. I
trust we may meet again as battle-mates. We are used to duller feathers
over Rhine; yet I stand ever ready to welcome one who could throttle the
Grey Wolf, whether he wear silk or hide."
"It may be I shall again see your forests. Until then farewell, lord
counts."
"Farewell," replied Amalwin, and he rode off up the bank. But Gerold,
instead of following, sprang to the ground.
"What now, lad?" asked Olvir.
"I have yet to see Liutrad. Abbot Fulrad wishes him to aid Worad with
the lettering. The abbot's scribe is to stay behind with Hildegarde.
But first, I would ask your pardon for my coldness."
"Say no more. Older heads have been misled. As to Liutrad, if he wish
it, he is free to aid Fulrad until there is need of his axe. I will
send him soon. Now, farewell."
"Stay a little, hero!" exclaimed Gerold, and he caught the Northman's
arm. "Before you go, will you not tell me what came between you and the
maiden? Your sword-brother goes about heavily. Give me a word to
lighten his trouble."
Olvir gazed into the pleading face of the queen's brother, and seemed
about to speak. But then his look hardened, and he stepped aboard the
waiting boat, cold and haughty.
"I have no word to send the Count of the Breton Mark," he said. "Let
him come and ask for himself. Thrust off, men."
Gerold mounted and rode off to Casseneuil, greatly disappointed that his
appeal had failed. Yet his heart was far lighter than when he came,
for, like Amalwin, he was convinced that the subtle insinuations of Duke
Lupus had no foundation in truth. His greatest desire was to tell all
to Roland; but when he reached Casseneuil he found that the count had
just left by boat for Bordeaux, in company with Lupus. So he had to
content himself with telling his convictions to his sister.
All was confusion at the villa. The king had already taken leave of
wife and children, and was riding off, with half the court in his train,
Rothada and Fastrada among the others. Gerold could have wished to join
the gay company; but he had to ride in hot haste to overtake his
command,--the contingent of wild mountaineers sent by the haughty but
weak Tassilo, Duke of Bavaria.
Like a swarm of giant locusts, the Frankish host had risen from about
Casseneuil and passed over the Garonne. Before midday the rearguard had
left the valley, and the entire host was sweeping across Vascon Land
toward the Pyrenees.
The march over the thorny sand-plains of the Landes and down the valley
of the Adour was so directed as to intersect the old Roman way which ran
from Bordeaux across the mountains to Astorga, in the little kingdom of
Alfonzo the Goth. Profiting by this useful relic of the one-time
world-rulers, the thousands of Northern buskins trod the ancient road
with quickened step, and rapidly drew near the outlying spurs of the
Pyrenees.
The last halt made before the attempt to cross the barrier was in the
valley of the Little Nive, where, after the cork forests and sterile
marshes of the Landes, the intense verdure appeared like a carpet of
green velvet flung over upland and meadow.
Horse and foot alike made the most of their rest in the pleasant dale,
for the morning promised a march that would try the strength of the
sturdiest. Many gazed upon the wild rampart, the shadow of whose peaks
fell early across their camp, with thoughts which boded greater
misfortune than mere journey toil, and around the fires that night the
old tale was told, how, in days gone by, the host of King Dagobert the
Merwing was beset in this very pass by the fierce mountain Vascons, and
routed with great slaughter.
But when the bluff-spoken Hardrat ventured to remind Karl of his
predecessor's disaster, the king passed off the omen with a laugh, and,
in turn, reminded the Thuringian how Roland had come fresh from Lupus,
bearing heartiest assurances of the duke's service and friendship.
Anselm, the astute judge, noted the furtive look which passed between
Fastrada and Hardrat at this; but the others gathered no more from the
incident than the knowledge of the king's confidence. They spread the
story throughout the camp, and by break of day the faintest-hearted in
the host was strong for the advance.
In the delightful freshness of early morning, while the first sun-rays
sparkled on the dewdrops, Hardrat's horn brayed the marching note. From
all sides of the royal pavilion the heavy Frankish horse gathered and
formed in column, five thousand strong,--ponderous steeds, backed by
riders whose leathern cuirasses were banded with long iron plates. Some
wore rude armlets and thigh-pieces. Slow and unwieldy in their massive
strength, these horsemen were none the less formidable. So, at least,
the Saracens had found, when on the plains of Touraine wave after wave
of the swift-rushing Moslemah had dashed forward, to shatter on the
rock-like wall of the Franks.
The king, mounted upon a powerful white stallion and backed by the
brightly clad retinue, surveyed the horsemen with his clear gaze, and
nodded to their waiting commander. At once Count Hardrat spurred to the
front of the riders, and the long column, breaking into a trot,
thundered away up the valley. As the rearmost troop passed the
pavilion, the king turned to Count Worad with a half-frown.
"Where are the Danes?" he demanded. "You had word to bid them be at
hand."
The young man's delicate face paled, but he answered steadily: "Count
Gerold bore the command, your Majesty, when he rode to join his
Bavarians."
"And I had need of my scribe, sire," explained Fulrad.
"But the Danes? We wait."
"They come, lord king," said Liutrad; and, as he spoke, the viking band,
half a thousand strong, wheeled into view around a coppice, to the
accompaniment of merrily clinking steel and the flashing of sunlight on
polished war-gear. Their appearance was met by shouts of admiration
from the Frankish lords; but, without an answering cry, they swung into
the dusty road and formed into column, grim and silent. Then Olvir, all
steel and gold from head to thigh, rode forward on Zora, and raised his
burnished shield in salute.
"Greeting, my Dane hawk," said Karl. "You come busked as for battle."
"We think it time for war-gear, lord king," replied Olvir; and he
glanced from the group of silken-vestured officials to the heights of
the Pyrenees.
Karl nodded approvingly. "It is well. Our safety is now in your
keeping. Hereafter, the Austrasians follow us."
Olvir flushed, and his eyes sparkled. He saluted again with upraised
shield, and answered earnestly: "By my sword, lord king, you shall not
rue your choice of shieldburg!"
"That I can well believe. I have not forgotten how your fierce
sea-wolves bend to my little maid."
"She holds them with a fetter strong as the bond of the Fenris-wolf,"
replied Olvir, and he looked across to where Rothada, in her
mule-litter, was assuring herself as to the comfort of Fastrada's
tiring-woman and of her own maid, both of whom were perched upon a heap
of baggage in a rude cart.
Two gaudily attired pages were fluttering about the little princess,
eager to render her service. Olvir smiled, then set his jaw sternly. A
second mule-litter had appeared from behind the cart, and its occupant
was gazing at him with a strange look of shame and aversion, and yet of
entreaty. Though love lay dead in Olvir's heart, the Thuringian's look
moved him deeply. Already his eyes were softening, when their
side-glance caught the moody gaze of Roland. He stared back at the
count, and drew himself up with a haughty smile. As he turned again to
Fastrada, he found her glaring at him with all the hatred that had
distorted her face in the garden. She had mistaken his scornful
movement as meant for herself.
The swift exchange of glances passed in the few moments that Karl was
speaking to Abbot Fulrad. Before Olvir had time for second thought, the
king turned back to him, smiling: "Now, my Dane hawk, Abbot Fulrad takes
the child into the midst of your warriors. We lend her to them in place
of yourself. For a while you will ride at my side."
"You honor both leader and men, lord king," replied Olvir; and he
wheeled Zora to the side of the white stallion.
Instantly Roland lifted the royal standard, and the silver trumpet of
Eggihard the High Steward sounded the advance. Into the road, behind
Karl and the Northman, flocked the throng of priests and officials, with
no small degree of bustle and confusion. But the noise of their
starting was soon drowned in the roars of delight with which the vikings
greeted their little vala. The king looked down at his road-mate, and
nodded approvingly.
"That is a welcome shout," he said. "I have not done ill to choose your
heathen wolves."
"Otkar would have named them trustworthy in that they are heathen."
"And what would he have said of Kasim, your Saracen kinsman?" rejoined
Karl. "Is not he, too, a pagan? Yet how of the arrow you gave me? I
have cleared the mystery. It is a Saracen shaft."
"May Hel grip the poisoner!" muttered Olvir, fiercely. But he restrained
his anger, and continued in a calm tone, "Let my lord king say what is
in his mind."
"You are keen, lad! This, then--you have just cause for anger against
your younger kinsman. Yet I have need of him. He is ruler of
Pampeluna, which, I am told, is the strongest burg in the land of the
Navarrese; and more,--he shares, in a measure, the influence of his
wife's father over the Count of Saragossa."
Olvir glanced up at the expectant face of the king.
"Your Majesty would have me forgo my vengeance," he said.
"For a time, at least. Such a man is but a sprung stave to lean upon;
but, if it be to his own gain, he may give good service. Until Barnard,
my uncle, joins us at Saragossa with the second host, much hangs on the
friendliness of this poisoner."
"Let the dog go to Hel, Loki's daughter, his own way; only, give me the
forefront of battle!" cried Olvir, his eyes bright and nostrils
quivering.
The king smiled in approval.
"Saint Michael!" he exclaimed; "I long to see you in sword-play, kin of
Otkar! The fosterling lacks nothing of the hero's fire, yet none could
differ more in body. You must favor your mother's kin; your hair alone
is of the North. _Heu_! I remember your father, as of yesterday,--a
grand warrior, leaping upon us through the alders. Though bigger, he
was much such a man as Roland."
"Roland!" echoed Olvir; and involuntarily he glanced about.
Karl noticed the movement, and a question sprang to his lips: "You 're
at outs with your sword-brother. Why have you wrangled? The quarrel
grieves me."
"Not you alone, lord king! Yet am I a hare? He came upon me with bared
sword--"
"You fought?"
"No. He was raging; but I cast down my sword."
"And he would not strike,--my sister's son! But his anger--?"
"The daughter of Rudulf and I broke troth; why, I will not tell,--let
men think what they may. Roland met her. I do not know what she told
him; but he came upon me like a berserk."
"No doubt the maiden was angry, and in her anger may have overstepped
the truth. A word may set Roland right and heal your quarrel."
"Let him ask, then! He has broken blood-troth. He is the one to salve
the hurt."
For some moments Karl regarded the young Northman's haughty face with
impassive gravity. When at length he broke the silence, his gaze
shifted to the jewelled Al-hatif.
"Yours is a gay sword," he observed.
"No less a keen blade," muttered Olvir.
"It shall soon test the Saracen mail. May it spur Abd-er-Rahman into
the sea! Christ conquers; the heathen hosts shall flee before his
warriors."
The king paused, and looked upwards into the blue sky, his face aglow.
After some little time his gaze returned to Olvir.
"Listen, kin of Otkar," he said; "this is my war-scheme: Barnard, my
uncle, marches around by way of Narbonne. He will leave men to hold the
burgs of our allies in the northeast quarter of the old Goth realm, thus
hedging in Septimania from counter-attack. At Saragossa we join hosts,
cross the Ebro with our Saracen allies, and march south against the
great burg called Toledo. If that burg falls before Abd-er-Rahman comes
to battle for his kingdom, we strike yet farther south at Cordova, his
chief burg and royal seat; while Ibn Habib, the kinsman of Kasim,
crosses over from Africa to harry in the rear of the Saracen lion,--so
Al Arabi and Kasim have given pledge. Now, what does my Dane hawk say?
The Saracen folk cannot stand before us in battle. That was proven by
my father's father. It is a fiery land; yet the war will be brief.
Behind us is the support of our pagan allies and the Christian
mountaineers; what can defeat us?"
"Treachery."
"True. But of that I have no fear,--even from Count Kasim. The Saracen
king has hunted him like a wolf and slain his kinfolk."
"There is yet the Vascon," remarked Olvir, dryly.
"Him!" rejoined Karl. "The Merwing hound dare not yap at my cold shoe.
In the early years of my kingship he gave over to me his own kinsman,
Hunold of Aquitania, at the first threat. Enough of such! Now I would
speak with Roland; afterwards with Abbot Fulrad."
Olvir saluted, and wheeled Zora about. The act brought him face to face
with Roland, riding alone at the head of the retinue. The count met his
glance with a troubled look; but Olvir passed by, and signed to Liutrad.
"Tell Lord Roland the king would speak with him," he said.
The merry young giant nodded, and, without a blink of surprise at the
transference of the message, spurred forward on Gerold's last gift,--a
heavy horse of Frankish breed.
Olvir reined Zora aside and waited for the retinue to pass. His
intention was to fall back among his own men, as far away as possible
from his one-time brother and his one-time love. But while he rode with
the king, Abbot Fulrad had brought Rothada forward to rejoin her maiden
companion. A glimpse of the little princess staring at him from her
litter in round-eyed wonderment altered Olvir's purpose.
Regardless alike of the cold-eyed courtiers and Fastrada's hateful
smile, he guided Zora in among the retinue until she paced beside
Rothada's litter. He met the dubious look of Abbot Fulrad with an easy
smile.
"The king would speak with you, lord priest," he said, and as the
white-haired churchman urged his mule forward, Olvir bent gravely over
Rothada.
"How is the little vala?" he asked.
"Very well, Lord Olvir. Is it not joyous to be on our way to the crest
of those mighty fells? But I forget. They tell me I should not speak
with you. Are you so very wicked, Lord Olvir?"
The Northman turned like a panther suddenly attacked, and cast at
Fastrada a glance of such terrible anger that all her hate could not
withstand its menace. But as she shrank from him, Olvir burst into a
laugh of careless scorn.
"This is a wicked world, little cloister-dove," he said. "Yet be
assured,--you can trust your heathen friends, though I cannot say as
much for those who call themselves followers of the White Christ."
"I'm glad, Lord Olvir! I could hardly believe you'd harm me. Of my
dear vikings I had no fear at all, though some mock at them as heathen.
If only they were not! Yet they are very good to me, and I love them
all."
"Even me!" suggested Olvir, and, with a boyish laugh, he tossed a small
ring into the girl's lap. "You shall be my may."
"But I 've no ring to give in turn," she replied seriously.
"A lock of your hair will be as welcome."
Rothada took the dagger which he held out, and cut a thick tress from
her chestnut hair.
"Braid it," said Olvir; and the girl obediently plaited the tress in a
broad strand. Olvir took the gift solemnly, and, winding it twice about
his neck, over the gold collar of his mail, secured the ends together
with a double clasp.
"Now I'm your thrall, king's daughter; for I wear your bond," he said.
"A collar, earl, that should not chafe even the pride of a sea-king,"
remarked Liutrad, who had fallen back to the opposite side of Rothada's
litter. Olvir smiled into his honest, ruddy face.
"Well said, lad; for it's the gift of a true heart," he replied, and he
cast a piercing glance at Fastrada. But the Thuringian, though within
ear-shot, gave no sign that she either saw or heard. She was surrounded
by a group of favorite admirers, who crowded about her litter, enjoying
at the same time her beauty and her subtle wit. In wholesome dread of
Olvir's quick ear, the maiden said nothing against him; but the hostile
feeling of her companions was apparent in their shrugs and glances.
To this Olvir did not pay the slightest heed. Liutrad, however, took
the matter more to heart. With boys like the pages such unfriendliness
might be excusable. But Worad, notwithstanding his girlish face, was a
learned count and skilled warrior, and during Olvir's Rhine journey he
had not only enjoyed the hospitality of the viking camp, but had pledged
friendship with Gerold and Liutrad. Of all which Liutrad grumbled to his
earl across the litter, until Rothada and Olvir joined in laughing him
into his usual good-humor.
The road had now plunged into a vast forest of beech and oak, and
through the vistas Olvir pointed out to his companions the glittering
white crest of Mount Altobiscar, toward which they were steadily
ascending.
Gradually the wooded spurs of the great barrier closed in. The way
became narrow and steep. Lofty cliffs, whose crannies were green with
hardy box, towered above the invaders. Oaks and beeches were giving
place to firs. High in the genial, sunny air other peaks than
Altobiscar thrust up their jagged snow-crests.
Nearer and nearer the mountain towered above the narrow road, until the
vanguard of the invaders could look directly up at the glittering
summit, five thousand feet above them. Slowly horsemen and footmen
wound through the wild gorges of Ibaneta, whose savage grandeur
over-awed all others than the Bavarians and the mountain-bred warriors
of the North. For them the dizzy cliffs and crags served only to stir
pleasant memories of their own rugged lands. But the Frankish dwellers
of forest and plain gazed about them half fearfully, well assured that
such gloomy cliffs and jagged heights must be the abode of malevolent
kobolds and scrats, if not of dragons.
No trace of man other than the old Roman way was to be seen in the pass.
Nature here ruled alone in one of her wildest moods. From their eyries
on the crags of Altobiscar, eagles swooped down to view the invaders,
and their screams echoed weirdly through the gorge, above the dull tramp
of hoofs and buskins and the clink and ring of war-gear.
All Rothada's delight had now given place to dread of the echoes and the
savage scenery, and she would have wished herself back on the peaceful
Garonne, had not Olvir set about diverting her attention by jests and
droll tales.
So, without sign of opposition or danger, the host poured down through
the ominous gorge, to enjoy the well-earned rest in the dewy valley
below.