CHAPTER XXV

OF THE FEAST IN SIEGFRIED’S HALL

Long time he lay, till at length he became ware of one kneeling beside him, while strong wine was poured between his teeth; then soft lips kissed his forehead and a soft voice whispered in his ear, “Awake, oh, awake! Oh, what aileth thee, my Feargus? Now thou openest thine eyes. Thanks be to God! hadst thou died I would have slain myself—there, drink a little.” And then she kissed him again and wept and kissed, between joy and grief. “Canst thou arise,” she said at length, “for there is danger in lying here lest any should come. Better sit in my chamber till thou art well—my tire-woman is abed.”

So Feargus arose and stepped into the light, but he no longer dare look at her, but stood before her shamefaced and cringed on the ground beneath, kissing her feet and asking forgiveness.

“I know not what it is that I must forgive; what hast thou ever done that should need my forgiveness?”

Then Feargus told her and she went white and trembled, and wept again, and refused his kisses and turned from him, till at last she forgave him and he arose. And she told him all that had happened since she was taken captive, and how she had set the tapestry on fire and been beaten by the earl’s mother and had tried to find the battlements to fling herself from them, and how she had gone instead into the hall where her enemy was and been again sorely beaten. And he was full of rage and indignation and grief and shame at his own doubts of one so noble and devoted.

“Then,” said she, “know that I knew thee the moment thou didst enter despite thy disguise, for no other harper that ever me saw doth hold his harp as fondly and strike it just as thou dost; but even had this not been so, I should have known thee for Feargus among ten thousand, and so overjoyed was I at seeing thee that I could scarce contain myself, for never did I think the ring would betray him so quickly and I had little hope indeed. Now thou must go, and at thy signal I will do as thou hast bidden me, to-morrow, and I pray we may get hence with whole skins, but my heart fails me at the thought.”

“Much have we come through and it will go hard if we do not escape from this place.”

So he departed to the hall and lay among the rushes on the floor, where he slept soundly, many dangers having taught him to sleep when he might, that his strength should be husbanded. When the folk began to stir about the castle he arose, and, breakfasting with the soldiers, waited in the hall while they got ready a great feast, for that day the prince was to wed the strange lady and he and his friends were to make merry. So the hour of the feast drew nigh and the nobles entered and took their places at the board on either side the prince. On the right hand was Torfrida, dressed in a long white gown, about which in cunning wise was drawn a sash of gold. The veil which had half hidden her face yesterday had gone, and her fair hair with its shining depths of red and gold fell down over her shoulders in simple fashion. So lovely she looked, and so young and fresh and ruddy, that a murmur arose from the rough soldiers and serving men as she entered, and even the loose, low sots who sat round the board gazed upon her for a moment open-mouthed. And they ceased to wonder how it was that the strange maiden had been able to make their master put off the wedding, day by day. Feargus, who sat among the servants at the opposite end of the table, had been playing, but as she entered his hand had fallen, and he stopped to gaze with the rest. Seeing this the prince turned and said, “Why stoppest thou, minstrel? When I bid thee thou mayest stop.”

Then there entered a few other women, wives of the nobles, coarse and red-faced like their lords with much eating and drinking. By them Torfrida looked the fairer. The feast began, and thereafter the wine cup went round and Feargus played his merriest music that they might drink the more. Soon there was no man among them that had not taken more than enough and some grew noisy, and shouts and oaths filled the hall, while some lay asleeping with their heads on the board. And so mad was the music that many drank still, till at length the prince arose, his face flushed and hand unsteady, and cried, “A toast with me, my friends; I pledge the bonniest lady in Lothian!”

“Nay, now, sir prince, how shall they know that thy words be true unless thou tellest whose lady she is that thou dost pledge, for there may be some here who hold their own ladies the bonniest.”

“Thou hast over much to say for thyself, sir minstrel. I tell thee I will break the head of him who will refuse to drink this toast with me: the lady I speak of is mine.”

“Nay, then, prince, my head must thou break, for her I hold to be the fairest lady in this company is mine.”

“Ha, ha! what new foolery is this to please the company? Go on, minstrel, it must be something of great wit to warrant thy assurance. Here is an old coxcomb indeed, friends.” And the laugh went round. And Feargus sang this song, thinking to sober the company a little and hoping to escape without bloodshed:—

AH, YES, ’TWERE WELL!

I take my lyre—what should I sing Of love who makes my soul her harp, Whose frowns awake each stented string To tones how sad, how sweet, how sharp!

At other times love is my guide And to the sunlight leads my feet, By silver streams and leafy ways And langourous meadows cool and sweet.

Yet life it hath a toilsome road, With many a heart-break, many a thorn; And all men stagger ’neath their load From twilight unto morn.

Yet had life nothing good but she, Love’s laughing eyes would grief dispel; So it were well, content I’d be, If but love came, ah, yes! ’twere well!

The song pleased the love-sick prince and there was a round of cheers ere Feargus had done.

“Thou art indeed a good minstrel,” said the prince, “but now to the toast.”

“Yea, he singeth well, but he hath had over much wine and his head is not so strong as it once was,” said one.

“Nay, good sir knight, thou art mistaken, wine hath not passed these lips to-day, for I drink wine but sparingly; but I hold that no man may drink this pledge an he hath a lady whom he holdeth fairest.”

“Thou art mad; sit thee down,” roared the prince, “or a halter shall sit where thy lady’s arm should be.”

“Thou wilt at least put me to the proof, and ye gentlemen all. I swear that when I ask, the bonniest lady shall arise and walk to me across the hall, or, an she doth not, thou mayest hang me forthwith.”

Then followed roars of rude laughter, and shouts of, “Where is she?” “Bring her forth,” and others shouted, “’Twill be a good jest; let the minstrel have his way.”

“Go on then, minstrel,” said the prince, “since it is the wish of the company.”

“That will I, but thou must first give me thy pledge that if I fail not, then wilt thou allow my lady and myself to leave thy halls unmolested and without scath, and will leave us to wend our way as we may list, on two good beasts of thy stable.”

“Thou art beside thyself. How could it profit us to keep the lady of such as thou?”

Then the nobles, who began to feel a kind of curiosity stirring them, said, “This is so persistent a madman that we must needs let him have his way.”

“I swear to thee, minstrel,” said the prince, “to do as thou sayest, an thou succeed, and, moreover, I swear to hang thee an thou failest.”

Feargus turned to the knights and called them to witness, and then rose and taking his long staff bound round with thongs, and his harp, he walked down the hall to the door and standing with his back against it struck a few notes on his harp and sang this verse in strong, clear tones:—

“When I call she will arise ’Spite the fears that fill her eyes; When I suffer she will weep For her love is boundless deep.

Yet than I she’s nobler far, Beautiful as still streams are, Pure as is the purest thought, Or as dew the night hath brought.

Yet she is my willing slave, Full of fears, she will be brave When I call, and come to me, For her love is as the sea.”

The passionate tones of the singer had stirred his hearers and the laugh died out on their lips ere he had finished the first bar. Mere curiosity had become keen interest, and there was a pause in the buzz and murmur that had filled the hall. He reached his right hand to his left shoulder and from beneath the loose red plaid he wore drew forth his great sword. This was the signal. Torfrida arose from her place and, ere the astonished prince could collect his senses, tripped lightly down the hall and stood beside the aged minstrel, the company being too much astonished to hinder her. Siegfried started up in great rage, and made towards them. Quickly and with wondrous strength did Feargus draw some ponderous benches that lay about to the front of him as a fence, and warned the prince back.

“Prince, thou hast sworn, and all the company hath witnessed; be not rash, for an thou break promise given, thou wilt lose such worship as is left to thee. And I ask ye, knights and gentlemen, to see right done.”

Many were for Feargus, but the prince still advanced, slowly and with great labour clearing the benches from before him as he went. Then Feargus set down his harp, and handed his long staff, which was his bow, to Torfrida that she might free it of the thongs which had served to hide it, and he started to his full height and cast off his grey beard and his rags and stood big and strong in his byrny with his great sword in his palm. Then those who had unwillingly followed their master held back, for they knew him the captain of the king’s guard.

“Thou hast stolen my lady, and I am come to rescue her, and be he earl or boor, he that goeth to stay me shall die.”

Then the prince, mad with rage, drew forth his sword and with many oaths advanced upon him, followed by those of his own Northumbrians who were present. The others, Britons from Strathclyde and Lothian and Southern Picts who had submitted to the rule of the strangers, saw that the minstrel was a Pict, and their jealousy of the Northumbrians being aroused they were less ready to see so gross a wrong done to one of their race.

“Now he is a coward and recreant chief who keeps not his pledge,” cried Feargus, “and they be coward knights who help a lying leader.”

Then the Britons tried to reason with the prince, but in vain, still he came on, followed by his drunken rout.

“Back, prince, or thou shalt die,” said Feargus once more, wishing to spare the spilling of blood. Drunk and mad with anger, however, the prince heeded not, but laid his steel against that of Feargus, though it was only a moment ere the sword of Feargus was buried in his body, and the blood of him leaped up suddenly from his mouth and, to the horror of his men, he fell back dead. Then Feargus tried to stop the Northumbrians, stout fighting men and big of body, but they would not hearken to him, coming on crying, “Down with him! he hath killed the prince!” They pressed against him on the right hand and the left, but so close the one upon the other that they had little space to move, while lightly Feargus swung his brand from behind the benches, so that they could not get into him, and legs and arms were shorn in its sweep, until there lay before him a confused and bloody mound, mixed up with wine cups and meat and drink and table gear, and still the Picts and Britons withheld from the strife. But Feargus knew that the fight must go against him, so thick and fast they came, wounding and trampling on each other in their eagerness to get at him. Then, wounded and weary of so much sword play, in a pause of the fight he cried out in Gaelic, “Now here am I, Feargus, son to king Nechtan of the Hundred Fights, and kin to all ye Picts and Britons, and my lady is of the South Albanich by her mother’s side. Yet though of these Northumbrians I have slain some and maimed more, till I am sick of slaughter, yet my lady and I must fall, so many are our enemies. Never a friend shall he lack though all the world be turned against him who helpeth me.”

Then said one to his fellows, “This must indeed be Feargus, king Penda’s captain, for never saw I man so giant-like or of so great strength and hardihood. All that man can do hath he done; shameful and unknightly of us were it to see him, our kin, who is in his right, destroyed.” Then many of the others agreed, though they were loth to join the fray, fearing for their own lands. But he who had spoken first, one Llewellin of the Gwynedd tribe of Britons whose lands had stretched up into the Lothians, stepped to the leader of the Northumbrians and for a moment the fight ceased.

“Now,” said he, “ye men of Northumbria, ye have had your fill of fighting and it is dastardly of all ye to attack one, though he hath ye at some advantage. Surely your king would little admire ye.”

“Hath he not slain our prince? right angry will be the king. Not one of us dare face him without this man’s head, stark though he be, for he is son to king Nechtan and it must be he who was Penda’s captain.”

“Then no hand will we have in this unknightly work; but we bid ye desist, or an ye do not we will join with Feargus, and what could we not do under so mighty a leader?”

Feargus spoke out to the Lindeseymen. “Now, ye men of Lindesey, this, my lady, is Torfrida, daughter of Sigmund, your king, and ye, men of Mercia, I have bled for your king, and two hundred of my men fought for him when others fled, and all died for him at the last. If ye do not help me we must fall.”

Then one Lindeseyman said: “I saw him save prince Edwy and his thanes from the Mercians. I will help him.”

“And I saw him stop the slaughter of the Lindeseymen,” said another.

“And I was with him when he held the cliffs for Penda on Trent water,” said a Mercian.

“And I when he saved the day for Mercia at Camulodunum in East Anglia.”

“And I, and I,” said others.

So all these who had held aloof came down over the barriers and stood beside him.

“And I and all Lindeseymen will fight for Torfrida,” said another thane. And he cried, “Lindesey! Lindesey!” and behind him followed the rest of the Lindeseymen crying, “Lindesey! Lindesey!” And the Mercian thanes cried the cry of “Penda! Penda!” that held armies spellbound with fear in the old days, and all the Mercians joined them.

Then said Llewellin of the Gwynedd to the Northumbrians, “Let no more blood be spilt. We do not want to fight ye, Northumbrians; we would be friends.”

Getting scornful reply they drew their swords and fell mightily upon the Northumbrians. And the clang of sword on helm, and the rushing and hurrying of mailed feet, and the cries of “Lindesey! Lindesey!” “Penda! Penda!” filled the hall, where late had been merriment and a different music. And no more terrible and savage sight fell ever on the eye of Feargus. Torfrida had long fainted for very horror of it. And when the din ceased there was no Northumbrian left standing unwounded out of all that throng.