COWPERS’ CRACKS.
[The great Aurora of A.D. 926.]
Evening it was, when the afternoons were already beginning to lengthen,
but before the frost was over. Thorstein came running in at his bedtime,
and “Mother, mother,” says he, “the fell’s afire!”
Sure enough there was a sight to make the boldest heart shake in its step
like a ricketty mast. For it seemed that all the heavens were aflame; as
though, beyond the high hills, woods and forests—nay, the very mountains
themselves were blazing in a light low. And one while, great sheets of
wavering flame turned blood-colour, and the sky between them was green,
and the stars faded away. Then it throbbed, and shifted, and changed like
clouds of sunset, though the sun was long gone down and there was no
moon. Swein and Raud and the rest of them were aught but cowards: but
when they turned in, they saw one another pale as grass in the firelight,
and laughed but little that night. But what it might mean they disputed
among themselves: and it was mostly thought there would be bloodshed
wherever that blood in the sky had shone.
There was another evening soon after, when trading merchants came in a
boat up the firth of the Leven. Such were never unwelcome in winter, when
folk were at home and work was slack; there was time to rummage the wares
and hear the news. These cowpers also found the coast a deal safer when
no summer fighting was going on. As for storms, they were never out of
sight of a shelter, creeping about the shore, picking up what they could,
and always well entertained. They had come last from Cowprond, which was
their “trading shore” and market-place with the Cartmel Welsh, where the
old road met the Sandgate over the Leven. Greenodd was the only house up
the firth, and it was not always that chapmen called there; and so they
were made much of.
When they had got their packs up to the house, and when they had been
served and suppered, out came news. For it seems that Sigtrygg had died,
not long after that great fire-flaught in the heavens. “Aye,” said the
cowpers, “you may well cock your ears: others beside you guessed that
great doings would happen. But listen now, Swein Biornson and all.
“Folk said there was foul play in that matter: and Sigtrygg’s sons by the
queen that was, the Irish-woman, charged it on the queen that is, the
English-woman for whose sake the king had taken christening: but having
won her, he went back on his word and took to sacrificing again. Upon
which off she goes to her brother Athelstan, wed and yet unwed, as one
may say. And then dies Sigtrygg. Athelstan, they say, knew as much about
it as another: but that is only guess work, and neither here nor there.
Anyhow he is a brisk lad and sprack, not the man to see his sister put
upon, right or wrong. Away he marches with a great power to York; and no
sooner is he in sight, but Sigtrygg’s sons show him their heels, the best
way they could: and that was out by the back door, and away up the big
North road, across the fells, till they come to Penrith in Cumberland:
and there we lose sight of them. But they do say that Guthferth
Sigtryggson started on the North road to visit Constantine king of Scots,
and get shelter with him if he could: and Olaf Cuaran said good-bye to
his brother and went west, as if to seek his uncle Guthferth, who is king
now in Dublin. The question is What next? for you may be sure they will
not rest, and the Irish and Scots will be glad of a chance for a throw at
the young king—the king of all England as he will reckon himself.”
“And so that bad business at Bakewell comes to nothing?” said Swein. “I
knew as much. But this lad Athelstan, by what you tell of him must be a
fine cockerel to crow so loud. And now I call to mind, he must have been
the youngster that sat on the high-seat step at Bakewell: he with the
bright eyes.”
“Aye,” said the chapman, “tall and slender: he would be some thirty
winters old when you saw him: handsome and flaxenhaired: and ye will have
noticed how his hair was all twisted up with gold threads. He’s a real
king to look at, though they say he is but the son of a shepherd lass
whom Eadward his father lighted upon in his travels. And he is a good
sort, they say, and has seen the world, and knows better than most kings
how folk live. Why, he speaks our language like one of us, and has done
a bit of seafaring. But for all that he is a Saxon, and he must stand by
his own kin.”
“Well, what are we to do? Knock him on the head?”
“To hold thy peace,” said Unna, “is my advice: and watch the weather.”
“A wise woman is my wife,” said Swein, “and knows the weasel’s trick.
After all, we are free of our oath, and need not put our heads into the
snare again.”
“Laugh at the lightning when the storm has passed,” said the chapmen.
“Athelstan with his power was at York awhile since, and may be in
Lunesdale by now to foreset us.”
“Let him come!” shouted Swein; “and hey for a gradely good stir-about,
and pot luck for the sharpest claws!”
“Look you, master cowper, and all the rest,” said Unna, “if you set up
for eggbattles and put my man on shouting, I shall have those blessed
barns awake and on my hands all night. Swein Biornson is a good friend to
all his friends but himself alone. We have seen a little fighting, to our
sorrow: and the talk of the trade hangs about the tongue, like smoke in
a half-burnt house. But here we are, and here we stay if we can. As for
Swein, his bark is worse than his bite. He shaped well for a good farmer
in Man before Ragnwald shifted us: and he shapes well for a good farmer
now: and pity it were if we be plucked up by the roots again. These great
kings and their powers come not where nothing is to be had but kale
pottage and hard bats. I’ll uphold it, Athelstan will be bound for the
great burgs in the north, or connily on his way home again. And I should
reckon it ill done of you good fellows to go abroad stirring up useless
riot, or coming hither to entrap quiet folk into rash vows.”
So the cowpers said they were but giving the news and meant no harm: and
that it never had been their way to go talebearing and raising strife,
nor never would be. At which Unna smiled, and got up to make them beds
before the fire on the benches of the hall. When she saw them well
furnished with rugs to hap them and bolsters for their heads, she sent
her folk to their chambers; put her knitting away into a basket; lit a
rushlight in an iron candlestick; and bade them good-night.
Child Thorstein was fast asleep on the farther side of the bolster in the
narrow chamber of their lock-bed, with one little dimpled arm stretched
upon the quilted coverlet. Swein, sitting upon a kist to unlace his
shoes, looked sleepily at him, and then at her, as she let a sheaf of
yellow hair fall upon her white night-sark: and the rushlight on the
shelf shone down through it, flickering in the draught from the little
round window above: for the lock-bed was just like a cabin aboard ship.
“Right thou art, Irish fairy,” said he: “and always right. But ah, you
women, you never felt the heartiness of a good fight.”
“Nay, we are nought: that’s well known,” she laughed, drawing the curtain
round the baby. “Bar the door, Norse bearsark.”