The Thrall of Leif the Lucky
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Ottilie A. Liljencrantz >> The Thrall of Leif the Lucky
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It was weather to gladden a man's heart,--a sunlit sky overhead, and a
fresh breeze blowing that set every drop of blood a-leaping with the
desire to walk, walk, walk, to the very rim of the world. The thrall
started out beside the Wrestler in sullen silence; but before they had
gone a mile, his black mood had blown into the fiord. River bank and
lanes were sweet with flowers, and every green hedge they passed was
a-flutter with nesting birds. The traders' booths were full of beautiful
things; musicians, acrobats, and jugglers with little trick dogs, were
everywhere,--one had only to stop and look. A dingy trading vessel lay
in the river, loaded with great red apples, some Norman's winter store.
One of the crew who knew Rolf threw some after him, by way of greeting;
and the two munched luxuriously as they walked along. They passed many
Viking camps, gay with streamers and striped linens, where groups of
brawny fair-haired men wrestled and tried each other's skill, or sat at
rough tables under the trees, drinking and singing. In one place they
were practising with bow and arrow; and, being quite impartial in their
choice of a target, one of the archers sent a shaft within an inch of
Rolf's head, purely for the expected pleasure of seeing him start and
dodge. Finding that neither he nor Alwin would go a step faster, they
rained shafts about their ears as long as they were within bow-shot, and
saw them out of range with a cheer.
The road branched into one of the main thoroughfares, and they met
pretty maidens who smiled at them, melancholy minstrels who frowned at
them, and grim-mouthed warriors whose eyes were too intent on future
battles even to see them. Occasionally Rolf quietly saluted some young
guardsman; and, to the thrall's surprise, the warrior answered not only
with friendliness but even with respect. It seemed strange that one of
Rolf's mild aspect should be held in any particular esteem by such young
fire-eaters. Once they encountered a half-tipsy seaman, who made a
snatch at Rolf's apple, and succeeded in knocking it from his hand into
the dust. The Wrestler only fixed his blue eyes upon him in a long look,
but the man went down on his knees as though he had been hit.
"I did not know it was you, Rolf Erlingsson," he hiccoughed over and
over in maudlin terror. "I beg you not to be angry."
"It is seldom that I have seen such a coward as that," Alwin said in
disgust as they walked on.
Rolf turned upon him his gentle smile. "It is your opinion, then, that a
man must he a coward to fear me?"
Alwin did not answer immediately: of a sudden it occurred to him to
doubt the Wrestler's mild manner.
While he was still hesitating, Rolf caught him lightly around the waist
and swung him over a hedge into a field where a dozen red-and-yellow
tented booths were clustered. "These are Thorgrim Svensson's tents," he
explained, following as coolly as though that were the accepted mode of
entrance. "Yonder he is,--that lean little man with the freckled face.
He is a great seafaring man. I promise you that you will see many
precious things from all over the world."
Approaching the booths, Alwin had immediate proof of this statement, for
bench and bush and ground were littered with garments and furs and
weapons, and odds-and-ends of spoil, as if a ship had been overturned on
the spot. The lean little man whom Rolf had pointed out stood in the
midst of it all, examining and directing. He was dressed in coarse
homespun of the dingy colors of trading vessels, gray and brown and
rusty black, which contrasted oddly with the mantle of gorgeous purple
velvet he was at that moment trying on. His little freckled face was
wrinkled into a hundred shrewd puckers, and his eyes were two twinkling
pin-points of sharpness. He seemed to thrust their glance into Alwin, as
he advanced to meet his visitors; and the men who were helping him
paused and looked at the thrall with expectant grins.
Rolf said blandly, "Greeting, Thorgrim Svensson! We have come to see
your horse-fight. This is Alwin, Edmund Jarl's son, of England. Bad luck
has made him Leif's thrall, but his accomplishments have made me his
friend."
He spoke with the utmost mildness, merely glancing at the grinning crew;
yet they sobered as though their mirth had been turned off by a faucet,
and Thorgrim gave the thrall a civil welcome.
"It is a great pity," he continued, addressing the Wrestler, "that you
cannot see the Flesh-Tearer, since you came for that purpose; but it has
happened that he has lamed himself, and will not be able to fight for a
week. Do not go away on that account, however. My ship has brought me
some cloaks even finer than the one you covet,"--here it seemed to Alwin
as if the little man winked at Rolf,--"and if the Englishman is as good
a swordsman as you have said--ahem!" He broke off with a cough, and
endeavored to hide his abruptness by turning away and picking a fur
mantle off a pile of costly things.
Alwin's momentary surprise was forgotten at sight of the treasure thus
disclosed. Beneath the cloak, thrown down like a thing of little value,
lay an open book. It was written in Anglo-Saxon letters of gold and
silver; its crumpled pages were of rarest rose-tinted vellum; its
covers, sheets of polished wood gold-embossed and adorned with golden
clasps. Even Alfred's royal kinswoman had never owned so splendid a
volume. The English boy caught it up with an exclamation of delight, and
turned the pages hungrily, trying whether his mother's lessons would
come back to him.
He was brought to himself by the touch of Rolf's hand on his shoulder.
They were all looking at him, he found,--once more with expectant grins.
Opposite him an ungainly young fellow in slave's garb--and with the air
of belonging in it--stood as though waiting, a naked sword in his hand.
"Now I have still more regard for you when I see that you have also the
trick of reading English runes," the Wrestler said. "But I ask you to
leave them a minute and listen to me. Thorgrim here has a thrall whom he
holds to be most handy with a sword; but I have wagered my gold necklace
against his velvet cloak that you are a better man than he."
The meaning of the group dawned on Alwin then: he drew himself up with
freezing haughtiness. "It is not likely that I will strive against a
low-born serf, Rolf Erlingsson. You dare to put an insult upon me
because luck has left your hair uncut."
A sound like the expectant drawing-in of many breaths passed around the
circle. Alwin braced himself to withstand Rolf's fist; but the Wrestler
only drew back and looked at him reprovingly.
"Is it an insult, Alwin of England, to take you at your word? It is not
three hours since you vowed never to turn your back on a challenge while
the red blood ran in your veins. Have witches sucked the blood out of
you, that your mind is so different when you are put to the test?"
At least enough blood was left to crimson Alwin's cheeks at this
reminder. Those had been his very words, stung by Rolf's taunt.
The smouldering doubt he had felt burst into flame and burned through
every fibre. What if it were all a trap, a plot?--if Rolf had brought
him there on purpose to fight, the horses being only a pretext?
Thorgrim's wink, his allusion to Alwin's swordsmanship, it had all been
arranged between them; the velvet cloak was the clew! Rolf had wished to
possess it. He had persuaded Thorgrim to stake it on his thrall's
skill,--then he had brought Alwin to win the wager for him. _Brought_
him, like a trained stallion or a trick dog!
He turned to fling the deceit in the Wrestler's teeth. Rolf's fair face
was as innocent as those of the pictured saints in the Saxon book. Alwin
wavered. After all, what proof had he?
Jeering whispers and half-suppressed laughter became audible around him.
The group believed that his hesitation arose from timidity. Ignoring the
smart of yesterday's wound, he snatched the sword Rolf held out to him,
and started forward.
His foot struck against the Saxon book which he had let fall. As he
picked it up and laid it reverently aside, it suggested something to
him.
"Thorgrim Svensson," he said, pausing, "because I will not have it said
that I am afraid to look a sword in the face, I will fight your
serf,--on one condition: that this book, which can be of no use to you,
you will give me if I get the better of him."
The freckled face puckered itself into a shrewd squint. "And if you
fail?"
"If I fail," Alwin returned promptly, "Rolf Erlingsson will pay for me.
He has told me that while he is free and I am bound, he is answerable
for what I do."
At this there was some laughter--when it was seen that the Wrestler was
not offended. "A quick wit answered that, Alwin of England," Rolf said
with a smile. "I will pay willingly, if you do not save us both, as I
expect."
Anxious to be done with it, Alwin fell upon the thrall with a fierceness
that terrified the fellow. His blade played about him like lightning;
one could scarce follow its motions. A flesh-wound in the hip; and the
poor churl, who had little real skill and less natural spirit, began to
blunder. A thrust in the arm that would have only redoubled Alwin's
zeal, finished him completely. With a roar of pain, he threw his weapon
from him, broke through the circle of angry men, and fled, cowering,
among the booths.
There were few words spoken as the cloak and the book were handed over.
The set of Thorgrim's mouth suggested that if he said anything, it would
be something which he realized might be better left unsaid. His men were
like hounds in leash. Rolf spoke a few smooth phrases, and hurried his
companion away.
The sense that he had been tricked to the level of a performing bear
came upon Alwin afresh. When they stood once more in the road, he looked
at the Wrestler accusingly and searchingly.
Rolf began to talk of the book. "Nothing have I seen which I think so
fine. I must admit that you men of England are more skilful than we of
the North in such matters. It is all well enough to scratch pictures on
a rock or carve them on a door; but what will you do when you wish to
move? Either you must leave them behind, or get a yoke of oxen. To have
them painted on kid-skin, I like much better. You are in great luck to
come into possession of such property."
Alwin forgot his resentful suspicions in his pleasure. "Let us sit down
somewhere and examine it," said he. "Yonder, where those trees stretch
over the fence and make the grass shady,--that will be a good place."
"Have it your own way," Rolf assented. To the shady spot they proceeded
accordingly.
Rolf stretched himself comfortably in the long grass and made a pillow
of his arms. Alwin squatted down, his back planted against the fence,
the book open on his knees.
The reading-matter was attractive enough, with its glittering characters
and rose-tinted pages, and every initial letter inches high and shrined
in azure-blue traceries. But the splendor of the pictures!--no barbaric
heart could resist them. What if the straight lines were crooked,--if
the draperies were wooden,--the hands and the feet ungainly? They had
been drawn with sparkles of gold and gleams of silver, in blue and
scarlet and violet, until nothing less than a stained-glass window
glowing in the sun could even suggest their radiance. Rolf warmed into
unusual heartiness.
"By the hilt of my sword, he was an accomplished man who was able to
make such pictures! Look at that horse,--it does not keep you guessing a
moment to tell what it is. And yonder man with the red flames leaping
about him,--I wish I knew why he was bound to that post!"
Alwin also was bitten with curiosity. "I tell you what I will do," he
offered. "You must not suppose that reading is as easy as swimming, or
handling a sword. My father did not have the accomplishment, and his
hair was gray. Neither would my mother have learned it, had it not been
that Alfred was her kinsman and she was proud of his scholarship. Nor
should I have known how, if she had not taught me. And I have forgotten
much. But this I will offer you: I will read the Saxon words to myself,
and then tell you in the Northern tongue what they mean."
He spread the book open on a spot of clean turf, stretched himself on
his stomach, gripped one leg around the other, planted his chin on his
clenched fists, and began.
It was slow work. He had forgotten a good deal; and every other word was
linked with distracting memories: his mother leaning from her embroidery
frame to follow the line with her bodkin; his mother, erect and stern,
bidding Brother Ambrose bear him away and flog him for his idleness; his
mother hearing his lesson with one arm around him and the other hand
holding the sweetmeat she would give him if he succeeded. He did not
notice that Rolf's eyes were gradually closing, and his bated breath
lengthening into long even sighs. He plodded on and on.
All at once a thunder of approaching hoof-beats reached him from up the
road. Nearer and nearer they came; and around the curve swept a party of
the King's guardsmen,--yellow hair and scarlet cloaks flying in the
wind, spurs jingling, weapons clattering, armor clashing. Alwin glanced
up and saw their leader,--and his interest in pale pictured saints
dropped dead.
"It must be King Olaf himself!" he murmured, staring.
A head taller than the other tall men, with shoulders a palm's-width
broader, the leader sat on his mighty black horse like a second Thor.
Light flashed from his steel tunic and gilded helmet. His bronzed face
had an eagle's beak for a nose, and eyes of the blue of ice or steel,
piercing as a two-edged sword. A white cross was painted on his shield
of gold.
As he swept past, he glanced toward the pair by the fence. Catching
sight of the sleeping Rolf, he checked his horse sharply, made a motion
bidding the others go on without him, and, wheeling, rode back, followed
only by a mounted thrall who was evidently his personal attendant. Alwin
leaped up and attempted to arouse his companion, but the guardsman saved
him the trouble. Leaning out of his saddle, he struck the Wrestler a
smart blow with the flat of his sword.
"What now, Rolf Erlingsson!" he demanded, in tones of thunder. "Because
I go on a five days' journey, must it happen that my men lie like
drunken swine along the roadside? For this you shall feel--"
Before his eyes were fairly open, Rolf was on his feet, tugging at his
sword. Luckily, before he thrust, he got a glimpse of his assailant.
"Leif, the son of Eric!" he cried, dropping his weapon. "Welcome! Hail
to you!"
The warrior's frown relaxed into a grim smile, as he yielded his hand to
his young follower's hearty grip.
"Is it possible that you are sober after all? What in the Fiend's name
do you here, asleep by the road in company with a thrall and a purple
cloak?"
Rolf relaxed into his customary drawl. "That is unjustly spoken, chief.
I have not been asleep. I have found a new and worthy enjoyment. I have
been listening while this Englishman read aloud from a Saxon book of
saints."
"A Saxon book of saints!" exclaimed the guardsman. "I would see it."
When its owner had handed it up, he looked it through hastily, yet
turning the leaves with reverence, and crossing himself whenever he
encountered a pictured cross. As he handed it back, he turned his eyes
on Alwin, blue and piercing as steel.
"It is likely that you are a high-born captive. That you can read is an
unusual accomplishment. It is not impossible that you might be useful to
me. Who is your master? Is it of any use to try to buy you from him?"
Rolf laughed. "Certainly you are well named 'the Lucky,' since you only
wish for what is already yours. This is the cook-boy whom Tyrker bought
to fill the place of Hord."
"So?" said Leif, in unconscious imitation of his old German
foster-father. He sat staring down thoughtfully at the boy,--until his
attendant took jealous alarm, and put his horse through a manoeuvre to
arouse him.
The guardsman came to himself with a start and a hasty gathering up of
his rein. "That is a good thing. We will speak further of it. Now, Olaf
Trygvasson is awaiting my report. Tell them I will be in camp to-morrow.
If I find drunken heads or dulled weapons--!" He looked his threat.
"I will heed your orders in this as in everything," Rolf answered, in
the courtier-phrase of the day. His chief gave him a short nod, struck
spurs to his horse, and galloped after his comrades.
CHAPTER VIII
LEIF THE CROSS-BEARER
Inquire and impart
Should every man of sense,
Who will be accounted sage.
Let one only know,--
A second may not;
If three, all the world knows.
Ha'vama'l
It was early the next morning, so early that the world was only here and
there awake. The town was silent; the fields were empty; the woods
around the camp slept in darkness and silence. Only the little valley
lay fresh and smiling in the new light, winking back at the sun from a
million dewy eyes.
Under the trees the long white-scoured tables stood ready with bowl and
trencher, and Alwin carried food to and fro with leisurely steps. From
Helga's booth her voice arose in a weird battle-chant; while from the
river bank came the voices and laughter and loud splashing of many
bathers.
Gradually the shouts merged into a persistent roar. The roar swelled
into a thunder of excitement. Alwin paused, in the act of ladling curds
into the line of wooden bowls, and listened smiling.
"Now they are swimming a race back to the bank. I wonder whom they will
drive out of the water today." For that was the established penalty for
being last in the race.
The thunder of cheering reached its height; then suddenly it split into
scattered jeers and hootings. There was a crackling of dead leaves, a
rustling of bushes, and Sigurd appeared, dripping and breathless.
Panting and spent, he threw himself on the ground, his shining white
body making a cameo against the mossy green.
"You! You beaten!" Alwin cried in surprise.
Sigurd gave a breathless laugh. "Even I myself. Certainly it is a time
of wonders!" He looked eagerly at the spread table, and held up his
hand. "And I am starving besides! Toss me something, I beg of you." When
Alwin had thrown him a chunk of crusty bread, he consented to go on and
explain his defeat between mouthfuls. "It was because my shoulder is
still heavy in its movements. I broke it wrestling last winter. I forgot
about it when I entered the race."
"That is a pity," said Alwin. But he spoke absently, for he was thinking
that here might be an opening for something he wished to say. He filled
several bowls in silence, Sigurd watching over his bread with twinkling
eyes. After a while Alwin went on cautiously: "This mishap is a light
one, however. I hope it is not likely that you will have to endure a
heavier disappointment when Leif arrives today."
Back went Sigurd's yellow head in a peal of laughter. "I would have
wagered it!" he shouted. "I would have wagered my horse that you were
aiming at that! So every speech ends, no matter where it begins. I talk
with Helga of what we did as children and she answers: 'You remember
much, foster-brother; do not forget the sternness of Leif's temper.' I
enter into conversation with Rolf, and he returns, 'Yes, it is likely
that Leif has got greater favor than ever with King Olaf. I cannot be
altogether certain that he will shelter one who has broken Olaf's laws.'
Tyrker advises me,--by Saint Michael, you are all as wise as Mimir!" He
flung the crust from him with a gesture of good-humored impatience. "Do
you all think I am a fool, that I do not know what I am doing? It
appears that you forget that Leif Ericsson is my foster-father."
Alwin deposited the last curd in the last bowl, and stood licking the
horn-spoon, and looking doubtfully at the other. "Do you mean by that
that you have a right to give him orders? I have heard that in the North
a foster-son does not treat his foster-father as his superior, but as
his servant. Yet Leif did not look to be--"
Sigurd shouted with laughter. "He did not! I will wager my head he did
not! Certainly the foster-son who would show disrespect to Leif the
Lucky would be putting his life in a bear's paw. It makes no difference
that it is customary for many silly old men of lower birth to allow
themselves to be trampled upon by fiery young men of higher rank, like
old wolves nipped by young ones. King Olaf's heir dare not do so to Leif
Ericsson. No; what I would have you understand is that I know what I am
doing because I know Leif's temper as you know your English runes. From
the time I was five winters old to the time I was fifteen, I lived under
his roof in Greenland, and he was as my father to me. I know his
sternness, but I know also his justice and what he will dare for a
friend, though Olaf and all his host oppose him."
He let fly a Norman oath as, splod! a handful of wet clay struck between
his bare shoulders. Turning, he saw among the bushes a mischievous hand
raised for a second throw, and scrambled laughing to his feet.
"The trolls! First to drive me from my bath and then to throw mud on me!
Poison his bowl, if you love me, Alwin. Ah, what a throw! It is not
likely that you could hit a door. What bondmaids' aiming! Shame!"
Mocking, and dodging this way and that, he gained the welcome shelter of
the sleeping-house.
A rush of big white bodies, a gleam of dampened yellow hair, an outburst
of boisterous merriment, and the camp was swarming with hungry
uproarious giants, who threw shoes at each other and shoved and
quarrelled around the polished shield, before which they parted their
yellow locks, stamping, singing and whistling as they pulled on their
tunics and buckled their belts.
"Leif is coming!--the Lucky, the Loved One!" Helga sang from her booth;
and the din was redoubled with cheering.
"By Thor, it seems to me that he is coming now!" said Valbrand,
suddenly. He had finished his toilet, and sat at the table, facing the
thicket. Every one turned to look, and beheld Leif's thrall-attendant
gallop out of the shadows toward them. No one followed, however, and a
murmur of disappointment went round.
"It is nobody but Kark!"
Kark rose in his stirrups and waved his hand. He was of the commonest
type of colorless blond, and coarse and ignorant of face; but his
manners had the assurance of a privileged character.
"It is more than Kark," he shouted. "It is news that is worth a hearing.
Ho, for Greenland! Greenland in three days!"
"Greenland?" echoed the chorus.
"Greenland?" cried Helga, appearing in her doorway, with blanching
cheeks.
They rushed upon the messenger, and hauled him from his horse and surged
about him. And what had seemed Babel before was but gentle murmuring
compared with what now followed.
"Greenland! What for?"--"You are jesting." "That pagan hole!"--"In three
days? It is impossible!"--"Is the chief witch-ridden?"--" Has word come
that Eric is dead?"--" Has Leif quarrelled with King Olaf, that the King
has banished him?"--" Greenland, grave-mound for living men!"--"What
for?"--"In the Troll's name, why?"--" You are lying; it is certain that
you are."--" Speak, you raven!"
"In a moment, in a moment,--give me breath and room, my masters," the
thrall answered boldly. "It is the truth; I myself heard the talk. But
first,--I have ridden far and fast, and my throat is parched with--"
A dozen milk-bowls were snatched from the table and passed to him. He
emptied two with cool deliberation, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"I give you thanks. I shall not keep you waiting. It happened last night
when Leif came in to make his report to the King. Olaf was seated on the
throne in his hall, feasting. Many famous chiefs sat along the walls.
You should have heard the cheer they gave when it was known that Leif
had the victory!"
Here Kark's roving eyes discovered Alwin among the listeners; he paused,
and treated him to a long insolent stare. Then he went on:
"I was saying that they cheered. It is likely that the warriors up in
Valhalla heard, and thought it a battle-cry. Olaf raised his
drinking-horn and said, 'Hail to you, Leif Ericsson! Health and
greeting! Victory always follows your sword.' Then he drank to him
across the floor, and bade him come and sit beside him, that he might
have serious speech with him."
A second cheer, loud as a battle-cry, went up to Valhalla. But mingling
with its echo there arose a chorus of resentment.
"Yet after such honors why does he banish him?"--"Did they
quarrel?"--"Is it possible that there is treachery?"--"Tell us why he is
banished!"--"Yes, why?" --"Answer that!"
The messenger laughed loudly. "Who said that he was banished? Rein in
your tongues. As much honor as is possible is intended him. It happened
after the feast--"
"Then pass over the feast; come to your story!" was shouted so
impatiently that even Kark saw the wisdom of complying.
"It shall be as you like. I shall begin with the time when every warrior
had gone to bed, except those lying drunk upon the benches. I sat on
Leif's foot-stool, with his horn. It is likely that I also had been
asleep, for what I first remember was that Leif and the King had ceased
speaking together, and sat leaning back staring at the torches, which
were burning low. It was so still that you could hear the men snore and
the branches scraping on the roof. Then the King said, while he still
looked at the torch, 'Do you purpose sailing to Greenland in the
summer?' It is likely that Leif felt some surprise, for he did not
answer straightway; but he is wont to have fine words ready in his
throat, and at last he said, 'I should wish to do so, if it is your
will.' Then the King said nothing for a long time, and they both sat
looking at the pine torch that was burning low, until it went out. Then
Olaf turned and looked into Leif's eyes and said, 'I think it may well
be so. You shall go my errand, and preach Christianity in Greenland.'"
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