Part 13

The craving for combat—like fire it was fanned in him by the dry gusts. He drew breath sharply when following a narrow wood-trail brought him suddenly into the highway and face to face with Gunnar and half a dozen of the young courtmen. If they would but jostle him in their careless mood—so much as kick up the dust about him—give him any excuse whatsoever— His mouth watered at the thought of what would follow! Disappointment increased his rage when—after one look at him—they toned their familiar hails down to punctilious salutes, and picked their way around him as around a fire.

His head set low, he was standing looking after them, when another wayfarer came cantering around the bend behind him and almost rode him down. He had seized the horse by its bridle and forced it back upon its haunches before he realized that the befringed and befeathered rider in blue-and-silver was no other than his small foster-brother.

Releasing the bronze chain, he stepped aside with a smothered oath.

“You elf!” he said. “Erna’s luck will not last you long if you draw on it often in this way. Take yourself on.”

Undeniably, the elf’s first impulse was towards obedience. He had drawn in his chin and let his horse carry him by, before he remembered his new dignity and pulled rein alike on steed and inclination. Like one adjusting new garments, he thrust out his chest and stiffened his spine as he turned.

“I must ask you not to call me by familiar names as though we were still on good terms,” he said. “I find that it concerns my honor, while I am page to the noble Olaf, to stand up for my rights with point and edge.”

The Songsmith’s impulse towards laughter was strong enough to send a note beyond his unmirthful lips. Then, as the splendid personage began solemnly to clamber to the ground, he shook himself irritably.

“Eric, you are not wont to be a fool—with me—and this is a bad time to begin. Stay in your saddle and ride along.”

Either Eric’s flowery phrases felt the blight of contempt, or else no more of them had taken root under his curly hair. In silence he came on, his rosy mouth screwed up to the point of his resolve, and planted himself before his foster-brother.

“You have got to do one of two things—either make atonement for the blows I received at your hand, or else cross swords with me,” he issued his ultimatum, with a circling sweep of his arm towards the longer of the two silver-ornamented sheaths that were a part of his new attire.

Again the song-maker wavered between laughter and irritation, looking down at the manful swagger in which the small legs were spread apart.

“Be good enough to say what use you could be put to after I had crossed swords with you?” he inquired.

The boy pushed back his curls eagerly.

“I told Olaf that I believed you would not be slow in understanding honorable ways!” he cried. “It is not my meaning that we should really fight each other. Only that you shall draw your weapon and let me make some thrusts at you, and then you can make some passes at me—easy ones—and after that I will declare myself satisfied and—”

“So that is the kind of stuff your new master is filling your head with,” his foster-brother’s voice crossed his. “If I were not afraid of losing my temper with you, I would use the flat of my blade on your back in a way that would not increase your dignity, but rather—” Of a sudden, what patience he had deserted him; he flung out his arms in a gesture before which the small warrior scuttled involuntarily. “Trolls, am I to be plagued by a gnat when I am in the mood to attack giants? Keep away from me if you would not run the risk as to how it turns out.”

Pressing his fingers to his ears to shut out another burst of French-made eloquence, he strode on, and stopped only to save himself from stumbling over the youngster, who had again thrown himself in the way, dancing gnatlike.

“You have got to fight me,” he was shrieking. “I shall lose my credit with Olaf unless you do. I will cut your kirtle with my knife,—do you hear? I will cut off one of your buttons.”

Whether or not Rolf’s son heard the threats or the grating of the steel against the gold, he felt the sharp jerk at his sleeve, and exasperation rose in him. Before he well knew what he was about, he had reached out and seized the boy by a leg and an arm and swung him high in the air. Only that he realized what a toy the body was to his strength saved him from dashing it head foremost against the stones of the road-side wall, and recalled him to himself so that he tumbled it lightly on the grass instead.

“Well that it was no worse! Do you want to be killed that you try me so?” he cried under his breath, and turned to flee temptation before the blue-and-silver heap could right itself.

Turning, he found himself within a dozen paces of Olaf, Thorgrim’s son, who had followed his page round the curve and sat in his saddle awaiting the boy’s fate with keen interest.

Not soon enough could Olaf hide the disappointment that had convulsed him on seeing Eric dropped unscathed. The Songsmith caught the expression and read it and understood at last the snare that had been set for him. Scorn brought his rage to that point of white heat where his voice sounded curiously still.

“You—dastard!” he said. “So that is what you were plotting, that I should be fretted into slaying the young one, and furnish you with the excuse of avenging him. That is why you beguiled him into your service—poisoned his mind against me—set him on me when you suspected that my temper would be raw.”

No answer came from Olaf’s parted curving lips; only he leaped expectant from his horse and stood looking at his enemy, the glitter of his eyes heightened to a white glare. As metal bars under white heat, Randvar’s prudence lost shape and ran. In the relief from its restraint, he vented his short laugh, plucking the cap from his head with a fantastic flourish before he tossed it aside.

“Behold, how much needless trouble you took!” he cried. “Here have I walked the roads all morning only in the hope of meeting you, caring never a whit whether you gave me a new excuse or not! At any price would the joy of slaying you be a bargain. Shall I make it plain that I challenge?”

As a bolt from a bow shot his fist from his shoulder, landing fair and square on the smiling mouth he hated. At sight of its marred line, its starting blood, he laughed again and drew back and unsheathed his sword.

Olaf’s curse cut the short laugh shorter, as his brand flashed forth. The next sound was curter still, the jarring clash of steel on steel.

Far as sound could carry, it bore the news that mortal enemies had met. Catching no more than a faint echo, Gunnar and his mates—far down the road—whirled, crying, “The Songsmith!” and, “Thorgrim’s son!” and then, as with one voice, “Randvar is not his match!” and after that came loping back, their eyes agleam. Sweeter than harp-music, it filled the ears of the men wielding the swords.

Fierce is the thirst for water, but fiercer still the thirst for life. Parching his veins, it spread through Rolf’s son. Now it seemed appeased as he felt the parting of flesh under his blade, saw red water rise in the well he had digged. Now he knew the fiery pang of Olaf’s point entering his own flesh, and the thirst consumed him anew. _Kill! kill! kill!_ it roared in his ears above the clashing.

Olaf’s greater skill against his charmed body—it was a fair game. To leave his heart unguarded that Thorgrim’s son might lunge at the opening and in the act of lunging leave himself exposed—that was the way to play it; and he played with all his might, drove home each thrust with laughter.

Round the road-bend Gunnar came panting, followed by Aslak, and behind him, the others. At the ghastly glimpse they caught, through swirl-dust-clouds, of the song-maker laughing like a madman while blood oozed through every slit in his slashed garments, they uttered cries of dismay; but he paid them back with jests shouted hoarsely above the clatter. How could they know what wild joy it was, unhampered as the sweeping fury of a storm! He would have wished never to end it, had he not feared betrayal by that oozing blood. If his strength were to fail before his vengeance was complete—!

To the friends watching him, it was a welcome relief when laughter left his face, and it set instead in the stony lines of one rallying all his forces. Gripping his sword in both hands, he abandoned all pretence of defending himself, bent all his might on beating down Olaf’s guard. Twice, they saw the French One’s blade reach him and open crimson gaps; but he seemed not to feel it. Step by step, he drove his enemy backward until he had him at bay against a tree—until it wanted but one thrust to pin him there—

Why he did not give that thrust, the on-lookers knew first, who saw Eric spring forward with a shrill cry and strike his foster-brother on the breast, plunging into his heart a knife he held. Then their wrath was lost in wonder that the Songsmith did not fall, only staggered back against the low stone wall and leaned there, passing his hand before his eyes as a man trying to clear mist from his vision.

“Eric! It was never you?” he said.

But even as he said it, his glance fell to the reddened blade in the boy’s hand; while Olaf jeered him over the heads of those who were holding him back, telling him that the fight was finished:

“You need not to stare at him. It is even as you see; he has betrayed you.”

No more effort the Songsmith made to maintain his weakening hold upon his sword. Slipping, swaying, staggering, he sank, nor struggled against it. If friends had not been there to care for him, his life had surely passed out through his wounds’ open gates.

XIX

“_By bending most, the truest sword is known_” —Northern saying.

Across the court-yard came the Jarl’s sister and her following of white-armed maids and graceful pages, and the evening breeze went before her like a herald. With sleepy sighs, the budding fruit-trees dreaming in the starlight bestirred themselves to offer tribute of fragrant bloom, made the earth fair for her treading, made the air sweet for her breathing. Floating down upon her bosom, the roseate petals blended with it as flower with flower. Drifting down upon her hair, they lay like unmelting flakes amid its golden fire. So wondrous lovely was she thus crowned that Yrsa walking beside her had an impulse of admiring affection, and slipped a caressing hand into hers.

Immediately after she would have withdrawn it, making excuses for her boldness, but that Brynhild’s gray eyes came down to her as serene as the starlit sky. Gathering up the timid fingers with her own firm supple ones, she drew her foster-sister’s arm around her; and so they moved on together to the women’s house that awaited with open doors their return from evening service. Gaining the light that came through the dusk to meet them like a golden welcome, the Jarl’s sister paused to look back and raise a warning finger.

“Keep in mind our guest,” she cautioned.

Soft as the rippling chat and laughter had been, it smoothed out now to waveless quiet. With only the swish of trailing silk, the rustle of feet through grass, they went up the bright path to the door.

On the threshold they were met by the stately old stewardess, who was mother to Yrsa and the foster-mother of Brynhild the Proud. Cheerily the Jarl’s sister accosted her:

“If he has changed by so much as the set of an eyelash, good Thorgerda, I expect you to tell me without delay,” she said. Then she took her hand from Yrsa’s, took a swift step forward, as from the lace lappings of the head-dress the old face looked towards her somewhat soberly. “It is not possible that you are going to tell me that his heart-wound is serious after all! That the saints would let it be so, when I have been daily to their altars praising them for the miracle by which they saved him!”

“By no means,” Thorgerda answered hastily. “Just after you left, I looked at it again; and it has knit together as by a miracle during the sleep which has held him so strangely. But as I was putting the bandages back, he came out of his sleep.”

“Ah!” Brynhild said softly, and put an uncertain finger to her lips. “What was his mood?” she asked at last.

“I wish I were altogether sure, foster-daughter. If I tell the truth of him, I must say that there is a squareness to his mouth which I—But you shall hear—But, first, be pleased to come in and take your seat. It is not fitting—”

“I will not take time to put one foot over the threshold until I hear what lies so near my happiness,” the Jarl’s sister interrupted her. Her foster-mother began without preamble.

“Thus it was, then. The first thing I knew, he had put up his eyelids like a man putting off blankets, and was gazing at the embroideries on the bed-curtains. Then he saw me, where I stood near the head, and asked me slowly what place he was in. I said it was the room in the women’s house whither it was the Jarl’s custom to send sick courtmen to be taken care of,—I thought it unadvisable to be hasty in speaking your name. And then—”

The Jarl’s sister crossed the threshold to get nearer to her. “And then?”

“For a while his expression told me nothing. He lay so long staring ahead of him that I thought he was falling asleep again, and turned to leave. He has more strength than you would think likely in a man so drained of blood. A rustle made me turn back to find that he had pulled himself up and was looking about for his clothes.”

A sound that was half a laugh and half a sob came from Brynhild’s round throat. “His clothes! Those slashed and slitted—blood-sponges! Yet what said he when he saw what garments we had prepared?”

“Nothing, foster-daughter. As yet, stained and tattered leather and gold-embroidered fabric are all one to him. I pointed out where they hung, and did not even tell him that they were useless to him. As I had expected, he was not long in finding it out. With his first motion to rise, he fell back on his pillows, nor even argued with me when I proved to him how foolish he was to attempt to move. Yet if I know anything about the set of a man’s mouth, he will not do our bidding long,” the old dame ended somewhat unexpectedly.

The Jarl’s sister made Yrsa a sign to help her off with the lace scarf that lay around her shoulders, like a mist about a rose.

“I will go to him,” was all she said.

If Thorgerda had any thought of dissuading her, it was abandoned upon a second glance. She spoke only a word of admonishment as Starkad’s daughter turned towards the foot of the hall.

“So it shall be, then. Still it is good counsel to tread softly. It may be that he is sleeping. I advised him to do so when I left.”

The girl nodded her bright head impatiently, then shook it at the thralls who sprang forward from the benches at her approach. Hushing with her hands the rustling of her skirts, she hastened down the hall to the western guest-chamber, and gently pushed open the door.

The song-maker was not sleeping. Instead, he had risen and dressed himself in the garments of grape-purple,—as the sheen on ungathered grapes the precious embroideries were sparkling with every move he made in the flickering torch-light. Under one of the fragrant juniper wall-candles, he stood buckling the last buckle of the tunic. From the task he did not look up as the hinges creaked, but seemed to take for granted that it was Thorgerda returned.

“I beg that you will come in and close the door behind you before you make any fuss,” he said.

She came in and closed the door behind her, without making any fuss; and he went on, his eyes still aiding his fingers.

“While it is altogether unlikely that the Jarl’s sister would raise any objections to my departure, yet because Helvin sent me here it might be that she would think it her duty to make some protests; so I beg of you that you will not say anything to her about my going.”

Again from the fountain of Brynhild’s white throat welled up a sound that was half of laughter, half of weeping.

“I will promise you that,” she answered.

He looked up, then; and from bloodless white, his face went blood-red. After a moment, he made her the most ceremonious salutation at his command.

“I ask you to understand that I mistook you for your stewardess,” he said. “She was with me but a short while ago, when I came back to my wits. It may be you know that I have been out of them these days, or I would have gone before.”

To grope along the walls for the weapon that was missing from his belt, he turned away. She had a strange feeling that his mind was so far from her as scarcely to realize that she was there. She offered the feeble commonplaces she might have offered a stranger.

“Why should you leave? It is the custom for Jarl’s men to be taken care of here.”

From his eyes that were like dark caves in the side of a snow-mountain came forth a flash as he glanced round at her. “That you have a poor opinion of me I know, but I did not know you thought me capable of making Helvin’s order an excuse for quartering myself upon you.”

Feeling with his hands where the sword leaned in a corner, he brought it forth, and stood gazing at the highly polished blade. Once more she had the sensation of being forgotten.

“It is cleaner than it was the last time I saw it,” he said, “but I liked it better then. What is Olaf’s fate?”

She answered mechanically: “It is told that he still keeps his bed at Mord’s house.”

“Is that true?” he asked wonderingly, and a smile that had no connection with her widened his nostrils. When he had laboriously buckled on the sword, he came unsteadily towards her. “All the thanks that are due to your women I pay,—or at least I pay all I have. If you will allow me to pass now, I will take the task off their hands.”

Some of her sense of strangeness was lost, then, in alarm. But even before she could tell him of his weakness, he was forced to catch at a chair’s high back to save himself from falling.

“And bid one of your servants give me his shoulder across the court-yard,” he murmured.

“I will bid two of them take you by force and put you back in bed where you belong,” she said indignantly, and turned to throw open the door.

Though he remained leaning heavily on the chair, he spoke slowly: “If you do—I swear to you—that I will struggle against them—until every wound on me starts open.”

She took her hand from the door, but only to make of her rounded arms a bar across it, defying him:

“You would not struggle against me.”

Holding to the chair-back he stood looking at her, at first in surprise, then with weary patience.

“I should have remembered,” he said, “that it would be a part of your high breeding not to let me feel that I had been a burden on your hospitality.”

Of one color were her cheeks and her rose-red kirtle, as she shaped her unskilled lips to pleading. “It was not Helvin who ordered them to bring you here. It was I who asked it.... I shared the care of you with my women ... and found it ... no burden.”

Lowered for the first time was the lofty banner of her head. His gaze rested on it wistfully even while he continued his slow progress towards the door.

“My wounds have made you wondrous kind,” he said. “I have heard it told that such crimson mouths, for all that they are tongueless, are full of eloquence for women. But you see that they are healing fast. It would not last much longer anyway. Let me go while I can.”

Pain sharpened his voice, yet his hand was in every way gentle when he put aside the living bar that dared not tempt his weakness by overmuch resistance.

Almost in fear she looked up at him. “Randvar! Has it happened that this has slain your love for me?”

He touched with his lips the wrist he had taken. “I wish it had done so; then I should dare to stay and sun myself, and take it easily when, to-morrow or the day after, the skies change and you storm me forth with hard words—”

“Never, my loved one! Never again!” Aprilfaced, she leaned towards him. “It will always be good weather for you now. Always! You a song-maker, and doubt the summer because of a storm or two!”

“It must be because I am a song-maker that I have had faith in so many things,” he answered. “It is mercy I am asking of you, Brynhild. You have so much for my body,—have a little for my mind, that since first I saw you has been a leaf in the wind of your moods. Let me go while I can, before your fairness knits the net once more around me.”

As gently as might be, he gathered her other wrist into his clasp, and holding the two in one hand, laid the other on the door. She dared not struggle with him. But one way was left her. Light as the apple-blossoms float down, she drifted to her knees.

“My friend, you prayed me once to let you stay because to you it meant so much and to me—you thought—it meant so little. I beg the boon back from you. Stay, because it will be easy to you who are so generous in giving, and to me it would be so hard to give you up.”

As he had done that day in the road, he passed his hands before his eyes to clear them.

“This—and my blood on Eric’s blade—are the two last sights that ever I thought to see,” he murmured. “Yet since that one was true, it may be that this other is.” Looking down at her, a faint smile touched his mouth. “What dream-mockery to see you so,—you who twist me between your fingers like any willow out of the forest! But your work will seem better to you if you have your way in this. Until your mind changes, then!”

Releasing her, he sat down on the stool beside the door, his elbows on his knees, his head on his hands. From kneeling, she sank into a sitting posture on the rush-strewn floor beside him, glad perhaps to hide her face against his sleeve. It was he who kept their footing against the swaying shimmering dream-river that seemed to rise about them, and forded it at last to the shore of reality.

“Yet what right have I to a place in your hall, who have made myself an outlaw?”

Stifling a sigh, she walked on land again.

“It is unlikely that you will be banished. In the teeth of all the lawmen, Helvin has refused it. And while it may not turn out to your honor with the advice-givers, I think the Jarl will push it through by boldness. To-day, he rode out himself to seek counsel from Flokki of Iceland, who is the greatest man for bending the law to his wishes. I might be tempted to reproach you for doing this joy to your foe, my friend, if I did not guess that I have some blame for your temper.”

Perhaps she wanted to lure him into taking her part against herself, but he did not even see the bait. Through the hands still supporting his head, he spoke absently.

“You had not the most share in the matter, Jarl’s sister. For the hardships he dragged me under with Helvin, I should have followed up Olaf; and on top of that, there was the trap he baited with Eric. Eric! Who would have believed a false heart grew in the boy!”

Looking up through his hands, she saw how bitter his mouth had become. Of a sudden she rose and pressed her lips to it, as one who would draw poison from a wound.

“The little viper! Never think of him!” she breathed.

Whether it changed his look she did not see, for even more quickly she dropped back and hid her eyes upon his arm. Only she knew that he sat a long time looking down at her.

“At least you cannot take the memory of that from me. Give you thanks for that!” he said at last, and for an instant she felt the touch of his lips upon her hair. But he ventured no further caress. When he spoke again, she knew that his gaze had gone back to the rush-strewn floor.