Now may we understand
That men’s wisdom
And their devices
And their councils
Are like naught
‘Gainst God’s resolve.
Saxon Chronicle.
What difference that, somewhere beyond the hills, men were fighting and
castles were burning? At Ivarsdale in the shelter and cheer of the
lord’s great hall, the feast of the barley beer was at its height.
While one set of serfs bore away the remnants of roast and loaf and
sweetmeat, another carried around the brimming horns; and to the sound
of cheers and hand-clapping, the gleeman moved forward toward the harp
that awaited him by the fireside.
Where the glow lay rosiest, the young lord sat in the great raised
chair, jesting with his Danish page who knelt on the step at his side.
Now the boy’s answering provoked him to laughter, and he put out a hand
and tousled the thick curls in his favorite caress. One of the tresses
caught in his jewelled ring; and as he bent to unfasten it, he stared
at the wavy mass in lazy surprise. It was as soft and rich as the
breast of a blackbird, and the fire had laid over it a sheen of rainbow
lights.
“Never did I think there could be any black hair so alluring,” he said
involuntarily.
He could not see how the face under the clark veil grew suddenly as
bright as though the sun had risen in it. And the lad said, rather
breathlessly, “I wonder at your words, lord. You know that such hair is
the curse of black elves.”
Leaning back in his chair, the Etheling shook his head in whimsical
obstinacy. “Not so, not so,” he persisted. “It has to it more lustre
than has yellow. My lady-love shall have just such locks.”
He had a glimpse like the flash of a bluebird’s wing in the sun, as the
page glanced up at him, and the sight of a face grown suddenly
rose-red. Then the boy turned shyly, and slipping back to his cushion
on the step, nestled himself against the chair-arm with a sigh that was
almost pathetic in its happiness.
Like a quieting hand, the first of the mellow chords fell upon the
noise of the revel. The servants bearing away the dishes began to tread
the rushes on tiptoe, and a dozen frowns rebuked any clatter. Through
the hush, the gleeman began to sing the “Romance of King Offa,” the
king who married a wood nymph for dear love’s sake. It began with the
wooing and the winning, out in the leafy greenwood amid bird-voices and
murmuring brooks; but before long the enmity of the queen-mother
entered, with jarring discords, to send the lovers through bitter
trials. Lord and page, man and maid and serf, strained eye and ear
toward the harper’s tattered figure. So breathless grew the listening
stillness that the crackling of the fire became an annoyance. What
matter that outside an autumn wind was howling through the forest and
stripping the leaves through the vines? Within sound of the mellow
harp-music it was balmiest spring-time, as the castlefolk followed the
gleeman over the hills and dales of a flowering dream-world.
For a space after he had finished, the silence remained unbroken, then
gave way only to an outburst of applause. And one did even better than
applaud. Bending forward, his beautiful face quite radiant with his
pleasure, the curly-headed page pulled a golden ring from his pouch and
tossed it into the harper’s lap.
As he caught the largess, the man’s mouth broadened. “I thank you for
your good-will, fair stripling,” he returned. “May you find as true a
love when your time comes to go a-wooing.”
The maids tittered, while the men guffawed, and a richer glow came into
the cheeks of Fridtjof the page. Suddenly his iris-blue eyes were
daringly a-sparkle.
“The spirits will have forgot your wish before that time comes,” he
laughed, “for I vow that I will raise a beard or ever I woo a maiden.”
Above the mirth that followed rose the voice of the brawniest of the
henchmen, passing his judgment on the ballad. “Now that is my own
desire of songs,” he declared. “That was worth possessing,—the love of
that lass. A sweetheart who will cleave to your side when your fortune
is most severe, and despise every good because she has not you also,
she is the filly to yoke with. Drink to the wood maiden, comrades, bare
feet and wild ways and all!” Swinging up his horn, he drained off the
toast at a draught. “Give us a mistress like that, my lord,” he cried
merrily, “and we will hold Ivarsdale for her though all of Edmund’s men
batter at the doors.”
Laughing, they all looked up where the young master leaned in his
chair, watching the revels with a smile of idle good-humor. All except
the blue-eyed page; he bent forward instead, so that his long locks
fell softly about his face.
The Lord of Ivarsdale shook his head indolently against the cushion.
“No wood lass for me, friend Celric,” he said. “The lady of my love
shall be a high-born maid who knows no more of the world’s roughness
than I of woman’s ways. Nor shall she follow me at all, but stay
modestly at home with her maids and keep herself gentle and fair
against my return. Deliver me from your sun-browned, boy-bred wenches!”
“I am consenting to that, lord!” a voice cried from the benches; and a
hubbub of conflicting opinions arose. Only the page neither spoke or
moved.
The henchman would not be downed; again his voice rose above the
others. “In soft days, my lord, in soft days, it might easily be so.
But bear in mind such times as these, when grief happens to a man
oftener than joy. Methinks your lily-fair lady would swoon at the sight
of your blood; and tears would be the best answer you would get, should
you seek to draw comfort out of her.”
White as a star at dawn, the page’s face was raised while his wide eyes
hung on his master’s; and from the little reed wound between his brown
fingers, the juice began to ooze slowly as though some silent force
were crushing the life out of its green heart.
But the young noble laughed with gay scorn: “Tears would be in all
respects a better answer than I should deserve, should I whimper
faint-hearted words into a maiden’s ear. What folly-fit do you speak
in, fellow? What! Do you think I would wed another comrade like
yourself, or a playfellow like this youngster?” Ever so gently his foot
touched the boyish form on the step. “It is something quite different
from either of you that is my desire; something that is as much higher
as the stars are above these candles.”
Disputing and agreeing, the clamor rose anew, and the Etheling turned
to his favorite with a jest. But the page was no longer in his place.
He had risen to his feet and was standing with his head flung back like
one in pain, both hands up tearing the tunic away from his throat.
Sebert bent toward him with a question on his lips.
He forgot the query before he could speak it, however, for at that
moment there was a sound of hurried steps on the stone stairs, and one
of the armed watchmen from the top of the Tower burst into the room.
“Lord,” he gasped, “some one is upon us! We thought first it was naught
but the noise of the wind—then Elward saw a light. We swear they came
not over the bridge, yet—”
His words were cut short by a horn-blast from the darkness, loud and
clear above the whistling wind. Though only one woman screamed out
Edmund’s name, it is probable that the same thought was in every mind.
Jests and laughter died on the lips that bore them, and with one accord
the men turned in their seats to watch their master.
His face had sobered as he listened; before the first echo had died
away he had spoken swiftly to the fellow at his side. “Celric, get you
down to the guard at the gate and inquire into the meaning of that.”
When the henchman had left, he began a sharp questioning of the
sentinel, and the noise did not begin again. Whispering, the women drew
together like herded sheep; and the men left their barley beer, to
stand in little groups, muttering in one another’s ears. An old bowman
took his weapon down from the wall and set silently to work to restring
it.
In the quiet, the tap of the man’s feet upon the steps was audible long
before he reached the waiting roomful. Every eye fastened itself upon
the curtained doorway.
Swinging back, the arras disclosed a face full of amazement. “Lord,”
the man said, “it is Danes! None know how many or how they came there.
And their chief has sent you a messenger.”
“Danes!” For the first time in the history of Ivarsdale, the word was
spoken with an accent of relief.
The page turned from the fire with a cry of bitter rejoicing: “If it is
Canute, I will go to him!”
In the revulsion of his feelings, the Etheling laughed outright. “Since
it is not Edmund, I care not if it be the Evil One himself; and it
cannot be he, for Canute is in Mercia.” He rose and faced them
cheerily. “Lay aside your uneasiness, friends; it is likely only such
another band as we put to flight last month, that hopes to surprise us
into some weakness. Let the signal fires blaze to warn the churls,
while we amuse ourselves with the messenger. To-morrow we will chase
them so far over the hills that they will never find their way back
again.”
Beckoning to Morcard, he began to consult him concerning the most
effective arrangement of the sentinels; and there was a muffled clatter
of weapons as men went to and fro with hasty steps. At a word from the
steward, the women went softly from the room and up the winding stairs
to their quarters, the rustling of their dresses coming back with
ghostly stealthiness.
When all was ready the messenger was brought in between guards. Wrapped
in dirty sheepskins, he swaggered to the centre of the room, and the
light that fell on his tanned face showed a scar running the full
length of his cheek. With his first glance, the Lord of Ivarsdale
uttered an exclamation.
“Now, by Saint Mary, I have seen you before, fellow! Were you not the
leader of the band we drove away last month?”
The Scar-Cheek laughed impudently. “I will not conceal it; yet I did
not know that my beauty was so showy. The chief was wise to send
Brown-Cloak to do the spying.”
“Brown-Cloak! The beggar?” was cried all down the hall.
But the messenger’s eyes had fallen on the black-haired boy, who stood
staring at him from the fireside. His wide mouth opened in
astonishment. “The King’s ward? Here is a happening!” he ejaculated.
“If I am not much mistaken, Canute will be glad to find this out. It
was his belief that you had got your death-blow at Scoerstan, and he
took it ill.”
The King’s ward made no other answer than to regard him with a strange
mixture of attention and aversion; but the Etheling reached out and
pushed the boy farther behind the great chair.
“Fridtjof Frodesson is my captive and no longer concerns you,” he said
briefly. “Give him no further thought, but come to your message.”
The swaggering assurance of the man’s laugh was more offensive than
rudeness would have been. “If I say that we will shortly set him free,
I shall not be going very wide from my message. My errand hither is
that I bring word from Rothgar Lodbroksson to surrender the Tower.”
The page uttered a little cry, and his lord raised a hand mechanically
to impose silence; but no one else seemed able to speak or to move.
From the master in his chair to the serf by the door, they stared
dumb-founded at the messenger.
He, on his part, appeared to realize all at once that the time for
formality had come. Pitching his cloak higher on his shoulders, he
fastened his eyes on a hole in the tapestry behind the Etheling’s chair
and began monotonously to recite his lesson: “Rothgar, the son of
Lodbrok, sends you greeting, Sebert Oswaldsson; and it is his will that
you surrender to him the odal and Tower of Ivarsdale; as is right,
because the odal was created and the Tower was built by Ivar Vidfadmi,
who was the first son of Lodbrok and the father’s father’s father of my
chief—-” In spite of himself, he was obliged to stop to take in breath.
In the pause, the page bent toward his master, his face alight with a
sudden fierce triumph. “Lord,” he whispered, “you can never get out!
You are caught as though they had you in a trap!”
Astounded, Sebert drew back to stare at him. “Fridtjof! It is not
possible that you are unfaithful to me!”
The boy’s only answer was to drop down upon the step and bury his face
in his hands. And now the messenger had recovered his wind and his
place.
“Since the time of Alfred,” he went on, “my chief and his kin have been
kept out of the property by your stock and you; yet because he does not
wish to look mean, he offers you to go out in safety with all of your
housefolk, both men and women, and as much property as you can walk
under,—if you go quietly and in peace.” This time his inflection showed
that he had finished. He turned his eyes from the hole and fastened
them on the Lord of Ivarsdale, in the confidence of invincible power.
The room was so still that when a gust came in around the ill-fitting
windows, the flare of the torch-flames sounded loud as the hiss of
serpents.
The Etheling’s voice was very deep and quiet. “If we go in peace,” he
repeated slowly. “And if we do not?”
The Dane shrugged his burly shoulders. “There are no terms for that.
You will find it necessary to take what comes.”
Again there was silence.
Sebert put his last question: “How long does the son of Lodbrok give me
to consider how I am to order things?” The man shattered the silence
with his boisterous laughter. “It is not a lie about you English that
you never do aught that you do not sit down first and consider, till
the crews have eaten all your provisions and the timbers of your boats
are rotting. When a Dane strikes, it is like the striking of lightning.
So soon as you hear the thunder of his coming, that instant you see the
flashing of his weapon. My chief gives you no time at all. So long a
time, he has studied out, will it take me to come in to you; so much
longer to do my errand; and so much longer to get back. At the end of
that time he will blow his horn, and if your gates do not fly open in
obedience, he will take that for your answer.”
Either the Lord of Ivarsdale had been doing some rapid thinking during
the long speech, or else he was too incensed to think. Now he rose with
sparks flashing from the steel of his eyes. “By Peter, he is right! I
do not need even that long,” he cried. “Since the Wide-Fathomer began
the game, the Tower has been the prize of the strongest. Shall I flinch
from a challenge? Our rights are equal; our luck shall decide. For his
answer, be he reminded of his own Danish saying, that ‘It is a strong
bird that can take what an eagle has in his claws,’ and let him get
what comfort he can from that.”
After his ringing tones, the unmoved voice of the messenger fell flat
on the ear. “It has happened as we supposed, that you would answer
unfavorably,” he said as he turned. “It was seen in battle that you are
a brave man. Otherwise the chief would not have thought it necessary to
hew a path through the forest in order to take you by surprise.”
Saluting with some appearance of respect, he joined his conductors at
the door and passed out of sight down the stair.
Like smoke in the wake of a firebrand, confusion rose behind him; a din
of exclamations loosed on the air and the clangor of weapons caught
down from the wall. Through it, the Etheling’s voice sounded strongly.
“To the palisade, all of you! They may not wait till morning. To the
forest side; and keep them from it as you would keep off death!” He
bent and shook the crouching page. “My armor, boy! How! Would you have
me read treason in your sluggishness? My armor!”
The page started up, but it was only to stare past him and fling out
his hand toward a window, where a bright light had suddenly shot
athwart the darkness: “Lord, they have set fire to something!”
The voice of old Morcard rose shrill: “To the storehouses! Save the
grain!”
There was a wild rush for the door; but on the threshold they were met
by the shouts of watchmen hurrying from the parapets.
“Lord, the court is swarming with them!”... “They have cut through the
palisade on the forest side!”... “They had brush laid ready—“...
“Waited only for him—“... “Holy saints, what is the meaning of
that?”... “Something else has taken!”
From the stairway above them came a piercing cry: “The storehouses!
They have fired them from inside! The lead is melting like ice!”...
“The grain!”... “The grain!”
In their midst the young lord stood in helpless fury; and the hand he
had grasped around his sword-hilt gripped it so hard that blood started
under each nail. But his page bent and kissed the clenched fist with a
cry of fierce exulting.
“You will never get out to find your lily-fair lady. You will never
have a lady wife, lord! We shall die together.”