A foolish man
Is all night awake,
Pondering over everything;
He then grows tired,
And when morning comes
All is lament, as before.
Hávamál.
Who that has youth and a healthy body is not made a new being by a
night of dreamless slumber? What young heart is so despairing that to
waken into a fair day does not bring courage? Wakened by the sun’s
caress, to the morning song of blowing trees, Randalin faced her future
as became the kinswoman of warriors.
“I do not know why it was that fear crept into my breast last night,”
she told herself severely, when the first wave of strangeness and grief
had broken over her, and she had come up again into the sparkling air.
“Great dangers have threatened me, but I have escaped them all with
great luck; it is poor-spirited of me to despair. And it must be that
witches had thinned my blood with water that I should have thought of
running away. To do that would be to lose my revenge forever. I should
become a creature without honor, like the girl with the necklace. To
stay is no less than my duty. If I think all the time of Fridtjof, it
is certain that I can hide it that I am a girl.” Turning in her furry
bed, she rose cautiously upon her elbow and looked about.
The tent was empty, though scattered furs along the benches showed
where sleepers might have rested. But from outside, a clatter of
hurrying feet and excited voices broke suddenly upon her. Did it mean a
battle? She sat up, straining eye and ear. The jubilant voices shouted
greetings that just missed being intelligible. The sun, glancing from
moving weapons, flashed through the doorway in fantastic shapes.
While she was trying to unravel it all, one pair of the hurrying feet
halted before the entrance. After a muttered word with the sentinel,
they came on and brought the son of Lodbrok into view. The girl started
up with a gasp of alarm, then made the strange discovery that she was
no longer afraid of him. Though he showed against the linen wall as
brawny and big of jowl as he had loomed up the night before, she found
herself moved only to dislike. What had been the matter last night?
Understanding nothing of the clairvoyant power of sharpened nerves, she
set it down to cowardice, and put on an extra swagger now as her eyes
met his.
Rothgar surveyed the sprig of defiance with no more than a perfunctory
interest. “It seems that you are the son of Frode the Dane,” he said in
his heavy voice. “Frode was a mighty raven-feeder; for his sake I am
going to support you until you can go well on your legs. Have you had
anything to eat?”
As she shook her head, Randalin’s heart rather softened toward him. But
it hardened again when the thralls had brought the food, and he had sat
down and begun to share it. Seen in a strong light, his rich tunic
proved to be foul with beer stains, while his great hands reeked with
grease. His thick lips, his heavy breathing—bah, he was revolting!
Before she had finished the meal, she had come to the conclusion that
she hated him.
Perhaps it was as well that there was something to add firmness to her
bearing. As he swallowed his last mouthful of food, Rothgar said
abruptly, “Canute has put your training into my hands. It is his will
that I find out how much skill you have with weapons.”
It was nothing more than she should have expected, yet it came upon her
with the suddenness of a blow. She could only stammer, “Weapons?”
The Jotun’s voice rumbled hideously as he talked into his goblet. “Have
you the accomplishment to wield a battle-axe or throw a spear? Can you
shoot straight?”
“No,” she faltered.
He rolled his eyes around at her as he threw back his head to catch the
last drop that clung to the golden rim. “Can you handle a sword?”
Randalin hesitated, uncertain how far her idle play at fencing with her
brother would bear her out; she provided as many loop-holes as she
could devise. “I think you will find my skill slight. I have—I have
grown so fast that I lack strength in my arms. And I have not exercised
myself as much as I should have done.”
“It is in my mind that you have been a lazy cub,” the warrior
pronounced deliberate sentence, as he set down his goblet. “It is
easily seen that Frode has been over-gentle with you. But you will pay
now for your laziness, by receiving a cut each time I pass your guard.
Stand forth, and show what your skill is worth. This sword will not be
too heavy.” Selecting the smallest of the jewelled blades upon the
floor, he thrust it into her hands.
It is good to have in one’s veins the liquid fire of the North, blood
to which the presence of peril is like the touch of the Ice King to
water. At the first clash of the blades, strange tingling fires began
to flash through Randalin,—and then a hardness, that burnt while it
froze. The first pass, her hands had parried seemingly by their own
instinct; now she flung back her tumbling curls and proceeded to give
those hands the aid of her eyes. They were marvellously quick eyes; for
Fridtjof’s thrusts, consulting no rule but his own will, had required
lightning to follow them and something like mind-reading to anticipate
them. Three times her blade met Rothgar’s squarely, and deftly turned
it aside. The big warrior gave a grunt of approval and tried a more
complicated pass. Her backward leap, the sudden doubling of her body,
and the excited clawing of her free hand, were not graceful
swordsmanship, certainly, but her steel was in the right place. The
next instant, she even drew a little clink from one of the Jotun’s
silver buttons.
As she was recovering herself, she felt something like a pin prick her
wrist; and she wondered vaguely what brooch had become unfastened. But
she gave it scant attention for the big blade was threatening her from
a new direction. She leaped to meet it, and for the next minute was
kept turning, twisting, dodging, till her breath began to come in
gasps, and her exhausted hand to relax its hold. Her weapon was almost
falling from it by the time the son of Lodbrok lowered his point.
Imitating him, she stood leaning on her sword, making futile gasps
after her lost breath.
A grin slowly wrinkled his face as he watched her. “It appears that one
who is no bigger around than a willow twig may be capable of a berserk
rage,” he said. “Do you not feel it that you are wounded?”
Following his eyes down to her hand, she found blood trickling from her
sleeve. Oh, and pain! Now that she had wakened to it—pain! pricking,
stinging, stabbing. Dropping her sword, she caught at her wrist.
“How did it happen? I thought a pin had pricked me!”
Roaring with laughter, he caught her under the arms and tossed her in
the air.
“A pin!” he shouted. “A pin! That is Frode himself! A beard on your
chin, and you also will be a feeder of wolves! For that you shall have
a share in the battle. I swear it by the hilt of the Hanger!”
For the moment, the girl forgot her wound and hung limp in the great
hands. “The battle?” she gasped. “I—I fight?”
Roaring afresh, the Jotun gave her another jubilant toss. “You
blustering field-mouse! Showing your teeth already? Who knows? If you
meet a blind Englishman without a weapon, you may even kill him. Here,”
he tumbled her roughly to the ground, “tie up your pin-scratch and then
come after me. I must go up yonder to Canute, under the oak tree. If
you are too tired to wield the sword, tie your hand to the hilt, and no
man shall have a better will to do harm to the English. Frode the Dane
will experience great pride when he looks out of Valhalla to-day.”
Putting out one great hand, he patted her soft curls as though she were
some shaggy dog, then hurried out to his chief.
It was a respite to be alone, and she accepted it gratefully, sinking
among the cushions with closed eyes and a hand on her throbbing wrist.
But it was only a respite; she never for a moment lost sight of that.
The battle must be faced, and faced boldly. One word of reluctance
would be the surest betrayal of her secret. And betrayal meant Rothgar!
She shivered as she fancied she still felt his greasy touch upon her
hair. To become his property that he might even kiss! With a gasp of
relief, she turned her thoughts back to the battle.
After all, it was not unthinkable. Her riding would never betray her;
and in the confusion, who would notice whether or not she used her
sword? She did grow a little cold as the possibility of being killed
occurred to her; but even that darkness gave birth to a light. Being
dressed in man’s garments, it was likely that the Valkyrias would
mistake her for a boy; if she bore herself bravely, it was possible
that they might carry her up to Valhalla. Should she once reach her
father’s arms, he would not let Odin himself drive her forth. The hot
tears gathered under her lids. If only she could get to her father! He
would be glad to see her, and he would be proud of her; Rothgar himself
had said it. Even Fridtjof would not be ashamed that she had borne his
name. She must be very careful about that, she realized suddenly. He
had never known what the word “fear” meant; even in Valhalla he would
turn from her, should she disgrace him. It would become an unheard-of
wickedness to borrow a name from the helpless dead if you could not
wear it worthily. Her conscience smote her now, for her shirking, and
she struggled to her feet.
None too soon; above the outside din a horn clarioned, loud and clear.
Through the hush that followed could be heard the voice of Canute,
assigning their positions to the different bands.
“I and my kinsman, Ulf Jarl, shall be foremost. To the right of my
standard Edric Jarl shall stand, and the men with whom he joined us. He
shall have another standard. To the left of my bodyguard shall stand
the men of Eric of Norway. Friends and kinsmen shall stand together.
There each will defend the other best.”
Then Rothgar’s harsh voice sounded, shouting her name,—Fridtjof’s name.
Giving her scarf a hasty twist about her arm, she knotted it with her
teeth; and seizing the sword in her little brown hand clotted with her
own blood, she ran out into the tumult.