Know if thou hast a friend
Whom thou little trustest
Yet wouldst good from him derive
Thou shouldst speak him fair,
But think craftily,
And leasing pay with lying.
Hávamál.
When the curtain had fallen behind his advisers, the young King threw
himself back upon his rude high-seat and rested motionless among its
cushions, his head hanging heavily upon his breast.
Crouching on her bench near the door, Randalin watched him as a fly
caught in a web watches the approaching spider. She had forgotten her
errand; she had forgotten her disguise; she had forgotten where she
was; her one conscious emotion was fear. Her eyes followed his roving
glance from spear to banner, from floor to ceiling, in terrible
anticipation. It approached her; it turned aside; it passed above her,
hesitated, sank, touched her! Ashen-white, she staggered to her feet
and faced him.
A lithe boyish figure with wide boyish eyes and a tanned boyish
face,—Canute gazed incredulously; rubbed his eyes and looked again.
“In the Troll’s name, who are you?” he ejaculated. “How came you here?”
The pale lips moved, but no sound came from them.
Their fruitless twitching seemed to irritate him. He made a petulant
gesture toward the half-filled goblet. “Why do you stand there making
mouths? Drink that and get a man’s voice into your throat, if you have
anything to say to me.”
“A man’s voice!” The girl stared at him. “A _man_’s voice?” Then, like
lungfuls of fresh air, it entered into her that she was not really the
naked fledgeling she felt herself. She was in the toils, surely, but
there was a shell around her. Glad to hide her face for a moment, she
seized the goblet and drained it slowly to the last drop. If only she
could remember just how Fridtjof had borne himself! As she swallowed
the last mouthful, a recollection came to her of the thrall-women
grumbling over Fridtjof’s wine-stained tunics; and she carefully drew
her sleeve across her mouth as she set down the cup.
Leaning back in his seat, the King took frowning measure of his guest,
from the toe of her spurred riding-boot to the top of the green cap
which she had forgotten to remove. His mood seemed wavering between
annoyance and amusement; a word could decide the balance. With her last
swallow he repeated his challenge.
“Are you capable now of giving me any reason why I should not have you
flogged from the camp? Is it your opinion that because I choose to
behave foolishly before my friends, I am desirous to have tale-bearing
boys listening?”
“Boys” again! Randalin’s sinking spirit rallied at the assurance as her
fainting body had revived under the rich warmth of the mead.
She managed to stammer out, “I entreat you not to be angry, Lord King.
It was the fault of the man on guard that I came in as I did. And I did
not understand six of the words you spoke,—I beseech you to believe
it.”
That she had in truth been too frightened for intelligent
eavesdropping, the remaining pallor of her face made it easy to
believe. The scales tipped ever so little.
“Did you think you had fallen into a bear pit?” the King asked with a
faint smile, that sharpened swiftly to bitterness. “After all, it would
matter little what anyone told of me. Without doubt your kin have
already taught you to call me thrall-bred and witless. Little more can
be said.”
That from the warrior whose foot was already planted on the neck of
England! In her surprise, Randalin’s eyes met his squarely. “By no
means, King Canute; my father called you the highest-minded man in the
world.”
The young leader flushed scarlet, flushed till he felt the burning, and
averted his face to hide it. He said in a low voice, “Many things have
been told of me that I count for naught, but this—this has not been
said of me before. Tell me his name.”
“He was called Frode, the Dane of Avalcomb.” The red mouth trembled a
little. “He is dead now. He was slain last night, by Norman
Leofwinesson, who is Edric Jarl’s thane.”
As both horseman and sentinel had started at that name, so now the King
straightened into alertness, forgetting everything else.
“Leofwinesson? What know you of him or his Jarl? Where are they? When
saw you them?”
“Last night; when they lay drunk in my father’s castle at Avalcomb,
after—”
“Avalcomb? Near St. Alban’s? The swine!” The monarch was a soldier now,
shooting his questions like arrows. “After I bade them at Gillingham
come straight to me! How many were they? Where is the Jarl?”
“He was not with them. It was Norman of Baddeby who led, and he had no
more than five-and-fifty men. It was spoken among them that they would
join you at sunset to-day—”
Canute’s hand shot out and gripped her arm and shook it. “You know this
for certain? I will have your tongue if you lie to me! You are sure
that they intend coming,—that it is not their intention to play me
false and return to Edmund?” His voice was stern, his gaze mercilessly
direct. An hour before, the girl would have shrunk from them both.
One can learn life-lessons in an hour. She faced the roughness now as
one faces a rush of bracing north wind. “I know what I heard them say,
Lord King. They said that Edric Jarl had marched on to St. Alban’s to
lie there over-night. Leofwinesson stopped at Avalcomb because he
wished to vent his spite upon my father. It was their intention to meet
at the city gate at noon and come on to join you. They will be here
before the sun is set.”
Canute released her arm to reach for his goblet. “I wish I could know
it for certain,” he muttered. “But it is as the saying has it, ‘Though
they fight and quarrel among themselves, the eagles will mate again.’”
He looked at her with a half-smile as he refilled his cup, motioning
toward the other flagon. “Fill up, and we will drink a toast to their
loyalty and to your beard; they appear to be equally in need of
encouragement.” Draining it off, he sat staring down into the dregs,
twirling the stem thoughtfully between his fingers.
By the time she had shifted her weight twice for each foot, the
petitioner ventured to recall him.
“It gives me some hope, to hear what you say about suspecting Edric
Jarl,” she said timidly; “for that makes it appear more likely that you
will be willing to give me justice on his man.”
“Justice?” The King’s mind came back to her slowly, as from an immense
distance. “By Thor, I had forgotten! There have not been so many to me
on that errand... Though I take it well that you should trust me...
Yes, certainly; I will be king-like once. Stand here before me, while I
question you.”
She caught her breath rather sharply as she stepped forward. Would she
be able to tell a straight story? She stood with fingers interlacing
nervously.
“Tell me first how you are called?”
“I am called Fridtjof Frodesson.”
“Frode of Avalcomb! Now I know where I have heard that name; my father
spoke it often, and always with great respect. It will go hard with me
if I must return an unfavorable answer to his son. Tell me how his
death was brought about.”
Randalin thrust the sobs back from her throat; the tears back from her
eyes. Only a clear head could deliver her out of the snare. She began
slowly: “Leofwinesson set upon him last night, at the gate of the
castle, and slew him. The Englishman had long been covetous of
Avalcomb, so that even his fear of you was not so great as his greed.
He had five-and-fifty men, and my father but twelve—besides me;
he—we—had just come in from hunting. Then he rode over my father’s body
into the castle.” She stopped uncertainly to glance at her listener.
The brightness of his eyes startled her, though they were not turned in
her direction. They were blazing down into the cup that he was turning
and pinching between his fingers. He said, half as though to himself:
“Vermin! What would I give if I might take them in my teeth and shake
them like the filth-fed rats they are! Ten hundred such do not reach
the value of one finger of a warrior like Frode! I knew that the
fetters of Thorkel’s craftiness would pinch me some-where—” He broke
off and flung the goblet from him, burying his hands in his yellow
hair. “How I hate them!” he breathed between his teeth. “How I hate
their smooth-tongued Jarl, and all their treacherous hides! Oh, for the
day when I no longer need their aid; when I am free to strike!” The joy
of his face was a terrible thing to hold in one’s memory.
Perhaps he saw its awfulness reflected in the wide blue eyes, for he
checked himself abruptly. When he spoke again, he had himself well in
hand.
“I act like a fool to let you hear my ravings. Poor cub! it is likely
you will call me a worse name when you find out how I am hindered! Yet
go on and tell me the rest. How comes it that you escaped unharmed?”
With Gram’s experience to follow, it was not hard to frame that answer.
“They knocked me on the head with a spear-butt and left me for dead.
When I got my senses again, I found my way to the nuns of St.
Mildred’s; and they gave me food, and I rode hither.”
“It is the Troll’s luck! I—yet, go on. The day will come! Did they
further harm within the castle? Have you women-kin?”
Randalin hesitated. Would it not be safer if she could deny altogether
the existence of a daughter of Frode? But no, that was not possible, in
the face of what Norman might reveal. She began very, very carefully:
“It happened that my mother died before we came to Avalcomb; and my
father had but one daughter. She was called Randalin. I did not see
what became of her, for I was outside; but I think that she is dead.
A—her thrall-woman told me that Leofwinesson pursued her to a chamber
in the wall. And and because she could not escape from him—she—she
threw herself from the window, and the stones below caused her death.”
The King’s hands clenched convulsively. “It is like them!” he muttered.
“It has happened as I supposed. If the master be like his men, I ask
you in what their God is to be preferred to ours? Have no fear but that
I will avenge your kinswoman. Those of her own blood-ties could do no
more. And Frode also. You need not wait long for me when the day comes;
the last hair of the otter-skin shall be covered, though I take from
them the Ring itself. You shall see! Have patience, and you shall see!”
Upon burning ears the word “patience” falls coldly.
“Patience!” the child of Frode repeated.
Perhaps in days gone by the young King himself had rebelled at the
tyranny of that word. Perhaps the smart of its scourge was still upon
him. He put forth a kindly hand and drew the boy down beside him.
“Listen, young one,” he said, “and do not blame me for what I cannot
help. Had I come hither only to get property and go away again, as
Northmen before me have come, it would not matter to me whom I killed,
and I would slay Leofwinesson more gladly than I would eat; may the
Giant take me if I lie! But I have come to the Island to set up my
seat-pillars and get myself land. I think no one guesses how much I
have the ambition at heart; even to me it appears a strange wonder. But
it is true that I look upon the fair rolling meadows with such eyes of
love that when it is necessary that I should set fire to them, it is as
though I had laid the torch to my hair. And because of that, in order
that I be not kept destroying them until they are not worth the having,
I have made a bargain with Edric Jarl, who is dissatisfied with his
king, that we are to support each other in the game. There it is all
open to you. Leofwinesson is the man of Edric. Until such time as I get
the kingship firmly in my hands, it would be unadvisable for me to
reckon with him though he had slain my foster-brother. You see? It is
the way the Fates order things. I must submit to them, though I am a
king. Can you not, then, bend your head without shame, and wait with
me?”
Reasoning was lost on Randalin. The bitterness of failure had swept
over her and maddened her. Was she mistaken, then, about everything?
Could those trembling old women behind the broken wall read the world
like witches? Was everyone false or a beast? Oh, how her father had
been wronged! She shook off the King’s hand and faced him with blazing
eyes, seeking for words that should bite like her thoughts. Then she
became conscious that a word would precipitate a flood of hysterical
tears, to the eternal disgrace of her warrior kin. All that was left
for her was to get away without speaking. Out in the woods there would
be no one to see; and the grass would hide the quivering of her lips.
She put up her hand now to hide it and, struggling to her feet, began
groping toward the door.
She did not stop when Canute’s voice called after her,—not until she
had reached the entrance, and the rattle of crossing spears, without,
had told her that her way was barred. Then she whirled back with a
sharp cry.
“Let me go! I hate you! Let me go!”
He did not bid his guards kill her, as she half expected. Instead, he
said patiently, “I foresaw that you would take it ill; there is the
greatest excuse for you. In your place I should be equally unruly.
Indeed, there is a likeness about our luck, which causes my heart to go
out to you as it has done to no one else. I will grant your boon in
time to come; so sure as I live, I will. And until then, since all your
stock has been cut off, I will be your guardian and you shall be my
ward, as though you were my own brother. Come, sit here, and I will
tell you.”
She repulsed him sharply. “No, no, you shall do nothing for me! I am
going back. I ask you to let me go.”
“Let you go, to starve under a hedge?”
“I shall not starve; Avalcomb is mine.”
“What food will that put in your mouth, since Leofwinesson has
conquered it and driven out your servants and set his own in their
place?”
Her heart sickened within her. Once more the impulse came to creep
away, like a wounded animal, and fight it out alone. She turned again
to the door.
“I will starve, then. Let me go.”
Leaning at his ease in the great chair, the young King regarded his
ward thoughtfully. “It is not possible that the son of Frode the
Fearless should be a coward,” he said at last; “but you are
over-peevish, boy. That you have never known government is easily seen.
Listen now to the truth of the matter. If you were a maiden, it would
be easy for me to—Are you listening?” He paused, for the slim figure
had suddenly become so statue-like that he suspected it of plotting
another attack upon the door.
The boy answered very low, “Yes, Lord King, I am listening.”
Canute went on again: “I say that if you were a maiden,—if you were
your sister, to tell it shortly,—I could easily dispose of you in
marriage. Thus would you get protection, and your father’s castle would
gain a strong arm to fight for it. I would wed you to my
foster-brother, Rothgar Lodbroksson, and thus bring good to both of—Are
you finding fault with that also?”
But the lad stood before him like a stone. If a faint cry had come from
him, it was not repeated; and there was nothing offensive about a
hidden face and shaking limbs.
The King continued more gently: “But since you were so simple as to be
born a boy, such good luck is not to be expected. It is the best that I
can do to offer you to become my ward and follow me as my page, until
the sword’s game has decided between me and Edmund of England. But I do
not know where your ambition is if that does not content you. There are
lads in Denmark who would give their tongues for the chance. What say
you, Fridtjof the Bold?”
For a time it looked as if “Fridtjof the Bold” did not know what to
say. He stood without raising his hanging head or moving a muscle.
Silence filled the tent, while from outside leaked in the noise of the
revel. Then, through that noise or above it, there became audible the
notes of far-away horns. Edric Jarl was fulfilling his pledge. Cheers
answered the blast. An exclamation broke from the King’s lips, and he
leaped up. At that moment, “Fridtjof the Bold” fell at his feet with
clasped hands and supplicating eyes.
“Let me go, Lord King,” he besought passionately. “Let me go, and I
will ask nothing further of you. I will never trouble you again. Let me
go!—only let me go!”
Canute of Denmark is not to be blamed that he stamped with exhausted
patience.
“Go into the hands of the Trolls!” he swore. And again, “In the Fiend’s
name!” And at last, “By the head of Odin, it would serve you well did I
take you at your word! It would serve you right did I turn you out to
starve. Were it not for your father’s sake, and for the sake of my own
honor, I vow I would! Now hearken to this.” Bending, he picked the boy
up by his collar and shook him. “Listen now to this, and understand
that you cannot move me by the breadth of a hair. I shall not let you
go, and you shall be my ward, whether you will or no. And if you run
away, soldiers shall go after you and bring you back, as often as you
run. And if you answer me now or anger me further—but I will not say
that, for it is your misfortune that makes you unruly, and you are
weak-spirited from hunger. Take this bread now for your meal, and that
bench yonder for your bed, and trouble me no more to-night. I would not
be hard upon you, yet it would be advisable for you to remember that I
have sufficient temper for one tent. Go as I bid you. I must meet with
the Jarl. Go! Do you heed my orders?”
Only one answer was possible. After a moment the page gave it in a low
voice.
“Yes, Lord King,” he whispered, and crept away to his corner.