The Thrall of Leif the Lucky
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Ottilie A. Liljencrantz >> The Thrall of Leif the Lucky
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19 THE THRALL OF LEIF THE LUCKY
A Story of Viking Days
By Ottilie A Liljencrantz
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
Where Wolves Thrive Better than Lambs
CHAPTER II
The Maid in the Silver Helmet
CHAPTER III
A Gallant Outlaw
CHAPTER IV
In a Viking Lair
CHAPTER V
The Ire of a Shield-Maiden
CHAPTER VI
The Song of Smiting Steel
CHAPTER VII
The King's Guardsman
CHAPTER VIII
Leif the Cross-Bearer
CHAPTER IX
Before the Chieftain
CHAPTER X
The Royal Blood of Alfred
CHAPTER XI
The Passing of the Scar
CHAPTER XlI
Through Bars of Ice
CHAPTER XIII
Eric the Red in His Domain
CHAPTER XIV
For the Sake of the Cross
CHAPTER XV
A Wolf-Pack in Leash
CHAPTER XVI
A Courtier of the King
CHAPTER XVII
The Wooing of Helga
CHAPTER XVIII
The Witch's Den
CHAPTER XIX
Tales of the Unknown West
CHAPTER XX
Alwin's Bane
CHAPTER XXI
The Heart of a Shield-Maiden
CHAPTER XXIl
In the Shadow of the Sword
CHAPTER XXIII
A Familiar Blade in a Strange Sheath
CHAPTER XXIV
For Dear Love's Sake
CHAPTER XXV
"Where Never Man Stood Before"
CHAPTER XXVI
Vinland the Good
CHAPTER XXVII
Mightier than the Sword
CHAPTER XXVIII
"Things that are Fated"
CHAPTER XXIX
The Battle to the Strong
CHAPTER XXX
From Over the Sea
CONCLUSION
FOREWORD
THE Anglo-Saxon race was in its boyhood in the days when the Vikings
lived. Youth's fresh fires burned in men's blood; the unchastened
turbulence of youth prompted their crimes, and their good deeds were
inspired by the purity and whole-heartedness and divine simplicity of
youth. For every heroic vice, the Vikings laid upon the opposite scale
an heroic virtue. If they plundered and robbed, as most men did in the
times when Might made Right, yet the heaven-sent instinct of hospitality
was as the marrow of their bones. No beggar went from their doors
without alms; no traveller asked in vain for shelter; no guest but was
welcomed with holiday cheer and sped on his way with a gift. As
cunningly false as they were to their foes, just so superbly true were
they to their friends. The man who took his enemy's last blood-drop with
relentless hate, gave his own blood with an equally unsparing hand if in
so doing he might aid the cause of some sworn brother. Above all, they
were a race of conquerors, whose knee bent only to its proved superior.
Not to the man who was king-born merely, did their allegiance go, but to
the man who showed himself their leader in courage and their master in
skill. And so it was with their choice of a religion, when at last the
death-day of Odin dawned. Not to the God who forgives, nor to the God
who suffered, did they give their faith; but they made their vows to the
God who makes men strong, the God who is the never-dying and
all-powerful Lord of those who follow Him.
The Thrall of Leif the Lucky
CHAPTER I
WHERE WOLVES THRIVE BETTER THAN LAMBS
Vices and virtues
The sons of mortals bear
In their breasts mingled;
No one is so good That no failing attends him,
Nor so bad as to be good for nothing.
Ha'vama'l (High Song of Odin).
It was back in the tenth century, when the mighty fair-haired warriors
of Norway and Sweden and Denmark, whom the people of Southern Europe
called the Northmen, were becoming known and dreaded throughout the
world. Iceland and Greenland had been colonized by their dauntless
enterprise. Greece and Africa had not proved distant enough to escape
their ravages. The descendants of the Viking Rollo ruled in France as
Dukes of Normandy; and Saxon England, misguided by Ethelred the Unready
and harassed by Danish pirates, was slipping swiftly and surely under
Northern rule. It was the time when the priests of France added to their
litany this petition: "From the fury of the Northmen, deliver us, good
Lord."
The old, old Norwegian city of Trondhjem, which lies on Trondhjem Fiord,
girt by the river Nid, was then King Olaf Trygvasson's new city of
Nidaros, and though hardly more than a trading station, a hamlet without
streets, it was humming with prosperity and jubilant life. The shore was
fringed with ships whose gilded dragon-heads and purple-and-yellow hulls
and azure-and-scarlet sails were reflected in the waves until it seemed
as if rainbows had been melted in them. Hillside and river-bank bloomed
with the gay tents of chieftains who had come from all over the North to
visit the powerful Norwegian king. Traders had scattered booths of
tempting wares over the plain, so that it looked like fair-time. The
broad roads between the estates that clustered around the royal
residence were thronged with clanking horsemen, with richly dressed
traders followed by covered carts of precious merchandise, with
beautiful fair-haired women riding on gilded chair-like saddles, with
monks and slaves, with white-bearded lawmen and pompous landowners.
Along one of those roads that crossed the city from the west, a Danish
warrior came riding, one keen May morning, with a young English captive
tied to his saddle-bow.
The Northman was a great, hulking, wild-maned, brute-faced fellow,
capped by an iron helmet and wrapped in a mantle of coarse gray, from
whose folds the handle of a battle-axe looked out suggestively; but the
boy was of the handsomest Saxon type. Though barely seventeen, he was
man-grown, and lithe and well-shaped; and he carried himself nobly,
despite his clumsy garments of white wool. His gold-brown hair had been
clipped close as a mark of slavery, and there were fetters on his limbs;
but chains could not restrain the glance of his proud gray eyes, which
flashed defiance with every look.
Crossing the city northward, they came where a trading-booth stood on
its outskirts--an odd looking place of neatly built log walls tented
over with gay striped linen. Beyond, the plain rose in gentle hills,
which were overlooked in their turn by pine-clad snow-capped mountains.
On one side, the river hurried along in surging rapids; on the other,
one could see the broad elbow of the fiord glittering in the sun. At the
sight of the booth, the Saxon scowled darkly, while the Dane gave a
grunt of relief. Drawing rein before the door, the warrior dismounted
and pulled down his captive.
It was a scene of barbaric splendor that the gay roof covered. The walls
displayed exquisitely wrought weapons, and rare fabrics interwoven with
gleaming gold and silver threads. Piles of rich furs were heaped in the
corners, amid a medley of gilded drinking-horns and bronze vessels and
graceful silver urns. Across the back of the booth stretched a benchful
of sullen-looking creatures war-captives to be sold as slaves, native
thralls, and two Northmen enslaved for debt. In the centre of the floor,
seated upon one of his massive steel-bound chests, gorgeous in velvet
and golden chains, the trader presided over his sales like a prince on
his throne.
The Dane saluted him with a surly nod, and he answered with such smooth
words as the thrifty old Norse proverbs advise every man to practise.
"Greeting, Gorm Arnorsson! Here is great industry, if already this
Spring you have gone on a Viking voyage and gotten yourself so good a
piece of property! How came you by him?"
Gorm gave his "property" a rough push forward, and his harsh voice came
out of his bull-thick neck like a bellow. "I got him in England last
Summer. We ravaged his lather's castle, I and twenty ship-mates, and
slew all his kinsmen. He comes of good blood; I am told for certain that
he is a jarl's son. And I swear he is sound in wind and limb. How much
will you pay me for him, Karl Grimsson?"
The owner of the booth stroked his long white beard and eyed the captive
critically. It seemed to him that he had never seen a king's son with a
haughtier air. The boy wore his letters as though they had been
bracelets from the hands of Ethelred.
"Is it because you value him so highly that you keep him in chains?" he
asked.
"In that I will not deceive you," said the Dane, after a moment's
hesitation. "Though he is sound in wind and limb, he is not sound in
temper. Shortly after I got him, I sold him to Gilli the Wealthy for a
herd-boy; but because it was not to his mind on the dairy-farm, he lost
half his herd and let wolves prey on the rest, and when the headman
would have flogged him for it, he slew him. He has the temper of a black
elf."
"He does not look to be a cooing dove," the trader assented. "But how
came it that he was not slain for this? I have heard that Gilli is a
fretful man."
The Dane snorted. "More than anything else he is greedy for property,
and his wife Bertha advised him not to lose the price he had paid. It is
my belief that she has a liking for the cub; she was an English captive
before the Wealthy One married her. He followed her advice, as was to be
expected, and saddled me with the whelp when I passed through the
district yesterday. I should have sent him to Thor myself," he added
with a suggestive swing of his axe, "but that silver is useful to me
also. I go to join my shipmates in Wisby. And I am in haste, Karl
Grimsson. Take him, and let me have what you think fair."
It seemed as if the trader would never finish the meditative caressing
of his beard, but at last he arose and called for his scales. The Dane
took the little heap of silver rings weighed out to him, and strode out
of the tent. At the same time, he passed out of the English boy's life.
What a pity that the result of their short acquaintance could not have
disappeared with him!
The trader surveyed his new possession, standing straight and slim
before him. "What are you called?" he demanded. "And whence come you?
And of what kin?"
"I am called Alwin," answered the thrall; "and I come from Northumbria."
He hesitated, and the blood mounted to his face. "But I will not tell
you my father's name," he finished proudly, "that you may shame him in
shaming me."
The trader's patience was a little chafed. Peaceful merchants were also
men of war between times in those days.
Suddenly he unsheathed the sword that hung at his side, and laid its
point against the thrall's breast.
"I ask you again of what kin you come. If you do not answer now, it is
unlikely that you will be alive to answer a third question."
Perhaps young Alwin's bronzed cheeks lost a little of their color, but
his lip curled scornfully. So they stood, minute after minute, the sharp
point pricking through the cloth until the boy felt it against his skin.
Gradually the trader's face relaxed into a grim smile. "You are a young
wolf," he said at last, sheathing his weapon; "yet go and sit with the
others. It may be that wolves thrive better than lambs in the North."
CHAPTER II
THE MAID IN THE SILVER HELMET
In a maiden's words
No one should place faith,
Nor in what a woman says;
For on a turning wheel
Have their hearts been formed,
And guile in their breasts been laid.
Ha'vama'l
Day after day, week after week, Alwin sat waiting to see where the next
turn of misfortune's wheel would land him. Interesting people visited
the booth continually. Now it was a party of royal guardsmen to buy
weapons,--splendid mail-clad giants who ate at King Olaf's board, slept
a his hall, and fought to the death at his side. Again it was a
minstrel, with a harp at his back, who stopped to rest and exchange a
song for a horn of mead. Once the Queen herself, riding in a shining
gilded wagon, came in and bought some of the graceful spiral bracelets.
She said that Alwin's eyes were as bright as a young serpent's; but she
did not buy him.
The doorway framed an ever changing picture,--budding birch trees along
the river-bank; men ploughing in the valley; shepherds tending flocks
that looked like dots of cotton wool on the green hillsides. Sometimes
bands of gay folk from the King's house rode by to the hunt, spurs
jingling, horns braying, falcons at their wrists. Sometimes brawny
followers of the visiting chiefs swaggered past in groups, and the boy
could hear their shouting and laughter as they held drinking-bouts in
the hostelry near by. Occasionally their rough voices would grow
rougher, and an arrow would fly past the door; or there would be a clash
of weapons, followed by a groan.
One day, as Alwin sat looking out, his chin resting in his hand, his
elbow on his knee, his attention was caught by two riders winding
swiftly down a hill-path on the right. At first, one was only a blur of
gray and the other a flame of scarlet; they disappeared behind a grove
of aspens, then reappeared nearer, and he could make out a white beard
on the gray figure and a veil of golden hair above the scarlet kirtle.
What hair for a boy, even the noblest born! It was the custom of all
free men to wear their locks uncut; but this golden mantle! Yet could it
be a girl? Did a girl ever wear a helmet like a silver bowl, and a
kirtle that stopped at the knee? If it was a girl, she must be one of
those shield-maidens of whom the minstrels sang. Alwin watched the pair
curiously as they galloped down the last slope and turned into the lane
beside the river. They must pass the booth, and then...
His brain whirled, and he stood up in his intense interest. Something
had startled the white steed that bore the scarlet kirtle; he swerved
aside and rose on his haunches with a suddenness that nearly unseated
his rider; then he took the bronze bit between his teeth and leaped
forward. Whitebeard and his bay mare were left behind. The yellow hair
streamed out like a banner; nearer, and Alwin could see that it was
indeed a girl. She wound her hands in the reins and kept her seat like a
centaur. But suddenly something gave way. Over she went, sidewise; and
by the wrist, tangled in the reins, the horse dragged her over the stony
road.
Forgetting his manacled limbs, Alwin started forward; but it was all
over in an instant. One of the trader's servants flew at the animal's
head and stopped him, almost at the door of the booth. In another moment
a crowd gathered around the fallen girl and shut her from his view.
Alwin gazed at the shifting backs with a dreadful vision of golden hair
torn and splashed with blood. She must be dead, for she had not once
screamed. His head was still ringing with the shrieks of his mother's
waiting-women, as the Danes bore them out of the burning castle.
Whitebeard came galloping up, puffing and panting. He was a puny little
German, with a face as small and withered as a winter apple, but a body
swaddled in fur-trimmed tunics until it seemed as fat as a polar bear's.
He rolled off his horse; the crowd parted before him. Then the English
youth experienced another shock.
Bruised and muddy, but neither dead nor fainting, the girl stood
examining her wrist with the utmost calmness. Though her face was white
and drawn with pain, she looked up at the old man with a little twisted
smile.
"It is nothing, Tyrker," she said quickly; "only the girth broke, and it
appears that my wrist is out of joint. We will go in here, and you shall
set it."
Tyrker blinked at her for a moment with an expression of mingled
affection and wonder; then he drew a deep breath. "Donnerwetter, but you
are a true shield-maiden!" he said in a wavering treble.
The trader received them with true Norse hospitality; and Alwin watched
in speechless amazement while the old man ripped up the scarlet sleeve
and wrenched the dislocated bones into position, without a murmur from
the patient. Despite her strange dress and general dishevelment, he
could see now that she was a beautiful girl, a year or two younger than
himself. Her face was as delicately pink-and-pearly as a sea-shell, and
corn-flowers among the wheat were no bluer than the eyes that looked out
from under her rippling golden tresses.
When the wrist was set and bandaged, the trader presented them with a
silken scarf to make into a sling, and had them served with horns of
sparkling mead. This gave a turn to the affair that proved of special
interest to Alwin. There is an old Norse proverb which prescribes "Lie
for lie, laughter for laughter, gift for gift;" so, while he accepted
these favors, Tyrker began to look around for some way to repay them.
His gaze wandered over fabrics and furs and weapons, till it finally
fell upon the slaves' bench. "Donnerwetter!" he said, setting down his
horn. "To my mind it has just come that Leif a cook-boy is desirous of,
now that Hord is drowned."
The girl saw his purpose, and nodded quickly. "It is unlikely that you
can make a better bargain anywhere."
She turned to examine the slaves, and her eyes immediately encountered
Alwin's. She did not blush; she looked him up and down critically, as if
he were a piece of armor, or a horse. It was he who flushed, with sudden
shame and anger, as he realized that in the eyes of this beautiful Norse
maiden he was merely an animal put up for sale.
"Yonder is a handsome thrall," she said; "he looks as though his
strength were such that he could stand something."
"True it is that he cannot a lame wolf be who with the pack from
Greenland is to run," Tyrker assented. "That it was, which to Hord was a
hindrance. For sport only, Egil Olafson under the water took him down
and held him there; and because to get away he was not strong enough, he
was drowned. But to me it seems that this one would bite. How dear would
this thrall be?"
"You would have to pay for him three marks of silver," said the trader.
"He is an English thrall, very strong and well-shaped." He came over to
where Alwin sat, and stood him up and turned him round and bent his
limbs, Alwin submitting as a caged tiger submits to the lash, and with
much the same look about his mouth.
Tyrker caught the look, and sat for a long while blinking doubtfully at
him. But he was a shrewd old fellow, and at last he drew his money-bag
from his girdle and handed it to the trader to be weighed. While this
was being done, he bade one of the servants strike off the boy's
fetters.
The trader paused, scales in hand, to remonstrate. "It is my advice that
you keep them on until you sail. I will not conceal it from you that he
has an unruly disposition. You will be lacking both your man and your
money."
The old man smiled quietly. "Ach, my friend," he said, "can you not
better read a face? Well is it to be able to read runes, but better yet
it is to know what the Lord has written in men's eyes." He signed to the
servant to go on, and in a moment the chains fell clattering on the
ground.
Alwin looked at him in amazement; then suddenly he realized what a kind
old face it was, for all its shrewdness and puny ugliness. The scowl
fell from him like another chain.
"I give you thanks," he said.
The wrinkled, tremulous old hand touched his shoulder with a kindly
pressure. "Good is it that we understand each other. _Nun_! Come. First
shall you go and Helga's horse lead, since it may be that with her one
hand she cannot manage him. Why do you in your face so red grow?"
Alwin grew still redder; but he could not tell the good old man that he
would rather follow a herd of unbroken steers all day, than walk one
mile before a beautiful young Amazon who looked at him as if he were a
dog. He mumbled something indistinctly, and hastened out after the
horses.
Helga rose stiffly from the pile of furs; it was evident that every new
motion revealed a new bruise to her, but she set her white teeth and
held her chin high in the air. When she had taken leave of the trader,
she walked out without a limp and vaulted into her saddle unaided. The
sunlight, glancing from her silver helm, fell upon her floating hair and
turned it into a golden glory that hid rents and stains, and redeemed
even the kirtle, which stopped at the knee.
As he helped the old man to mount, Alwin gazed at her with unwilling
admiration. Perhaps some day he would show her that he was not so
utterly contemptible as...
She made him an imperious gesture; he stalked haughtily forward, he took
his place at her bridle rein, and the three set forth.
CHAPTER III
A GALLANT OUTLAW
Two are adversaries;
The tongue is the bane of the head;
Under every cloak
I expect a hand.
Ha'vama'l
For a while the road of the little party ran beside the brawling Nid,
whose shores were astir with activity and life. Here was a school of
splashing swimmers; there, a fleet of fishing-smacks; a provision-ship
loading for a cruise as consort to one of the great war vessels. They
passed King Olaf's ship-sheds, where fine new boats were building, and
one brilliantly-painted cruiser stood on the rollers all ready for the
launching. Along the opposite bank lay the camps of visiting Vikings,
with their long ships'-boats floating before them.
The road bent to the right, and wound along between the high fences that
shut in the old farm-like manors. Ail the houses had their gable-ends
faced to the front, like soldiers at drill, and little more than their
tarred roofs showed among the trees. Most of the commons between the
estates were enlivened by groups of gaily-ornamented booths. Many of
them were traders' stalls; but in one, over the heads of the laughing
crowd, Alwin caught a glimpse of an acrobat and a clumsy dancing bear;
while in another, a minstrel sang plaintive love ballads to a throng
that listened as breathlessly as leaves for a wind. The wild sweet
harp-music floated out and went with them far across the plain.
The road swerved still farther to the right, entering a wood of spicy
evergreens and silver-stemmed birches. In its green depths song-birds
held high carnival, and an occasional rabbit went scudding from hillock
to covert. From the south a road ran up and crossed theirs, on its way
to the fiord.
As they reached this cross-road, a horseman passed down it at a gallop.
He only glanced toward them; and all Alwin had time to see was that he
was young and richly dressed. But Helga started up with a cry.
"Sigurd! Tyrker, it was Sigurd!"
Slowly drawing rein, the old man blinked at her in bewilderment.
"Sigurd? Where? What Sigurd?"
"Our Sigurd--Leif's foster-son! Oh, ride after him! Shout!" She
stretched her white throat in calling, but the wind was against her.
"That is now impossible that Jarl Harald's son it should be," Tyrker
said soothingly. "On a Viking voyage he is absent. Besides, out of
breath it puts me fast to ride. Some one else have you mistaken. Three
years it has been since you have seen--"
"Then I will go myself!" She snatched the reins from Alwin, but Tyrker
caught her arm.
"Certain it is that you would be injured. If you insist, the thrall
shall go. He looks as though he would run well."
"But what message?" Alwin began.
Helga tried to stamp in her stirrups. "Will you stand there and talk?
Go!"
They were fast runners in those days, by all accounts. It is said that
there were men in Ireland and the North so swift-footed that no horse
could overtake them. In ten minutes Alwin stood at the horseman's side,
red, dripping, and furious.
The stranger was a gallant young cavalier, with floating yellow locks
and a fine high-bred face. His velvet cloak was lined with ermine, his
silk tunic seamed with gold; he had gold embroidery on his gloves,
silver spurs to his heels, and a golden chain around his neck. Alwin
glared up at him, and hated him for his splendor, and hated him for his
long silken hair.
The rider looked down in surprise at the panting thrall with the shaven
head.
"What is your errand with me?" he asked.
It was not easy to explain, but Alwin framed it curtly: "If you are
Sigurd Haraldsson, a maiden named Helga is desirous that you should turn
back."
"I am Sigurd Haraldsson," the youth assented, "but I know no maiden in
Norway named Helga."
It occurred to Alwin that this Helga might belong to "the pack from
Greenland," but he kept a surly silence.
"What is the rest of her name?"
"If there is more, I have not heard it."
"Where does she live?"
"The devil knows!"
"Are you her father's thrall?"
"It is my bad luck to be the captive of some Norse robber."
The straight brows of the young noble slanted into a frown. Alwin met it
with a black scowl. Suddenly, while they faced each other, glowering, an
arrow sped out of the thicket a little way down the road, and whizzed
between them. A second shaft just grazed Alwin's head; a third carried
away a tress of Sigurd's fair hair. Instantly after, a man crashed out
of the underbrush and came running toward them, throwing down a bow and
drawing a sword as he ran.
Forgetting that no weapon hung there now, Alwin's hand flew to his side.
Young Haraldsson, catching only the gesture, stayed him peremptorily.
"Stand back,--they were aimed at me! It is my quarrel." He threw himself
from his saddle, and his blade flashed forth like a sunbeam.
Evidently there was no need of explanations between the two. The instant
they met, that instant their swords crossed; and from the first clash,
the blades darted back and forth and up and down like governed
lightnings. Alwin threw a quieting arm around the neck of the startled
horse, and settled himself to watch.
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