“‘Such is the love of women,
Who falsehood meditate,
As if one drove not rough-shod
On slippery ice
A spirited two-year-old
And unbroken horse.
Hávamál.
I trust my sword; I trust my steed;
But most I trust myself at need,’”
the fair-haired scald sang exultingly to the Danishmen sprawled around
the camp-fire. It was to no graceful love-song that his harp lent its
swelling chords, but to a stern chant of mighty deeds, whose ringing
notes sped through the forest like the bearers of war-arrows, knocking
at the door of each sleeping echo until it awoke and carried on the
summons.
Echoes awoke as well in the breasts of those who listened. When the
minstrel laid aside his harp for his cup, Snorri Scar-Cheek brought his
fist down in a mighty blow upon the earth. “To hear such words and know
one’s self doomed to wallow in mast!”
A dozen shaggy heads wagged surly acquiescence. But from the figure
outstretched upon the splendid bearskin a harsh voice sounded. “Now!
see that because you lie in mast you have a swine’s wit,” it said. “Do
you want the thrall to stand forth and prove for the hundredth time
that their bins must needs be as empty as your head?”
Venturing no more than a growl, the man dropped his chin back upon his
fists. But Brown-Cloak, the English serf, found somewhere the notion
that here was an opportunity to rehearse once more the service which
was his sole claim upon his new masters’ indulgence, and he got on his
legs accordingly.
“I can say soothly that you will not have to bear it much longer, Lord
Dale,” he reassured. “My own eyes saw that—” He ended in a howl as a
half-gnawed sheep-bone from the warrior’s hand struck him with a force
that knocked him sprawling among the ashes.
“Do not trouble yourself to answer until you are questioned,” the
Scar-Cheek recommended briefly. And a round of laughter followed the
poor scapegoat as he picked himself up, groaning, and crept away into
the shadow. In the restlessness of their inactivity, and this swift
breaking into passages of growling and tooth-play whenever, in their
narrow confines, they chanced to jostle each other, they were like
nothing so much as a pack of caged wolves.
Into the den, a few minutes later, the daughter of Frode came on her
difficult mission. Her face was so ghastly that the man who first
caught sight of it did not recognize her, and snatched up his weapon as
against an enemy. It was the Scar-Cheek who offered the first welcome
in a jovial shout. “The hawk escaped from the cage! Well done,
champion! Did you batter a way out with your mighty fists? Did you get
fretful and slay the Englishman? Leave off your bashfulness and tell us
your deeds of valor!” A score of hands were stretched forth to draw the
boy into the circle; a score of horns were held out for his
refreshment.
To all of them Randalin yielded silently,—silently accepting the cup
which was nearest, in order to gain time by sipping its contents. She
realized that only a manner of perfect unconcern could carry her
through, yet she felt herself shaking with excitement.
Rothgar sat up on the great skin with a gesture of some cordiality.
“Hail to you, Fridtjof Frodesson!” he said. “Your escape is a thing
that gladdens me. I did not like the thought of starving you, and I
hope your father will overlook the unfriendliness of it.”
The Scar-Cheek, who had been scanning her critically where she stood
before them, drinking, gave a pitying grunt. “By the crooked horn, boy,
you must have had naught but ill luck since the time of Scoerstan! No
more meat is on you than a raven could eat; and the night I was in the
Englishman’s hall, you had the appearance of having been under a lash.
Your guardian spirit must have gone astray.”
Though she managed to keep her eyes upon her cup, Randalin could not
hinder a wave of burning color from over-running her face. Seeing it,
Rothgar held up his handless left arm for silence.
“You act in a mannerless way, Snorri Gudbrandsson, when you remind a
high-spirited youth that he has been disgraced in his mind. Yet do not
let that prevent your joy, my Bold One. To make up for the injury I
have been to you, I will give you a revenge on the Englishman that
shall wipe out everything you have endured from him. If it is possible
for me to take him alive and bind him, your own hand shall be the one
to strike Sebert Oswaldsson his death-blow.”
The girl’s nervousness betrayed her into a burst of hysterical
laughter, but her wits were quick enough to turn it to good account.
She said with Fridtjof’s own petulance, “Your boon is like the one
Canute has in store for me. I am likely to wait so long for both that I
shall have no teeth left to chew them with. I like it much better to
take your kindness in the shape of food, if that is a loaf yonder.”
The abruptness with which silence fell over the group was startling.
Snorri bent forward and plucked her sternly back as she made a move
toward the bread. A dozen voices questioned her.
“What do you mean by that?”... “Why will it take long?”... “Are they
not short in food?”
Knowing that she could not achieve unconcern, she kept to her
petulance, jerking her cloak away from the hand that detained it.
“Should I be apt to blame him for starving me if he did it because no
better cheer was to be had? Nor do I think you have proved much more
liberal. Let me by to the bread.”
Instead, the ring narrowed around her; and the chief himself put
peremptory questions in his heavy voice. “Has he food? What do you
mean? Clear your wits and answer distinctly. Can you not understand
that we think this food-question of great importance? The thrall told
us they are wont to keep their provisions in the house we burned. Did
he lie?”
“I do not know whether he lied or not,” Randalin answered slowly; “but
it seems to me great foolishness that you did not take the time into
consideration. At the end of the harvest, any English house would be
fitted out for weeks of feasting. You came the night the larder was
fullest; and they have only spent one meal a day since.”
Rothgar got upon his feet and towered over her, his Jotun-frame
appearing to swell with irritation. “Do you not know how provoking your
words are, that you are so glib of tongue?” he thundered. “Tell shortly
what you think of their case; can they last one day more?”
The black head nodded emphatically.
“Can they last two days?”
Another nod.
“A week?”
Fridtjof the Bold took refuge in sullenness. “They can last two weeks
as easily as one. How much longer are you going to keep me from food?”
She was free after that to do anything she liked, for their excitement
was so great that they forgot her existence. Those whose fluency was
not hampered by their feelings, relieved their minds by cursing. Those
whose anger could be vented only in action, made after the blundering
serf. And the few who were boldest turned and bearded the son of
Lodbrok himself.
“How much longer must we endure this?”... “Think of the game we are
missing!”... “There is little need to remind me. My naked fists could
batter the stones from their places—“... “In a week more, it is
possible that England may be won!”... “What do you care for their
wretched land, chief?”...
“Chief, how much longer must we lie here?”
When that question was finally out, every man heaved a sigh of relief,
straightening in his place like a dog that is pricking his ears, and
there was a pause.
A fell look came into the Jotun’s face as he gazed back at them; and
for a time it seemed that he would either answer with his fist or not
at all. But at length he began to speak in a voice as keen and hard as
his sword.
“You know my temper, and that I must have my will. Always I have
thought it shame that my kinsman’s odal should lie in English hands,
and now I have made up my mind to put an end to it. You know that I am
in no way greedy for property. When I obtain the victory, you shall
have every acre and every stick on it to burn or plunder or keep, as
best pleases you. But I do not want to reproach myself longer with my
neglect; and whether it take two weeks or whether it take twenty—” He
interrupted himself to bend forward, shading his eyes with his hands.
“If I am not much mistaken,” he said in quite another voice, “yonder is
Brass Borgar at last! Yonder, near those oak-trees.”
In an instant they had all turned to scan the moon-lit open. And now
that they were silent, the thud of hoofs became distinct. Shouting
their welcome, some hurried to heap fresh fuel on the fire, and some
ran after more ale-skins; while others rushed forward to meet the
messenger and run beside his horse, riddling him with questions.
Folding his arms, the chief awaited him in grim silence. If glances
could have burned, he would have writhed under the look that a pair of
iris-blue eyes was dealing him over a bread crust. But it may be that
his skin was particularly thick, for he betrayed no uneasiness
whatever.
When the man finally stood before him, Rothgar said sternly, “It is
time you were here! Ten days have gone over your head since I sent you
out. You must do one of two things,—either tell great tidings or submit
to sharp words.”
The Brass One laughed as he saluted. “I should have been liable to
sharp steel had I come sooner, chief. Would you have taken it well if I
had left without knowing how it went with the battle?”
“Battle!” three-score mouths cried as with one voice. “Who were
victorious?”
The man laughed again. “Should I come to you with a noisy voice and my
chin held high, if other than one thing had happened? Honor to the
Thunderer, the Raven possessed the field!”
Such a clamor arose as though the wolf-pack had tasted blood. Three
times, through the trumpet of his hands, Rothgar bawled a command for
silence. “One horn you may have, then all this must be told before you
eat,” he gave orders. And he strode restlessly to and fro until the
time came when the horn stood on end above the man’s mouth and then was
lowered reluctantly.
Drawing his hand across his lips, the Brass One cleared his throat. “At
your pleasure, chief. Is it to your mind to begin with the battle? Or
do you rather wish to hear of my journey thence? I admit that that part
is somewhat likely to stick in my teeth and in your ears. From Otford
to Shepey was little better than a retreat, and if—”
“The battle! the battle!” a chorus of voices cried, and the chief
confirmed the choice.
“The battle, by all means! The other will do for lesser dishes when the
first edge is off our appetite. Where was it? And how long since? Yet,
before any of these, how goes it with my royal foster-brother? And how
do his traitors carry sail, Odin’s curse upon them! Speak! How fares
he?”
“On the top of the wave, my chief,—though it is my belief that he has
your mind toward Edric Jarl, for all that Thorkel is ever on hand to
urge the value of his craft. And certainly it was exceedingly useful to
them at Assington—”
“Assington!”... “In Essex?” the chorus broke in upon him. “It happened
as Grimalf said—“... “—the horse with the bloody saddle which he found
over the hill—“... “Do you know for certain if Edric—“... “Why will you
interrupt him?”... “Yes, end this talk!”... “Go on, go on!”
“I also say go on, in the Troll’s name!” the Jotun roared. “Go on and
tell us what Edric the Gainer did which they else could not have done.”
“I said not that he did what they could not, chief. He did what they
would not, as the thrall who pulls off our boots muddies his hands that
we may keep ours clean. And a strange wonder is the way in which the
English king trusts him even after this treason has been committed! The
Gainer fled, with all his men, at the moment when most King Edmund
depended upon his support; and in this way left for Danish feet a hewn
path where a forest of battle-trees had stood.”
Rothgar took no part in the stream of questions and comments that again
drowned the voice of the messenger, until suddenly he launched an oath
that out-thundered them all: “May Thor feel otherwise than I do, for I
vow that were I in his place, I would raise Danish warriors in
wool-chests! Is that the valor of the descendants of Odin, that they go
not into battle until a foul-hearted traitor has swept the way clean of
danger? Is the heart of the King become wax within him? Or is it that
cold-blooded fox at his side that is draining the manhood out of him? I
would give much if I had been there!” Casting himself down upon the
bearskin, he lay there breathing hard and tearing the fur out in great
handfuls.
Brass Borgar spoke with the utmost deprecation: “I say nothing against
your feelings, chief; and there are not a few who think as you do; yet
I ask you to remember one thing. I ask you to remember that no Dane has
ever held back in battle because he had the Traitor’s help. Canute uses
him to strengthen his back; never to shield his face. The Islanders’
own mouths have admitted that the odds are against ten Englishmen if
they face one Dane. I think it is because he is out of patience with
the war that the King makes of the Gainer a time-saver. It has been
told me that he fights not for love of it, nor yet for glory, but
because he covets the land of—”
Like the bellow of an angry bull, Rothgar’s voice broke through his.
“Land! Quickly will I proclaim my opinion of any man who sets his heart
on that! He who forgets glory in his eagerness for property, deserves
the curse of Thor!”
“Prepare yourself, then, for a thunderbolt, Rothgar Lodbroksson,” a
clear voice spoke up suddenly.
None but had forgotten the red-cloaked figure munching its bread in the
shadow behind them. One and all started in surprise. And the chief
turned over his shoulder a face that was livid with anger. “You—you
dare!” he roared.
But Randalin’s heart was too full of bitterness to leave any room for
fear. At the moment, it seemed to her that it did not matter what
happened. She stood before the Jotun as straight and unbending as a
spear-shaft, and her eyes were reflections of his own. Her wonder was
great when slowly, even while his eyes blazed, Rothgar’s mouth began to
twitch at the corners. All at once he rolled over on his back with a
shout of laughter.
“By Ragnar, there will not be many jests to equal this!” he gasped.
“That a titmouse should ruffle its feathers and upbraid me! Here is
merriment!” He lay there laughing after the others had joined in with
him; and his face was not entirely sober the next time he turned it
toward her. “Good Berserker, give me leave to live some while longer in
order that I may explain my intentions.”
Yet when he had risen, a change came into his voice that brought every
man to his feet. “We will make ready to go at cockcrow,” he said
abruptly. “If it were only a matter of a couple of days, I would wait;
but since it will be at least a week before we can expect them to give
in, I think it unadvisable to waste more time. Since the King is in
this temper, the next battle may well be the last; and much shame would
come of it if we did not have our share. We will start when the cock
crows. As soon as Canute gets the kingship over the English realm,
Ivarsdale will fall to me anyway. Let the Angle enjoy himself until
then.”