THE LAST OF THE VIKINGS.
"An old man broken with the storms of state,
Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;
Give him a little earth for charity!"
Shakespeare.
One chill December morning, as certain lay brothers of the monastery of
Crowland were engaged gathering faggots in the woods to feed the fires
of the Abbey, they came across a strange-looking figure, sitting on a
fallen tree and leaning heavily against another. His cheeks were
blanched like the snow, and his long red hair and beard was falling
unkempt and matted over his shoulders and chest. He seemed sadly worn
and helpless, with strength utterly exhausted; but beneath his shaggy
eyebrows his eyes glowed with a strange, unnatural light. Beside him sat
a half-starved hound whining piteously, and licking the cold and
emaciated fingers of his master. The churls gazed upon the stranger in
abject terror, thinking him to be some satyr or spirit of the wood, who
would surely work them ill; but as the figure beckoned them feebly to
approach nearer, with much trembling and irresolution they drew near
enough to hear his voice.
"Can you tell me if I am near the monastery of Crowland?" said he
feebly.
"You are not many bowshots from thence," they replied.
"Can you tell me whether Ethel the Saxon, daughter of Beowulf, dwells
there?"
"Torfrida, wife of Hereward, and Godiva, wife of Leofric, are here; and
there is a younger one called Ethel, with the flaxen hair. She is a holy
woman, much given to penances and fasting, and she is very good to the
poor; is it her you seek?"
"I have come a long way to seek this Ethel, and I am sorely wounded and
very faint. Could ye, for love or charity, carry me in your bullock
cart, for I have no further strength, and must perish shortly if ye
leave me here."
So, assured by the evident helplessness of this strange being, the
churls came a little nearer, and asked him some further questions
concerning his strange quest. Eventually, they unloaded their rude cart
of its burden of wood; then they hastily pulled some tall grass, and
scraped together some dead leaves. Of these they made a rough sort of
bed to ease the jolting of the rude cart over the rough ground. With
much difficulty they lifted the stranger in, for he was of burly build,
though sorely wasted. Then, slowly and tediously, through the windings
of the forest, they returned to the Abbey. Nourishments and cordials
were administered to him, his untended wounds were washed and dressed,
and he was put to bed.
"Ye are very kind to me, but have ye not a maiden called Ethel here? Let
me but speak with Ethel, daughter of the Saxon thane, Beowulf," pleaded
the stranger.
"Be patient, stranger," said Torfrida, who bent tenderly over him,
moistening his parched lips. "Ethel is on an errand of mercy to the sick
poor."
"Ah! ye know not how I love this Ethel--things might have been different
if Ethel had not left me."
As soon as Ethel returned from her mission, she was informed that a
wounded stranger had come from far in quest of her. Immediately she
hastened to the bedside of the sick one, wondering, and tremulous with
agitation, and with many strange misgivings of heart.
It was as she feared--there lay Sigurd in pain and great weakness, his
broad frame shattered and wasted almost to skin and bone. It was
palpable also, that the fierce, restless spirit was hopelessly and
rapidly consuming the small remnant of vitality still spared to him. His
eyes were deeply sunken, and shining with unnatural light, telling but
too plainly that another grim and unwelcome visitor was lurking near,
and that no human skill could long keep _him_ at bay.
Ethel sat down beside him in her convent habit. What a transformation
was here! Sigurd uttered a deep groan when he set eyes on her. The long
flaxen locks, once the crown and glory of her youth, were cut short, and
the remnant hidden by her hood. The blue eyes, so tender and expressive,
and the fine, regular features were still there. The soft, fair skin was
a shade paler, and the short time which had elapsed had palpably aged
her, or else it was the cloister habit which made her seem so much
older. One thin hand was immediately grasped by the worn and attenuated
fingers of Sigurd, as he looked up most reverently into her face. This
fair Saxon had long been to him _St. Ethel_, and her form was enshrined
in his heart. He proceeded to question her in serious tones.
"I am well nigh hunted to death, as you see, Ethel--dead beat--dead beat
at last. What think ye, Ethel; shall I get well?"
Ethel shook her head.
"I am afraid not in this world, my lord."
He responded with a low groan.
"But I can't be spared now, Ethel; the old cause is desperate now, and
sorely in need of me. What will become of my oppressed countrymen, with
never a leader to look to?"
"God alone knows, my lord, but all things are in His hand; and I trust
that through this fiery ordeal, and through the long struggle, He will
bring profit to the nation. Already signs are manifest that the hatred
of William is abating, and Saxons here and there are being received into
favour."
"Ah! Saxons being received into favour by the tyrant usurper! Then, I
wot the renegade Oswald, and sycophants and timeservers generally, will
thrive. My curses on the cowardly brood!"
"Call them not renegade, my lord, neither curse them. Oswald will best
serve his countrymen by frankly accepting what was inevitable in any
case."
"Nothing was inevitable, if he had but had the mind to stand by his
country. We would have followed him anywhere, for there was none of us
with a head to command like he had; and he wielded a powerful sword. No
other man ever got the better of me in single combat, and I could have
worshipped him had he stood by us. 'Twas the Norman woman bewitched him,
and I hate him for saving his coward's skin and betraying his country,
because a dark-eyed siren and temptress beckoned him."
"My lord, no more of this! He was the wisest amongst us, and saw
farthest; and if you and others had been guided by him, there would have
been less of Saxon blood shed. I think I see clearly in this revolution
the hand of a wiser and a mightier than he--One who has seen fit to cast
your Viking hardihood and valour, and stern, severe virtues, and the
Saxons' milder traits, along with Norman chivalry and refinement, into
the eternal crucible. You and I and ours, it is true, may lose our
identity; but all that is best will reappear in the ages to come."
"Ye speak in riddles, Ethel. Do ye think the Viking race will lose its
identity? Never!" said he, with fierce emphasis. "Vikings, who have
sailed every sea and conquered everywhere, to be swallowed up by this
womanish people--never! This will not do! Get me my sword, Ethel; if I
but feel it I shall be strong again."
"The sword is resting in its scabbard, my lord. It has long since drunk
in its fill of blood--let it rest for ever."
"Why have ye taken my sword from me, Ethel? I can wield it yet. I tell
thee, Ethel"--making a vain effort to raise himself--"there's marrow in
the Viking race yet, and we shall sweep the seas again as of old! I will
not lie here. Let me to the Bruneswald; I have men left yet, and we'll
make a fight for it to the end!"
"My lord, you will never handle sword again. The Viking's cause--the
_reign of force_--has received its mortal wound. 'Twill linger probably
through centuries of darkness, and amid the twilight of the days still
later; for men, benighted men, here and there, will give it a spasmodic
and fitful revival; but never more in the ages of the world will the
gaunt and hateful reign of force be paramount."
"Ethel! Ethel! Ye embitter my death. What will ye have, girl? Are our
gods dead, think ye? Where are our Sagas? Bethink ye, there is the
Viking race beyond the North Sea, and they'll come again; and do ye
think these sleek and well-fed Normans will drive them out? The hardy
warriors from the mountains and fiords over the fierce sea are coming.
Hist!" he shouted, half delirious, "do ye hear their shouts? Will ye
reach me my sword, Ethel? I must be up and meet them!" Then he sank back
exhausted once more. "Tut, tut, we deserve this for our folly. What am I
doing; going to die in a bed? The sea is the Viking's home. Why did we
ever take to land, except for plunder? Accursed ease and effeminacy have
undone us. But we'll to the sea again. Wait awhile, Ethel; ye shall see
who will be masters."
"Calm yourself, my lord, and think of other things, for time is short.
The Viking's gods _are_ dead if ye ask me, or what is more true, they
never had an existence, and were only the creation of a wild and
barbarous fancy."
Sigurd looked at her steadily.
"Oh, ye are a Christian now, Ethel! Ye should not have left the old
faith; ye take the heart out of me; ye should have stood by the old
faith, then we should have met again in Valhalla, you and I. Ye know not
how ye make the Viking's death hard to bear: ye take my staff from me as
I ford the stream."
"We shall never meet in Valhalla, my lord! but we may meet again in the
kingdom of our God."
"Not me, Ethel! ye do not mean that I may go to the Christian's
heaven--bethink you what I am."
"Yes, you may go, my lord. I am not without hopes that even you may be
found there. Certain you shall, if you are willing."
"Will you be there, Ethel?"
"Through the mercy of God I hope to be there."
"But ye say He is a Prince of Peace?"
"Yes, He is the Prince of Peace."
"Ye know I am a Viking; what could I do in the Christian's heaven?
Should I have my trusty sword?"
"No, my lord, you would need no sword there, for hatred, oppression, and
wrong, are unknown in heaven."
"Will ye be my bride then, Ethel?"
"They neither marry, nor are given in marriage, my lord."
"Should I be near _you_, Ethel, always?"
"I should like to be near you, if I may, my lord."
"Ah, then I would like to go to the Christian's heaven if I might be
near _you_. There will be no Normans there, will there, Ethel?"
"Yes, my lord, I hope there will be Normans there also."
"Norman's there! Ah! that would spoil it, Ethel. What would a Skald like
me do with my heart on fire with hatred of these Normans? It will not
do, Ethel! It will not do! The Christian's heaven will not do for the
Viking!"
"But our God will give you a new heart. He takes our heart of stone and
gives us a heart of flesh, so that we _love_ our enemies."
Sigurd responded with a deep groan. "But Ethel, girl, what madness is
this? I should not be a Viking! what should I be, then? Should I wear
silks, and strut about in feathers and fringeing and be a flabby
courtezan? If so, I think I would prefer the Viking's Valhalla, after
all; it suits the Viking best. Why won't ye go with _me_, Ethel, girl?
Let the Norman and the slaves of Saxons have their heaven. Perhaps ye
think I should drag ye over the wild hills, or through the greenwood;
but I would be gentle to ye. Ye little know how I love ye, Ethel."
"My lord, your mind is very dark; I will send a priest who will instruct
you in these things."
"I want never a priest, Ethel; ye can tell me best. Do ye know, Ethel,
the old priest Olaf is dead? What evils have befallen our race! I fear
ye prophesy rightly; the end is indeed come."
"I have no news, my lord; but I expected this."
"Yes, he is dead; he would drag his crazy limbs after us in our last
struggle with the Normans; he said the gods would protect him, for he
had a charmed life, and that they would fight for us and give us the
victory; but we were outnumbered, my followers were all slain to a man;
but the Normans were also, for I cut down the last of them. Olaf, our
old priest, was also hacked to death by the enemy."
"He was the last priest of the old heathen line, and he will have no
successor. The old heathenism is gone for ever, my lord."
Sigurd groaned deeply, and called in frantic tones upon the spirits of
Valhalla. "Odin! Norseman's god! Can't ye help us in this pinch? can't
ye help us, I say?" Then with a deep groan he sank back in complete
exhaustion.
"Calm yourself, my lord, or I must leave you," said Ethel. "But Sigurd
heard her not, his eyes were closed and he was evidently spent. With a
feverish start, however, he opened his eyes again, and sought eagerly
for the loved form of Ethel.
"Ah, I thought ye had left me. The end has come, Ethel; I shall not get
well again, but I have one request; let me be buried near the _sea_, for
I know the Vikings will come again, and I'll hear their shouts of
victory and the shock of their onslaught; and, Ethel, let me be _mound
laid_, mound laid, mark me, Ethel! then they'll know 'tis a Viking
chief's grave, and the Skalds will sing of my exploits. Ethel, have my
sword also laid under my head, ready, my trusty sword 'Tyrfing,'
(foe-hater), we must not be parted. It's very dark, Ethel." Slowly his
eyes closed, and for a little while he lay quiet; then he started up and
shouted. "Down with the Normans! Ho, men! carry me out of the cave; I
cannot breathe here." After this fashion for a little while the fitful
struggle continued, and then in quietness the contest ended; and the
last of the Vikings closed his eyes with the loved form of Ethel bending
over him.