Part 6

“Since Helvin, Starkad’s son, has been likened to a captive eagle, it would not be amiss to call this fellow an eagle of the forest that has come to perch beside him because of a kinship between their natures. The Fates alone can tell what will come of such a partnership!” Doubt was heavy in the wagging of their heads as they turned away to follow the overseer of guests to the seats appointed them.

Following after them went the eyes of Randvar the Songsmith. Though their words had not carried across the fire, their scrutiny had, so that gradually his mouth took on a satirical twist. Presently he spoke to the heir on the footstool—spoke without having been spoken to—to the indignation of the old counsellors on the right of the high-seat.

“Lord, when I see how your people stare at me as at a black Jotun, I realize it is not a dream that I am in your court. Other times it seems to me as if I must be lying on the cedar branches by the Tower fire and imagining what I should wish to happen.”

To the added displeasure of the old chieftains, Helvin justified the familiarity by returning it. He had been sitting with his chin on his hand, a figure of weary splendor in his furred and jewelled dress of state; now he straightened and resting his elbow on the seat-cushion, entered into conversation with the son of the sea-rover,—it was fortunate that the old men could not also hear his frank remarks.

“Your luck is great, Songsmith, that you can get interest out of this. Just before you spoke, I was thinking that though I were blindfolded, I should still be able to describe every tapestry on the walls, put every man, woman, and thrall in place, count up every dish and goblet and knife on the table. At times, when I sat where you sit now, I used to amuse myself by rearranging the people in my imagination, beginning by putting yonder fat-chopped buffoon in the proud priest’s place. I can tell you that it came the nearest to making sport of anything I have had in this hall.”

The song-maker’s smile came readily as he glanced across at the high-seat of the northern wall, which had been held during Starkad’s time by that warrior-bishop of Saint Olaf who was known as Magnus Fire-and-Sword, but which now awaited in emptiness the pleasure of the new ruler.

“It will be rearranging them in earnest this time, Jarl. Lord, is it possible that you do not feel the excitement in the air as every person here draws breath with hope or fear of your rule? The force of their eyes upon you is like the beat of waves upon the shore.”

As brand from brand, the face of the Jarl’s son kindled; but before he was ready to reply, the Songsmith’s glance had flown past him and lighted on the eastern door.

Through the broad portal was advancing a train of court-women, walking far apart because of the trailing length of their silken robes, stately matrons with towering head-dresses, and white-armed maidens whose bright tresses fell free from golden bands, and moving before them—the jewel for whom all their splendor was but a setting—Brynhild the Proud, bending now her queenly head to the greeting of some old warrior, now yielding a smile to some young courtman’s eager salute.

It was the first glimpse Randvar had had of her since that day in the forest, so rigidly had mourning custom secluded her in her bower. As a man who has lived long on a memory, he drank thirstily of the wine of her beauty, felt it course hotly through his veins. He was still leaning forward when he felt the Jarl’s gaze upon him, and knew that his face had betrayed him. In confusion he dropped his eyes.

Helvin said dryly: “It is seen that you did not reject my sister’s favor because you did not find her good to look upon, Songsmith.”

Randvar overcame enough of his embarrassment to mutter that no one could find her otherwise.

The Jarl’s son shook his head as he watched his sister advance. “Here you may see how much man differs from man. To Olaf, Thorgrim’s son, yonder, she looks like the goddess Sif after the dwarfs wove her hair of red gold, as no doubt he is telling her now with his smile. To me”—he turned wearily as her approach made rising incumbent—“to me she looks only like a rune standing for a life I hate.” Rising, he faced her with cold civility.

Splendid in her feasting dress of shining gold color, she came towards them, bent in a deep courtesy before the high-seat, mocked the lowliness of the salutation by the loftiness to which she rose.

“Brother,” she said, “will you grant me a boon which I would beg of you?”

He answered: “Grant it I would before it were asked if I were not desirous to hear how you would beg; but what is it you wish?”

Her white lids drooped haughtily. “It is known far and wide, brother, how you hate formalities, so it is not to be expected that you will hold to them now that you can do what you like about everything. What I want is your leave to retire with my women as soon as the amusements begin. I dislike brawling freedom.”

Curling like the petals of a rose, her beautiful lips curved disdainfully. Helvin’s smoke-gray eyes showed a spark as they rested on her.

“It is well that my face is not set against what you ask, kinswoman,” he said, “for your way of entreating would be unlikely to move a man to much gentleness. This I grant you willingly, that you may leave as soon as any brawling begins.”

She thanked him in the formal phrase, and mocking him again with the bend of courtly submission, made as though she would have passed on. Then, seemingly for the first time, she saw the deerskin-clad figure leaning on the arm of the high-seat, and paused to look him up and down in displeasure.

“Greeting, Randvar, Rolf’s son, and welcome to you!” she said. “Yet I think, after all, you would have done better to take service with me, if my brother’s generosity towards you is to be measured by the clothes you wear.”

Deep in the cave of his breast, Randvar felt his temper stir like a sleeping bear; but craving a smile from her starry eyes, he made an attempt at conciliation.

“I had thought you would guess, gold-bright maiden, that it is the Jarl’s forbearance which lets me be slow in shedding my bark.”

The tilt of her chin showed how little his deprecation had helped him.

“An economical virtue is the Jarl’s forbearance,” she said, “and Freya’s son is more than expectedly dull at learning what beseems him.”

The bear awoke then with a snarl. Randvar gasped afterwards at remembering what he would have answered if Helvin had not taken the word, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Do not grudge me one plain man, my kinswoman, while you have so many gay ones at your beck. It is at my desire he has kept on the woodland garb; that seeing how different the outside of him is from all around me, I may ever be reminded how much of new interest I have found inside him.”

Too courtly was she bred to dispute a ruler’s whim; to that she gave prompt if haughty acquiescence.

“In this as in everything, it must be done as you wish, brother, only I take it upon me to urge you to show us the inside of him as soon as you can,” she made answer. Then she passed on; and her women went rustling by, moving to laughter as to music.

Randvar’s bitter reflections were interrupted by the pressure of Helvin’s hand upon his shoulder.

“If I had not taken the word out of your mouth, my friend,” the Jarl said in his ear, “your hot head would have got you into further difficulties; but I like you none the worse for that. I liked it less when I thought that after the manner of all other men, you were going to fall on your knees to her only because she is beautiful of face. It would have been the first matter in which our minds did not match as blade matches sheath. So long as you have manfulness enough to resent her pride, I forgive it to you that her fairness has bewitched your eyes.”

Again embarrassment left the song-maker speechless. Under the Jarl’s hand he stood so constrainedly that the old men who were watching imagined him to be cast down by some rebuke, and experienced a sense of satisfaction. And their relief was no greater than his when the duties of the heir’s station put an end to further confidences.

Bearing the baton of state, two pages advanced and took their place before the Jarl’s son. While one received his sword from him with many flourishes, the other delivered to him the gilded wand. Stretching it forth, a bar of light, he gave the signal for the feasting to begin.

Like white-robed statues called to life, the thralls waiting at the doors moved forward with their burdens of gilded flagons and silver chargers. Through the fragrance of the juniper torches and the pine-tips of the floor-covering rose the savor of roasted meats and the spicy aroma of mead and wine. To the hum of blended voices was added the clink of silver-rimmed horns. The oftener the resounding salute rang out, the louder the hum arose, the merrier the laughter that burst forth where groups of young men were scattered among the old ones like poppies among wheat.

No higher note of noisy revelry was left to strike when at last the moment came for the old advice-giver, Mord, to lead the heir up into his father’s seat and put in his hands the sacred horn that he might make his inheritance-vow. From high mirth they passed to deep feeling, as each man rose holding his shining horn above his head. Excitement shook some of the young hands so that their wine was spilled—excitement and exultation at the spectacle of a young ruler in the high-seat!—and to some of the old eyes tears came unconsciously, so that they seemed to look through a mist at the figure of their old leader’s son.

Noble in splendor was Helvin Jarl as the firelight caught the golden embroideries and jewelled clasps of his sweeping robes; and noble in purpose was his pale finely cut face under the mass of blood-red hair when he raised the great horn and spoke so that all could hear him.

“I drink the toast to the old gods and to the new,” he said, “and to those who have gone before me; but the vow I make is no vow that I shall be great. What I promise is that I shall make no other man small. I take oath that under my rule every man shall live a free life in all such matters as concern himself, nor shall any be forced into ways against which his mind rebels. I take Heaven and all of you as witnesses!” Putting the horn to his lips, he drank.

Mechanically, the ranks of standing men imitated the motion, their eyes continuing to stare at him over their cup rims. But before the draught was down, the call of free blood to free blood had been heard. From young courtmen and young guardsmen went up ringing cheers. It counted for little that some of the lawmen murmured, and Magnus Fire-and-Sword spoke to his neighbor from under a frown.

Only the Jarl noticed that, and noticing, smiled mockingly. When the tumult had sunk once more he spoke, the smile dwindling to a droop of his mouth-corner.

“The first thing that I must try my hand on is the filling of the other high-seat with the man I hold highest in honor. That would be to take a great deal on my hands if custom did not say that he must be a holy man, which makes the choice easy.”

He paused to clear his throat with a swallow of wine, and perhaps to note how the arrogant face of Magnus was losing some of its displeasure. Then he went on, his voice so cool and keen that it bit like a blade:

“As for you, priests, I know only one of you for whom I have any honor at all. I have heard many talk of the mercy of Christ, whose hands had cut blood-eagles in other men only for being unable to believe as they did. I have heard not a few talk of Christ’s humbleness whose tempers were so overbearing that men would have risen up and slain them if they had not held up their holy names for shields. I have seen many Odinmen who put on the Christ-faith like a kirtle, but I have seen only one who made it a part of his nature and showed it forth in his acts. He is the Swede whom men call the Shepherd Priest. It is my offer and will that he shall come forward and take the place opposite me.”

At the eastern end of the room, in the lowliest seat by the door, a man rose hastily—an ungainly old man in rusty robes—and lifted a hand in protest; and in the same instant the stately velvet-draped form of Magnus became wrathfully erect before his place.

“This—this is sacrilege!” he thundered. “I call all Christian men to resist this mockery—this—”

“Sacrilege?” The young Jarl’s voice pierced like a spear, scorn-barbed. “This I have often said, that it was a sacrilege that you should give rein to a devil’s nature in the name of Christ! That I honor the cause by honoring the man who stands most truly for it—be he king-born or thrall-born—that is honesty. Had you any love of your faith amid your self-love, you would see it.”

If the rage-purpled face of the Fire-and-Sword had not been the face of a bishop, they might have thought it the face of a Berserker. The names which he called his godson were the names that fighting-men use when their tempers pressed hardest for relief. Upon the openest-minded of the old counsellors was forced slowly a doubt whether there really was much holiness about him; and the young men broke loose and drowned his voice in hisses.

But Helvin Jarl rose in his high-seat, his glance like the outleaping of flame.

“I am all that which you call me, and more,” he said, “and it is because I am—because I need only to bring forward the straits I have fallen in to prove what kind of harvests spring from your sowing—that I vow you shall never sow again while my rule is in New Norway. In the spring, ships shall take you back whence you came; meanwhile, come you no more before my face, hypocrite that you are to your marrow!”

Starkad’s own inexorableness in the gesture, he levelled his baton at the door; then before the aghast silence could give rise to any sign, he turned where the Shepherd Priest waited and spoke to him respectfully and yet sternly.

“You whose sincereness has won my honor, bear in mind that cowardice no less than arrogance is love of self. If your faith is indeed first with you, remember that I offer you a chance to do great work for it, and forget any lesser thing.”

With the ceasing of his voice there was again silence, but the Shepherd Priest made no attempt to use it for his protests. After a time he lifted his bent head, and his rugged face was as a mean lantern through which a light is shining. Amid breathless stillness, the velvet-clad form of Magnus stalked out of the western door, and the ungainly form in rusty black walked slowly to the northern high-seat, walking uncertainly like a man in the dark, holding to his crucifix as to a guiding hand.

Again the Jarl forestalled an outburst, speaking once more with the graciousness of a noble heir on his inheritance-night.

“One thing more I wish to tell you, then I will no longer hinder you from your amusements. It has to do with the Skraellings. Always it has seemed to me that much good might come of having them for partners in this business of settling the new lands, and now I have heard that of them which makes me want them also for friends. So have I sent a message to their lord which asks him to meet me ten days hence at some middle point between our abodes, and over a feast talk about how we can get good from each other. That is the end of my speaking.”

It was the beginning of uproar. All at once the half-dozen old traders, who had entered the hall in such doubting humor, rose to their feet, swung their horns above their heads and cried as with one voice:

“I drink to Helvin Jarl!”

Then: “Young blood for gainfulness!”

“New ways for new—”

“Down with old boundaries—”

“Spread out! Spread out!”

“Luck to the new rule!”

The new step being approved by such undoubted authorities, the other old men joined for the first time in the applause; while the young men were brought to the point of handling their cups like gavels, and one whose wine did not sit well upon his wits clambered upon the seat and began to use shields from the wall for cymbals. Even to the women’s cross-bench it sped. Eagerly Yrsa the Lovely spoke to her young mistress by whom she sat.

“Jarl’s sister, do you call to mind how fair and fine we thought that bead-embroidery we saw last trading-day? Now we can get a Skraelling woman to teach us how to do it,—if so be there are women among them,” she added doubtfully.

It seemed that Brynhild spoke because she had been addressed rather than because she heeded what was said to her. Fingering her jewelled necklace, she continued frowning at the fire.

“Never saw I aught to equal it,” she said. “That Magnus should behave so boorishly—And yet that we should have a thrall-born bishop—And yet it seems to me that Helvin behaved well—It must be that the earth is coming loose from its moorings!”

From her place farther down the line, the pretty matron who had laughed at the forester bent forward urgently. “Jarl’s sister, is it your will that we should take our leave now? The amusements are beginning. Yonder deerskin fellow has just beckoned to the harp-bearer.” She motioned with her lace-crowned head. Brynhild’s gaze, however, did not follow the motion, but remained upon her, gathering displeasure.

“Deerskin fellow!” she repeated. “Is it in that manner, Sigrid, that you speak of Freya’s son? However he forgets it himself, it behooves you to remember that he has king’s blood in him.” Arranging her gold-colored draperies about her and settling to formal attention, she finished severely: “Had he no blood at all, a song-maker has the right to courteous treatment. I expect that you will, all of you, leave off chattering and give him the attention due a man of accomplishments.” When she had seen her orders carried out, she fixed her eyes calmly upon the spot where Randvar stood beside the towering gilded harp of the court-skald.

The Songsmith’s heart leaped and tried to strangle him as he met her gaze, yet it was not long that his hands swept aimlessly across the strings. In him had awakened a desire to interpret to these folk of Norse blood the lives of the forest men, whose creed was so like theirs in strong simplicity.

Soon he struck a chord and sang with a voice as untaught as a bird’s, and as full of unconscious ecstasy, the story of the Skraelling chief who gave his life to save his followers from the wrath of their offended god.

Singing, he forgot that he sang among strangers. Listening, they forgot that he told a stranger’s story; as at the deeds of a brother, their minds quickened with understanding. A stillness gathered over the room that lasted even after the song was ended, and was broken only when cries for more rose from every direction.

But it was not their applause that was the crown of his success. It was turning to find little Eric standing beside him—bewildered and ruffled—holding out an arm-ring of golden filigree, saying as one repeating a lesson:

“Starkad’s daughter bids you cover some of the deerskin with this.”

VII

“_The tongue is the bane of the head_” —Northern saying.

It was a fantastic scene, the wilds of a forest river-bank turned into a guest-house for court-folk. Athwart the living green of the pines, camp-fires sent their spirals of blue smoke, and groups of thralls made white rings around the blaze as they roasted the game and heated the wine with which pages skimmed to and fro. Down by the sparkling water, knots of old chieftains and young courtmen divided their time between eating and gazing across the stream at the Skraellings’ encampment of the opposite shore. Back among the trees, where the drifted leaves had been heaped into cushions of russet and gold, groups of gentlewomen chatted as merrily amid the great stillness as though they were among the whirring wheels of their own bower. Still farther up the brown slope and deeper in the grove, Helvin Jarl, in his splendid riding dress of gold-embroidered green, sat upon a heap of bowlders over which red wolfskins had been thrown, his song-maker lounging beside him, wild-locked and wild-garbed as a creature of the wood, except for the harp at his back.

Randvar had finished eating and was staring contentedly at nothing. Over the forest lay the hush of that strange season which falls like a breathless pause in the brisk round of the autumn. Dropped suddenly motionless were the winds that had been lashing the trees like mighty flails; and as a conjuror changes knives to roses, so had the keen cold of the morning been changed to balmy warmth by the red noon sun. A fancy came to him that the golden haze veiling the end of every tree-aisle was the visible shape of a dream in the air.

“It feels like noon-spell in harvest-time,” he said aloud. “I think the earth has worked so hard that it has fallen asleep and dreams now of the summer.”

“Say the same thing later on when the day is at an end,” Helvin answered. “To me it feels like a devil’s fit of repentance. After his spite has been for weeks like a rasp in the air, and his fury has torn all within reach, he tires of his rage—for a day or two—holds his peace and puts on a watery smile.”

Even while the song-making part of Randvar smiled approval of the figure, his woodsman’s alertness detected something odd about the voice in which the words were uttered. Sideways he sent a glance at his lord.

It seemed to him that there was also something odd about Helvin’s expression; but he had no chance to scrutinize it for on the instant it was gone, while the Jarl caught his look and challenged it.

“Why do you stare as if you saw a hedge-rider?”

“Lord, your voice sounded as though it came hard for you to breathe,” Randvar answered after a moment.

Helvin’s words leaped out like tigers from a cage. “Why should it not? in this smothering stillness where even the trees are holding their breath to listen for something. Oh, for the plains! the plains! where the wind blows, and a man can see all around him, and not so much as a ghost can creep on him unawares! It is a trap, this forest of yours; and every rank of trees is a wall to shut one tighter in with his thoughts. Had I an axe ready to my hand, and the might in my arm—”

Even as it seemed that his body would be wrung by a violent gesture, he caught himself; and his voice slackened to a mocking drawl.

“What a good thing it is that I have three wiseminded old ravens to make sport for me! Hither they wing their way now to give me final advice in this treaty-making. Odin be thanked, it will not be long before we are on the move! Yonder my kinswoman’s hand sends a summons to you, Songsmith. Go, sting Olaf’s jealousy again. The entertainment I have in torturing him, teaches me for the first time why Starkad had delight in bear-baiting.”

In words now as well as voice, he was strange to his song-maker. Randvar mused on it as he descended the slope; again the feeling that he was wakening from a dream came over him.

“Seldom have I experienced such strange things in my sleep as I have done since that day at the Black Pool,” he murmured; then as his wandering gaze fell upon the group before him, he finished contentedly: “But if it be a dream, it must be said that it is a good one.”

Surrounded by her band of comely women, with the elegant Olaf outstretched before her, the Jarl’s sister sat enthroned on the slope at the foot of an ancient oak. The masses of bronze foliage still clinging around the base of the mighty limbs, spread like a canopy above her. The huge trunk was as a background for her rounded form in its kirtle of wine-red, gold-embroidered; against the black bark, her hair was as a spot of golden fire. The song-maker saw neither Yrsa’s pretty smile of welcome nor the shrug of Thorgrim’s son when their mistress greeted him graciously.