At a hoary speaker
Laugh thou never.
Often is good that which the aged utter;
Oft from a shrivelled hide
Discreet words issue.
Hávamál.
She made a convincing boy, this daughter of the Vikings. Though she was
sixteen, her graceful body had retained most of the lines and slender
curves of childhood; and she was long of limb and broad of shoulder.
Her head was poised alertly above her strong young throat, and she was
as straight as a fir-tree and as supple as a birch. A life out-of-doors
had given to her skin a tone of warm brown, which, in a land that
expected women to be lily-fair, was like a mask added to her disguise.
The blackness of her hair was equally unconnected with Northern dreams
of beautiful maidens. “Dark-haired women, like slaves, black and bad,”
was the proverb of the Danish camps. Some fair-tressed ancestor back in
the past must have qualified his blood from the veins of an Irish
captive; in no other way could one account for those locks, and for her
eyes that were of the grayish blue of iris petals.
The eyes were a little staring this morning, as though still stretched
wide with the horror of the things they had looked upon; and all the
glowing red blood had ebbed away from the brown cheeks.
She said in a low voice, “My father... Fridtjof...” then stopped to
draw a long hard breath through her set teeth.
For the moment Sister Wynfreda was not a nun but a woman,—a woman with
a great yearning tenderness that might have been a beautiful
mother-love. She ran to the girl and caught her tremblingly by the
hands, feeling up her arms to her shoulders and about her face, as if
to make sure that she was really unharmed.
“Praise the Lord that you are delivered whole to me!” she breathed.
“Gram told us—that they had taken you.”
Gazing at her out of horror-filled eyes, Randalin stood quite still in
her embrace. Her story came from her in jerks, and each fragment seemed
to leave her breathless, though she spoke slowly.
“I broke away,” she said. “They stood around me in a ring. Norman
Leofwinesson said he would carry me before a priest and marry me, so
that Avalcomb might be his lawfully, whichever king got the victory. I
said by no means would I wed him; sooner would I slay him. All thought
that a great jest and laughed. While they were shouting I slipped
between them and got up the stairs into a chamber, where I bolted the
door and would not open to them, though they pounded their fists sore
and cursed at me. After a while the pounding became an exertion to
them, and one began to talk about the mead that was waiting below. And
after that they whispered together for a space. At last they began to
laugh and jeer, and called to me that they would go down and drink my
wedding toast before they broke in the door and fetched me; and then
they betook themselves to feasting.”
Sister Wynfreda bent her head to murmur a prayer: “God forgive me if I
have lacked charity in my judgment on the Pagans! If they who have seen
the light can do such deeds, what can be expected of those who yet
labor under the curse of darkness?”
“I do not understand you,” Randalin said wearily, sinking on the grass
and passing her hands over her strained eyes. “When a man looks with
eyes of longing upon another man’s property, it is to be expected that
he will do as much evil as luck allows him. Though he has got Baddeby,
Norman was covetous of Avalcomb. When his lord, Edric Jarl, was still
King Edmund’s man, he twice beset the castle, and my father twice held
it against him. And his greed was such that he could not stay away even
after Edric had become the man of Canute.”
It was the nun’s turn for bewilderment. “The man of Canute? Edric of
Mercia, who is married to the King’s sister? It cannot be that you know
what you say!”
“Certainly I know what I say,” the girl returned a little impatiently.
“All English lords are fraudulent; men can see that by the state of the
country. Though he be thrice kinsman to the English King, Edric Jarl
has joined the host of Canute of Denmark; and all his men have followed
him. But even that agreement could not hold Norman back from Avalcomb.
He lay hidden near the gate till he saw my father come, in the dusk,
from hunting, when he fell upon him and slew him, and forced an
entrance—the nithing! When he had five-and-fifty men and my father but
twelve!”
She paused, with set lips and head flung high. The nun got down stiffly
beside her and laid a gentle hand upon her knee.
“Think not of it, my daughter,” she urged. “Think of your present need
and of what it behooves us to do. Tell me how you escaped from the
chamber, and why you wear these clothes.”
“They were Fridtjof’s.” She spoke his name very softly. “I found them
hanging on the chamber wall. In the night the men began to entertain
themselves with singing, and it could be heard that they were getting
drunk. It had been in my mind that I would stay where I was until they
forced the door; then, because I would like it better to die than to
marry any of them, I would throw myself out of the window, and the
stones below would cause my death. But now it came to me that if I
could dress so that they would not notice me, there were many good
chances that I might slip past them and get out through the postern. I
waited till they were all still, and then I crept into the women’s
room, and found the bondmaids huddled in their beds. They got afraid at
the sight of me, for they thought I was Fridtjof’s ghost; and they
dared not move. So I had to go down alone.” She shuddered in spite of
herself. “Never did I think that darkness could be so unpleasant,—when
one is listening for sounds and fears to put out a hand lest it touch
something alive! But I got past the door and through the guard-room,
where the Englishmen were snoring so loud that they would not have
heard if I had stamped. In a niche in the wall outside I found Almstein
the steward hiding, full of fear. I made him follow me out of the
postern and around to the gate where...my father...and...Fridtjof...”
Her voice broke, but she struggled on. “The English dogs had left them
there... My father’s face was...wounded...and the moon made his hair
all silver round it, so that the blood looked to be black blots... And
Fridtjof’s sword was in his hand... Always he had wished to go into
battle, though he was no more than fourteen winters old... There was a
smile on his lips... I made Almstein dig two graves. He is a cowardly
fellow, and it is likely that he would have left them there till the
English were gone. I kissed Fridtjof’s mouth...and...and I laid...my
father’s cloak...over...over his...face.”
It was useless trying to go on; a deep sob shut off her voice and
threatened to rend her when she tried to hold it back. Sister Wynfreda
strove with gentle arms to draw her down upon her breast.
“Suffer the tears to come, my daughter,” she urged her tenderly, “or
sooner or later they must.”
Randalin pulled away almost roughly, dashing the drops from her eyes.
“They shall not!” she cried brokenly. “They shall not! Am I a
weak-minded English woman that I should shed tears because my kin are
murdered? I will shed blood to avenge them; that is befitting a Danish
girl. I will not weep,—as though there were shame to wash out! They
died with great glory, like warriors. I will fix it in my mind that I
am a kinswoman of warriors. I will not weep.”
The older woman shrank a little. To ears attuned to the silence of the
grave, such an outburst was little less than terrifying; she was at a
loss how to soothe the girl. To gain a respite, she stole away and
renewed the wounded man’s bandages.
After a moment Randalin rose and followed, buckling her cloak as she
went.
“Since I am become this man’s lord, I think it right for me to see how
he fares before I leave him,” she explained. Once more she spoke
gently, though the fire of her pride had quite dried her tears.
“Before you leave him?” The form in the faded robes turned inquiringly
toward the erect young figure in its brave scarlet cloak. “What is it
you say, my child?”
But Randalin was bending low over the green couch. “Do you know who I
am?” she was asking urgently of the woodward. “Fix your eyes on me and
try to gather together your wits.”
Slowly the man’s wandering gaze focussed itself; a silly laugh welled
up in his throat. “It would be no strange wonder if I did not,” he
chuckled. “Odin has changed you greatly; your face was never so
beautiful. But this once you cannot trick me, Fridtjof Frodesson.”
There came a time when this mistake was a source of some comfort to
Randalin, Frode’s daughter; but now she stirred impatiently.
“Look again, and try to command your tongue. Tell me the state of your
feelings. Can you live?”
The man shook with his foolish laughter. “You cub! Will not even being
killed cure you of your tricks? If you who have been in Valhalla do not
know what Odin intends about my life, how can I know, who have stayed
on earth?”
Sister Wynfreda’s hand fell upon the girl’s arm. “Disquiet yourself no
further,” she whispered. “It is useless and to no end. If it please the
Lord to bless our labors, the wound will soon be healed. Come this way,
where he cannot hear our voices, and tell me what moves you to speak of
leaving. Is it not your intention to creep in with us?”
As she yielded reluctantly to the pressure, Randalin even showed
surprise at the question. “By no means. My errand hither was only to
ask for bread. I thought it unadvisable to venture into the castle
kitchen, yet it is needful that I keep up my strength. I go direct to
the Danish camp to get justice from King Canute.”
The nun reached out and caught the gay cloak, gasping. “The Danish
camp? You speak in a raving fit! Better you thrust yourself into a den
of ravenous beasts. You know not what you say.”
Offense stiffened the figure under the cloak. “It is you who do not
know. Now, as always, you think about Canute what lying English mouths
have told of him. I know him from my father’s lips. No man on the
Island is so true as he, or so generous to those who ask of him. Time
and again have I heard my father bid Fridtjof to imitate him. He is the
highest-minded man in the world.” Her voice as she ended was a stone
wall of defiance. Sister Wynfreda made a desperate dash down another
road.
“My daughter, I entreat that you will not despise my offer. The yoke is
not so heavy here. Here is no strict convent rule; how could there be?
We are but a handful of feeble old women left living after those who
led us are gone, to the end that heathen fog smother not utterly the
light which once was so bright. In truth, most dear child, you would
have no hard lot among us. A few hours’ work in the garden,—surely that
is a pleasure, watching the fair green things spring and thrive under
your care. And when the tenderness of the birds and the content of the
little creeping creatures have filled your heart to bursting with a
sense of God’s goodness, to come and stand before the Holy Table and
pour out your joys in sweet melody—”
But Randalin’s head was shaking too decidedly, though she was not
ungentle in her answering. “I give you thanks, Sister Wynfreda, but
such a life is not for me. My nature is such that I do not like the
gloomy songs you sing; nor do I care for green things, except to wear
in my hair. And it seems to me that I should be spiritless and a coward
if I should like such a life. I am no English girl, to tremble and hide
under a mean kirtle. I am a Norse maiden, the kinswoman of warriors. I
think I should not show much honor to my father and my brother were I
to leave them unavenged and sit down here with you. No, I will go to my
King and get justice. When he has slain the murderer and given me the
castle again, I will come back; and you shall come and live with me,
and eat meat instead of herbs, and—”
In her desperation, Sister Wynfreda caught her by the wrists and held
her. “My daughter, my daughter, shake off this sleep of your wits, I
entreat you! The men you are trusting in are dreams which you have
dreamed in the safety of your father’s arms. They among whom you are
going are barbarians,—yea, devils! It were even better had you married
the son of Leofwine. Think you I know nothing of the Pagans, that you
set my words at naught? Who but Danish-men laid low these walls, and
slaughtered the holy nuns as lambs are torn by wild beasts? Have I not
seen their horrid wickedness? You think a nun a coward? Know you how
these scars came on my face? Three times, with my own hands, I pressed
a red-hot iron there to destroy the beauty that allured, else had the
Pagans dragged me with them. Was I a coward?”
Randalin’s eyes were very wide. “It seems to me that you were
simple-minded,” she breathed. “Why did you not thrust the iron in _his_
face?”
But Sister Wynfreda’s expression changed so strangely that the girl
foresaw an attack along another line, and hastened to forestall it. “It
is not worth while to tell me further about the matter. Do you not see
that it is by no means the same? I shall be a Danish woman among Danish
men. I shall not be a captive, to be made a drudge of and beaten. It is
altogether different. I shall be with my own people, my own King. Let
us end this talk. Give me the bread and let me go. The sun is getting
high.”
She glanced at it as she spoke, and found it so much higher than she
had realized that her haste increased.
“No, I dare not wait for it. It is necessary that I get a good start,
or they will overtake me. They are to join Canute near Scoerstan; I
heard it talked among them. My horse is somewhat heavy in his
movements, for he is the one Gram rode yesterday; I found him grazing
by the road. Let me go, Sister Wynfreda. Bid me farewell and let me
go.”
Clutching at her belt, her arm, her cloak, the nun strove desperately
to detain her. “Randalin! Listen! Alas! how you grieve me by talking
after this manner! Wait, you do not understand. It is not their cruelty
I fear for you. Child, listen! It is not their blows—”
But Randalin had wrenched herself free. “Oh, fear, fear, fear!” she
cried impatiently. “Fear your enemies; fear your friends; fear your
shadow! Old women are afraid of everything! You will see when I come
back. No, no, do not look at me like that; I do not mean to behave
badly toward you, but it will become a great misfortune to me if I am
hindered; it will, in truth. See now; I will kiss you—here where your
cheek is softest. I cannot allow you to take hold of my cloak again.
There! Now lay your hand upon my head, as you do with the children when
you wish them good luck.”
Because there was nothing else to do, and because the thought of doing
this gave her some comfort, Sister Wynfreda complied. Laying her
trembling hands upon the bared black head, she raised her despairing
face to heaven and prayed with all the earnestness that was hers. Then
she stood at the gate in silence and watched the girl set forth. As
Randalin turned into the sunny highway, she looked back with a brave
smile and waved her cap at the faded figure under the arch. But the
nun, left in the moss-grown garden, wrapped in the peace of the grave,
saw her through a blur of tears.
“God guard you, my fledgeling,” she whispered over and over. “My
prayers be as a wall around you. My love go with you as a warm hand in
your loneliness. God keep you in safety, my most beloved daughter!”