Chapter 17

Speech-runes thou must know If thou wilt that no one For injury with hate requite thee. Sigdrífumál.

No holiday finery tricked out the Danish host where it squatted along the Severn Valley that dreary October day; neither festal tables nor dimpling women nor even the gay striped tents. Of all the multitude of flags but one banner pricked the murky air,—the Raven standard that marked the headquarters of the King; and its sodden folds distinguished nothing more regal than a shepherd’s wattled cote. Scattered clumps of trees offered the weary men their only protection against the drizzling rain; and the sole suggestions of comfort were the sickly fires that patient endeavor had managed to coax into life in these retreats. Some, whom exhaustion had robbed even of a fire-tender’s ambition, had dropped down on the very spot where they had slipped from their saddles, and slept, cloak-wrapped, in the wet. And the circles about the fires were not much noisier.

Rothgar’s face gathered gravity as he gained the crest of the last hill that lay between him and the straggling encampment.

“The rain appears to fall as coldly on their cheer as on their fires,” he commented. “They hug the earth like the ducks on Videy Island.”

“And look about as much like warriors who have got a victory,” the child of Frode added wonderingly.

The Jotun threw her a glance, where she rode at his side. “Hear words of fate! I think that is the first time you have spoken in three days.”

“You would think that great luck if you knew the kind of thoughts that have been in my mind,” she muttered. But the son of Lodbrok was already leading his men down the hillside toward the point where the silken banner mocked at the wattled walls.

Under the thatched roof of the hut, a still more striking contrast awaited the eyes of those who entered. With a milking-stool for his table and the shepherd’s rude bunk for a throne, the young King of the Danes was bending in scowling meditation over an open scroll. Against the mud-plastered walls, the crimson splendor of his cloak and the glitter of his gold embroideries gave him the look of a tropical bird in an osier cage; while the fiery beauty of his face shone like a star in the dusk of the windowless cell. Days in the saddle and nights in the council had pared away every superfluous curve from cheek and chin, until there was not one line left that did not tell of impatient energy; and every spark of his burning soul seemed centred in his brilliant eyes. At the sight of him, the girl’s heart started and shook like a harp-string under the touch of the master; and Rothgar, the stolid, the stern, who had come to upbraid, bowed reverently as he grasped the hand his leader stretched out.

“King, I would not have kept away had I guessed that my sword would be useful to you. It was my belief that you were entertaining yourself with getting property in Mercia, else would I have left all to come to you.”

Canute half pressed the huge paw and then half spurned it. “It was in my mind to give you a great scolding when I got you again. I thought you had drunk sea-water and blood out of a magic horn and forgotten me utterly. You must have gotten yourself fitted out for the rest of your life since at last you were willing to leave.”

“Lord,” Rothgar began, “I have come back to you as poor as I went—”

But the King interrupted him, as at that moment, in the figure hesitating at the door, he recognized his missing ward. “Say not so, when you have brought back the bright blade we mourned as lost!” He put out his other hand with a gleam of pleasure in his changeful eyes. “Welcome to you, Fridtjof the Bold! I should like to believe that you are as glad to return to me as I am glad to receive you.”

As she stood there watching him, Randalin had been undergoing a strange transformation. For four months she had almost forgotten his existence, he had been little more than an empty name, while she gave every energy of mind and heart to the things about her. But now, behold! One sight of his life-full face, one moment in his dominating presence, and those months were swept into the land of dreams. His deeds alone appeared vital; he alone seemed real. She, the Etheling himself, were but as shadows depending upon his sun-like career. If he should choose to shine upon them, what dark evil could come nigh? It was in all sincerity that she bent her knee as she took his hand. “Lord,” she cried impulsively, “I have brought you back a loyal heart! I have been very close to the English King, and he is unworthy to hold your sword.”

Canute gave a sudden laugh; but it was a short one, and he turned away abruptly to begin a restless pacing to and fro. “You choose your words in a thoughtful way,” he said. “It is seen that you do not say how it would be if he were to hold his sword against mine.” Pausing before Rothgar, he jerked his head toward the scroll. “Do you know what that is? That is a challenge from the Ironside.”

“A challenge?” his listeners cried in chorus.

He seemed to take petulant offence at their surprise. “A challenge. Did you never hear the word before, that you stare like oxen? He invites me to settle this affair by single combat on the island, yonder; and there is the greatest sense in what he says. Every one who has a man’s wit is tired of the strife; and if we continue at it, there will not be much to win besides ashes and bones.”

Rothgar sat gazing at the wooden door as though he could see through it the huddled groups outside. “Now by no means do I think it strange that your host is not in high spirits,” he said.

With an impatient shrug the King moved on again. “It has happened, then, that the news has spread? I wonder whether they are troubling themselves most for fear that I shall undertake this fight and get killed, or for fear that I shall turn back from it and the war will be obliged to go on. And I should be glad if I knew what expectation was uppermost in the Gainer’s mind when he made the plan. For certainly one sees his claw behind the pen.”

“May wolves tear him!” Rothgar burst out. “Two kings he has used as oaten pipes, but never did I think that you would make the third.”

Canute’s foot jarred upon the earth; his face was suddenly aflame. “And never will I, while my head remains above ground! Now are you even more rash than you are wont! It is I who play on him, not he on me. Through him, as through a pipe, I have tempted Edmund on; and through him, as through a pipe, I have called Edmund off; and as with a broken pipe I shall part with him when I am done,—and think it no falseness either, since I know for certain that it is the fate he has in store for me, as soon as I cease to be gainful for him.” The worst of the young chief’s nature showed for an instant in the smile that widened his nostrils. Then it gave way to another flash of temper. “Nor am I a pipe for your plaything, either. What! Am I to be as a child between you and Thorkel, that each time I follow the advice of one of you, I am to get a tongue-lashing from the other? Have you not got it into your head that I am your King?”

Rothgar gave a short laugh. “I do not know if I have got it into my head or not,” he said; “but I am certain that my body is aware of your kingship.” He did not even move his eyes toward the stump of his wrist, but Canute turned from him suddenly, his lip caught in his teeth, and once more strode up and down the narrow space.

After the fourth round, he stopped and laid his hands affectionately upon his foster-brother’s shoulders. “Too long have we endured each other’s roughness, comrade, for you to think that unfriendliness is in my mind because I foam over in this way. I tell you, you would not wonder at it if you knew the state of my feelings. And I will not conceal it that I am glad you have come to share them—though I have not the intention to heed a word of your advice,” he added, half laughing, half threatening. Pushing the other down upon the rough bunk, he seated himself beside him, his elbows on his knees, his chin cupped in his palms.

“The host is full of impatience; and I am weary unto madness. Never do we come to any end, nor ever shall until that time when the wolf shall catch the sun! I have nowhere heard of a more foolish war than this. It was in my mind, as you came in, that I would send a favorable answer to the Englishman and get the matter decided, one way or another.”

Even Randalin uttered a cry; and Rothgar caught his King by the arm as though to snatch him out of bodily peril. “Only one way would be possible, Canute! Your waist is not so big as one of his arms. His sword would cleave you as if it cut water.”

Half laughing, but more resentful, the King freed himself. “Now do you hold my power so lightly? More than once have I gotten under your guard. If skill could accomplish anything, you would not have to wait long for what I should fix upon.” He broke off with a shrug and flung himself back upon the straw of the bunk. “Let us speak of something else,” he said. “What did the boy say about having seen Edmund?”

Somewhat ramblingly, as uncertain of his interest, Randalin told him of her glimpse of the Ironside; and he listened lying back on the straw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. She had begun to think he had forgotten her, when all at once he shot out a swift question: “Did you never find out what the wool was that Edric Jarl pulled over his eyes?”

“Not unless one could guess it from what King Edmund said, lord,—that the Jarl had found them so much cleverer than he expected that his victory was without relish to him, and he was desirous to regain their friendship.”

A distinct chuckle came from Canute, and some murmur about the Ironside’s chin. Then he said, “Go on, and tell me everything you can remember;” and once more lay staring at the ceiling in silence. He did not appear to notice it when she stopped; the pause lasted so long that Rothgar concluded that sleep had overtaken their host and rose softly to betake himself to such cheer as the fires offered. As he made the first step, however, Canute sat up suddenly, striking his fist upon the bunk.

“I will do it!” he said. While they stared, he rose and recommenced his hurried pacing, his eyes keen and far away, his mouth set in grim resolve.

“Do what, King?” the son of Lodbrok ventured at last.

Canute’s eyes appeared to rest upon the pair without seeing them. “Accept the challenge,” he answered absently. Then the utter horror in both faces brought him momentarily back. “You need not look like that. I would not do it if I did not see a good chance to win. There are other weapons than those which dwell in sheaths.”

“But if you lose?” Rothgar’s harsh voice was discordant with emotion. “If you lose?”

The King silenced him impatiently. “I do not think I shall lose; but if it be otherwise, then Fate will rule it. I prefer to risk everything rather than to experience more delay.” Catching the bewildered page by the collar, he pushed him toward the door. “Run, boy, with all the speed of your legs, and find Ingimund the Swimmer and fetch him here. And you, foster-brother, if my fame is important to you, do you betake yourself to those dumpish oafs around the fires and try, by any means whatever, to remedy their faint-heartedness. Ask them if they want the host across the river to think them turned into a herd of weeping bondwomen. Ask them if they think thus to show honor to their King. Tell them that I take it as no proof of their love; that I will have none of that halting faith which limps up with a great cry after the show is over. Tell them—Oh, tell them anything you think worth while—only that you get some noise out of them! Evil will come of it if the Englishman is allowed to believe that he has beaten us before ever he has struck a blow.”

Rothgar sighed as he moved forward. “I am very unfit to speak words of cheerfulness to anybody; but this shall, like other things, be as you wish.”