Brand is kindled from brand
Till it is burnt out;
Fire is kindled from fire;
A man gets knowledge By talk with a man,
But becomes wilful by self-conceit.
Hávamál.
Tap—tap, tap—tap, like dripping water dripping slowly. Drop by drop the
sound filtered through the thick wrappings of Randalin’s slumber, till
she knew it for the beat of horses’ hoofs, and stirred and opened her
eyes.
The silver shimmer of starlight falling through purple deeps had given
way to the ruddy glare of a camp fire, and she was lying just beyond
its heat, cloak-wrapped, on a bed of leaves. Above her, interlacing
beech boughs made an arching roof, under which the shadows clustered as
swallows under eaves. Before her, green tree-lanes opened out like
corridors. As far as the fireglow could reach, they were flooded with
golden light; where it stopped, they were closed across by darkness as
by gray-black doors. Within the sylvan alcove, some four-score
battle-stained warriors were taking their ease after a hard day. Some
of them were engaged in the ghastly business of bandaging wounds, and
some were already asleep; but the greater number lounged in the
firelight, drinking and feasting on strips of venison which serfs had
cooked in the flames.
Through the fog of her drowsiness Randalin recognized them slowly.
Yonder was the Englishman who had found her in the bushes. Beyond him,
across the fire, the soldiers who had lifted her up to the horse-man.
Here, just in front of her, was the leader himself. Her gaze settled
upon him dreamily.
He had finished his meal, if meal it could be called, and was making
some attempt at a toilet. While one serf knelt beside him, scrubbing at
his muddy riding-boots with a wisp of wet grass, another held a gilt
shield up for a mirror, and before this the Etheling was carefully
parting his shining hair. His captive’s eyes were not the only ones
upon him, and the bright metal showed that he was laughing a little at
the comments his performance drew forth from the three old cnihts
lounging near him.
“Tending by five hairs to the sword-side, Lord Sebert,” one of them was
offering quizzical criticism over his drinking-horn.
“The Etheling must needs have extraordinary respect for the endurance
of Harald Fairhair, for it is said that to accomplish a vow he went
three years without barbering himself,” another said gravely. While a
third became slyly reminiscent, as he chewed his venison.
“These are soft days, comrades. The last time I followed the old chief,
of honored memory, we held our war-council standing knee-deep in a fen.
We had neither eaten nor drunk for two days, and three days’ blood was
on our hands.”
The young chief took it all with careless good-humor.
“When you leave off eating, in memory of that brave time, I will leave
off washing,” he returned. “Would you have me go into a royal council
looking as though birds had nested in my hair?” With a parting scrutiny
of his smooth locks, he motioned the shield-bearer aside and turned
back to them his comely face, rosy from his recent ablutions and alight
with a momentary enthusiasm.
“I tell you, nothing but a warrior’s life becomes ethel-born men,” he
said as he straightened himself with a gallant gesture. “Nor
sluggishness nor junketings, but days under fire and nights among the
Wise Men of the council; that, in truth, becomes their station. By
Saint Mary, I feel that I have never lived before! One week at the
heels of Edmund Ironside is worth a lifetime under the banner of any
other king.”
A pause met his warmth somewhat coldly; and the warrior who broke the
silence lowered his voice to do it.
“Keep in mind, lord, that it is no more than a week that you have been
at his heels,” he said.
“Likewise bear in mind whose son he is,” the man with the drinking-horn
added grimly. He was a stout white-bearded old cniht with an obstinate
old face that looked something like a ruddy apple in a snow-bank.
Flushing, the young noble ceased examining his sword-edge to meet the
eyes bent upon him.
“I hope you do not think I stand in need of a rebuke for lukewarmness,
Morcard,” he said gravely. “I have no more forgot that King Edmund’s
father gave the order for my father’s murder than I have forgot that
Edric was the tool who did the deed. May Saint Peter exterminate him
with his sword! Did I not live even as a lordless man the while that
Ethelred remained upon the throne? But what sense to continue at that
after Ethelred was dead, and the valor of his son was to that degree
exalted as if he had sprung from Alfred? Yourself counselled me to join
him at Gillingham, and take the post under his banner that my fathers
have always held beside his fathers.”
Two of the three warriors made no other answer than to gurgle their
drink noisily in their throats; but the one whom he had called Morcard
answered dryly, “It is not against testing the new king that we would
advise you, Lord Sebert; it is against trusting him. But we will not be
troublesome.” He lifted his hand suddenly to his ear. “Horses’ feet!
And stopping by the King’s fire—”
What else he said, Randalin did not hear. Her wits had crawled heavily
after the sound of the hoofs. Now the beat changed to a champing and
stamping among dry leaves not many rods to her right. She wondered
indifferently if there was any likelihood of their running over her;
then forgot the query before she had answered it.
The Etheling was speaking again, with all the earnestness of
hero-worship. “—the battles he has fought, the abundance of warriors he
has gathered together, the land he has won back since his father’s
death! Only take to-day—”
“Ay, take to-day!” the old man snapped him up with unexpected
vehemence. “And the Devil take me if I ever heard of such witless
folly! What! To go plunging off into the thick of the enemy,
endangering in his person the hope of the whole English nation—”
The young noble relaxed from his earnestness to laugh. “Now has habit
outrid your manners, Morcard. So long have you been wont to use your
tongue on my heedlessness, that it begins mechanically to perform the
same office for Edmund. In a king, such courage inspires—”
“Courage!” Morcard’s fingers snapped loudly. “Did not the henchman who
followed you have courage? Yet do we think of crowning him? I tell you
that a king needs to have something besides courage. He needs to have
judgment. Then will he know better than to leave his men like sheep
without a leader. The old proverb has it right, ‘When the chief fails,
the host quails.’ It was when they had become frightened about him that
they began to give way, and after that it was easy for any oaf to jump
out of the bushes and put them to flight.”
This time the Etheling’s smile was rather unwilling. “Oh! If you think
fit to set at naught a brave deed because nothing arose from it! After
his father’s cowardice, such energy and dauntlessness alone—”
“Dauntlessness!” the old cniht snorted again. “It is the dauntlessness
of the man in Father Ingulph’s story, who was so much wiser than his
advisers that he must try to drive the sun a new way, till it came so
nigh as it nighest may to setting the world afire.” So hot was his
scorn that he was obliged to cool it in his ale, coming to the surface
slightly mollified. “However, Lord Sebert, you have cast your
colt’s-teeth, and I have no desire to tread upon the toes of your
dignity. If I have been over-free, excuse it in your father’s old
servant and comrade who has guarded and guided you since—since you have
had teeth to cast.”
The young man laughed good-humoredly as he straightened himself for
action. “Too often has my dignity bent under your rod, Morcard, to hold
itself very stiff against you now. Never fear; I will be an owl of
discretion. Give you favorable dreams over your horns!” He picked up
his cloak and was turning to depart, when one of the warriors flung up
a hand.
“Soft, my lord. Yonder comes Wikel making strange signs to you.” All
heads but Randalin’s turned in the direction he was looking. She was
still too lethargic for curiosity; and she found a kind of dreamy
content in lying with her eyes upon the Etheling’s handsome face.
Though its prevailing characteristic was the easy amiability of one who
has known little of opposition or dislike, there was no lack of steel
in the blue eyes or of iron in the square chin; now and then a spark
betrayed them, thrilling pleasantly through her drowsiness.
Presently, however, between her and the comely apparition there
intervened the brawny figure of a yeoman-soldier. He said breathlessly,
“Chief—before you go to the King—be it known to you that those
horse-feet you heard—belong to the mounts of Edric of Mercia and his
men—and he is with King Edmund now!”
The three stolid old warriors got to their feet with curses. The
Etheling bent forward to gaze incredulously into the man’s face.
“Edric of Mercia? With the King? Why do you think so?”
“I was a little way beyond the King’s fire, watching a fellow who was
showing how he could jump over the flames, when I saw the Gainer ride
past; and I followed him, as near as the guards would permit—near
enough to see that the King received him—let him settle it with Saint
Cuthbert!”
There was a pause of utter stupefaction; then, from all within hearing,
a clamorous outburst: “It is the Gainer’s luck again!”—“The messenger
knew what he was saying!”—“No sharpness of wit can comprehend it!”—“It
is the magic of his flattering tongue.”—“A hundred tongues had done no
harm if Edmund—” The voices sank into a snarling undertone: “Ay, there
it is!”—“Ethelred’s blood!”—“It is no more to be counted on than is
water—” “What could have moved him to it?”
Morcard’s throat emitted a sound that might have been a chuckle or
might have been a growl. “I will tell you plainly for why; it is his
dauntlessness. He is going to pit his green wit against Edric’s, that
has made two kings as wax between his fingers! And he has begun by
letting the wolf into the fold.”
It appeared that the Etheling had recovered from his surprise, for now
he said steadily, “I will not believe it. Until their oaths have been
spoken and their hands have clasped and my own eyes have witnessed it,
I will not believe it of him.”
Motioning them from his path, he was starting forward a second time,
when the old cniht laid a hand lightly upon his shoulder.
“Hear me, Lord Sebert! If then,—to weigh all perils like a soldier,—if
then, you do witness it with your own eyes?”
The blue gave out a flash of smitten steel.
Morcard answered as to words: “You will be one against many, lord.”
“You cannot mean that the Witan will comply with him!” the Etheling
cried.
“How is it possible that they should do otherwise? The odal-born men
could not prevent it when Ethelred took Alfric back. And to-night, few
but thanes have resorted thither—men whom the Redeless took from
ploughing his fields to gild with nobility. Is it likely that they will
oppose the hand that can strip off their gilding?”
It appeared that the young man could find no answer to that, for he
made none. “At least once, my lord, Ethelred’s wilfulness has shown in
his son, when he set aside the King’s command to take possession of
Sigeferth’s widow and her estates. And I think it was Ethelred’s temper
that moved him to spend an energy, much better directed against the
Pagans, in laying waste two of his own shires. Remember what happened
when your father raised himself against Ethelred.”
Restive under the restraining hand, the young noble faced him
desperately. “Morcard, in God’s name, what would you have me do? I will
not bend to it, nor would you wish me to. Or sooner or later—”
“Let it be later, lord. After you have had time to marshal your wits,
and when it is daylight, and you have your men at your back.”
After a while, the Etheling yielded and turned aside. “Let it be as you
have said—though I cannot believe yet that it will happen.” Coming back
where a fallen tree made a mossy seat, he dropped down upon it and sat
staring at the ground in frowning abstraction.
The motion dropped him out of the range of Randalin’s vision, and her
eyes wandered away discontentedly. If there was nothing more to look
at, she might as well go to sleep. The fire was dying down so that the
overhanging shadow was drooping lower, like a canopy that would fall
and smother them when the spears of light that upheld it should sink at
last in the ashes. The doors of darkness had moved far up the
tree-corridors, and strange flickering shapes peered through. Her eyes
followed them heavily. The forest was very still now; even the grating
sound of the frogs was hushed, and the low hum of the voices around the
fire was soothing as the sound of swarming bees.
She was just losing consciousness when the figure of a second
yeoman-soldier moved across her vision, looming black against the
fireglow. His whisper came sharply to her ears. “It is done, chief. May
they have the wrath of the Almighty! Their hands have met, Edric’s and
the King’s, and his thanes’ and Norman of Baddeby’s, who is with Edric.
Now are they lying down in their man-ties, as it were to seal their
pledge by sleeping within reach of each other’s knives.”
“Norman of Baddeby!” the name leaped out of the rest to bite at her
like a dog, worrying deeper and deeper through the wrappings of her
stupor. Her eyes widened in troubled questioning. She heard the angry
voices rise, and she saw the Etheling leap to his feet and shake his
clenched hand above his head. Then she lost sight of everything, for
the fang had pierced her torpor and touched her.
“Norman of Baddeby”—her father’s slayer! Memory entered like poison to
spread burning through every vein. Her father—Fridtjof—the Jotun—the
battle—Her ears were dinned with terrible noises; her eyes were seared
by terrible pictures. She crushed her hands against her head, but the
sound came from within and would not be stilled. She buried her face in
the leaves, but the visions pressed faster before her. The son of
Leofwine and the drunken feast—the girl outside the tent—the Jotun
within it—her terrible young guardian—the battle-madness—whichever way
she looked, a new spectre confronted her. Helpless in their grip, she
tossed to and fro in agony—to and fro.
Though it was so tortured that she could not tell it from her waking
thoughts, sleep must have come to her; for when at last she reached the
point where she could endure it no longer and struggled up, panting, to
her elbow, to try to recall herself by a sight of those about her, she
found that the hum of excited voices was stilled, and the silence
throbbed with the deep breathing of sleepers. From under the canopy of
darkness the fiery spears had dropped away, leaving the thick folds
sagging lower and lower. Swarming under its shelter, the shadow-shapes
were closing in upon her.
For a while she watched them absently; then a whim of her tortured
brain poisoned them also. They became terrible nameless Things,
mouthing at her, darting upon her. She drew her eyes resolutely away
and set herself to listening to the breathing that throbbed in a dozen
keys through the silence.
Almost at her feet, the Etheling was stretched out in his cloak,
motionless as the fallen tree. Her face was slowly relaxing when, a
second time, memory betrayed her. Just so, she recollected, Leofwine’s
son was lying, not a hundred yards away. Through the trees, the glow of
the King’s fire came distinctly; gazing toward it, she could almost
convince herself that she could see the murderer, peaceful, secure. She
ground her teeth in a sudden spasm of rage. Would that some of those
weak-witted thanes would prove the mettle of the knives he was daring!
The next instant, she had thrown herself down with terror-widened eyes,
and was trying to bury her face in the leaves, while the tongueless
mouth of every shadowy shape seemed to shriek above her,—
“Odin sends you revenge!”—“It is the will of Odin that has drawn you
together!”—“Strange and wonderful is the way in which you are
hesitating!”—“Would you become like the girl with the necklace?”—“Are
you a coward, that you do not prefer to die in good repute rather than
live in the shame of neglecting your duty?”
She flung up her haggard face in appeal. “No, no, I am not a coward,”
her spirit cried within her. “I was brave in the battle. It is not
death I fear; but I cannot kill! Odin, have mercy on me! I cannot kill.
I have tried to be brave, but I am really a woman; it is not possible
for me to have a man’s heart.”
The grinning shadows mouthed at her. “You have not dared to be a
woman,” they mocked. “You have not dared to be a woman, so you must
dare to be a man.”
A night wind shuddered through the trees, and the hovering shades
seemed to hiss in her ear. “Coward! Traitor! Nithing! Do you not get
afraid that you will experience the wrath of the dead? Listen! Is that
the wind rustling the leaves? Or is it—”
A gasp burst from the white lips, and the die was cast. While the cold
drops started on her pain-racked body, she dragged herself to her knees
and fumbled with trembling hands about her belt. For an instant,
something like a moonbeam glimmered amid the shadow; then her lips
closed convulsively upon the steel. Tipping forward upon her hands, she
tested cautiously the strength of her wounded leg, smothering groans of
pain that seemed to tear her throat in the swallowing. But the
whispering of the night-wind was like a spur in her side; inch by inch,
she crawled steadily toward the flickering light.