CHAPTER II

Thought shall be the harder, heart the keener, Mood shall be the more, as our might lessens. Grief and sorrow forever On the man that leaves this sword-play! SONG OF MALDON.

Already the longship lay close astern. A harsh command sent the oars rattling in through their ports; and as the dragon prow overlapped the flank of the quarry, a dozen grappling-hooks fell clanking across the bulwark. Half the longship's crew swarmed in the bows,--a wild-eyed, skin-clad band, staring with fierce greed at the casks and bales with which the trade-ship was laden. None of them looked twice at the two men standing so quietly in the middle of the deck. In their eagerness for loot, all pressed forward to board the trade-ship, and so little did they dream of resistance that many bore their weapons sheathed.

They were soon to learn their mistake. As the first Dane leaped upon the bulwark, Roland swept his axe overhead and hurled it at the luckless viking. Across the front the Dane's wolfskin serk was thickly sewn with iron rings; but the axe-blade shore through iron and hide like cloth, and buried itself in the viking's breast.

The surprise could not have been more complete. As the axe flashed over their heads, the hidden warriors sprang up and fell upon the Danes with all the fury of despair. Their lord and the Frisian sprang forward beside them, and the Frankish blades threshed across the bulwarks in swift strokes that cut down a dozen vikings before they could guard themselves. More in astonishment than dismay, the foremost Danes recoiled upon their fellows, causing a jam and confusion that prolonged the vantage of the Franks. Like flails the weapons of the grey warriors beat upon the round shields of the heathen.

"Strike! strike!" they shouted in the fierce joy of battle. "Christ and king! Down with the pagans! death to the sea-thieves!"

On the right the shipmaster thrust his pointed sword-knife into the faces of the enemy; on the left the axe of the hoary giant of Tours fell like Thor's hammer; while between the two, Roland, wielding his sword in both hands, cut down a Dane with every blow. His eyes flashed with the fire of battle, and as he struck he shouted tauntingly: "Ho, Danes! ho, sea-thieves! here is sword-play! Run, cast your spears from shelter! Frank steel bites deep!"

The answer was a roar of fury. The death of their fellows only roused the Danes to wild rage. Their huge bodies quivered, and eyes yet more fiery than Roland's flamed with the battle-light. The air rang with the clash of weapons, and the terrible war-cry swelled into a deafening roar,--"Thor aid! Thor aid! Death to the Frank dogs!"

In a mass the vikings surged forward and leaped at the bulwark. Vainly the Franks sought to withstand the shock. The crashing strokes of Roland's sword kept clear all the space within its sweep; but on either side the vikings burst across the bulwark in overwhelming numbers. Shield clashed against shield, and blades beat upon helmet and hauberk with the clang of a hundred smithies. No warriors could long withstand such odds. Down went the Frisian under the blade of a berserk axe, and after him fell the old giant of Tours, a throttled Dane in his grip. Then four more Franks fell, all together, and the whole line reeled back across the deck. The defence was broken. The Danes yelled in fierce triumph and surged forward to thrust their handful of foes over into the sea. Many warriors so hard pressed would have flung down their weapons and begged for quarter. Not so the henchmen of the king's kin.

"Back to back!" called their count, and for a moment he checked the Danish rush by the sweep of his single sword. Brief as was the respite, it gave his followers time to rally. They sprang together and ringed about their leader in a shieldburg that all the wild fury of the vikings could not break. Like their lord, these grey warriors were Rhinemen of pure German blood. Between them and their foes was slight difference other than the veneer of a nominal Christianity. Drunk with the wine of battle, they whirled their reddened blades and rejoiced to slay and be slain in Odin's game. One by one, they staggered and fell, striking even in the death-agony. Those who were left only narrowed their ring to close the gaps, and fought on.

Of all the virtues, Northman and Teuton alike gave first place to courage. Wonder seized the Danes at the very height of their blood-fury. Never before had even they, the fierce sea-wolves, witnessed such sword-play. Overcome by admiration, many drew back as the last few Franks fell dying. When Roland stood alone within their circle, by common impulse they lowered their weapons and shouted to spare the hero. Only one voice dissented--but it was the voice of the Danish chief.

The sea-king had been steering his ship, and so unexpected and furious was the fight that its end came before he could force a way through the press of his own men. Enraged that he had failed to come to blows, he now pushed to the front, a grand and imposing figure in his scale hauberk and gold-winged helmet. But beneath the helmet's bright rim lowered a face more brutal and ferocious than a Saxon outlaw's.

"Way!" he shouted; and as the vikings parted, he stepped over the slain to where Roland leaned heavily upon his sword.

"So-ho!" he jeered, and he eyed the gasping Frank with cruel satisfaction. "They breed bears in the South worth the baiting."

Roland's eyes flashed as he answered: "Heathen boar! you may well talk of baiting. Count your men who have fallen. Had I half my strength, I 'd send you with them to burn in Tartarus!"

"Had you all your strength, Frank, I should strike off your hands with Ironbiter my sword, and cast you overboard to the sea-god. As it is, I 'll take you thrall and break your back on Thor's Stone at the Winter Sacrifice. Next Yule the followers of Hroar the Cruel shall drink to Thor and Frey from the skull of Earl Roland, the kin of the Frank king."

The count started in astonishment.

"Tell me, Dane!" he cried; "how do you know my name? Not by chance did you lie in the Seine Mouth!"

"True, thrall; I can swear to that," answered Hroar, and he laughed. "Be certain I would not risk King Sigfrid's longships thus far south without sure gain. It is no harm to speak truth to a man who is doomed,--dead men tell no tales. May you have joy of your answer!"

"I laugh at death. Now tell me, Dane!"

"Know then, my merry thrall, that tidings of your sailing flew to Nordmannia straight from the hall of your king. Sigfrid had word from Wittikind the Saxon, and he from well-wishers across the Rhine. Not all your king's foes dwell without his borders. Some speak Frankish for mother-tongue--"

"You lie! No Frank is traitor."

Hroar only laughed and answered jeeringly: "Maybe a little bird told how Earl Roland should sail south from the Seine with the Frank king's daughter,--a little bird in Frankish plumage. He sang a golden song for me. Your ship rides deep with her cargo, and Frisian thralls fetch a good price at the Gardariki fair.--But I would see your princess. If she is young and comely, I may have other use for her than to grind meal."

At the brutal words, fury seized upon Roland. His eyes blazed, and rage lent sudden strength to his tottering frame.

"Heathen dog!" he gasped; "never shall your eyes look on Rothada!"

Before Hroar could guard or leap aside, the Frank's sword swung overhead and whirled down upon his helmet like a sledge. Had the casque been of common make, Hroar would have met his fate on the spot. As it was, the blow beat a great dint in the gilded steel and sent the sea-king reeling backward, stunned and blinded. A dozen vikings sprang between to shield him, but Roland's sword dropped at their feet. Faint from loss of blood, and utterly spent by that last great blow, the count swayed forward. Darkness shut out from him the ring of shouting heathen. He fell swooning upon the heap of corpses.

"A champion! a champion! The Frank has won his freedom!" cried the vikings, and they pressed about to raise the fallen warrior. Heedless of their own wounds, they sought to bind up his injuries. Their warlike but generous natures yielded homage to the hero who had met overwhelming odds without dismay and had struck a berserk blow even when falling. They forgot the boasted cruelty of their leader.

Never before had the sea-king suffered such a helmet stroke. For several moments he stood dazed, blinking at the stars which flashed before his eyes, while his head hummed like a kettle. Then his vision cleared, and he saw what his men were about. Into their midst he sprang, gnashing his teeth like a wolf.

"Aside, dogs!" he yelled. "Give me my thrall. I will tear out his lying tongue!"

The Danes gave back before the threatening dagger of their chief, and he sprang upon his victim with a yell of triumph. The Frank should pay dearly for that blow!

Some of the milder vikings muttered against the deed. This Frank was no whining coward, no low-born outlander, but a fair-haired hero, such as the Sigurds and Beowulfs of the olden days.

At the best, the Danes bore little love for the cruel Jutland champion whom King Sigfrid had set over them. So now they murmured openly. But Hroar was no less fearless than he was cruel. Regardless of their protests, he turned the fallen Frank upon his back. No wolf ever fell upon his prey with fiercer greed.

Already he had set about his deed, when a cry of surprise from his followers caused him to look up. The crowd had opened, and through the midst of the warriors came a little child-maid, the like of whom the brutal Dane had never seen. Utterly lost to self in her fear for her kinsman, the girl advanced with outstretched arms, her tender eyes full of reproach, her pure young face aglow with spiritual light. Had she been Skuld, youngest of the Norns, the Dane could not have been more astonished. He glared at the child in dull wonder. Could this be Freya's maid,--Gifion, Goddess of Innocence and Maidenhood? At the thought, he started back, a superstitious dread clutching at his heart. But when the first shock of surprise had passed, he perceived the Frankish fashion of the girl's double tunic and the circlet that marked her rank.

"Spawn of Loki!" he snarled. "It's only the Frank king's daughter."

"I am Rothada, and Karl the King is my father," said the girl, with simple dignity. "Are you not the Dane count?"

Hroar scowled assent.

"Speak," he said.

The girl's courage began to falter before the ferocity of the sea-king's stare, and, shuddering, she gazed about her at the heaps of dead and wounded warriors. But she saw friendly looks upon many of the viking faces, and forgot her fears once more in the thought of her fellow-captives.

"I come to offer ransom," she said,--"wergild for all who yet live. My father will pay for every one,--Frank and Frisian alike."

"Doubtless!" sneered Hroar. "But we will talk of that in Nordmannia before King Sigfrid. Wittikind may have a word to say in the matter. One thrall at least I keep as my share of the loot. Stand aside while I put my mark on him."

For the second time the Dane turned to his victim. But Rothada was quicker than he. With a piteous cry for mercy, she flung herself upon Roland and sought to shield him from the knife with her own slender body. The sight would have melted any heart that held the slightest trace of nobleness. It stirred the vikings to open mutiny. They renewed their protests, with deeper menace in their tones, and when Hroar bent and grasped the maiden roughly by the shoulder, one of the foremost swung up his sword.

"Stay, Hroar!" he commanded. "I am not used to looking on at foul deeds. You must first pluck out my eyes before you take the Frank's tongue."

"Ay, and mine!" growled a second viking.

Hroar stood erect and glared at the daring men. But neither gave way before his terrible look. They had the backing of their fellows. The sea-king saw this, yet his hand went to the hilt of his heavy sword. The fight was averted, none too soon, by a scarred old berserk.

"Bear wisdom to Urd!" he called scoffingly. "Hroar bickers with his wolves, while the Norse hawks swoop upon him."

At the warning, every Dane aboard the trade-ship wheeled about and stared seaward. The harsh alarm of a war-horn, braying over the water, was not needed to explain the situation. A bowshot away they saw their second longship surging at full speed up the estuary. A fountain of white spray spouted from under its forefoot, and the boiling sea alongside, threshed to foam by the oar-blades, told that every bench was full, every rower pulling to the utmost of his strength. Not without cause! Close in the Dane's wake the three longships of the outer estuary came gliding over the water in swift pursuit. Each lay far over under the pressure of its great square sail, and from the mail-clad crews packed along the fighting gangway behind the weather bulwarks, rose jeers and grim laughter at the efforts of the Danes to escape.

"Norse!" shouted Hroar. "Thor! they mean to attack us! Aboard ship and man the oars--yet stay! First scuttle the trader. We leave no booty for the fiordmen!"

"They strike sail!" cried the old berserk. "Wait a little. They do not swing the red shield. It may be a jest."

"A bitter jest-- Ho! the foremost comes on alone. Aboard ship, all, and stand ready to cast off. I wait the Norse earl here."