A DOOR-DOOM.
Under Blawith roof-tree sat dame Asdis, fresh and fair as a daisy: and
when she had broken her fast she looked to her outdoor servants and set
them their tasks: and when she had put them all in order, she came in,
at the time folk take their drinkings: and she drank a horn of ale,
and ate sweet cakes, one after another: and then she washed her hands
at the trough by the porch and got her a clean apron and sat down in
her high-seat, and took to her sewing; and if the day was hot, and she
dropped off to sleep while one might count two score, it was no shame to
her, now she was wedded woman and ever a house-wife of the most notable.
And then she wished Halldora would come to pay her a visit. For it was
nought but dull in these backwoods, and news was worth whittlegate. So
she went to the door to see if the weather was holding up: and sure
enough it had brightened, as it does sometimes at mid-day after stormy
weather, and the lift was lighter than heretofore. The rain had stopped,
and the beck was roaring white.
“Who comes tramping over the lea land? Hey lads, a stranger. Run for your
weapons. What, not Thorstein, surely? and all so draggled and dabbled?
Wenches, here’s the master, and a pretty pickle he is in. A bath is the
next thing; but fetch me the ale-tub and the biggest horn first.”
For you see she knew the ways of men-folk to a tittle, to treat them high
and low as they should be treated.
“Well, Thorstein,” says she, as he came up to the door, “here’s a conny
mess. Sit in the porch, man, and the ale will be here gey soon. Thou art
not fit to touch before a bath and a shift of clothes: and I can’t have
that filthment of a kirtle on thy new high-seat bolster, thou know’st.
Eh, these men, they are nought but great barns. Now, Thorstein, what hast
thou been doing?”
He leaned back and drank off the ale, and looked at her strangely.
“I have killed Orm,” said he.
“None of thy jokes, lad. Say a better word. How is this? That the bonny
bridegroom could wait no longer; eh, lad? and made more haste worse speed
homeward?”
“But it’s truth,” said he.
“What’s truth? Gods forbid. And when, and where?”
“At the Thing,” said he.
“Killed Orm at the Thing?” she cried. “Is he daft? It’s outlawing!”
“Then I am outlawed,” said he, drinking again.
“Thorstein! how darest thou? and me but new wed. Man, this caps aught.
Unsay it, lad, and never torment me.”
“There is nought to unsay; it was his due: and I’d kill him again if he
came to life.”
“Came to life? Folk never come to life,” said she, scornfully.
“They do, though.”
Asdis was pale as grass, staring like a stone woman for a while. Then
she was red as blood, and looked this way and that, and at last muttered
something about the ale being over strong on an empty belly. Thorstein
looked at her in wonder. Then she burst out:—“Who has come, then? Nay, I
care not for thy hints nor thy threats, thou false thing that never was
true to me. Away with thee! who will believe a word from a wolf’s head?
Who dare say I had a hand in it? What have I done, tell me that? What did
Orm say, the liar?”
“Orm said nothing. Maybe Asdis has said a word too much,” answered
Thorstein, rising from his seat and going into the house.
“Thorstein, my dear, Thorstein!” said she, “I meant nought: I said
nought.”
But he slammed the door of his lock-bed in her face, and shot the heavy
bars, and would not come out for all she cried.
It was late in the afternoon that horses clattered into the garth, and
there were Asmund and Hundi and a dozen of neighbours, who three days
ago had been the wedding guests, and had ridden away from Blawith to
the Althing. Asdis came out to meet them, with the smile she always had
ready, and ale was standing in the porch. But they would not drink, and
she was outfaced and browbeaten by their stern looks.
“My poor child, it’s ill news we bring,” said Asmund. “Is Thorstein
Sweinson within?”
“And what’s to do with Thorstein Sweinson, father?”
“I fear me he will be man of thine no more, if peace-breaking gets its
due. We are here,—thou knowest, child, it is sore against our wills,—to
summon him for breaking the peace of the Thing by slaying his brother
Orm; and we would know, in all kindness to himself, for what cause he did
the deed.”
“What, father? this caps aught! It cannot be.”
“Nay; as to the deed we were all in a way to witness; for it was done
hard by the Thingbounds. But what was said none heard.”
She clasped her hands until her fingers cracked, and caught her breath:
then she broke out, “the villain to kill his brother. Oh me that I am
wedded to such a man: a wolf’s head that is to be. Oh father, take me
away and get me free of him.”
“What, is he here?”
She pointed to the door of the lock-bed: but no man stirred, for they
might not enter with the strong hand until doom had been given. So they
cried out to him, but got no answer.
Then stood forth Asmund, for he was chief man amongst them, after Orm who
had the priesthood at Legbarrow since Swein was gone, and after Hundi who
might happen inherit, but now hung back. Said Asmund:—
“Neighbours, a foul thing has been done, no less than the breaking of the
Thing-peace. Ye know our old use and wont: for how could we have law or
counsel else, unless the Thing were hallowed from all violence and the
peace-breaker put out of the peace of all true men. And this is doubly
foul, for he that was slain was our Godi and chief: and trebly, for it
was his brother slew him unoffending, so far as we know, and unprepared
as you all saw. Now stand we here over against the door of his house, and
give doom.”
So they drew a few paces back to give room for the accused to stand with
his friends at his door, if he would appear: and for a loaded wain, so
the old custom was, to pass between the two parties. And they named
Asmund their lawman, and he named six to give judgment, who took oaths
that they would judge right. Then he stated the case, and shouted aloud
to Thorstein to come forth, and speak up for himself.
But when no answer was given, Hundi stood up and said “Friends, you are
too hasty. It is never our way to doom a man unheard: and if any has
the right to speak it is I, who stand here between brother and brother.
Of him that is dead, I would speak no ill: but ye knew him. Of him that
lives I have no ill to speak. Ye know him not as I do; and here I say
that against all seeming I hold him sackless and sinless.”
With that there was a shouting against Hundi, that he was always in a
tale with Thorstein, and both were runagates and had turned Christians
abroad, and there was no trusting them. Shame it was to Hundi that
he would not take up the vengeance for his brother, and do right by
the laws. Some cried out that he should be charged with abetting the
manslaughter.
“Nay,” said Asmund, “peace, friends. Hear me. This let us do. Put Hundi
in keeping, and harm him not; but let the jury give doom.”
So they encompassed Hundi and bore him down with their shields, and took
his weapons, and led him out and bound him; while the six men gave their
doom that Thorstein Sweinson had broken the Thing-peace, and slain his
brother their Godi, and for that he was put out of law.
Then Asmund gave out their finding, and said moreover that he put the
wonted price of a hundred of silver on the wolf’s head, dead or alive.
And then, for the sun was nigh its setting, they pressed into the house,
no man withstanding them, and made for the door where he lay, to kill
him, as the law was, while it was still day. They brought a great beam of
wood and battered it against the panels, swinging it between them; while
others ran round to keep the back of the house.
All this while Thorstein lay quiet, and gave no sign, like a fox in
its bield while folk twine the screws to draw him out: and still they
battered, for the door was new built, and strong. And still Hundi lay in
bonds without, struggle and shout as he might.
“And thou, Asdis,” he cried, “shame on thee to leave thy husband to his
slayers—shame and evil on thee! Ill befall the finger that betrayed
him, and the tongue that spoke never a word while they doomed him; and
mischance on the gear that thou art shifting from his house. I see thee,
woman, and thy tricks: thou robbing and thy kin murdering. Shame and
scathe on the scrow of ye!”
For Asdis had bidden her servants carry out all her goods, seeing very
clearly what was forward, because she was a wise woman. By this time she
had loaded horse and man with bales and arks, and away down the road
homeward, saying nothing to Hundi’s curses; which was the easier, for
by now the door was battered in amid great tumult, and Thorstein was
standing there, at blows with his pursuers. One lay on the ground at his
feet among the wreckage: and a couple more sat in the hall, out of the
fray, nursing ugly wounds.
“Hold, boys,” shouted Asmund, “we are but spending good stuff.” They
drew back, seemingly as eager to keep Thorstein in, now, as they were to
get him out before. They began to drag tables and benches to block the
passage and pin him down, and then they got fire from the hearth and all
the elding they could compass, and cast it among the splinters of the
burst panelling and the lockbed-door. And soon the bed was ablaze, with
such a smoke that they were glad to get out of the house: and there they
stood in the twilight, watching the flames catch the roof, and grimly
waiting for Thorstein to rush out and get his death wound, or to hear his
last cry in the fire.
The wind had shifted to the north-west, now that the weather was holding
up; and it drove the smoke of the new green wood in a great whirl by
the door of the house, which was set, as always, to catch the morning
sun. The men were forced to give it a wide berth; but sure they were
that he could not escape, and so fierce against him that not one of them
had a thought but burn and kill. They got victuals from the out-bowers,
remnants of the wedding feast, and emptied the ale-tub from the porch,
and rubbed their hands while the long tongues of flame wavered into the
air against the stars, and the forest behind showed every branch and leaf
in the glow: the crackling and spitting dinned in their ears, and the
smoke was red in coils against the black sky.
There they watched until the fire died down: and said Asmund, “Lads, we
have done a good deed, for to ash he will be burnt in yon cinder heap. As
for the price, as we have all shared the work, let us share the pay. Come
home with me and see if I keep my word. And thou, Hundi Snail, never show
thy face again, unless to thank thy best friends for ridding thee of thy
worst foe. I take all to witness that justice has been done, and nought
but justice.”