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Published 1954

PREFACE

There are certain aspects of this book which I want to make clear. Although the narrative as a whole takes its romantic colour from the Kensington Stone, which I regard as a memorial to the first white martyrs of America; and although I have used the stone as a symbol of the Christian faith, the subject matter of the book is based upon the Paul Knutson Expedition, which sailed from Bergen in 1355-1356, by command of King Magnus of Sweden and Norway, for the sole purpose of reclaiming from heresy the people of the Western Settlement of Greenland.

At the present time the Kensington Stone is under attack as a forgery, a familiar charge after fifty years of futile controversy; but the expedition itself cannot be questioned. It was undertaken by a remarkable body of men: the king’s men—(i.e., noblemen from the king’s guard, and from other positions of authority) and their retainers. Sir Paul Knutson, for example, was the judge of Gulathing, and to him was given the right to select his various officers. That some of the fated company made a safe return to Norway has been verified by circumstantial evidence to be found in Icelandic annals covering the years 1328-1372. A more picturesque evidence was to be seen as late as 1505 in the portals of Saint Halvard’s Cathedral, namely two skin boats (kyaks), tokens of a seafight in Greenland waters. Such oddities would not have been housed in a Catholic church except as relics of self-sacrifice; reminders of the men who did not return, and who gave their lives in the service of the Cross.

It might be asked why the king should have undertaken a costly expedition in behalf of a remote colony. The answer lies in the king’s character. Magnus was an intensely religious man. He spent millions in money and undermined his own authority in repeated crusades designed to bring the Russian people into the Catholic faith. He had twice failed yet had determined upon a third attempt when the bubonic plague finally put a stop to his plans. Obviously a man so beset by religious duty could not have remained indifferent to the terrible news that a Christian settlement was falling away from the faith.

We learn from the Skalholt annals of the Bishopric of Iceland (1347) how the news reached the king. According to the annals a Greenland ship (smaller than the little coastal trading ships of Iceland) on its return from Markland was blown out of its course by storms at sea. The ship was constructed without a single iron nail or rivet; it had no anchor! Yet the seamanship of her crew bested the Atlantic gales and brought her to port in an Iceland fjord. What seemed noteworthy to the scribe, however, was not seamanship but the dramatic appearance of men from a country almost forgotten in his generation. In fact they were remarkable men. They wanted no help for themselves but asked for passage to Norway and a spokesman to lay before the king the desperate conditions which prevailed in the Western Settlement of Greenland.

The following year (1348) the sailors arrived in Bergen accompanied by an influential Icelander delegated to speak for them. Magnus was distressed by the news, but with the Russian campaign on his hands, there was little he could do until that was concluded,—a circumstance which was to have tragic consequences, and to leave to history the unsolved riddle of a lost people.

Now to return to the stone. It was my good fortune to be reared in an old-fashioned household where the Norse antiquities were the better part of our daily bread; and where all Norse relics were seriously judged in the ancient light of the Sagas; where the family chronicle of Eric the Red was familiar and yet dutifully compared with the Flatey Book, a more objective record of the Vinland voyages; and where, for more personal reasons, the accounts and activities of the Iceland Bishops were studiously considered. Old documents show that from 1150 to 1408 no fewer than fifteen bishops were ordained to serve in Greenland and Vinland. These congregations must have had direct connection with Rome, for in the Vatican library are documents showing the papal income derived from the diocese across the Atlantic. One of these is dated: Anno Domini MCCCXXII et die Mensis Augusti. A bull issued by Pope Nicholas V, 1448, informs us that the Greenland and Vinland churches suffered great loss thirty years previously through Indian attacks.

Many other passages might be quoted as proof that Leif Erikson’s Vinland was no myth, nor the mainland of America unknown to northern Europe. And all such passages are an indirect support to the record of the Kensington Stone. But I shall content myself with a quotation from the annals of my own ancestor, Bishop Gisli Oddson of Skalholt Cathedral. Here it is, transcribed from the Latin (17th century): “1342. The inhabitants of Greenland fell away from the true faith and the Christian religion, and after having given up all good manners and true virtues, turned to the people of America (ad Americae populos se converterunt). Some say that Greenland lies very near the western lands of the world.”

These references certainly suggest that some such course of action as that taken by the expedition must have been inevitable. Dedicated to a religious task they had no alternative but to extend their search for the missing people to the mainland of America. Then why should the Kensington inscription seem incredible? As a matter of fact the only reasonable criticisms are concerned with linguistic imperfections: absence of inflected word forms, bad spelling, colloquialisms, etc. These faults are not denied; but, commonsense tells us that the truth of a message does not necessarily depend upon perfect grammar. Furthermore, in this instance the peculiar imperfections are so typical of 14th century usage when the old tongue was undergoing a drastic change, that they stamp the inscription as genuine. For these irregularities are so seldom found in the literary fragments of the 14th century as to make it improbable that a forger could have come across them.

In short there is no decisive evidence which disproves the validity of the Kensington inscription. The following is Mr. Holand’s reading and translation of the runes:

The following three lines are inscribed on the edge of the stone:

As to the contention that Norsemen trained at arms and in seafaring could not have penetrated the continent by way of Hudson’s Bay and the river systems later followed by French and English explorers, it scarcely deserves notice; but a word might be said as to the old Norse method of reckoning time and distance. Days-journey (Dagur) was a recognized unit of distance equal to about seventy-five miles, irrespective of the actual time taken to cover the distance. According to the Rimbegla “Dagur” corresponds to two degrees of latitude or one hundred and twenty geographical miles. The sea in question is the Hudson’s Bay, and therefore by either reckoning, the expedition is seen to have reached the prairies. The island presents no difficulty. Many elevations now adjacent to marsh and muskeg may have been small islands in shallow waters hundreds of years ago.

In conclusion: except where actual historical figures are involved I have felt free to create composite characters based on folk relations and legend which, in many instances, were the only records left of many great families after the depredations of the plague and the civil conflicts of the times. I have tried to be faithful to the ethics, the traditions, and the intellectual stir of the fourteenth century which was more widespread and speculative than popular historians have led us to believe.

Certain liberties were unavoidable: King Magnus alienated his Norwegian subjects by a marked preference for Sweden and Gothland, but since the expedition sailed from Bergen I have set the Court in the old capitol of Norway. Also, for the sake of readability, I have used the familiar tribal names of the Indians; and for the same reason I have addressed my priest as Father in preference to the Norse Sera, Sira, which can have no comparable significance for English readers.

Finally, I wish to acknowledge my great debt to Mr. Hjalmar Holand whose remarkable book, The Kensington Stone—A Study in Pre-Columbian American History, is a treasury of information. It was this book which made clear to me the value of the Norse lore which had been so freely dispensed in my father’s house.

—L. G. S.

CONTENTS

It all began with a fanfare of silver trumpets and the strident voice of the Town Crier intoning the king’s latest proclamation. These pompous alarums were nothing new in Bergen and might have passed without causing a sensation if the sun had not seen fit to pierce the drizzly skies in a sudden burst of benevolence transmuting the dull grey air to a luminous ethereal mist and the grimy spire of the Cathedral to a burning pillar of light.

This pleasant miracle entranced the little crowd gathered in the town square, sharpening their interest in a performance which a moment before had scarcely touched them. Now they listened and what they heard was a startling departure from the familiar announcements of border wars or some fanatical crusade dear to the heart of King Magnus. Although the Crier had indeed announced a new crusade the astonished listeners now discovered a new twist in the old tune. This new mission concerned their kinsmen in far-off Greenland who stood in danger of eternal damnation by reason of wilful apostasy. Yet all that was asked of the king’s faithful subjects was moral support! The brunt of the venture was to be borne by the Nobles and the Gentry. It was not the common soldiers and sailors who were to risk their lives in wild foreign places and upon the furthermost seas; it was the King’s Own Gentlemen . . .

Who had ever heard of such a thing before? Surely it signified something beyond mortal ken; the end of the world, or a change of heart in high places. More likely it was a new trick to win them over to some fantastic project; for who could believe that the great country families, who were the strength of the throne, or the militant nobles who were its ornament, would tolerate such a levy. No, no, it was too sweeping in its unprecedented demands and put them on a level with common folk whose prime duty was unquestioned obedience. If there was any truth in this fanciful announcement then the king must have something more persuasive than temporal authority to back his demand. Something that sweetened the bitter taste of obedience. They would wait and see . . .

They were right. The persuasive element was soon revealed. The Pope had bestowed his blessing upon the king’s crusade. What was more, His Holiness, in further mark of approval and as an incentive to all good Christians, relinquished for the king’s use all the Church tithes for three or four years. Now this was news indeed! And as might be expected the tidings swept the country like wildfire kindling an enthusiasm that exceeded the king’s most extravagant hopes. Everyone wanted to share in the sanctified mission. The poor brought their pence; the rich purses of silver; even the German merchants begged the privilege of furbishing a ship, if no more.

It was all very gratifying to the pious king who took heart from the thought that when he himself should be forgotten his crusade would live on in the memory of a people who had never troubled to understand him, nor the things he truly prized. His failures in Russia had brought him bitter censure; but this time there would be no failure. His cause was just, and with God’s guidance he had chosen just men to lead his crusade. Paul Knutson, the incorruptible judge of Gulathing, as its chief commander; Father Benedict, his own confessor, as its spiritual head. In the latter case he had had to override the Bishop of Bergen who objected to the loss of Father Benedict. “What?” he had cried, “will nothing less content you, Sire? Oh, my dear son, the Cathedral will be a cold place without that golden voice.”

True! But Father Benedict was more than a voice. He was a scholar, an able organizer, a bold and tireless worker, always at his best in a crisis. And he could beg the leaves off a tree! Indeed it was largely due to this bewitching eloquence that a people, at first sceptical and suspicious, were now completely won over to the Cause. And who could say with certainty whether Paul Knutson, empowered though he was with a royal manifesto, would have fared too well with the nobles, if the great priest had not stood beside him. As it was, and in despite of winter weather and the hardships and perils it imposed upon the traveller in a mountainous country, a great deal had been accomplished. More than two hundred prominent men were pledged to the crusade. Disciplined soldiers who had fought in the wars of the Emperor; veterans of the Russian campaigns; famous knights and more famous champions—a remarkable body of men in anyone’s estimate. With such men to swell the ranks of his own select guardsmen who could despair of ultimate victory? Considering the dissensions which divided Swede and Norwegian the achievement was almost incredible. . . . Yes, it was incredible, for all that remained undone was the selection of the right military leader, and this was in process of completion. Paul Knutson, accompanied by Father Benedict, were on their way to the Manor of Darre, the most ancient homesite in historic Gothland.

There was good cheer and good fellowship at Darre Manor on this April evening in 1355. It was a hospitable house and tonight a numerous company were assembled in honour of two distinguished men come upon the king’s business. Gossip had of course preceded them and although everyone seemed merry Father Benedict was aware of an undercurrent of displeasure. This did not surprise him, for their host was but newly returned from a border engagement and furthermore, Count Jacob, he had reason to know, was of a sceptical turn of mind, completely out of sympathy with the king’s missionary zeal. He was also the most powerful nobleman in Gothland and seldom hesitated to speak his mind within the domain of his own lands.

At the moment, although courtesy impelled him to listen to Paul Knutson’s explanation of the royal decree which had brought him to Darre, it was obvious to the watchful priest that neither the laudable aims of the proposed expedition, nor the king’s desire that Jacob be appointed military leader, was finding favour with the great Count.

“Sir, the whole thing is crazy!” Jacob responded. “A wild notion inspired by vanity. My dear Paul, there are heathen enough this side the ocean without seeking them in Greenland. In any case what have I to do with snatching souls from the fire? My business is arms, thank God.”

Guests and household were at supper in the old hearthroom. Lady Margit preferred comfort to ostentation and seldom used the banquet hall which was always damp except in mid-summer, and this was a late cold spring. But now, Margit thought ruefully, a worse chill threatened her guests. She had caught the glint of annoyance in Father Benedict’s eyes and wondered if Knutson was aware of the antagonism which existed between the priest and her husband.

A hearty laugh reassured her. “Friend Jacob,” Paul retained the laughter in his voice, “when the men of Darre forswear the sword and their gift of leadership I shall know the Millenium is at hand.”

“Ha! that may be,” the Count retorted. “Even so, what sense I had in cradle gift is still mine. There is a limit to the duty of the sword. Nowadays the most trifling pretext serves to launch a crusade. It is the habit of kings stuck for glory—yes, and of prelates greedy for advancement—” he shot an angry glance at the priest. “That is the truth. Yes, but you and I know that truth is treated as a harlot in learned quarters,” he amended glumly. “Your inkpots dream up holy crusades, but the doing falls to rough men like myself; and what we learn at the business is not the noble stuff they publish.

“King Magnus is a good Christian. Whoever first put the thought into his head he came to believe that God had chosen him to convert the Russians. Now you tell me he has a new vision. God’s Death! Do you think I have forgotten the disasters of the Russian crusades? Or the boys who died in the bogs and marshes of that savage country because the king, confident of heavenly aid, saw no reason for the proper training of his levies? To my thinking this is a vainglorious attempt to redeem the Russian blunder. So now we must chase to Greenland to save the souls of a few Norse wretches who deserve damnation for believing the monstrous lies of Erik the Red. Greenland indeed!”

Father Benedict’s smouldering annoyance broke bounds. “That is a foolish speech, my Count of Darre. It is our sacred privilege to spread the Faith, and no sacrifice is too great in its defence and support,” he began slowly, his voice burred with suppressed emotion. “You seem to forget that a Christian people who have relapsed from the Holy Faith stand in worse peril by reason of their wilful apostasy than the heathen whose sins are the fruits of ignorance. It would seem that you also forget that these Greenlanders are our kinsmen, and have a kinsman’s claims upon our hearts. But you mistrust our inkpots. And for no better reason than that you glibly consign these poor bewildered souls to the black mercy of the Devil.”

Now this was not the right tone to take with Count Jacob, as his lady well knew, and so made haste, in her own easy-going fashion, to put an end to male obstinacy. Small, inclined to corpulence, and with heavy-lidded eyes that gave her plain sallow face a sleepy expression, Lady Margit glided to her husband’s side and laid a very firm little hand on his shoulder. “Good husband,” she said lightly, “our honoured guests seem to be as well acquainted with your bold opinions as with the record of your brave deeds. May we leave it at that and proceed with the king’s toast?”

As she spoke her eyes slowly lifted in twinkling apology to Father Benedict. They were remarkable eyes, of startling blue depths and keen intelligence. For this lady of deceptive appearance was a woman of good sense and sound judgment; content that her husband should vent his authority in colourful bluster, since everything of practical importance was perfectly safe in her capable hands. As for his tempers, she found them diverting; and if they threatened to get out of bounds she turned them off as easily as a barmaid turns a flowing spigot.

So now, at the pressure of her hand, Jacob came to himself as host; the heavy scowl replaced by a sudden chuckle. “What are we waiting for?” said he, glancing down the snowy sweep of table to the wine jars. “Let us toast the King—God bless his foolish whim!”

The Lady Margit signalled a servant, and with a commending pat for her dear Jacob, crossed to Paul Knutson who was an old friend. “Do me the pleasure to make a choice, dear Paul,” said she. “We have Flemish wine, and a German vintage got at Visby from the Hansa merchants.”

Paul Knutson laughed, glancing sidewise at the Count. “My tastes are indifferent,” he said, “but I suspect that Father Benedict has a poor stomach for German vintage.”

“Then for once we agree.” Jacob Darre looked at the priest with a flicker of approval. “These Hansa peddlers grow too big for their britches. And we poor fools have not the wit to see it. God’s Death! in a while there won’t be a single Norse trader in all the north seas . . .”

“My lord, if you please—” The Lady Margit spoke crisply from the end of the table, whither she had hurried to superintend the pouring of the wine. “We toast His Majesty.”

“Yes—ah, yes—” Jacob Darre rose to his feet with the swift and easy grace of a lean tempered body and stood waiting till all the goblets should be filled. A most impressive figure, mused his wife complacently. The plain black velvet suited him; it was as right as armour—all of a piece with the heavy hair that clung in neat waves to the shapely bones of his head; and with the dark intense eyes which dominated as with an inward restless fire the lean brown face she cherished.

Count Jacob Darre lifted his glass, and in the momentary stir whilst his guests rose from the benches his glance sought Margit’s, and to her dismay and secret delight, a bold black eye winked at her. Then, very clear and earnest: “Gentlemen and ladies, I give you THE KING!”

The King! the King! the King! Oh, it was a brave sound, Lady Margit reflected as her guests seated themselves and fell to on fowl and venison, stewed lamb with herbs, boiled and pickled fish, honey-bread and sweet butter; with ale and mead enough to float a ship. But what exactly were they celebrating with so much good cheer from her larder? What in all conscience did this proposed expedition signify? Was her husband right that wounded vanity somewhat coloured the king’s sudden concern for the people of Greenland, whose needs heretofore had aroused no great interest? Even the supply ship which, according to royal charter was to sail yearly with grain, hemp, nails and tar, and other essentials unobtainable in that barren colony, had not always been sent on its mission. She must ask Paul Knutson a thing or two! No use questioning the priest; he saw nothing but souls flitting towards perdition. A dreadful thought, truly, God forfend them. Even so, if Jacob was once again to furnish men and monies to King Magnus, who always seemed out of cash and over rich in fanciful ideas, she had the right to know the truth of this business. She owed it to her sons and to the future to make certain that their patrimony at least should be safeguarded against the king’s peculiar obsession with costly dreams. Jacob had been gone two years on that ill-starred Russian crusade. Now he was to fare forth on a yet more hazardous venture, where even the elements were an added danger of unpredictable magnitude. Paul Knutson might have spared them this honour! And so she meant to tell him . . .

These reflections nowise interfered with Lady Margit’s observation of less consequential matters. The new serving wench was capable enough, she noted, but inclined to linger by the lower benches where the Count’s men-at-arms were making free with the ale. She must keep an eye on her at bedtime. She perceived also that her youngest son, a great boy of ten winters, who knew she detested such dirty habits, was slyly feeding bits of meat to the spotted hound at his feet. Swiftly the lady approached the young culprit and whilst calmly addressing the man beside him, she reached for the household keys which hung on a silver chain from her girdle, and struck her son’s wrist. Then smiling she moved away.

Guttorm looked after her with a grin. How wonderful she was! Not the least thing escaped her; knowing mamma he could well believe that God marked the sparrow’s fall. Even now, though she seemed not to have looked at him, mamma was heading for Sigurd, his handsome elder brother, who (judging by the silly expression on the face of the girl beside him) was doubtless pinching her knee under cover of the linen table cloth. Yes, their little mother saw everything, and without the least fuss circumvented most things which displeased her. Guttorm rubbed his red wrist and sighed. If only mamma had the king’s ear, and her keys handy, she might persuade him to send his knights to a likelier place than Greenland . . .

Ah, just as he suspected! Sigurd was up to mischief. For now their mother brushed his shoulder with her small speaking hand, and the poor goon turned salmon pink with mortification. The girl of course looked as innocent as the angels on the chapel walls. Mamma withdrew her hand but continued to stand where she was, her sleepy look very pronounced, which meant that everything about the girl would be quite clear in her mind before she moved away. Then Guttorm forgot the drama of Sigurd and the girl mamma was adding up like a column of figures. The High Commissioner had risen and was calling for attention. He had a parchment in his hand, with the king’s seal upon it, plainly to be seen and vastly impressive. And he himself had now assumed the courtly manner of a king’s agent. He had a harsh voice (rather like papa’s who was more used to yelling at soldiers than speaking in fine assemblies) but his words were choice and effective; so effective that young Guttorm was long to remember them; to taste them with pride, as though each syllable contained something of special significance for himself. Now they poured over him, cool, clear and hard, like the spring rain here in the highlands, and something woke in him, a new perception, a little stir of destiny.

He saw the hearthroom as though for the first time, and perceived how rightly Paul Knutson referred to it as the warm heart of Darre Manor. He looked at his father, and saw the fine velvet replaced by chain-mail and steel armour, and behind him he seemed to see all the Darre men who had fought and died in defence of their hearthrooms and the green dales and fair hills of Gothland. He looked at his mother and a queer lump rose in his throat. She held herself so straightly and her face was so white and still he was suddenly overwhelmed with tenderness for her. He was aware, as deeply moved children often are intuitively aware of things beyond explanation, that without his mother the hearthroom was an empty place; that all those fighting men of Darre must have had someone like her to give meaning to their death. For it was mamma who held things together; everything the dead had striven to establish of public good and private duty. And now it seemed that she must continue doing so in even greater loneliness with none beside her, save only himself, who understood what the heritage of Darre meant to her.

These thoughts flew in and out of Guttorm’s mind, weaving a kind of backdrop against which Paul Knutson’s inciting words took on a deeper reality. He was telling his listeners that this expedition was unique in the history of Scandinavia; perhaps in all history. For this was no commercial enterprise disguised in holy raiment. There were no ulterior motives involved, no new lands to exploit, nor rich kingdoms to be wrested from heathen powers. It was an expedition devised for no other purpose than to restore Christianity to the Western Settlement of Greenland where the people had relapsed from the True Faith, the exercise of all good manners and Christian virtue.

He went on to explain how these tidings had been borne to the king by Jon Guttormson, an Icelander, who, having private matters to lay before His Majesty, had also elected to act as spokesman for seventeen Greenlanders whose storm-tossed vessel had barely made port in that country the previous fall. These men had been to Markland for timber which had been a profitable venture for some time past. But their chief concern was the wretched state of the Western Settlement where a neglected and isolated people must make what shift they could to preserve themselves from extinction. If the means they chose for survival was not to be disastrous and evil then their kinsmen at home must come to the rescue. With this plea in mind they had come to Norway; and to this plea King Magnus had instantly responded as behooved a Christian monarch who entertained no doubts of the piety and goodwill of his loyal subjects.

Paul Knutson made a pause, as though in deference to the sensibilities of his listeners; then, unfolding the royal letter, he began to read with a quiet gravity which lent charm and dignity to the stilted words of the king’s decree:

“Magnus, by the Grace of God, King of Norway, Sweden and Skaane, sends to all men who see or hear this letter good health and happiness.

“We desire to make known to you that you (Paul Knutson) are to take the men who shall go in the Knorr (our royal trading vessel) whether they be named or not named, from my bodyguard, or from among the retainers of other men whom you may wish to take on the voyage, and that Paul Knutson, who shall be the commandant upon the Knorr, shall have full authority to select the men whom he thinks best suited to accompany him, whether as officers or men. We ask that you accept this our command with a right good will for the cause, inasmuch as we do it for the honour of God and for the sake of our soul and for the sake of our predecessors, who in Greenland established Christianity and have maintained to this time, and we will not now let it perish in our days. Know this for truth, that whoever defies this our command shall meet with our serious displeasure and thereupon receive full punishment.

“Executed in Bergen, Monday after Simon and Judah’s Day (October 28th) in the six and XXX year of our rule (1354) by Ormm Ostenson, our regent, sealed.”^[1]

A fabulous beginning not infrequently comes to a fabled end. The mocking words flashed through Father Benedict’s mind, as he sat alone in the prairie night, keeping vigil beside a little lake, situated he knew not where, in a wilderness boundless as the sea. The thought cut too close for comfort. He had been thinking of Bergen; seeing a misty pageant of a brave spectacle, which tonight, the eve of Holy Cross Day, 1362, seemed as remote from reality, and the tribulations of the hour, as the hard bright stars overhead.

For no sensible reason, or because he was too tired, he had been re-living the excitement and splendour of the lovely summer day when the Paul Knutson expedition marched for the last time through the crooked streets of the ancient city. They would long be remembered, that splendid company, as they wound their way with flying pennants down to the sea, where the grey and gilded ships rode at anchor.

He remembered the ceremony of departure; the Bishop’s prayer and the king’s farewell. He remembered the wild elation of the spectators which rose to such a pitch when the ships stood out to sea that the shouting almost drowned out the solemn blessing of the Cathedral bells . . . a fabulous beginning . . .

Father Benedict exorcised the rest of the sentence with a shudder. The fluency of the words reminded him too keenly of his former eloquence, which it now seemed to him he had employed out of vanity and pride. There was justice in Jacob’s accusation that he had misused his powers of persuasion, over-riding the council of practical men. It was painful to reflect that he had insisted upon this overland journey as an obligation to Knutson’s memory. Alas, that fateful decision had brought them to this tragic end, entrapped on an island whence there was no escape.

A shrill, screeching sound, weirdly magnified in the still night, wrenched Father Benedict out of his melancholy thoughts, bringing him to his feet alert and listening. Were the Redmen stirring? Contemplating midnight massacre? There it was again, sharp, nerve-rasping. Then silence. That was queer! The usual pattern included cat-calls, derisive bird cries. Was this a new twist in the barbarous mockery? It might be so; after all he knew nothing of the savage rituals of the hateful creatures camped on the mainland. Nothing save their love of torture, he amended bitterly, as he climbed the banks to gain a clear view of the lake.

Much to his relief there seemed no cause for alarm. There was no trace of suspicious movement on the water. The surface of the lake, faintly silvered under the pale rays of the rising moon, was as smooth as a new shield; and the grey-blue strand of the opposite shore seemed as empty of life as the moon itself. That was reassuring to some extent. It seemed to confirm Mahigan’s assertion that the prairie tribes were as averse to night fighting as were their kinsmen in distant Vinland. No doubt that was true in general, yet who could rightly estimate the fury of such madmen when all the odds were in their favour? They were six hundred against ten! Why should the phantoms of the night restrain them? No, it was more likely that the fruits of victory occupied their immediate attention; that they were not yet finished with the captives seized in yesterday’s raid on Mahigan’s people.

Dismissing the grim speculation, Father Benedict continued along the sloping banks down to the southern end of the island which, trailing a long low spur of land, was its most vulnerable point, and which, therefore, had been fortified by a barricade of enjoined saplings, earth and stones. Here the priest had an uninterrupted view on either hand but again nothing was to be seen. Yet he knew that somewhere on the eastern shore Ojibway spies must be keeping watch on their deadly enemy, the Sioux, whose camp was directly opposite the island. And somewhere in the pit of darkness separating these two, Mahigan and Lavrans were tempting atrocious fate in the fantastic hope of finding help or a way of escape for the garrison.

The thought of Lavrans, who was dear as a son, overwhelmed the old priest with a sense of intolerable guilt, for there was no escaping the bitter knowledge that but for him the young man would never have dreamt of leaving the abbey where he had been happy and contented, and might have lived out his life in useful service. “Oh, Lavrans, Lavrans,” he sighed, “how badly my love has served you. How terribly amiss my ambition has—”

Once again his lamentation was shattered by the biting screech, now close and clear, instantly familiar, and oddly bracing. “Well, bless me!” In spite of himself the priest grinned. He might have recognized that defiant sound—known that no matter if the heavens were to fall and the earth give up its dead, Count Jacob would take comfort from filing the blade of his ax!

With a final glance at the opposite shore, where the moonlight wove a deceptive spell of gentle beauty, Father Benedict turned up the slope, crossed the wooded ridge, and stopped for a moment at the edge of the clearing. Nothing new arrested his eyes and yet he was profoundly moved by the epic quality of the scene before him. Midway of the long narrow clearing the embers of a campfire glowed in the dusk, rose-red, like the oriel window of Saint Olaf’s Cathedral back home; and round this bright centre lay the outstretched figures of sleeping men, as still as sculptured effigies. Ragged cloaks shaded their faces; shields and battle gear lay beside them. In the forefront, standing straight and true, the upright shaft of a gray stone assumed the awesome significance of an ancient doleman.

A little to one side, grim sentinel in this grave place, the Count of Darre, seated on a mossy log, was whetting with swift angry strokes the great blade of his heavy battle ax. A glint of humour lit the priest’s sombre eyes. From their first encounter at court a queer antagonism of mutual pride and stubbornness had sprung up between them. Since then they had shared a thousand dangers by land and sea, suffered heartbreak and the daily threat of violent death, and never for a moment relinquished this peculiar hostility, which nonetheless had not prevented the growth of a secret affection one for the other. Father Benedict had felt the force of that affection on the dreadful day of the massacre. . . . He had felt the warmth of a deep compassion flowing out to him as they stood together beside the long grave. Oh yes, Jacob had understood what was passing through his tortured mind, how bitterly he blamed himself for the death of their friends. Father Benedict decided the time was come to set things right between them. Swiftly he crossed the clearing, his step silent as the stride of a redskin.

Jacob did not look up from his labour at the priest’s approach, but he made room on the log by shifting his position. Then, sighting along the blade of his ax, silver bright in the moonlight, he grinned. “It will do,” he said, setting it down; then curtly: “Where is Lavrans and that savage I distrust?”

Father Benedict stiffened. “They slipped across the narrows,” he said. “Mahigan thought we ought to find out the strength of the war-party encamped in the woods—perhaps find out how much time we can count on.”

“So? I never knew that it inspired courage to know the exact hour of death. Myself I should have ordered sleep in place of such a fool’s errand. . . . But then your Mahigan may have other plans, irrespective of Lavrans’ welfare.”

“The more shame to you, Jacob!” the priest spoke harshly, for here was a subject of long contention. “Mahigan has shown us nothing but gratitude for the help we gave him. Yes, and loyalty not always found in men of our own race. What more can we ask? Has he not made our tongue his tongue; our God his God? Has he not given all he had to give; his woodlore, the many native skills which have stood us in good stead?”

Jacob chuckled. “Faith and common sense make disquiet bedfellows. As a priest you are obliged to trust your convert; but I who have served princes, and learned how quickly one cause succeeds another, place little faith in fine words and opportune attachments. I put my trust in hard reality. Or what seems so,” he added flatly, and for a moment fell silent, his dark face unreadable. Then, facing the priest, he said quietly: “We make too much of ourselves; of our pride and delusions. I did not mean to vex you, Father. In truth I should not condemn Mahigan if he returned to his people. I have learned at last not to expect miracles of ordinary men.”

The last was said so gently it startled Father Benedict. Distressed beyond reason he sprang to his feet and walked to the stone as if to seek assurance from its white solidity. His hand upon the rock he stared at his old protagonist with uneasy apprehension. He had often deplored Jacob’s pride, yet now it seemed to him that any breach in that formidable characteristic would be intolerable. In a word, he could not bear to see his friend in humble mood. It was all wrong—yes, and doubtless it could be laid to Sigurd, that comely, carefree, unprincipled creature none could hate, nor anyone fully trust.

Jacob Darre, aware of the other’s confusion, saved him the immediacy of speech. “That is an excellent piece of work, Father Benedict,” he said with quiet conviction, bending forward to study the straight, uniform, boldly chiseled characters on the stone. “There cannot be many Christian priests skilled in the art of cutting runes.”

“As to that I cannot say. My own skill is easily explained. My people were poor. An upland farm has no need of younger sons, so I was apprenticed to a stone mason in Nidaros. There is much of his work to be seen in Saint Olaf’s Cathedral; fretwork in stone that seems as fine as lace to the astonished eye.”

Father Benedict’s tired face lit with sudden tenderness. “My kind master would dispute your praise. He loved stones, and always said that only the knowledgeable hand could expect to win from them the fluid grace hidden in their hearts. No, no, Jacob, I had not the knowledgeable hand! My tongue, he quickly told me, was a much better tool for one who asked no more of stones than to sentinel a grave yard. Even so I have not forgotten my old master’s respect for a fine stone. This cutting is fairly good—though I could wish it were better. The inscription has flaws—not epigraphical, perhaps; but my knowledge of linguistic forms was imperfect, and the little I did know is half forgotten. A Rune-master would find many faults in this poor work, and not my least offence is the inclusion of Latin numerals and—”

“It is well done,” Jacob cut in gruffly. “With Death at his elbow no one could have done better.”

The priest said nothing, but the hand he lovingly ran over the head of the stone was not quite steady. For this praise of his skill had warmed him, as a forlorn child is warmed by the touch of unexpected compassion. No doubt it was a weakness to be so moved; a reprehensible form of vanity. And yet, was it not somewhere said that even the fool is made wise by the grace of love? So, whether wisdom or weakness, let him rejoice that the hard years had not altogether distempered the gentle strings of the heart.

Still silent, Father Benedict dropped upon his haunches before the starlit face of the stone and traced with roughened fingers the concluding characters of the tragic inscription:

AVE MARIA SAVE US FROM EVIL

An invocation and a prayer. Here in a single line was summed up the substance and hope of the men whose memorial was a stone. The same might be said of the living, of the few survivors, who now for yet a little time had the power to think, to feel, and to mourn. All summed up at a single eternal centre. Nothing to add; nothing to take away. Worship and despair; and the hope which springs anew from the core of despair. These were the cycles that tempered the human soul. Yes, in like manner as untold epochs of furious upheavals had shaped this noble slab of greywacke, now become a tribute of affection and a testament of faith. Jacob was right. It was well done; for what did it matter if his hand had lacked cunning and his poor learning was at fault? He had been moved to this thing, not to be read of quibbling scholars in time to come, but to assuage the saddest of human regrets. Regret for kindness unspoken. That was the pain of death. He had stood alone in the night beside that long weal of earth which was their grave and wept with David: “Love and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness.” It had come to him then to implore the tender Mother of God to grant him the grace of some tangible restitution. And they had come upon the stone, so perfect of its kind; set down in this island of refuge, this fair green shelter under the hovering wing of death. Now his task was done.

Recollecting himself, Father Benedict turned to Jacob, his features reposed and his voice crisp as usual: “It will do, but I must deepen the side inscription, if there is time.”

“Then you had better get some sleep,” Jacob said just as coolly, and added: “Give me the chisel to sharpen. The screech of metal is music to my liking.”

The priest returned to the log and sat down. “Lavrans sharpened it this morning, along with my sword,” he explained absently, his mind engaged with new anxiety. Had he been wrong in letting the young man go off with Mahigan? Who could say what might happen? To flee the thought he began to talk of Lavrans. “He has a fancy for that sword, young Lavrans. It is a fine blade, of rare workmanship and great antiquity. It was given to Holy Church by a young Franklin who took monastic orders with the Minorites. In expiation of his father’s sins, so it was said. For the man had been guilty of much evil: manslaughter, treason against his liege and open whoredom with the king’s niece. Thus strangely do great valours go amiss! Never before had that blade done wilful injustice. Indeed it was forged for service in the third crusade where so many of our Scandinavian nobility fought for the Holy Sepulchre. Now it is here, and may as well strike its last blow in clean hands.”

The Count grunted. “Myself, I trust to skill in such matters,” said he drily; but what more he meant to say went unsaid.

There was a noise to distract them. A sleeper, turning, had struck his shield and sent it toppling upon his neighbour, who woke with a yell and instantly sprang to his feet lashing at the empty air in sleepy frenzy. Laughter restored his wits, as one by one the old campaigners sat up to jeer the poor man. He was a small weazened creature, brown as a hazelnut and agile as a monkey; a Laplander, amazingly skilled in leechcraft, cookery, and the concoction of every conceivable brew, but the arts of war were not to his fancy, although he was brave in the face of actual danger, and native cunning more than equalized his deficiency in combat. He had an excitable temper.

“Oh laugh! laugh, you stoneheads,” he cried, hopping up and down in angry annoyance. “I tell you some fiend flew in my face! The Devil or his leman—and you find that funny? Ha! With me in hell who would tend the stew pot?”

Ivar Baardeson, a huge goodnatured guardsman from Skaane, whose copper-coloured hair and squarecut jutting beard lent him a false ferocity of appearance, now reaching out a long powerful arm grabbed the tattered coattails of the angry little cook. “Hell would rue it, you poisoner,” said he, grinning up at the tethered figure. “No, no, you have naught to fear, my kettle king—except from us. That rabbit stew last night smacked of rat.”

“Of rat?” shrilled Hake. “A lovely squirrel sweet as a grub and you call it a rat? What would you? Am I Moses to fetch squabs on the wind, or manna from the sky? Holy Saints—”

“Now, now, rats or grub what does it matter?” a blond angular-featured man with a long scar over one eye drawled, stretching himself and staring up at the starflecked sky. “ ’Twill all be the same in a day or two.”

“A day or two? Hours, you mean.” The voice was chill and satiric and yet friendly. For everything about Thorvald, the speaker, was contradictory. He had the kind of ugliness which fascinates and pleases; his features were irregular and austere but he had a magnificent frame, and splendid black eyes. At Court he had been distinguished for an air of elegance, and even now he bore himself with peculiar distinction. It was said he hated women, and her most of all to whom the king had wed him. That, and no act of piety, muttered the Court ladies, was Thorvald’s reason for espousing the Paul Knutson crusade. “If it is length of days you are after then bear in mind that savages have ears no less sharp than their scalping knives,” he went on, and then he laughed. “You have roused the old lion, I see,” he nodded toward the figure now coming toward them in swift long strides.

“Hell and damnation!” the Count of Darre hailed them. “Stop this gabble. Get back to sleep. Hake, kick up the fire. We may as well publish our presence with a beacon.”

“Yes, my lord. Why not?” Unabashed, the little Lap grinned broadly at the formidable Captain. “The red fiends know we are here. So why should we shiver and rise to battle stiff as corpses?”

“Get on with you!”

“Certainly, certainly! Like the wind,” said Hake, nodding his head and scuttling off for the neatly cut firewood he had assembled beforehand.

All save Thorvald had flung themselves down upon Jacob’s approach. The dark saturnine young Franklin continued as he was, sitting immobile as an obelisk, staring into the night. The Count looked at him sharply. What a pity, thought he, that man had ever left the uncomplicated Eden of animal existence for the hard pastures of treacherous reason. Ha! Fable or no, the fruit of the tree that gave knowledge of good and evil was bitter stuff indeed. An indigestible pottage so far. With a grunt and groan, the Count lay down beside the still figure. Poor devil! What maggot of regret was gnawing at his vitals? Or was it these blasted stars, cold and glittering as harlot eyes in this murdering place; stars which at home kindled to lucent splendour hills and fjord and sparkling waterfall? Before he pulled the cloak across his face he remarked conversationally: “Might as well stretch my bones. Father Benedict insists upon keeping lone vigil by his stone. It has become for him a sanctuary, and a confessional. . . .”

A short distance to the left of the stone, and nearer the trees which rimmed the lake front, there was a small clump of pines, thin black spires in the grey and silver night. Here Father Benedict had made himself comfortable, his back against a tree trunk, legs drawn under him and wrapped round with his gown. He had long since ceased to regard his body as anything more than a tough and able instrument which functioned perfectly with minimum care; a little food and drink, and snatches of sleep from which he woke as alert and refreshed as the creatures of the wood. He had also, of necessity, the old campaigner’s ability to sleep when he chose; and since there was nothing more to be done at the moment, he had fallen fast asleep. He was back in Watterdal, sitting on the stoop before the milkhouse and licking cream from the churn as his mother made butter. The air was warm and sweet with clover from the new field his father had cleared and sown, and a little wind from the great forest all round mingled with his mother’s voice and made music of her scolding. “Look at your legs, Benedict, all scratched and dirty! You have been out in the brambles again; filling your stomach with green berries, and no thought of the goats, you little glutton. What would happen if they scampered over the ridge? There are wolves in the forest, and nothing belikes them so well as a taste of goat, or mayhap a small fat boy full of bramble juice.”

But the wind, which at times shook the little house, and tore up whole tufts of thatch from the steep roof, was gentle as a kitten today; it pawed at the spicy herbs in the nearby garden patch, dill and celery and garlic; and rocked the small pink roses as lightly as his mother rocked the baby. And his mother’s voice had a lilt in it very like the rhythm of the busy plunger, smooth and sweet as the fat rings of cream that oozed from the churn; these things were real and near; the wolves afar and not very frightening. . . .

Father Benedict woke with a little sigh of regret, instantly repressed as a weakness of foolish flesh. Then, startled indeed, he saw in the grey shadows beyond the rim of firelight a tall spare figure pacing to and fro under the brittle autumn leafage of the slender silver birches.

Not that there was anything uncommon in the sight of some lonely soul wrestling with the cruel phantoms of the mind. But even in the dusk and at this distance the graceful sweeping stride of the disquiet figure published the man’s identity. It was Thorvald Eyvindson. Thorvald the proud and self-sufficient in whom the passions of ordinary men seemed to have congealed in a hard core of indifference.

Nothing else could be said against him. Thorvald was an excellent soldier, perfectly disciplined, and of a cheerful, though caustic humour. But in all the long years of exile no one had been really close to him. There was something about him which rejected intimate friendship. Even so the priest had not been deceived; under the cool exterior he had long ago perceived an intense human bitterness; and he had thought more than once that Thorvald, although a practising Christian, in secret bowed to no other deity than some exquisite pain he had, enthroned upon the isolated altar of his own arrogant heart.

Unhappy soul! Father Benedict had the momentary impulse to join the desolate man, but wisely refrained. There was something indecent in the best meant intrusion upon the secret sorrows of the human spirit. Let him come of himself unbeggared in choice. But he could make his presence known, the priest enjoined himself, and forthwith made some stir, rising, stretching, crossing to the stone, where again he seated himself, and seemed lost in contemplation. In a while, to his grateful satisfaction, he heard a footfall approaching, and a moment later Thorvald stood beside the stone.

“So? Like myself you find the night too fair for sleep?” He smiled at the grim young man who stared down upon him with black hostile eyes that seemed to burn in the grey bleakness of a dead face.

“No, I did not sleep. This night, nor many another night,” Thorvald replied shortly. “That is no matter. Father Benedict—” he faltered, leant upon the stone with clenched hands, and in a shaken voice blurted: “Have you patience to hear—a confidence?”

“What else am I for? Sit down, my son. We have this log, and all night to ourselves.”

“I have not come as a penitent, Father. Nothing is farther from my mind. I have no regret for the thing I have to tell. None! Never for a moment have I wished the deed undone. And yet—I don’t know why, I should like the thing told . . . have you still the grace to hear me?”

“If not grace, at least I can assure a willing ear. Sit down, Thorvald. And fret not for reasons. There is a logic of the spirit not easily explained. Let us leave it there. Now, my son, in your own way, in whatever manner seems fitting, tell your tale. To me, unless otherwise asked, it shall be as a tale of long ago told beside the long-fires of our Viking kindred.”

Thorvald sat down, his long, slender hands, fine still in spite of strange toil, clasped tight round his knees, his eyes turned upon the priest in a searching glance. “That is kindly said, Father, but I dare say I shall need a voice to prod me on. I have not the tongue of a Court poet. God! if I had I should have cried the truth from the house-tops.” Then, more quietly: “Did you know that both the King and the Archbishop sought to prevent my joining the expedition?”

“There are always rumours—which one learns to discount.”

“Say you so?” There was a sneer in Thorvald’s cold voice. “The jest of it is that when rumours fly truth is discounted. The Court, unable to learn what lay behind the stormy interview which took place one May morning in the palace, spite took over. It was said I had paid a fortune to get into the company; that neither the King’s persuasion, nor the pleas of my father, could keep me at home where my duty lay. Even the Archbishop’s threat of a levy against my goods for insubordination had come to nothing. Every argument was in vain, so said gossip, for such was my hatred of the girl I had married, that I had determined upon exile in one way or another.

“How I despised them! Smiling wantons and their lecherous cavaliers! And yet it pleased me to feed their lies! It amused me to reflect that for once a kind of truth unknown to the gossip mongers breathed through their lies. For you see hatred was the mainspring of my behaviour. Hatred for that pious hypocrite, Sir Eyvind, my father.”

More astounded by the vehemence than by the statement itself the priest glanced sharply at Thorvald, and decided to say nothing. The poor young man had the mien of one possessed. There was such loathing, such haunting misery, in the dark eyes that met his own with unflinching defiance that whatever he had thought to say froze within him.

“You think me mad, I see.” Thorvald laughed under his breath. “Perhaps I am; it may be madness to be too discriminating in a pious age. To you Sir Eyvind was a model of Christian benevolence. A generous patron whose gifts to the church were truly fabulous. So they were. Who has not admired the lovely chapel of the Blessed Virgin with its exquisite statue and precious appointments? And who could have failed to be impressed by Sir Eyvind’s generosity when he endowed a hostel for indigent gentlewomen who wanted to end their days in holy contemplation. Nor should we forget the asylum he meant to build as a refuge for lepers—the sinners on whom the hand of God lies so heavy. What a pity nothing came of it. There were no applicants for that kind of service.” Again he laughed mirthlessly.

“Yes, a pity.” Father Benedict’s voice was low and impersonal. “All hardness of heart is a great pity.”

“Is it indeed!” Thorvald’s glance was bitter. “We shall see how judgment falls when I have done.” He stopped on a harsh intake of breath, his gaze fixed for a moment on the dusky landscape beyond the pale rim of the firelight. When he spoke again it was in quiet tones. “You had the kindness to give me leave to tell this thing in my own way. Then let me tell it as it has lived with me all these timeless years.”

There is an island upcoast from Bergen which my father had in grant from the Crown. Approached from the south, where sheer marine rock rises to great heights, the place has the wild splendour of an inaccessible fortress; except that here the watchmen are winged creatures, sweeping by thousands round the slate blue headland. From this formidable height the land slips backward in sharp irregular ledges which level off in a fairly large plain where the coarse grass and heather of centuries grow knee-high in summer. The ledges are screened with firs and pine; the plain with little clumps of ash, stunted oaks and the grey willow.

Here, sheltered from the sea wind, my father built a pleasant house. A place quite unlike our primitive manor houses, which he found distasteful and cheerless after his travels abroad. Still, as you might expect, he did not risk the censure of the conservative gentry by introducing any foreign innovations at the manor, or in the ugly heap of cluttered chambers he keeps in Bergen. All such things he reserved for the island house. On the island he had neither envy nor superstition to fear. There it was quite safe to let the salutary smoke escape to the sky through the unholy contrivance of a chimney; and to let in the sunlight through windows of dangerous glass. In that house his strange guests walked on smooth tile; and took their leisure, or their cheer, sheltered from damp and draught by precious tapestries of Flemish and oriental workmanship.

But this house of costly comforts and peculiar hospitality was, I soon learned, a mere adjunct to the island. The island had other uses than appeared to the occasional visitor from Bergen. It was made for devious purposes. The marine rock of the western shore, chiselled by the ages into a deep cove, with a shale and sandy beach, seems to be designed for piracy. And there are caves in the rock, very useful to seamen freebooting in Hanseatic waters. . . .

That dark business is not the source of my hatred, although it is incidental to it. I understood that in the beginning my father’s only desire was to plague the Hansa whose ruthless enterprise was strangling domestic trade. It was not until King Waldemar of Denmark set himself against the league that Sir Eyvind resolved to follow the royal example in earnest. With this in mind he paid a visit to the Danish court, and because none knew better how to bind one with acts of courtesy he took me along, and gave me the honour of presenting his gift to the king. Waldemar Atterdag was pleased. And well he might be for his crown was no more costly than that gift. It was a missal got in the Holy City, richly illuminated with gold leaf and minium, bound in finest leather of lozenge pattern in cream and blue with jewelled clasps of Moorish silver. Such gifts were uncommon, yet perhaps the giver impressed the king quite as much. I remember that they eyed one another for a long moment, then the king rose and took my father by the hand. “Well met!” he said. Words I was not to understand for some time, nor the uses to which our island was resigned.

My father had great plans for me. As an only son I was not to grow up in ignorance of the world beyond our seas. “It was always our way to visit foreign lands,” said my father. “Only a travelled man acquires the riches which furnish the mind.” I was to enjoy the benefits of civilization, of cultures distilled from a thousand years of Christian teaching. I was to drink at a gulp this divine brew and then return properly primed for the business of perpetuating our ancient lineage. “Enjoy yourself by all means—only bear in mind that you are the sole prop of our house.” Those were my father’s parting words.

There was more than enough to see. Magnificent guild halls that rivalled in opulence the great cathedrals; burghers and their ladies almost as splendid as the everpresent churchmen riding, roughshod as princes, through the dirty streets. Noisy fairs replete with cut-throats and whores; strolling players, ribald as gipsies; and pompous religious plays exquisitely dull; all manner of entertainments our small unpretentious towns cannot emulate. . . . There were other things as yet beyond us: the town square ascream with squalid creatures come to glut their lust on the torments of heretics condemned to the holy fires. That inspiration I have not forgotten! Oh no, the incense of a thousand years of Christian faith is something to remember. . . .

Forgive me, Father, I have no wish to offend you. I speak of these things because they are the atmosphere which coloured all my thinking. If I had not seen so much of duplicity, greed and cruelty, where I expected charity and truth, I might have kept my illusions, including a blind faith in my father as a pillar of loyalty and honour. Bear that in mind if you can. It may explain the ardent creature who returned home after three years spent in strange, exciting, incredibly cruel places.

I was only eighteen years old, less innocent, but not much wiser than when I left; vain that I had seen so much and yet wanted none of it. I had seen that cities mushroomed where trade and commerce meet. It was no miracle. But it made me understand why my father hated the Hansa. If great cities were the ends of civilization then indeed we should see to our trade. Even so my youthful thoughts centred elsewhere. I was homesick. I wanted to get back to our little farms and awesome mountains, to our clean rivers and blue seas, and this fever brought on a delirium of fantastic visions. I thought I saw for the first time what it meant to be a Franklin: master and yet part of the earth and of the race which drew its substance from it. If as a Franklin my lot was easier than that of my peasants, it also laid upon me duties and obligations. In a word I thought I understood the true reasons for my father’s charities as well as his claims upon me. He was discharging his debt to the earth, to his people, and to the family.

Filled with these ideas and longing as never before to see my father, it was a bitter disappointment to be met at the quay by our town steward and told that Sir Eyvind had gone to the island. It was even worse to be told that a sloop was at my disposal, the house for my entertainment, and that I could take my own time in coming to the island. A strange welcome, indeed; but there were stranger things to come.

I hung about the town for three days, too proud to rush over at once, too lonely to stay away longer. There was no lack of warmth in my father’s welcome when we met on the island, but he was not alone. He was followed by a company which put me in mind of a fantastic carnival. Such a display of haphazard splendour defied belief. Silks, laces, finest velvet and jewels, all donned by caprice, it seemed or as if all these people had stood in a wind and found themselves clothed by the chance whim of a troll. And what people! I stood agape, not knowing what to think or say.

“Welcome home, Thorvald!” cried my father, throwing an arm round my shoulder, then whispered: “Pay no heed—they leave tomorrow, my splendid devils.” Which seemed to bring into focus the wild faces of these human dragon flies. Sweepings of the southern seas; pirates who had learned their trade in conflict with the city states. The realization was as stunning as a physical blow. And yet, as they crowded upon us, it was a second shock to perceive that these men were not so monstrous as one likes to believe. That they could slit a throat as lightly as a cat rips a mouse I had no doubt, but I had seen more vicious faces in a Christian mob.

I remember a very dark young man, wrapped in a green mantle, with rings in his ears, who mocked at me from brandy coloured eyes: “He finds us queer company!” said he to my father in German better than my own. My father laughed, lifting his hand for silence: “Friends, this is my son Thorvald, back from the Hansa cities we love so well. . . . Thorvald, I am pleased to present these masters of the sea. We do not trouble with names; it leads to confusion. . . . Now let us on to the house and a bit of cheer.”

At the house I was not overly surprised to find Eline of Glanheim. I had come to guess her relationship with my father before I left Norway. She was a pleasant woman, far too indolent to enjoy any kind of interference. We had got on well enough whenever we met. What did surprise me was her obvious familiarity with the barbarous company. Overdressed, slightly tipsy, she played the queen of cut-throats with evident delight.

There were three or four other women at table; sultry creatures of whom I remember nothing, save mouths red as wounds, and black insolent eyes. Eline came to my rescue. Patting the seat beside her she shrilled above the din: “Sit down and let me look at you. Ah, but how fine we are . . . and proud as Lucifer.” She tittered, patting my sleeve, and putting her face close to mine, whispered: “Have sense, dear boy—do not glower like an angry abbot. The devil likes gay company.”

How gayly they fared I do not know. I escaped as soon as I could, and hurried through the dusk to a little house by the water, which my father had given me one summer, because I had a fancy for woodcarving and liked to be alone. That was what I wanted now, and it put me in a rage to see a glimmer of light in the tiny window. It was too much! Whoever was making free with my house should have a taste of my knuckles.

But when I flung wide the door my anger died away in confusion. Beside the tiny hearthfire a young girl sat sewing. She was small and slight and made me think of the summer sea at sunrise. Her dress was some silk stuff, blue-green in colour; her startled eyes, too large for her small oval face, were of the same blue, flecked with green round the iris; her unbound hair was like a shower of white gold. We stared at each other in embarrassed silence. It was she who first spoke: “You must be Thorvald,” said she, “I should not be here, I know; but we did not expect you so soon.” And she began to gather up her sewing.

“No, no,” I said. “There is no need to rush away. If you like it—if you have been staying here, I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” she said in a small soft voice. “Yes, I like it here. When they are drunken I stay.”

“Are they often drunken?” I asked, furious that she should speak as calmly as one might of a change in the weather.

“Yes. More often of late than when first we came,” she said, reaching for a small basket to put away her things. Then, as though the thought had just struck her, added: “Please sit down. If you do not mind I should like to stay for a little while.”

“Until they drink themselves asleep, you mean?”

“Yes.”

I drew up a stool to the other side of the hearth, not knowing what to make of her; she had the trusting air of a child, the tempting figure of a woman. Struck by a monstrous thought, I almost shouted: “Do you mean to say you stay here alone in the night?”

“Yes, I like that best.”

“With these creatures here? Are you not afraid?”

“No. Why should I be afraid?”

“Why indeed! So you have never heard that a drunken sailor might molest a woman?”

A little flush of colour tinged her white skin a pale rose, and the green in her eyes flashed at me in mingled shame and indignation.

“Yes, I have heard so,” she said. “It has no bearing here. No, it has not. These men have been very good to me.”

With the picture I had of these worthies this pronouncement threw me into a fit of laughter, from which I fetched up short. She had risen and stood, slim and wraith-like in the flickering firelight, regarding me with distaste. “I shall leave now,” she said. “Meseems all your travel has taught you little of courtesy—or else you, too, are drunk.”

“If I am drunk,” said I angrily, getting to my feet, “then I fit into the gallery of your friends! I happen not to be so—but I am sorry to seem rude.”

She sighed. “It is rude to mock at people. Even so I must leave.”

“No, I shall take myself off shortly. You are welcome to this place. I have no further use for it. Please forgive me. We may as well be friends for the day or two of my visit. Which reminds me I have not asked your name.”

“Oh,” she laughed then, as children laugh who have come upon some wonder. “My name is Jensine Mahler, my father was a Swede. He was drowned at sea before he had time to wed my mother. She was cousin to Dame Eline. My mother had gone to Stockholm to serve the Mistress of the Robes; she died when I was born. Eline has kept me in a convent; now she means to find me a sensible husband.”

What could I say? I just stared at her; she spoke these things so lightly. At last I said, sitting down again, for she was back in her chair: “Has she found him?”

“Oh no. That must wait until we come to Bergen,” she sighed. “It will be difficult because of my bastardy, but Eline has much wealth, and then my friends mean to fill my chests. Even this dress,” she fanned out the shimmering skirt to the firelight, “a poor sick Turkoman gave me because I fetched his food and simples. I think his shipmates misliked him—he never came back.”

“That was a foolish thing to do!” I said outraged. “Let them find their own leeches. God knows they have treasure enough to pay for it.”

“Not the forecastle men. Oh no! Common sailors get only their pay. Those men up at the house are shipmasters. With them it is different. They share in the cargo.”

Rightly perceiving my amazement, though not the dread which had hold of me, she went on to explain her statement. These captains of merchantmen made port at Copenhagen, each ship, whatever it might be, lying in at the King’s wharf. What took place in the counting houses Jensine, of course, never bethought her, but she added that my father’s ships—quite naturally!—stood out to sea again under Norwegian captains. It must be, she thought, that the Bergen port officials misliked foreign traders. King Waldemar and Sir Eyvind were not so bigoted. It was the king’s business the captains came to discuss with my father. They always arrived for their conference in a royal vessel, bearing a gift from the king, who must be exceedingly fond of my father, thoughtful of Eline also, for this time he had sent her a brooch set with rubies, and a fine roll of broidered silk.

These revelations, which to Jensine were the essence of good fortune, deprived me of speech. I had the numbing vision of my father sentenced to exile; even killed. I knew enough of palace intrigues to realize that in the event of discovery King Waldemar would do nothing to save him. Even a despot cannot afford to side with the fallen. Nor did my young conceit stretch so far as to suppose that I could in any way affect the onrush of calamity.

After a little I returned to what did seem within possibility of repair. “Tell me,” I said, “how is it your kinswoman lets you mingle with these sailors? Surely she could send a servant to tend the sick?”

“The servant wenches are afraid of them. But my aunt—I call her aunt by permission—” she explained conscientiously, “my aunt has a kind heart. It detracts from her pleasure to think of suffering. In Bergen the remnants of every banquet are always sent to the poor. Oh yes, it upsets her if there is misery anywhere near. She has often impressed upon me that Our Lord Himself loved the sick and ministered to them. So of course she would like to wait on the sick, but that is out of the question. Sir Eyvind would never permit it, he has such fear of disease. That is lucky for me, otherwise I could do nothing to repay my aunt’s kindness. Besides, I like these poor men; and I think they like me, too,” she finished with a smile. As if that settled everything. . . .

You may wonder I remember all these things. When I have done it may seem less strange. But do not mistake me, Father. This is no tale of Tristan and Isolde. I was not in love with Jensine. I was much too taken up with myself and my father’s affairs. . . .

The next morning I sought out my father. His guests were gone and he was down by the shore looking over a newly painted brig. From his appearance he had nothing else on his mind. “A sweet craft, Thorvald,” said he. “She runs before the wind like a deer.” He laughed. “What a sour face you have, son. Can it be you think I have lost my wits?”

“Yes—and your head to follow,” I answered, and told him all my fears.

He heard me in courteous silence. “Hm, your dear mother, God rest her, had a nettlesome tongue. It could sting and burn. Seems you have the same gift. Gertrude had also a worrisome imagination; she had me dead a dozen times in our little border skirmishes. Now son, your concern flatters me, but I assure you it is wasted. The king has better sense than to chop off the heads which dream up money for him. It is true the Hansa would hang me if they could—” then in sudden passion: “What of it? Surely the prosperity of our country is worth a neck or two!”

This outburst cleared the air between us. I wanted to find a decent reason for these shady doings, and here it was: private war against the enemy.

So now our talk swung to my travels, the people I had met, the places I had seen. We went through the little ship, admiring her timbers, the fine craftsmanship of the shipwright. A little later on our way back to the house father proposed a shoot. Eline was fond of game and he thought we might bring down a few birds. Capercailzie and geese were plentiful.

Even now I am glad of that day. It was like old times to clamber up the headlands in the gay company of my father. He was witty and agile as a young man, and a most excellent shot. We were happy as vagabonds when we turned homewards, our game bags full. We came by way of the shore, for all the outbuildings are set by the sea: barns, smithy, bath and store houses. The banks are high with a fine view of the sea and fine beach below. Coming this way, thinking of nothing in particular, I caught sight of Jensine, sitting on a boulder on the beach below. I had so completely forgotten her that it was a shock to see her. She looked very little and lonely seen against the sea and sky.

“Ah, so you have met the little maid.” My father eyed me sharply. “Jensine is a pretty creature; but look, Thorvald, no foolishness. A girl in her position must wear her wedding garland honestly. She has nothing, save virginity, to bring a husband.” He chuckled, but his eyes were hard. “No mean thing, either! I know it is the fashion nowadays to poke fun at old-fashioned notions—but many a fine lordling has changed his mind when he got too much at the altar. Fools! When I was a lad we had sport enough with peasant wenches without deflowering our ladies.”

Here he waved at Jensine, who must have heard the rumble of his voice, and was smiling up at us, her bright head tilted like a bird’s. “Not that Jensine is exactly a lady, poor soul. Nice child, just the same—although her mother was a well-born fool. That makes it worse, but Eline will get around it somehow. She has plans for the girl. Remember that.”

This seemed the time to bring up the sailors, and I did so to no purpose. Tending the sick was part of her education, Sir Eyvind informed me crossly. The best she could hope for was to make a good housewife for some widower with children. Brats were always ailing. She had no skill in cookery and so must excel in something. Unfortunately she was too gentle, poor little thing, to make an amusing mistress.

I might have found all this rather funny, if my eyes had not been fixed on the fragile creature smiling up at us from the clean background of sea and sky. Instead I hurried away filled with shame. Shocked for the first time by the ruthless standards of people like ourselves. My father talked away cheerfully, but I scarcely heard him. I wanted to ask him by what right he dispensed this kind of justice. Was it the power of wealth? Did nothing else count in the world? Oh yes, I wanted to ask these naive questions, but I was not quite fool enough to do it. Sir Eyvind was not an easy man in argument. I kept still, and when we got home, and Eline had taken over the conversation, I slipped away to my own little place. I wanted to think—perhaps I should say it was then I began to think for the first time in my pampered life.

The next day my father was off with the tide; where or on what business I dared not ask. He was gone a fortnight, and since Eline was too indolent for outdoor activities Jensine and I had the island to ourselves. She knew all the places of special enchantment; little caves where the sand was white-silver; grottos that had tiny pools of green water; the headland where the wild birds nested. They were her friends, and this was her kingdom, the fairy land she had dreamed of as a lonely child. She had a sweet turn of fancy, you see. And yet she was as gay and full of fun as any other girl of her age. It was love and pity for every helpless thing that made her different. . . .

One day when I wanted to exercise my father’s falcon she cried out: “Oh no, Thorvald, not you. It is cruel to make sport of death.” And when I laughed, reminding her that, raced or not, the hawks were killers, she made a strange answer. “What is that to you? The hawk obeys his own instincts. They are his commandments.”

She loved the sea, and almost daily we went rowing to this or that place she knew from her own explorations. A strip of beach under blue rock ledges, little caves inaccessible save when the tide was out. . . . It was on one such trip I first noticed her hands. We were climbing a steep bank, at the top of which Jensine had caught sight of a little flowering lime tree. It seemed to her a miracle that a tiny seed from the mainland had taken root in such sterile soil and now blossomed so sweetly.

I had gone someway ahead—for she was used to climbing up and down our headlands—when I heard her slip, dislodging a shower of stones. For a terrible moment as I slithered down towards her, I thought to see her dashed to the rocks below. But she did not fall. Accustomed to such mishaps, she had clutched a projection and thrown herself flat against the face of the cliff, letting the sand and stones pass over her harmlessly, so it seemed. Then I saw a stone ricocheting downward strike her hand. No, she did not let go—when I got to her she laughed. “With all this dirt in my hair,” said she, “my little tree won’t find me a pretty visitor.”

I had her in my arms, still terrified by the vision I had had of her body broken on the cruel stones. Nothing, I then thought, could ever exceed this awful possibility. I was mistaken. What I was soon to feel passed all the bounds of imagining. We had gained the top and were sitting under the lime tree, and Jensine was shaking out her hair. Astonished and a little hurt by her calmness, I said: “Though you were so sensible, you need not be smug about it. Now let me see your hand.”

“My hand? Why, there is nothing wrong with it.”

In a sense that was true. There were no visible bruises, signs of redness or swelling. She had felt nothing—had no sensation of pain in the little white hand she held out to me. . . .

She must have read fear in my face though not the reason for it. “Oh, Thorvald!” she cried in a small voice. “Oh, Thorvald—” and started to cry, as a child cries on some twist of emotion, the unheeded tears running down its face.

“Now what’s the matter?” I snapped at her. “One minute you say nothing is wrong, and now—”

“I know—I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “but you see it’s strange anyone should care what happens to me. It’s nice, but it hurts.”

Yes it hurt. All of a sudden I was holding her close, torn between pity and angry despair. What she said was true; there was no one to care what became of her. If what I feared was true she would be set adrift to beg her bread in shame, an object of terror and loathing wherever she strayed. Dreadful visions shot across my mind, for I had seen and shunned such outcasts myself. I was filled with terror, a cowardly impulse to turn and run, and then a wave of anger swept it all away. I looked down on her bright hair, soft and sweet against my cheek and knew that I could never abandon her.

Jensine brought me back to the present. “Thorvald, this is silly,” she said, drawing away and dabbing at her wet face, “but I shall remember it as something sweet—in the dull years ahead.”

Then I knew what I had to do. “Jensine, would you also call it silly if I asked you to marry me? I do ask it.”

God knows what she thought (Thorvald went on). It took all my patience and cunning to persuade her I was serious. But in the end she consented to let me approach my father. Poor girl, she had no suspicion of the devious course I meant to pursue, and that my first step was to take her to a learned leech in Bergen.

This arranged itself simply. When my father returned from his mysterious journey he told us that he had urgent business in the capitol and that he wanted the town house made ready for guests.

The morning after our arrival in Bergen I went to Herr Hebbel and explained what I wanted. He was very kind; so that afternoon I asked Jensine to come with me to the booths in Shoemaker’s Alley. I wish I could forget that hapless day! Jensine was so pleased, so thrilled with each novelty, so enchanted with a pair of slippers I bought her in a musty stall hard by Herr Hebbel’s shop. He saw us and stepped out, a bundle of dried roots in his hand which he hung up over the doorpost. He smiled, pointing to the fragrant roots: “For my pommades,” said he, “for my lady’s hair and hands.”

Jensine looked up at me with eager eyes. It was as easy at that. We entered the cluttered shop, and because my heart was a lump of fear, I sat down in a dim corner. Herr Hebbel fetched his little jars of ointment. “Now, please, lay your hand on the kneading pad. It gives best to study the texture just so.”

“What fun!” Jensine laughed. “Herr Hebbel, your little jars smell like flowers.”

“Ja, like flowers—” said he, staring at her hand. “Quite so, little lady. Now let us see. . . .” With a little wooden spatula dipped in ointment he began to probe the palm of her hand; scratch the skin, and tap the knuckles and cold fingertips. “Ja, ja,” he said at length, turning back to his shelves in pretended search of something special. “The lady can do with medicinal ointments.”

So now I knew. Yes, now I knew the compensation divine justice meted out to the innocent. That gentle girl, my lovely little Jensine, was a leper. . . .

The journey home was a nightmare to me (Thorvald said). Jensine’s gaiety, the sunny weather, the merriment of the streets, all these things added to my awful misery. In a hazy way I perceived that something unusual was going on around us, but I could scarcely follow Jensine’s excited chatter, let alone anything else. It was not until we had reached the lane that winds to our house that I woke to what she was saying.

“The king and court will be there, and all sorts of fine folk from Sweden and Gothland. But the person I most want to see is Sister Birgit—the holy woman who means to found a new sisterhood.”

The mention of this powerful woman cleared my senses. It struck me as providential that the Lady of Vadstena should be in Bergen at this time. She had certainly not come to attend a worldly celebration. If what Eline had told Jensine were true, and Sister Birgit had come especially to see the king, it must be to air a grievance if not to scold him for the frivolity of some favourite. As you may remember, Sister Birgit had no love for King Magnus. Her adoption of a conventual habit did not affect her class prejudice. According to her, King Magnus not only aspired to destroy the powers of the ancient nobility, which was tantamount to defying God’s established order, but he had the additional effrontery to raise up favourites of his own. I felt sure that Sister Birgit had come to court to protest some new appointment he had made. And if so the situation could be made to serve my purpose.

Before her conventual days, when they were both young, Sister Birgit and my mother were good friends. She was a guest at our old manor, and on several occasions my mother and I spent several weeks on her magnificent estate of Vadstena in East Gothland. It happened she took a fancy to me because I listened spellbound to her amazing discourses.

These recollections led me to believe that Sister Birgit would help me, provided I played upon her prejudices, and said nothing of my actual problem. I knew that she had always suspected my father of moral obliquity; what she would think of his association with Eline, and of Eline as a young girl’s protector, you can imagine. It was this I meant to stress: Jensine’s perilous situation and my own helplessness.

Sister Birgit was pleased that I should seek her counsel, and listened to my tale with intense concentration. I had the impression that nothing I might say of Sir Eyvind would surprise her, but her eyes hardened when I told her that Eline had a fixed plan for Jensine, plans suitable to a penniless bastard. And when I added that my own case was little better, since the king meant to wed me to the daughter of his latest favourite, her displeasure was even more obvious.

“Say you so?” Sister Birgit studied my face for a moment. “Thorvald, there is more in this than you confess. Never mind, I have the feeling that what you want to do is right. More than can be said of the king or Sir Eyvind. His Majesty needs to be reminded that his subjects are not articles of barter; and your father that he is something less than God. Well then, let us proceed with resolution. Approach your father at once. Be firm—and keep your temper. We must have him carry the grievance of insubordination to the king. Then we shall see.” Smiling, she held out her hand. “I shall expect to see Jensine and yourself at Mass tomorrow morning. God keep you, dear boy.”

The interview with my father was short and eruptive. At first he thought I must be drunk. When he finally understood me he was too dumbfounded for immediate rage. “You must be crazy,” he said almost amiably. “Junketing in foreign places has turned your head. My son, you will marry a suitable lady and beget children fit to carry on the race. There is no more to be said.”

“I shall marry no one save Jensine. Nobody has the power to make me take marriage vows against my will.”

That did raise the storm. It raged round my head for upwards of an hour, and I said nothing. At the end he stared at me in glum bewilderment. “Very well, Thorvald, if you won’t listen to me, perhaps you will listen to the king. Now get out of my sight.”

On the morrow our meeting with Sister Birgit turned out better than I had hoped for. She was pleased with Jensine’s modest attire, and obvious veneration of herself. She smiled at me over Jensine’s bowed head as she made her grave little courtesy. Then she said: “You remind me of your mother, Jensine. She was a sweet and gentle lady, my child.” And when she saw the tears spring to Jensine’s eyes, she took her hand gently: “The world is seldom just, my dear, and yet there is good to be found. . . . Now tell me, little one, what do you think of this tall lad, Thorvald? Does he please you?”

The colour drained from Jensine’s face. “Oh, Reverend Sister,” she stammered, “I think—I mean, I like him too well to cause him misfortune.”

Sister Birgit looked at me with an air of satisfaction. “Good. I am glad to hear it,” she said, holding out her hands to us. “I shall not see you again. I have a small matter to settle at the palace, then I must leave for Vadstena. You have my blessing, and I shall pray for your happiness.” Her grave eyes twinkled as she gestured to the open portals. “Sunshine in Bergen! Run along you two and make the most of it.”

So my first objective was won. I understood that in due course the king would command our marriage. But that was only the beginning of a problem I had yet to solve. Night after night I lay awake sick with worry. How was I to tell Jensine this awful thing? And who was to care for her as I wanted her cared for? Had anyone in this Christian land of ours the courage to devote herself to a leper? And then one night I remembered Sunniva. She was a Wendish woman who had been my mother’s nurse, and continued to serve her after her marriage. She was odd in some ways and my father could never abide her. But mother loved Sunniva, and at her death left the old woman a bit of land and a small house in the highlands of Ostedal where she owned several farms. This property came to me on mother’s death, and I had already decided to use the revenue from them for Jensine’s support. Sunniva had her own beliefs in most matters, especially as regards sickness and disease. Perhaps she might look with less horror on Jensine’s affliction than was common in our times.

I left for the highlands next morning. Under other circumstances I should have found pleasure in landmarks familiar in childhood, but now there was a cloud upon each hill and hollow. Sunniva sensed this gloom the instant she saw me. “What is this, my little lordling?” She peered up into my face from the ambush of thick grey eyelashes. “You have come with ill tidings to old Sunniva? Wait now,” she held up her hand, turning her head sideways as though listening. Then she nodded, staring at me with sharp intensity. “Come in to the hearth,” she said. “Death walks with you, Thorvald. What have I to do with that?”

I told her. It had a strange sound in that queer house; amid a clutter of heathenish objects and multiplicity of smells. Ancient, earthy, inexplicable smells; a distillation of ghostly scents; bogwood and pine, the smoke of burnt out fires; hides and fish and stewing feasts; of sun and rain and all the gathered harvests of sun and rain; and the sweat of creatures older than our world who danced and died and turned to earth again.

Sunniva, crouched in witch-like immobility before the smoking fire, heard me through without emotion of any kind in her brown wrinkled face. At last she said. “You have got too much learning, Thorvald. Now it makes fog in your head. You cannot see that the nature of things never changes. No—only the tales we tell ourselves change. Now why have you come to me, the old Wend who knows nothing that her fathers did not know ten times ten thousand years ago?”

“I do not know, Sunniva. I do not know,” I said, which was true at the moment. At that she gave a little hiss of displeasure. “Ha! So you cannot tell the truth to old Sunniva, who spanked the first breath into your thin blue body? Even then the Dark Dree had its mark on you. It was nip and tuck with your soul. The little whisk had no mind for this world. But look you, such wisdom bides its time. When the call comes from the dark, beyond our little dark, you will take wing like the falcon. No clutching. No crying. That is good, my Thorvald. Oh yes, you had in cradle-gift an old, old wisdom. . . .” She stopped, stirred the fire, and turned on me sharply. “I will tell you why you came, Thorvald. You thought to yourself Sunniva is too old to be frightened of death. She will be kind to my lady because the old heathen understands who is lord of this world.”

“I had nowhere else to come, Sunniva.”

“I know it,” she said with satisfaction. “You are a queer lot, you scourge of the heathen. Like wolves you fell upon my people, hewing and killing. Christus! Virgo! that was the cry—and the rivers were red, the fields full of carrion. Yes, yes, thus you preached your God, thus is your mercy. Now I tell you a thing. Long before your kind crept from their lairs to ravage the world in the name of religion, we Wends had an ancient wisdom. We knew that there is healing in the herbage of the earth, in sun and air, and clean waters! Aye, I will tend the little maid—”

This kindness, with its swift release of my pentup anxiety, broke something within me, and before I could pull myself together, there I was on my knees weeping, my face hid in her lap.

“Now, now, my falcon,” she crooned, stroking my hair, as she had done when I was little and suffering some hurt. “They that have the strength drink bitter waters, none else can bear it, yet in the end—”

“You have it wrong, Sunniva!” I cried. “It is Jensine, not I, who must drink your bitter water. Oh, God, how am I to tell her this monstrous thing?”

“Come now,” she raised my head, looking into my face with compelling brown eyes. “You have talked enough. Let be today the things of tomorrow.” She pushed me aside. “What you need is a bite to sup; then I shall put you to sleep. O yes, I still have my heathen brews, my tasty devil-drinks.”

I tried to laugh. “Well, you are an old heathen, Sunniva. God help you.”

“So He does.” Her wrinkled face writhed with inward mirth. “Have I not been baptized, my lordling? But tell me, bethink you there ever was a time when God did not exist? Or that He speaks as men speak, a gabble of tongues? Oh no, my child. Our forbears who live in us still heard Him long and long ago.” As she talked Sunniva darted from corner to corner, a brown human squirrel, assembling food: stock fish, rye bread, cheese, and dark honey redolent of ripe clover. These things, laid on a large wooden trencher, she set on a stool before the fire. “Eat now, my dark lamb,” she said, and scurried away for the ale, strong heady stuff with a flavour all its own. How she made it no one knew. Not even my mother could get the recipe from her. She poured out two jugfulls and sat down to join me. “Skall!” she said, lifting her jug. “We go to battle, young Thorvald. We shall make a good fight.”

When I was done with my food, Sunniva opened the bed-place; an airy cubicle very different from our dark unventilated cabinets. The straw was fresh and sweet; the coarse sheets smelt of wild lavender, and the sheepskin cover was white as new snow. High in the wall above me a little window let in the crisp night air—deadly air, according to our learned leeches. The old Wend had survived it for seventy years and looked to survive it for many more.

I was smiling at the thought when Sunniva, muttering to herself, as persons do who live so much alone, brought her sleeping draught. “Good,” she said. “You look more human. And when you have drunk this you will fly free of yourself.” Smiling, she patted my shoulder. “I see that you are thinking the old witch still clings to her wild fancies. Be glad of it, my Thorvald. Yes, for this I know: the mind is a thing you cannot prison with hood and jesses and chain to your wrist. Sleep well, and slip far, my wounded hawk.”

When I woke it was high noon, and whether from the rest or the potion I felt better. Sunniva brought my clothes, neatly brushed and aired, and while she cooked porridge I went for a swim in a small lake near by. It was a pleasant spot surrounded by low hills and sheltering trees. Here, I decided, Jensine should have her own house. That much I could do for her; yet what did it amount to except a prison? This thought sent me back with a glum face, which Sunniva sensibly ignored.

Spooning up porridge she began a remarkable monologue: “While you slept I took up this snarl we must unravel. Sit down: and while you eat, listen. Now as you know I never liked your father. No, yet I should not call him wicked. Selfish, yes. He never would and never will put up with anything that disturbed his pleasure. You must remember he was a soldier and still thinks like a fighting man. He will say to himself: devil take it! I lost this skirmish to my son. Only a fool argues with the fortunes of war. Sure, the bride may not be of his choosing but if he accepts her with grace it will come to the same thing in the end. Oh, yes, I know the man. Sir Eyvind will accept defeat with a flourish. What you have to fear is not further contention but the lordly gesture. Your father will insist upon a splendid wedding—”

I started to object. “Be still! Attend me,” Sunniva snapped. “You are to listen to him with respect. With a proper show of feeling. You must seem overwhelmed with his kindness. Yes, make a good job of it too! And then, with utmost discretion, you might suggest that Jensine would be embarrassed by an affair which her aunt could not attend.”

“Sunniva, you are really a wily old girl,” I said, amused despite myself.

“I know Sir Eyvind,” she retorted. “He has been embroiled with that wench so long he forgets she is not a spare cloak to be carried to church. But he will see your point; for mark you, except for yourself, Eline is the only creature he ever cared for.”

Sunniva seized a broom and flicked the ashes spilling from the hearth. “Fee on the old fool!” she hissed. “Your mother wept and wept. In secret mind, she was no weakling. And after a bit she learned to make a good life for herself. So good it exasperated your father. No doubt it surprised him that the moon was just as bright though he spent the night elsewhere. It irked him too that Lady Gertrude was little impressed with his gifts to the clergy. Conscience coin she used to call it.”

With a final swish, Sunniva hung up the broom, and sat down beside me, her face suddenly very grave. “All that is past, but I have not forgotten those young tears, and I admit it will give me dark joy to see your father squirm. . . . Now for the core of this thing. Sir Eyvind will realize his unfortunate position, and yet a great Franklin cannot be married like a house karl. Some ceremony there must be.”

She caught sight of my face, and reaching for my hand said softly: “There, there, I know what you dread. Let me say it for you. It comes easy to an old woman sexless as a wisp of smoke. You gentry make a rare show of the marriage bed. No heathen would put up with it! A cruel indecent custom it always seemed to me: The poor little bride hustled by clacking females into the conjugal chamber where a flock of grand dames strip her of finery, bundle her into a new shift, tuck her into bed, and with a knowing smirk thrust the wedding garland back on her head. And when the poor thing is near demented, in flock the groomsmen with their victim. If he be knight they unbuckle his sword, draw off his boots, remove his brave coat. There your sweet modesty stays them. Poor man, sheepish, half dressed, they lead him to his bride and stand back grinning to see him take from her head the garland of virginity. Daring no more, the whole crew file away to pledge in wine the bride, the groom, the marriage bed, and the child to be got in it. A great show indeed!”

She broke off, her hooded eyes flashing defiance. “It is hurt enough to forego human love. This sport of others you shall not suffer. No, my dearest lamb, those bitter waters you shall not drink. Neither you nor the little maid.”

“All that is less than nothing!” I cried. “Let them have their show if they must. What I cannot face is telling Jensine that all these things are a double mockery. She believes in me! That is the worst of it. I sometimes think it would be easier to kill her.”

“I may remind you of that some day.” Sunniva looked at me sideways. “But now tell me, did you ask my help or not? If so, have the sense to let me do it.” Muttering crossly she took away the untouched food and fetched a drink. “Swallow this. It is good for taut nerves. You cannot play into your father’s hands by cracking up just now. The trouble is you have a strange nature, my Thorvald. Half throstle, half hawk. You love the sun, and the things of the sun; you also love the thrill of destruction. These hard powers are the familiars of your soul, but as yet they are strangers to you. . . . But now to this business. It seems to me your best plan is to summon your mother’s old bailiff. We understand each other, old Simon and I. And his wife, though stupid as a sheep, is a good loyal creature.”

Our plan was simple yet posed many difficulties. Simon pointed out that the manor lands were a major problem, and suggested that it might be best to lease them to the tenants. He and his wife and a few old retainers could manage the home farm. But he was doubtful whether these few would remain if the nature of Jensine’s ailment were known. Some invention was called for if the plan was to succeed. Sunniva concurred. It was enough that they two should know the truth. What the rest were to believe time and curiosity would devise. “Leave all that to me, Simon,” she said. “Your job is to build the house. As for the tenants they will jump at the chance of renting a freehold—and when I am done with them they will understand that discretion is part of the payment.”

When I got back to my father’s house in Bergen, it was to find, as Sunniva had predicted, that all opposition to Jensine was now a matter of jest. Eline rushed to embrace me in great excitement. “Thorvald, you clever rascal!” she shrieked. “I am simply beside myself with curiosity. What delicious witchcraft! Oh, you should have seen your father’s face when he got the king’s letter. Such a priceless letter! WE command this and WE enjoin that; to wit and to what—such precious gabble! All to do with OUR esteemed subject Jensine Mahler.” She giggled, pushed me into a chair and rushed for wine. “Do tell me how you bewitched the king.”

“Kings have a right to their whims like the rest of us,” said I, sick to death of her. “What does Jensine think of all this bewitchment?”

“Jensine? How should I know. She spends her time feeding beggars.” Eline shrugged her handsome shoulders and gave me a coy glance. “Dear Thorvald, if you want the truth I think you are marrying a little saint, not a woman. I should have left her in the convent.”

“How true that is you have yet to learn,” I said and left her.

I found Jensine on the upper balcony sitting at a small loom weaving linen. The shuttles stopped with a clack and for a moment we were like two apparitions transfixed in a silence irradiated with the rosy light of sunset and strung on the thin far note of a thrush. “Oh, Thorvald, you were wrong to do this,” she said, so low I could scarcely hear her. “I am nothing—nothing!”

“A fine greeting!” I said. “Now look here, you must show respect toward my future wife. Or are you still hankering for the sensible husband Eline promised to find?”

“Thorvald, do not tease me,” she said in a queer voice. “No, for you see, it came to me as I sat here that from now on all my thoughts of you will be like the threads on a loom and my heart the shuttle weaving them into the pattern of my love—”

“My God, why am I raking up these things.” Thorvald turned a despairing glance on the grave priest. “I must be crazy.”

“My son, the human mind, like the hungry beggar, grabs whatever comes to hand and flings it all into one unsightly heap. To get at the good in such a jumble there must be a deal of raking. That may sound foolish at the moment. Never mind. I assure you that the impulse which drove you to this search knows what it is about. But I can save you somewhat.

“There is no need to tell me of the wedding. I remember it very well for I was one of the king’s party. I remember Jensine. I remember thinking what a lovely unspoiled child she was; gentle and modest in her glowing happiness. Yes, it is all clear to me, and yet I might not have remembered it so well except for the cruel gossip that followed. Thorvald, I am ashamed to admit that like the rest of your accusers I accepted the hard face you turned to the world; but I am thankful that I never believed the wild rumours which insisted that your cruelty had driven Jensine out of her mind. Nevertheless, I had observed the smooth malice of your tongue, and I thought it might have gone hard with a gentle girl to bear the sting of it. Forgive me. I understand now that you bore these things with rare devotion—”

“Devotion had little to do with it in the beginning,” Thorvald said. “I had made up my mind that for once the guilty should suffer with the innocent, and yet, if you remember Jensine even a little, you will understand what I was feeling that morning in the Cathedral. . . .”

I could have done without that glitter and splendour. To me it was a hideous farce. But Sunniva, who had arrived with an escort of our people, disagreed. “Let her have this perfect day,” she begged, breaking into tears, a weakness foreign to that fierce old woman; but she loved Jensine from their first encounter.

Nothing went amiss with our plans. My father, as Sunniva had known, was relieved when I insisted that only our upland people should be bidden to the wedding, for he understood that the wives of his town colleagues would have refused to set foot in a house where Eline occupied the high-seat.

I remember nothing clearly of that last ghastly meal in my father’s house. Laughter, jesting, endless toasts to our future happiness, none of it penetrated to my consciousness, for all my senses were engaged with the black thoughts of my vengeance. And yet, so strangely are we made, that somehow, in some sort, I must have managed to play the part expected of me. One thing I do remember. A little thing—no a lovely thing; the one unspoiled memory that lingers in my heart.

Eline and some of the upland women had taken Jensine to a back chamber to change her court gown for a travelling habit. Eline must have her excitement. I must come, she shrieked, come at once and remove Jensine’s wedding garland. Not to do so would be an ill omen, and besides she was entitled to some ceremony.

I could have strangled her when I entered that room, cluttered with women’s gear and what seemed to me all the female kingdom. I forgot her and them and everything else when I saw Jensine. In the cathedral she was an unreal figure moving in an unreal pageant. Now, in spite of silver broideries and splendid lace, she was the little girl of the rocks. A small, endearing, frightened girl, waiting she knew not what. “Get on with it!” Eline nudged me. “You have time enough for mooning later on. Lift the garland and kiss your wife.”

It was my mother’s wedding wreath, a lovely thing of precious gold, but not so lovely as the soft shining hair of the small head it crowned. In an agony of pity for us both I took the garland and gave it to Eline. Then, nothing caring what might befall, I held my little love close embraced for a wild sweet moment. Perhaps I died then—all I might have been. . . . It was Sunniva who called me back; urgent, gentle, she caught my sleeve: “Go now, Thorvald—go quickly. There is much to do.”

So there was. We had, you see, to get Jensine started on the road to life-long exile. With so guileless and trusting a being that did not entail complicated scheming. As we left the city gates a messenger intercepted me, profusely apologetic that he had not reached me at the house. Could I spare him a moment? By some mischance the bill of goods I had left with a Flemish trader had been lost, but there was a list drawn from memory. Would I check the list, the merchant was sailing with the tide, and anxious that it should be right, since some of the goods were scarce and not likely to be obtainable in open market. As you will surmise, it was now my part to find everything wrong, and to suggest that our party go on ahead, whilst I drew up a new bill, which could be quickly done at a small alehouse just within the gate.

I had rehearsed this scene a hundred times mentally, but the actuality was almost beyond me. I think I felt as Judas must have felt when he took his pieces of silver. With a smile that shames me still I sent them away with the lying promise to overtake them long before they reached the high-road.

So there I sat, in bridal trappings—a strange sight surely for the alehouse stragglers—lost in a vacuum, insensible of everything but the rising cloud of dust which was blocking out forever the lovely living Jensine. Tomorrow, though she breathed and moved in a world of familiar scents and sounds and hopeful activities, she would have no part in it. She would wake to a phantom existence on a tideless strand between the living and the dead. I had thought I knew all this; but we know nothing until we feel it in ourselves. All my senses were as weeping beggars in the dust. Everything, even the thought of my father, was lost in this cloud of misery. I could not go back, as planned. Instead, I raced away in aimless flight, following the Buddefjord, and back through the town. It began to rain and the dim light died from the misty sky. I wondered if the bridal party had reached the hostel of the Friars where they were to spend the night, or if they were caught in the deluge of our eccentric weather. And the foolish reflection brought me to myself. I had a thing to do, and now I meant to do it.

I must have been a strange apparition as I burst into my father’s hall, wet to the skin, spattered with mud—a wild spectre booted and spurred who clanked in out of the night and now confronted them in bated silence. Yes, a crazy sight, for my startled parent brushed Eline from his lap, where cat-wise, she was curled licking at his hair with jewelled paws. “Good God!” he exclaimed, staring at me in consternation. “What is it?—what has happened? Thorvald—” he frowned, his ruddy colour fading. “My poor son, is it—Jensine?”

Before I could answer Eline lashed out at him: “I told you not to give her Grayling to ride. I always said he would kill someone. Now he has. I know it—she is dead. Oh, my dearest Jensine—” she started to weep, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her wimple.

Those easy despicable tears affected me like a tonic. The confusion of despair cleared, and my hatred, from being a childish passion, became a thing apart, cold, critical, subtle. I had meant to fling the truth in their faces; now it seemed to me they merited no such clean blow. Because he dealt in subterfuge himself, my father could not tolerate indirection in another. So I began by saying that the only accident which had befallen was the desertion of the bridegroom. But that when I took my marriage vows I had done so with a clear knowledge of my deception, and the absolute certainty I should never live with my wife. And this dishonourable behaviour, I then said, served a dual purpose. It avenged a great wrong, and laid the ax to the family my father held in worship.

Of course he flew into a temper: “What a fine fool I have got!” he shouted. “By the Rood, I never suffered like insolence! You scare us out of our wits for some freak of fancy? Now let me tell you, young Franklin. You wanted the girl, and by the Holy Saints you stick with her. If you have got your eye on some other wench, or got her in a mess, pay her off. The loudest mouth is shut with silver.”

I laughed; yes, for now he had freed me of the last remnant of hero worship. I saw him as Sunniva knew him to be: a ruthless sensualist, completely indifferent to the feeling of others. “Unfortunately this is not a thing money can mend,” I told him, in a voice I hardly knew. “It is not a question of seduction, although it is a matter of betrayal. The betrayal of an innocent girl by the people she trusted, and whose whims she served to her own ruin.”

They both stared at me in bewilderment, then my father burst out: “You must have caught a fever. What you say is sheer lunacy. Whims! Ruin! Betrayal! sound like a sermon on sin. If it does mean anything say it plainly and then get into dry clothes before you come down with an ague.”

“I can well believe that sermons have little appeal to you, my dear father,” said I. “But that Eline, with her talent for piety, should be mystified I cannot believe. Who has not heard of her passion to serve sinners, by proxy; her tenderness for the sick, also by proxy? And who but she impressed this pious ritual upon Jensine?”

“That is nothing but insolence!” Eline said, stamping her foot. “I do not understand what else you mean, or why my kindness should be flung in my face with a sneer.”

“Then let me help you. Do you call it kindness toward Jensine to let her nurse disease-ridden sailors? Had either of you any thought for her safety? You had not! She meant so little that even now neither of you realize that the girl I am talking about is Jensine. Did you think I spoke in paradoxes to amuse myself when I said I had married Jensine knowing I should never live with her? Then let me explain that too: there is no law to punish criminal negligence, I regret to say; but there is a law against cohabiting with lepers. And that is what your damnable kindness has made of Jensine.”

In the ensuing silence I saw for the first time the ugly face of naked cowardice. Two trapped animals, their frantic eyes glinting with fear, they would have sprung at me if terror had not bound them. Terror of what I had said, what I might be, and what they might become. I could almost see these thoughts take fire in Eline’s feather brain. The last in full blaze she started to scream. Shriek after shriek after shriek.

“Shut up you fool!” my father shouted, leaping from his chair and thrusting her down onto a bench. “Shut up, I say!”

“I will not shut up,” she wailed. “The deceitful girl might better have killed us. Oh, you can feel brave! It fell to me to attend the little viper. All these weeks I have been fitting her clothes. Fondling the creature. And last night, taking thought of her ignorance—I slept in her bed! I shall die of it—and you too, my bold pirate!” Then she turned on me, wild-eyed: “You devil! You knew it and said nothing!”

“No, I said nothing. Did you say anything to Jensine, to warn her against leprous sailors?”

At that my father slumped back in his chair. “I see—I see,” he muttered tonelessly. “You should like to have us all destroyed to avenge a nameless chit we befriended.”

“I doubt that justice works so neatly,” I said. “I am content that you should lose a son.”

I doubt that he heard me. “No, no,” he groaned. “I have done nothing to deserve such an awful punishment. Nothing. Venal sins I own to as must every man. No mortal sins, thanks be to God—”

“And what mortal sin has Jensine committed?”

“God knows.” He looked at me solemnly. “ ’Tis the sins of the fathers—It seems a hard thing to say, but bastards are an embarrassment to the race. Thank God Eline was barren.”

Anger released Eline from the stupor of self-pity. “Oh, what a fool!” she flared. “What good are stupid insults? Do you think that marriage lines sweeten a leper’s rotting flesh? Will it matter which side the straw we were got if this filthy sickness lays hold of us?” Sobbing, she threw herself at his feet, clawing at him with frenzied hands. “Eyvind, Eyvind, let us go to Saint Olaf’s church. There have been many miracles—many instantaneous cures. In Jesus’ name let us go. In sack cloth—barefoot—”

“Be quiet!” my father shouted, slapping at her clutching hands. “Traipse where and how you like. I make no such fool of myself.” Then, red-faced and infuriated, he snapped at me: “Have you done, Franklin? If so, relieve us of your unpleasant company.”

“Nearly done,” I said. “There is only this to add: I have accepted a commission from King Magnus, in the forces which are to relieve the northern garrisons in the spring. Meantime, when not in the king’s service, I shall be at my own manor. Where, I now point out, there will be no leper, nor any talk of leprosy.”

Eline rocked back on her heels to squint at me intently. “What does he mean?” she whimpered. “Was all this—this horror, a vicious jest?”

“It means,” I said coldly, “that you must renounce your penitence for a while. I will not have Jensine pointed out as a creature accursed of God, as is our pleasant superstition in this Christian country. It is enough that she was accursed in her friendships.”

My father, whose angers never outlived curiosity, had been watching me with sceptical interest. Now he laughed. “What an avenger! Herod would have found you a blood brother, Thorvald. A most useful agent of secret destruction. Ha! Just the same, however black my soul, do you think I shall stand by and let you pollute a whole regiment, the Court—even the king’s person?”

I looked at him in silence, grateful for this small gleam in him of qualities I had loved and honoured. “Yes,” I said, “as things are, I think you will. For the point is whom to proscribe. Myself, who has taken every precaution, or yourself who have kept open house, I know not how long, to the scum of the seas. No, you will say nothing. By morning you will have perceived that where the odds are so uncertain caution is the wisest course. For the king, who thinks himself the divinely appointed scourge of the heathen, and therefore safe in God’s protection, may take it into his strange head that your warning is of small account, whereas your secret commitments to Atterdag of Denmark and a compact with the infidel, may appear to him in ominous light.”

That was my last sight of Sir Eyvind for some time. Nor could he answer me, for Eline fell to weeping and wailing at the top of her voice. I left them to their enjoyment and betook myself to the stable where the astonished groom re-saddled my horse, muttering imprecations upon the madness of the rising generation. The rain had stopped but the sky was overcast, the town silent and dark save for glints of light from the shuttered houses. I considered the waterfront and changed my mind; a creature of darkness myself, the black shapes of the distant mount were more inviting than tavern comforts.

That was the end of one life. The rest is well known: soldiering here and there, life at court—occasional visits to Jensine. As for Sir Eyvind, his sudden pilgrimage to Rome caused little stir, his piety was too well known. When he returned he was cured of all defection, including Eline. But he was not disposed to sacrifice his dream of family. He rode to the manor to reason with me, pointing out that he disliked the thought of re-marriage for himself, his habits were fixed, and young wives were too demanding—yet if I persisted what else could he do?

I dare say he picked his bride with the same care he used in purchasing a functionable ship. Yet the lady disappointed him. The cradle stood empty.

Eline had better fortune. Her penitence ended, she went to Sweden with a shipmaster. The last I heard they had retired to a stately house in Upsala.

“A very proper place to end the tale,” Thorvald said, rising to his feet and looking down at the priest. “You have been very kind, Father. I am grateful—though not penitent. I see that my vengeance was as foolish as the rewards we attribute to virtue. I shall leave you to get your rest.”

“And you?” Father Benedict queried curtly, getting up and confronting Thorvald sternly, “will you rest now, having said so much yet leaving unspoken the hard knot that gives you no peace?”

“The redskins will deal with that shortly.”

“No, Thorvald, I shall not be baited into making an obvious rebuke. You are proud and obstinate, but not so vain as to imagine I have heard you with uncritical kindness. I have pitied your blindness, grieved for the maid you so rightly cherished; sorrowed most of all that a heart capable of so much goodness turned upon itself. You have spoken much of hate; but now I tell you that what you hated was not the thing you profess. The root of all your suffering, my son, is the common human failing of self-betrayal. A betrayal of the purpose for which God made us.”

“Oh yes! Love is the Law and the keeping of the Law!” Thorvald retorted. “I have seen it in operation, Father. On the battlefield, in burning villages, in looting and rape; and most effective of all in the loving kindness of the rack, the wheel, and the stake. Of such purpose I absolve myself! If I betrayed myself in hating what befell Jensine I have no regrets.”

Father Benedict held up his hand. “Let us not embrace the whole realm of human depravity,” he said with a glint of humour. “Our redskins would depose us midway. It is enough in our moment of time to deal with our own sins. As a beginning, let me ask you a question. Has it never occurred to you, Thorvald, that all your bitterness stems from idolatry? You made a god of your father and when you found him wanting your love was outraged. That is the core of the matter. Disillusioned abroad, you had thought to find at home the perfection you worshipped exemplified in your idol. The hatred you have nursed in your heart and misdirected at your father, is the poison of an unacknowledged frustration. I do not belittle the wrong done Jensine, but I do point out that all of us wherever we are may fall victim to human ignorance. You have got your justice badly twisted. Think that out, my son. Meanwhile, suppose you come with me to the bridgehead. I am worried about Lavrans, he meant to return by nightfall and it must be nearing midnight.”

To the two men cautiously stealing down the embankment, the barricade, a thin darker shadow among many that lay upon the still water, now seemed a futile conceit. Thorvald laughed. “My Count of Darre takes pride in that heap of rubbish,” he said. “It will add an hour’s life to our famous expedition.”

Vexed to have his thought picked Father Benedict replied acridly: “Time enough to loose the poison from your soul, Thorvald!” Then he sighed and in a changed voice said: “Forgive me. My temper was ever a thorn yet I cling to it as stoutly as you to your bitterness. Jacob is right, I am a poor creature to be entrusted with the cure of souls.”

“Nay, now, Father, we should have turned into snarling savages without you.”

“I have failed in much. Most to Lavrans. It was wrong-headed of me to drag him into this end. Let us sit here a while and wait upon his coming; for that he will do, poor lad, unless Mahigan was too bold and they fell to the enemies.”

“Or to friends.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, except that Lavrans has his dream—and death is no part of it.”

“You are hiding something from me, Thorvald. Some confidence, or knowledge. Some rash thing the poor lad has not dared to tell me?”

“Is that likely, Father? You know it is not. But I have eyes, and perhaps a guilty conscience makes one quick to recognize the symptoms in someone else.”

“A guilty conscience? I do not believe it!” The priest was indignant. “Lavrans has never done a shameful thing in his life. You cannot think he would take a leaf from Sigurd—no, now I have gone too far. But I am so grieved over this simple-hearted lad. And over Mahigan, too. . . .”

“Mahigan will take care of himself,” Thorvald said slowly, “and of Lavrans too—unless you withhold your permission. I imagine that even to think of such a thing without your approval is guilt enough for Lavrans.”

Father Benedict seemed to shrink together and he averted his face, suddenly afraid of the weakness within himself. What had come over him? Now that his own affections were engaged had he no stability of judgment? Let him face it! He loved this Lavrans with selfish attachment. He had been drawn to the boy from the first morning when Brother Andrew found the little starveling weeping softly outside the Abbey gates and brought him in to the crotchety old Abbot. “What is this? What is this?” the Abbot growled. “Have all the brats of Christendom dropped from the clouds? Is this an orphanage or a house of learning? Have I not said—have I not ruled—Come here, my child! Do you not like this asylum of old women who have not the sense to wash your face? Nay, why should I blame you. Brother Andrew, are you more demented than usual? Can you not see the poor child is hungry? Take him away. Feed him—feed my sheep, do you understand?”

He had been a biddable child and a cheerful obedient youth. It is true he had not shown any exceptional aptitude for the religious life but he was clever with the quill and happy as a copyist and scribe. He had known no other home than the Abbey, no other life until Father Benedict had thought to further his career by taking him on this expedition.

“What you suggest is monstrous,” he said at last. “How could I condone such a thing—commit that gentle boy to a life that must destroy his soul?”

“Must it? I can think of worse trials,” Thorvald retorted curtly. “In fact, if I had any desire to go on living I could find pleasure in this wilderness. There is a breadth about these plains that appeals to me. I have sometimes thought with envy of the people who one day will follow in our footsteps. If only they come in peace, leaving behind them the hatreds of the old world . . .” he shrugged. “Now I have gone too far. Saint Augustine’s Heavenly City is a long way off. But does he not say somewhere: ‘It is no matter to the City of God what dress the citizen wears, or what manner of life he follows, so long as it is not contrary to divine commands.’ I have no thought to persuade you, Father, but it seems to me that Lavrans has the right to choose his own line of battle.”

Father Benedict made no immediate reply. He was shocked to realize how eagerly he longed to agree with Thorvald; longed to escape the hard necessity of deciding Lavrans’ fate . . . shocked because he had not so faltered when his decision affected an entire company. It was a chastening experience to realize that the hard man beside him understood the commerce of the heart better than himself.

At last he said: “You have found the weak spot in my mortal armour, Thorvald. Lavrans is very dear to me. He has a good mind, the sensible kind of mind which takes pleasure in simple employments. I should have left him in the Abbey where he was happy and useful. But no! I had plans for him in the new Order we were to establish in Greenland. And now it has come to this: I have not the heart to see him die, nor the will to see him depart. Not a brave speech but the truth. As a priest I might predict good to the heathen through Lavrans—and yet—and yet—” He turned away to hide his emotion; then added very low: “I could rend my garments, and weep with Rachel. . . . You are quite right, Thorvald; until our own hearts are touched we understand nothing. Neither our duty towards one another, nor the compassion of God.”

To Thorvald, who had respected rather than liked Father Benedict, this revelation of deep emotion was altogether startling. He had never observed any signs of affection in the priest’s regard for Lavrans, and had always assumed that what he prized was the quality of uncritical obedience so marked in his pupil. Apparently he had erred. The stern old man, whose autocratic will had kept the company together had not found the strength for his thankless task in a cold insensitive nature, as was commonly believed, but in a hidden vein of human tenderness. “You have no reason to reproach yourself,” he said quietly. “Without you we should have come to grief long ago, our bickerings grown to bloodshed and savage mutiny. As it is—” The thought was never finished.

A little ripple of sound brought both men to sharp attention, eyes searching the dim shore line. Presently they could distinguish a swiftly moving shadow gliding toward them. The priest breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew he would come,” a note of pride in his voice. And yet, when a few moments later Lavrans had beached his craft and came striding up the ramp, Father Benedict returned his greeting almost curtly. “Where is Mahigan?” he then asked, “and what are you doing in those strange garments?”

A nice understatement, Thorvald thought, amused. Lavrans wore buckskin breeches and a beaded belt. Nothing else. His naked torso had the sheen of ivory in the white starlight, and his long curling hair was a glitter of dark gold upon his broad shoulders. Thorvald grinned to himself: even without the comely face and blue eyes, Lavrans had a surety of life. The most savage of women would see to that.

There was no levity in Lavrans’ tired face. “I shall explain all that,” he said, answering the priest. “May we sit down, Father? The things I have to say are a bit difficult.” He glanced at Thorvald appealingly. “Please stay, Franklin. You can help me for I think you have guessed what I have to tell.”

When they were seated under the barricade Lavrans smiled at the priest. “Do you remember how you stressed the importance of little things when I should rather have shown you something I thought quite remarkable? Well then, perhaps I should begin with little things now. These clothes, or lack of them, are significant. You see we stumbled into a scouting party. They would have killed me if Mahigan’s cunning and eloquence had not intervened. My red hauberk, he told them, was full of magic, even more powerful than the yellow scalps held by their enemies. What else he said I cannot say, but in the end we were marched to their camps, my hauberk was cut into bits to serve as charms, and I got these clothes in exchange. Still, I dare say we should have fared badly if those hornets had not been Ojibways. Mahigan’s people . . . as we knew he always said his tribe were plainsmen, and that the unfortunates we found in the north were victims of war and famine—”

“We know all that,” the priest interjected. “There is no need to remind us of that evil winter, or the awful circumstances of our finding Mahigan. What has that to do with the present situation?”

“Quite a lot, Father. To begin with, Mahigan never tires of telling me that God must have given you the ears of a wolf as well as a generous heart. For it was you who heard the thin human wail through the clamour of the everlasting wind as we stood amidst the tents of the dead. ‘Be still!’ you said, ‘listen!’ . . . Oh yes, I know we all remember how Mahigan was found, half buried under a snowfall, his leg broken, his body sheltered by the dead wolf he had shot . . . I know that. But there is something else we ought to have heeded. Sigurd’s reaction when we found those tents. I was standing beside him and saw the fury in his face. ‘Poor devils!’ he said. ‘Their troubles are over. Which is more than can be said of ourselves.’ Then turning he glared at Paul Knutson. ‘How now, Commander? Do we leave them to be eaten of beasts, or do we improve upon our destiny by a decent deed?’ No doubt Knutson was right to ignore him, but I wonder—”

“What are you intimating, Lavrans?” the priest broke in, “have you news of the Count’s son?”

“Please, Father, let me tell this as I heard it. I have explained about my hauberk. It seems the Ojibway believed in its magic because they had already heard of a white god with invincible powers. And they had also heard that the scalps of his former companions had some of his manna . . .” Lavrans shivered, hugging his naked chest.

“Have you no decent covering?” Father Benedict asked testily, “and are you now so safe among these savage killers as to dispose of your weapons?”

“We are all safe enough for the moment,” Lavrans said. “I have a jerkin and my ax in the canoe. It is not that—”

Thorvald had unhooked his short cape and now threw it over the other’s shoulders. “You may be hot as love,” he said with a wry grin, “but the less we see of white gods the better. And before you get too entangled in myths just tell us one thing: were our men struck down by the Ojibways?”

“They were not! They were slain by the Sioux. At this moment they are camped on the mainland east of us, whetting their appetites for war by torturing Ojibway captives. A few days ago, in the early dawn as is their habit, they fell upon an Ojibway village killing everyone except the chief and his two sons whom they reserved for this frightful sacrifice. They attribute their easy success to the yellow scalps they got. When they have a few more they are convinced that the whole Ojibway people will fall to them. They believe it implicitly because they themselves, quite recently, were routed by a band of Mandans, whose hunting grounds they used to invade with contemptuous immunity. Now these former rabbits have turned into wildcats. They no longer run and hide in holes . . . they have a battlecry never heard on this earth—and their leader is a god in a golden helmet.”

For a moment no one spoke, but the quality of the silence was witness to their revulsion. Shocked instinct informed them that this fantastic thing was true. Sigurd, the heir of an ancient Gothland house, had come to this: leader and lord of marauding savages.

Father Benedict broke the silence. “The Count must never know,” he said firmly. “It was blow enough when Sigurd and his cronies stole away like thieves. And at a time when most of us were stricken with fever. Caught between two evils, pestilence and the Arctic night. No, Jacob must not be further humiliated. So far he has tried to believe that the deserters perished in an attempt to procure food for the garrison.”

“Sigurd may not have considered his flight as desertion,” Thorvald said, dispassionately. “He had often rebelled against Knutson’s endless quest as a mad obsession. Add to that the monotony of life in Vinland, which must have been intolerable to a high-mettled young man, and then those black months of our first camp in the Arctic—when even our champions tried to reason with Knutson—then perhaps Sigurd’s decision may seem less strange. . . . Matter of fact I happen to know that Sigurd had come to believe that neither Knutson nor Father Benedict would ever admit defeat—that rather than turn home with our mission uncompleted we should all perish in the good cause.”

Father Benedict laid his hand on Lavrans’ arm. “Was this your meaning when you said Thorvald knew what you had to say?”

“Yes. That, and Sigurd’s liking for the redskins.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Lavrans cast a beseeching glance at Thorvald, who responded laconically. “He means that Sigurd was not always hunting game in the forests of Vinland. Nor did he learn the Algonquin tongue and the skill to fashion canoes from the foxes. Oh, yes, he liked the natives, and they liked him . . . so we are all suffered to live.”

“Heaven forgive my blindness!” the priest muttered. “I thought I had—well, no matter. Idle regret is the climate of hypocrisy. Go on with your tale, Lavrans. We must finish before the camp wakes.”

“There is little more to tell. When Mahigan realized the white god must be Sigurd he thought of a plan which may help us all. He told the war council that although the magic of my hauberk was strong as thunder it was nothing compared with the power of the white god they had heard about. Then he really grew poetic. ‘The white god is bright as the evening star,’ he intoned. ‘His breastplate glitters like the frozen river and links of silver cover his thighs. The divine fury of his face is masked with shining metal, and his war bonnet is winged with gold, bright as the sun. All his weapons are sky-born, for he carries a moon on his left arm, and in his right hand he holds a long splinter of blue lightning. Bands of gold circle his wrists, which is the seal of the sun, and the sign of a ruler of men.’

“This extravagance impressed the council. Their hideously painted faces stared up at him with a kind of frightful dignity. Yes, such a god must be great and powerful, they agreed; and the dark horde behind them muttered approval. But how were they to benefit from this greatness? Mahigan explained that with an eloquence I shall spare you. The point is he made them believe that Sigurd was a kind of Totem and we his worshippers . . . yes, and in particular that I was dedicated to him. Therefore, the obvious solution was to get me into the Ojibway tribe; and this could be done if they in turn now lent us assistance. He asked for two runners to go with him to seek the god—but I should stay with them. . . . So you see I must return,” he finished abruptly.

Father Benedict studied his downcast face with troubled eyes. “My son, is it for us you do this thing—or is there another reason? For you must know that Sigurd is a slim reed upon which to pin our hope of life.”

“Slim or not, what else is there?” Lavrans asked, more sharply than he was wont to speak. “You do him injustice if you think he will not come. It is time, not Sigurd, which may defeat us. It depends upon the length of time it takes the Sioux to kill their victims, and of the celebrations which follow the unholy rites. If they glut themselves and withhold the attack on the island for two or three days, you will be safe. For the moment they do so the Ojibway will move in behind the villages and destroy them. And when the white god intercepts and drives the Sioux back they will be slain on their own burned and desolated steads. That is the gist of the plan—and if it fail in your behalf, still it will not fail altogether. Right or no, Sigurd will have his father avenged. As for myself, I am pledged to return. . . . To be honest, it is what I want to do.” His voice was husky, the glance he cast at his patron full of sadness. “You won’t understand that, I know. But I have thought it all out. I have no knightly honour to uphold; no skill at arms which would help you here. And I know as little of civilized life as Mahigan. . . . He has been a good friend to me. Here I can do nothing, but out there, who knows—there are many there like my friend—”

“I see.” Father Benedict unconsciously pressed his hand against his heart, and his voice was heavy. “Yes—I think I do understand. But if you must go, my son, I would have you believe that the best in us goes with you. Our affection—the Holy Faith of our fathers . . . remember that and cherish it—” He broke off; and the silent night pressing in upon him somehow eased his bitter pain. Out of the void all things were created—and here where the unborn future slept his plaintive human grief was a faithless protest. . . . Rising swiftly he now said: “Thorvald, be so kind as to fetch my sword. You will find the baldric by the rock. . . . And see that none disturbs us for a time.”

The moment Thorvald was gone Lavrans approached the priest, white and shaken: “Oh Father, if I have hurt you forgive me. Forgive me! Since first I remember I have loved you. . . . You were all things to me. Anything I had to do I used to think: how will the Father want it done. If it please him it will please God too—and now—”

“My dear child—my good, dear child—” The old priest drew the young man to him for a tender instant. “Let us be glad of the past my Lavrans. You have done well. I have always been pleased with you. Your patience in adversity, your happy nature, your good sense, these have been a great comfort. They are so still, for they will help you in time to come.” He loosed his arm and tried to laugh. “Dear me, what an old woman I have got to be.” Then, fumbling through his gown he fetched up a thin book of Hours which he thrust in Lavrans’ beaded belt: “A little thing with which to face the wilderness,” he said, “but it has been my companion for fifty years. My dear mother had it written for me by Brother Magnus, one of the scriveners of Mostre Convent. My confirmation gift. . . . Let it confirm your faith from day to day, my son.”

“Father, come with me! I dared not ask before. ‘Entreat our Father to come,’ Mahigan beseeched me. ‘My people are not wicked by choice,’ he pleaded, ‘they are born in darkness and have no understanding of the evil they do. They will learn, as I have learned. And so long as a hunter lives, neither hunger nor harm shall touch our Father’s dwelling.’ That is his message to you—what we both ask.”

Father Benedict clutched the Cross, half hidden in the tattered folds of his gown, and said nothing for a time. When at last he spoke his voice was low and gentle. “Thank my son Mahigan; but what he asks I cannot do. I am too old for such a task even if I were free to do it. My duty lies here, with the remnant of the company God placed in my care. My place is with the Count. We are the last leaves of the same brave trunk, and the same storm shall bear us away. There are ties one cannot break without violence to the soul. That does not apply to you. As you said yourself the loyalties of caste do not bind you. No. And it may be that God has a mission for you here. That as a Christian you may furnish a little leaven to lighten the savage gloom. Bear that in mind, dear Lavrans. And cherish St. Paul’s witness to the immanence of God: ‘For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God’.”

“I will do my best,” Lavrans said, deeply moved. He was taking leave, not only of this embattled warrior of the Cross, but of that other Benedict whose eminence at court had been a source of quiet pride in the Abbey. He was remembering happy moments in the garden, in the shelter of the ash trees, where the tall elegant young priest had found time to win the heart of a nameless, lonely orphan. He was taking last leave of all that he had ever known of spontaneous affection.

With an effort he relinquished these tender reminders of a life now done, and in his earnest way said simply: “Father, I want to make my confession.”

Under the neutral stars of that alien sky, and to the low melancholy murmur of the dark waters at their feet, Lavrans heard for the last time the apostolic words of Absolution over his bent head. Then, a little strained, yet calm and controlled, Father Benedict spoke, as from another dimension:

“The servants of God are many and their allotted portions a secret. They are not, invariably, to be distinguished by wreaths of green laurel, or the martyr’s immortal crown. As was told to Jeremiah; some sit alone, and keep silent, crouching under their burdens; their hearts pierced as with arrows. It was said of him also: He was not led into light, but into darkness. . . . Take then, this dark way with a high heart, my son. For we do ill to question the imperatives of destiny.”

“Dear Father, I cannot say I ever understood those high precepts. My hands are wiser than my head. I like to plant and to build—and tending the sick seems the same thing. But I won’t deceive you, Father. It is not compassion that decided my choice. Mahigan had something to do with it, but not everything. The truth is I love life, and never felt so free before.” He swept his hand in a broad gesture toward the horizon, and doing so Thorvald’s cape slipped from his shoulders. Picking it up his eye was arrested by the heraldic design of the gold clasp. Taken out of himself he said, frowning down upon the emblem: “This is the sort of thing the Count of Darre sets above life. He would rather his son were dead, than know him alive, forsworn of eagles or hawks or whatever device the House of Darre glorifies. Except for that we might have persuaded the Ojibway to give us all immediate refuge. But even Mahigan understood perfectly that the Count would never consider such a thing.”

“My Count of Darre in a wigwam would make a strange sight,” Father Benedict rejoined drily. “As for the rest, he does rightly to value above the moment the symbol of the lasting deeds of his family. From earliest times the men of Darre have been the foremost defenders of Gothland. That is their pride. That is the taproot of his race. Great Houses, like great trees, survive many injuries but they die if you cut the taproot. God forbid that I should judge Sigurd too harshly, yet I find it a source of comfort to know that the House of Darre is free of him. Guttorm, as a young boy, had more stability, better judgment, and a deeper devotion towards the manor than his elder brother—”

He broke off. The sound of Thorvald’s approaching footsteps scattering his thoughts, sharpening the dull ache of his heart. Tense and grave the two men walked in silence down to the water’s edge where Thorvald joined them. As grave as they he handed Father Benedict the baldric which sheathed a crusader’s sword. In tense silence the priest drew out the blade, elevating it for a brief instant. A shining thing, grey-blue as the night sky above them, it drew the light of moon and star as swiftly as it had reflected the radiance of Palestinian skies nearly two centuries ago. Now, as then, it spoke as clearly with its bright sharp tongue, of the enduring unity of human courage, which neither time nor changing circumstance nor death itself, could banish from the earth.

Still silent, Father Benedict returned the sword to its baldric and then with quick practised hands hung it over Lavrans’ shoulder. “My son—” he said, “I give you a consecrated blade; use it justly. Let it be a link between you and the covenant of Christian lands sworn to the service of Christ. Go now, in God’s peace . . .” he faltered, his hands for an instant on the young man’s shoulder, and concluded: “God keep you and comfort you, Lavrans.”

Thorvald, seeing that Lavrans was at breaking point, held out his hand, saying quietly: “I give you luck of your venture. It is the kind of thing Leif would have envied. When the game gets tough remember Ragnar who sang in the snake pit! Farewell, my friend; remember me to Mahigan and those others.”

“Thank you, Thorvald, I shall,” Lavrans said, gripping his hand hard. Then, with a last affectionate look at the still, stiff figure of the old priest, he unbeached, boarded, and sent the canoe as in a single flying movement free of the reeds, lifted his paddle in last salute and sped away in lonely night.

Mindful of Father Benedict’s distress, Thorvald strode back to the barricade, but there he stayed leaning upon the rude pilings, unwilling to return to camp. There was something compelling in the solitary figure, so upright and still, in its sore battle with grief. Heart-rending yet admirable. Yes, he thought, thus Bergthora must have stood as she surveyed for the last time the disordered courtyard of her homestead, before she turned her back on life and entered the doomed house to die with her husband. This new perception of the hard old man touched the vein of pity which ran so deep in Thorvald, and, whether he knew it or not, was the true source of his passion for justice. What he felt, he quickly told himself, was no more than decent sympathy, and his staying no more than an old man’s due, and yet the warmth of this spontaneous feeling melted a little the bitterness of his own burden.

In a while Father Benedict slowly retraced his steps, apparently unaware of the man waiting for him, for he seemed startled to see him; then a grateful smile flashed across his face. “Thank you,” he said simply, and glanced at the sky, whose face he could read as knowledgeably as the Count of Darre. “It must be about Otta (2 a.m.),” he added. “Less than three hours since you came to the rock! So little time it takes to consume our earthly years.”

“Get some sleep now, Father. Tomorrow will not be an easy day.”

“What part of me requires sleep will get enough presently. I should only be tempted, like Job, to dwell on the sores of existence; remembering all that the years have swept away. I should get to thinking of the poor wretches the Sioux are torturing—creatures like ourselves, whose endurance is the timepiece of our reprieve. Should I waste such dearly bought hours in sleep—?” he broke off, suddenly aware of the new gentleness in the man beside him. “My son, now that you have shared my human weakness, can you not trust me to understand what preys on your mind?”

“Yes, here and at this time,” Thorvald replied laconically. “But it would only distress you, Father. For what preys on me is not a sense of guilt, but a persistent sense of futility. The futility of goodness, glorified but never requited, the futility of faith that must look to the hereafter, never to the here, for ordinary justice. Why should I afflict you with such heresies?”

Father Benedict, to whom obstinacy was the breath of life, instantly rallied: “Heresy is my province,” said he, “and stubborn sinners are as dear to me as the few remaining hairs of my head. Neither the one nor the other is likely to unhinge my mind. But I am not deceived, my son. Pride and Love contending, that is the burden in your breast. Face it like a man and be free.”

“I have faced worse things than pride without much hindrance from love,” Thorvald retorted.

“What din of boasting there must be in hell!” the priest exclaimed. “Forget your doctrine of futility and give the good in you a slave’s holiday if no more. What can you lose—here, and in this time, as you put it. What are you afraid of? That God might reach down through the fog of your proud suffering and take you by the hand? That in spite of all these elaborate defences you might be saved by yourself; returned to the woman you loved, as few men have been privileged to love? Did that never dawn on you? Or are you ashamed to have cherished a devotion untrammelled by the lusts of the flesh?”

“Now, now, Father,” Thorvald said, “you fly too high. The lusts of the flesh suffer little at Court, I assure you. The noble ladies are much too kind to let virtue wander lonesome through the halls. To say nothing of the pretty pieces that hurl themselves at soldiers wherever they go.” Then he sobered, shifted uneasily, and in less caustic tone amended: “That was a churlish retort, and I apologize for it. The truth is that any mention of Jensine affects me like a blow. I have been no saint; I despised the world too much for that. But my love for Jensine. . . . No, I am not ashamed of it! Though sometimes I was afraid. It came between me and every excess. I would find myself amidst some roistering banquet with my men, in some god-forsaken outpost, suddenly cold sober, hearing her voice through the bawdy shouting; seeing her wistful tender face in the smoke of the long-fires. . . . The Sioux are welcome to my scalp. I am glad to be done with dreams.”

“I see.” The priest, gentle now with his stray lamb, looked at Thorvald compassionately. “But tell me which would you be done with, the dream, or your misreading of it? And what of the dreamer? Will all his confusion be ended at the blow of a redskin club?”

“I am too weary to care,” Thorvald said. “I only know I am grateful that you heard me . . . it brought her very near—alive and whole. . . . Jesu!” he burst out fiercely, glowering at the priest. “What are you trying to drag out of me?”

“Whatever it is God has His finger on,” Father Benedict told him. “Why else are you so troubled? So fearful of your pride? You know what you fear, but not why you fear it. You had from the start a love of justice, a good heart, but humility was too hard for you. You would follow Micah two thirds of the way; not all the way, yet all it must be. For he said:

“You have never been patient with fools, nor suffered authority meekly, yet you submit without question to the lordship of your own folly. Are you so bound you dare not cast out the evil that shames your intelligence?”

“It is no shame!” Thorvald snapped back, “call it a hair-shirt if you like. It has been torture enough. And since you will have it so I shall tell you. Not here. Let us go back to the stone. This, too, is a rune of the dead.”

When they got back to the camp, Hake, his thick arms full of wood, stood by the stone peering down at it with a mournful expression on his gnome-like face. When he saw the two men he bobbed his head. “They like it well enough,” he said, with a sidewise glance at the priest. “Though I think my Earl Bruse would have preferred a funeral ale. He liked his cup, did my lord, and to see men merry—”

“What chatter is this?” Father Benedict was tart, “is there no end to your heathen nonsense?”

Hake hugged his wood and made a hissing sound eloquent of exasperation. “Heathen is it? Can I help it if white folk have the eyes of bats? All tongue and talk. That is the trouble, talk, talk, talk. My ears have ached with talk of angels, souls, spirits, imps, devils—but I am a heathen if I see my own master. See him I did your Reverence, roar how you will.”

“You were dreaming! Go on with your work, and be quiet about it,” Father Benedict ordered; and then, feeling he had been too harsh with the foolish little man, he added: “Better get yourself some rest, Hake.”

“God save your ignorance!” Hake pulled a hideous face and rolled his eyes. “Will the fish leap into the pot of themselves? Or must we starve as well as lose our scalps? What a calamity! Butchered by naked devils that a little boiling pitch would frazzle to nothing. What injustice! And you expect me to sleep?” Hissing and muttering he loped away, his short crooked legs and small feet soundless as those of a cat.

When they had taken their former places before the stone, Thorvald said: “Some of these people we think so simple are wiser than we know. They are very close to the earth and share her memories. Old Sunniva was the wisest person I ever knew,” his voice trailed away, and the closed look the priest knew so well, betrayed the depth and conflict of his emotion.

Idly, or perhaps the yellow colour reminded him of the flowering lime, he bent and plucked a spray of goldenrod which grew in a thin clump beside the log whereon he sat. It was fragile and lovely in the pale light and there was something tender in his hold of it, in the touch of his fingers, in the way he gently put it down. Then in his customary cold courteous voice he began the epilogue of his strange saga.

The hardest thing I ever had to face was my first visit to Jensine. All the way up the mountain I was in the grip of despair and dreadful apprehension. I had had my share of normal fears, in battle, in storms at sea and on the mountains; but this was nothing normal. I was obsessed by all the dreadful things I had ever heard about this hideous disease, and over and over the accusing thought came to me that Jensine had had to go through all this alone—face these same visions with no one to help her except Sunniva. How was I to explain my cowardice in not coming before—what did one say to the living-dead by way of comfort?

Fortunately for me Sunniva dismissed my confusion in her brusque fashion. When I dismounted from my lathered horse, more dead than alive, she took one look at me and shrugged. “So you have come at last, poor creature. Well, go in to the house. I can see you can do with a tot, but you will have to help yourself,” she explained as we entered. “Take the blue mug, Thorvald. I never touch the things on that shelf. Best be careful and clean in these matters.”

I was glad to sit down, thankful for the heady stimulant of her ale, and while I got hold of myself the wise old woman answered my unspoken questions. “You want to know how I told this thing to Jensine,” she began, peering at me in her merciless way. “Well, you may be sure I used no Christian cant. Instead, I kept her drugged through most of the journey; and while she dozed I talked and talked. There is something in us that never sleeps, you see—more tractable—wiser or more foolish than the waking mind. I do not know. I do know that when Jensine came to herself she had an inward awareness of her misfortune. It made things easier. . . .”

I started to say something, and was overcome by a fit of trembling so sickening I thought I should break into tears. Sunniva slapped my knee sharply: “Stop it! You smell of fear,” she said. “Never mind your precious feelings. This is no time to go soft. What Jensine needs is strength, something hard and enduring. You made a good start, struck hard on her behalf. Have you not the same sinews now? . . . Go lie in the sun for a while and set your ear to the earth. It will loose the kinks in your mind.”

I found a sunny spot on the rocky hillside and let the comfort of the earth seep into my bones and after a little the worst tension eased and I found the courage to go on to Jensine’s little house.

It was an unusual house designed to minimize the dreariness of captive isolation; there were wide enclosed galleries on all sides and a covered walk that extended some distance under the side of the hill. The house was set amid pines which broke the winds and screened it from the view of any chance traveller of the uplands. It was neat and comfortable but everything about it had for me a chilling reminder of the stern law which separates the living from the dead.

Yet this was hard to believe when I saw her, all silvery gold beside the lake watching the darting play of the little wild ducklings in the water. She looked as fresh and sweet as the day itself. . . .

Although my footsteps were muffled by the sod she must have heard me. Turning swiftly she gave a little cry, and quickly, though not too quickly to cut me to the heart, hid her hands in the folds of her dress.

“Oh, Jensine—Jensine—.” I stood there helpless.

She found the courage to smile. “I knew you were coming! All morning I kept thinking you must be quite near. . . . Oh, Thorvald, do not look so grieved. I am quite all right in this lovely place. Quite happy—” Then she turned away, fighting tears, I knew; yet before I could say anything she had recovered her composure. “Please forgive me, Thorvald,” she said. “When I think of all you have done I get so upset. It is all wrong for you. There should have been some other way . . . but when I wake in the morning I can only think to myself that because of you I am not shut out of life, but shut in, close and safe in a world you made for me.”

I do not remember what I said nor does it matter. We climbed the slope and sat down on the seats Sunniva had set out on the covered walk. It was the first of many such occasions; the beginning of a strange existence which, for a time at least, was touched with tragic enchantment. Jensine was so easy to please; so happy in the few diversions open to her; watching her birds, gathering flowers for the house, a canter down hidden trails, or simply listening to some poem or saga.

I had found an eager helper in Father Olav who had been house-priest to my mother. An impulsive old man who had always been on the run from one cotter’s hut to another, he was lost without his “dear souls” and therefore made himself responsible for Jensine’s welfare.

He was a simple man not above mixing cheer with his ministry. He hit upon the plan to celebrate feastdays beside the lake with bonfires and singing and telling quaint riddles. Into this service he pressed the bailiff, his wife Hilda, and two old dairy maids who had refused to leave the farm and out of these innocent diversions arose the rumour of Jensine’s insanity. Hilda had taken it into her head that nothing else could explain Jensine’s seclusion.

The gossip served us well since it satisfied the curious, and gave amusement to Jensine. For Hilda came to these gatherings with a nervous mien, and kept an apprehensive eye on Jensine who always kept to her seat on the walk. “Poor pretty thing,” she invariably informed Sunniva. “To look at her you would think she had as good sense as myself.”

Such was the lighter side of Jensine’s existence. Of the darker side only Sunniva could speak. It was she who had to fight a losing battle for six interminable years. . . . I was spared that experience. King Magnus kept my regiment busy with his quarrels. Our first engagement stretched over a year. On my return Jensine’s condition had not changed appreciably, yet one event haunts me still.

We had gone for a ride up an abandoned trail which years before had led to a game keeper’s hut, now in ruins. None of our people used the trail. Yet this day as we trotted round a rocky shoulder, the smoke of a small fire swirled towards us. A few feet from the trail a young woman was cooking something in a small kettle. She looked worn and tired and had a child tied to her breast with a coarse grey shawl. She was dirty and dishevelled but with something bright and undaunted in her frank eyes. “I am sorry if I have done amiss,” she said, getting up. “I thought this place common land—and Rosa and I were both hungry.” She smiled, hoisted the baby from its woollen cradle, and came towards us. “See, my lady, is she not a pretty creature?”

Then the blood froze in my veins. Jensine, still as a shadow until now, cried out in shrill fury: “No! No! Don’t touch me! Stand back!” Then she struck her horse and galloped down the trail.

I could not leave the poor bewildered woman without some explanation. I told that she must excuse my lady—that she had been ill of fever. I thrust some coins into her shawl and rode away feeling the brand of her pity burning my back.

The trail climbed a sharp elevation to a wooded plateau. Here Jensine had pulled up her horse and sat staring down into the narrow valley. Her face was set in a dark bleak mold, even her eyes hard as glass. “I shall ride no more,” she said tonelessly. “No more—ever! I could not bear it.”

“Be sensible, Jensine,” I urged, ignoring her hurt. “Such an encounter is not likely to recur. You know I enjoy these rides. Is that too much to ask in the few weeks of my visit?”

She started but her head came up proudly: “That was cruel—reminding me of your short leave . . . that I am nothing but trouble to you.”

“Well, why not? Hunger is a plague too yet I put up with it. You should see how gladly we chew sour bones in the king’s camp. Yes, and if you saw our benighted faces, you would realize that a few happy memories do not come amiss.”

She tried to smile for she always took my banter in good part, but then a shadow crossed her face. “Why is there all this fighting? Must we kill everyone whose ways differ from ours?”

“Certainly! How else should we make history?” I grinned at her. “My dear girl, what do you suppose inferior races exist for if not to give us glory and profit?”

“How strange you should do what you despise,” she said, as we turned homeward. “Are there many who feel as you do? Think for themselves, yet practice what they disbelieve?”

I was proud of her courage in forgetting herself so I answered in like vein. “That sounds pretty bad, Jensine. Let us get it straight. The man who despises a fight has yet to be born. We started with stones and progressed to swords and mortars, but who knows—we may end with words—even the sermon on the mount. . . . Perhaps Ragnarok will really come to pass. Do you remember the lay? It is not so heathen as intolerance will have it:

She turned shining eyes on me. “That should be chanted, Thorvald. Say it again, then we can sing our way home.”

Sing our way home!—Thorvald broke his narrative abruptly to address the priest: “Can you wonder I could never forget her—or heed my father’s urging? Is it so strange that neither the king’s arguments, nor the bait of the women they threw at me, never got me to put her away? And if the game I played with those easy wenches was short-set, what else did they deserve? Fortune hunters who changed beds as lightly as their headgear! The wonder is I did not wring their necks.”

“I am long past wondering at the ways of mankind,” Father Benedict reposted, fully aware that no answer was required. “Still, it surprises me somewhat that Magnus should have meddled in the matter. I know he valued your friendship, and I remember he meant to reward you for the Finmark service. He thought you handled the insurgents admirably.”

“That may be so. I had the same thought myself when I was summoned to his private cabinet. That is until I entered and saw that my father had preceded me. His assured complacency warned me what to expect.”

It was not long in forthcoming. In short, Sir Eyvind had persuaded the King that a post at court was an urgent necessity and the best possible reward. This charming falsehood had been bolstered by the gossip about Jensine’s insanity, now said to have worsened to such a degree that my presence depressed the unfortunate patient. The King, obviously embarrassed, expressed his concern for this state of affairs, and concluded by offering his support should I consider laying the matter before the Church.

So there it was. Although he had not spoken a word, my father’s attitude betrayed his jubilant thought: get out of this if you can, my impudent son! A royal autocrat is not so lightly flaunted as a mere father. . . . True. And for a moment I saw those two eloquent figures bent upon arranging my life through a red mist of sheer rage. Then my senses cleared, and the new-found art of dissembling came to my rescue. In matters of conscience King Magnus was extremely susceptible. This might serve me for the time being. So, after thanking him for his generous proposals, I confessed a slight reluctance in renouncing my obligations to Jensine. The more so since qualified physicians maintained that nervous derangements were often cured by patient nursing and the intercession of the Saints. I let that sink in and then added that I felt certain His Majesty would not have me act too hastily or unjustly.

“Certainly not.” The King looked hurt. “Nothing could be farther from our intention than to dispute moral obligations.”

“How true,” my father echoed, “moral obligations are not in dispute. Quite the contrary.”

“Thank you, that is well taken,” I said. “But there is another aspect to be considered. Sister Birget should be consulted. Not to do so would be an impertinence on my part.”

For once my father was startled: “Sister Birget? What has she to do with this?”

“Sister Birget sponsored our marriage. His Majesty will bear me out in that,” I said, meeting the King’s vexed glance with a bland stare. “It happens she is very fond of Jensine. She knew her mother well, and she loved mine. And as you know, Sister Birget takes her patronage seriously. She would be outraged if I failed to consult her . . . but of course it is for Your Majesty to decide the matter.”

Stiffly erect the King stared at me in frowning silence. “There is something strange in this,” he snapped, “or am I to be flattered that my authority supersedes Sister Birget’s? No, do not trouble to twist the thing further! I may not understand your position, Franklin Thorvald, but that of our holy recluse is no mystery. Whatever I approve she disapproves. It seems a fixed principle with her. . . .” At which point indignation ran away with him. Striking the chair arm with a clenched fist, he cried: “I tell you that holy female is dangerous! Nothing would please her so much as to find me cruel and irreligious. She would shout it from the house-tops; write the Holy See—badger the Holy Father himself to investigate my wicked designs against the established order. That is how she regards my sensible suggestion that the richest men in the kingdom should be taxed in common with the poor wretches who fight for them. On the eve of going to the nobles and the country for support in our Russian Crusade . . .” he paused, glancing at me ruefully: “I must ask your indulgence, gentlemen. Let things stand as they are for the time being. Nothing must endanger the success of our campaign. . . . Moreover, the Franklin may be right. God willing, the Lady Jensine may recover. If not, then some solution will be found.”

Once again Thorvald broke his narration, beset by memories he had long sought to repress. He suffered anew the shocks of Jensine’s secondary symptoms. He recalled with a shudder the first visible signs of the slow crippling paralysis—the slow creeping death which, little by little, robbed her of the one joy she had. . . . And that long dreadful calvary she had walked alone. What comfort he might have given he could not give. Sir Eyvind had seen to that. . . . Well, it no longer mattered. Jensine was long since delivered from her agony; and in a day or two the ghost of it would lie quiet within himself.

“I should not have begun this requiem of misery,” he said harshly. “Past tribulations are best left unspoken. I have held to that for years and should have held to it a little longer. Our present situation is bad enough without adding to it the futility of ancient grief.”

“That is a very dogmatic statement, my friend. How do you know that grief is a futility? Pain is a timely warning of illness in the body. May not grief be a similar danger signal for the stricken soul? As for our present situation I fail to see why it should affect the fellowship of suffering. I assure you we shall both be equal to this inquisition of memory.”

“Perhaps.” Thorvald frowned. “Perhaps not. The fellowship of suffering is seldom equal to marked differences of opinion. You will never win me over to a sense of penitence in respect to my father. However all that needs be said of our long struggle is that neither of us yielded an inch. For one thing we were too much alike; and secondly, the King’s Russian crusades, so costly for himself and the country, were not without benefit for me. They freed me of the court, of my father’s presence, and the preoccupation with a misfortune beyond my control. Also, having no experience of the religious temperament, I took it for granted that two drastic failures, the slaughter of an entire garrison, and the disaffection of all Norway, must surely cure the King of his peculiar ambition.

“I was mistaken. Neither military defeat, nor the ghastly inroads of the plague, which so shortly followed, and swept away a quarter of our people, were anything more than a temporary checkmate to Magnus. He had made a vow to bring the Russians into the Catholic fold, and nothing less than an act of God should turn him from it. . . .”

Thorvald was silent for a moment, his gaze turned inward. Then he continued: I dare say you heard all his plans for yet another campaign although the country lay waste and in despair. For myself I had come to believe that he would go on from disaster to disaster until the whole realm rose against him. So it might have done had the plague not broken out in Russia to put a halt to his plan. However, before the news reached us I was busy helping the Count of Darre train a new levy of faithful Gothlanders; and I had made up my mind to ask for home leave when the job was done.

I chose a day when Magnus set aside his Russians long enough to go hawking. Falconry was his favourite sport and always put him in an amiable frame of mind. He had a magnificent Iceland falcon, so perfectly trained it answered to his call when so far aflight the eye could not see it. To watch it soar into the sun, whatever its prey, was a thrilling spectacle. I had a fine hawk myself, with good markings, and well trained, but on this day the creature was in a temperamental mood—and most of the kill and all the glory fell to the King’s hawk.

I saw that Magnus was pleased, so I picked a moment when my wilful hawk refused my wrist. “The creature seems to know I have no heart in the chase,” I said. “Which is true. I am troubled—conscious stricken. Two years is a long time to have neglected my home.”

Magnus tore his gaze from the falcon proudly perched on his gauntleted wrist and looked at me with an odd expression. “I see that I have erred, Franklin,” he said. “I gathered from Sir Eyvind that the lady Jensine was—less manageable; that your presence had an adverse effect. I seem to have been mistaken.”

There is little gained by informing kings they have been misled. Besides, Magnus doubtless approved of my father’s new plans for my redemption. He had stopped throwing ambitious beauty at my head and turned to something more subtle. This was Andrea Bergeson, a high-spirited girl with a passion for hunts and tourneys and none at all for the sticky intrigues of the court. Our love of horses made us fast friends, and our wild dashes over moor and hill cemented the friendship.

Sir Eyvind might have won in the end except for a trifling incident which occurred at the King’s hunt. I happened to catch sight of Andrea’s face at the climax of the kill. There was a savage elation in every line, a fierce joy that was truly startling. And suddenly I remembered Jensine with a wounded bird in her cupped hands. . . . No, no—I had cruelty enough in myself. I did not need it in a wife. Jensine was the woman meant for me; something had gone wrong with the pattern but our destinies were rightly designed. . . .

I suspected that King Magnus took it for granted that I should marry Andrea when Jensine died, but that certainly did not blind him to the state of my feelings. I think he had long since discounted my supposed indifferences and that he was genuinely distressed by the misfortune which had destroyed our happiness. At any rate he gave me leave with great kindness. “If I have been thoughtless,” he said, “the troubles of the kingdom must plead for me. I wish with all my heart there were something I could do. . . . I shall pray, and have prayers said for your lady.”

Hard things have been said of King Magnus, yet he was a kinder man than many a king glorified in history. I thought of that, and regretted my own ill-natured jests, as I rode into the high mountains. But all such minor qualms were swept away when I reached the upland manor.

The bailiff and Hilda stared at me in disbelief. Then Hilda started to cry. “We thought you were dead. We had news only twice in these two years. There was a barrier against travellers and goods. Whole towns had been wiped out, we heard. He must be dead, I told my old man. Otherwise he would break every barrier. . . . Now it is too late. God pity us all . . . the poor thing is completely demented, yet she cannot die. . . .”

“Hilda! Hold your tongue,” the bailiff shouted. “Get in with you and set our food. The Franklin has come a long hard way.” When she was gone he said: “I wish to God you had come sooner. For now there is some truth in what my old woman said. . . .”

I cannot say why this information should have shocked me, except as a ghastly confirmation of all Jensine must have suffered. I dared not think of that nor to question the meaning, so I asked about Father Olaf. He was up there, the bailiff told me; for months past he had spent all his time helping Sunniva. He had taken his few belongings and housed himself in the woodshed. Why not? His order had been wiped out in the plague. Since God had spared him it must have been to some purpose. “He was always a bit queer,” the bailiff added, “but I never thought to see him putting up with Sunniva’s outland ways. Come in now, Franklin. You will be better for a bite of food. I shall get a fresh mount for you meanwhile.”

That simple statement roused me to angry shame. “No, get the horse now,” I said. “I have waited too long. There is no need to save me, bailiff. Tell me the truth. Is she dying?”

He kicked a stone, shouted at the stable boy, and swore. “That would be mercy!” he said in a low fury. “Myself, I would not let a grey wolf suffer the like. Nay, I have said too much . . . you have lived through the pestilence—that will help you now. . . .”

Perhaps it did, although not according to the bailiff’s meaning. I had not the temperament to be fortified by contemplating the universal character of misery. The last thing I wanted was to ease my conscience by any review of that ghastly period.

A little silence fell, and the priest, glancing at his companion, saw that he was very pale, with the look of one about to face the supreme sacrifice. He longed to put out his hand in understanding but refrained. No, let him come the whole way himself; this was his penance, although he did not know—the grace of God working its own miracle. There was a time to speak and a time to keep silent. In the silence he could pray.

Thorvald resumed his saga. The telling obviously long rehearsed, familiar as his own heartbeat. Only his voice, strangely flat and unimpassioned, betrayed what it cost him to continue.

Dusk falls swiftly in the mountains. A grey gloom covered the small glen by the time I got there; but the house under the black pines stood out from the shadows in fantastic relief. From the unshuttered windows and the open door reddish-yellow gleams streamed forth, like miniature Arctic lights. I have said before that the house had a gallery round it; a place where Jensine used to walk in bad weather; a place where her few visitors could stand beside an open window and talk in safety. Here on a bench, sound asleep, I found Father Olav. A moment later Sunniva came hurrying from the other side of the house with a blanket on her arm. “Let him sleep,” she said, with no more surprise at seeing me than if I had been away two days instead of more than two years. “He has not touched the straw for a week. He has no sense, poor old man.”

She drew the blanket very gently over the bent tired figure, then with a sigh she faced me, her ageless eyes boring to the quick of my being. “Good,” she said, “you have grown harder, a little wiser, my Thorvald. Even so, except that she hangs on to life in hopes of seeing you, I could wish you had not come. You must prepare yourself for a tragic change.”

“I have walked amid the pestilence,” I said impatiently. “That is preparation enough for any cruelty. Let us go in—”

“No. She is asleep. It will not be long. I have to be careful now with my potions, her poor heart is such a feeble thing. Besides, do you think she would want you to see her at her worst? Stupid man! Is she not a woman though a leper? Does, she not love you—with so blind adoration it beseems me that God and you are all of one piece.”

“Then the bailiff told the truth—”

“The bailiff gets his truth from Father Olav,” Sunniva snapped. “You are queer people. You worship a communion of saints and the visions they had grow more wonderful from generation to generation. But if anyone else has a dream or a vision he is mad, afflicted by devils, or at best suffering from sick hallucinations. Long and long ago, the wise-women of my people knew that sickness, fevers, long fasts, bring strange images to the mind. My old grandmother used to say you could learn from such ghosts of the mind. She said she could smell the climate of his soul by the dreams a man had. That I do not know. I have lost half my wits living with conquerors. But I am not yet so stupid as to call that dear unhappy soul mad. There are bad moments when she tries to escape the unbearable. Most of the time she lies there in terrible patience—” She stopped, bent her head sideways in the queer way she had as though listening, or sensing things beyond our ken. “Yes—come away now, softly,” she said, “she is waking.”

There was a tiny storehouse in the pines to which Sunniva led me. It had a strong aromatic odour that told its own tale. It reminded me of Herr Hebbel’s shop. Herbs, roots, grasses, tied in bundles hung from the rafters. Pots of clay, of fats and oils, bowls and pestles, and a slab of smooth stone stood on a rude table under the one window. On the shelves close by were jars and bottles filled, I knew, with her strange ointments and stranger brews.

Though my thoughts were far from pleasantry, I had to smile. “What does Father Olav think of this heathen clutter?”

“He leaves thinking to his betters,” she said shortly. “Do not belittle him, my proud falcon. He helps her in his way and lets me do as I like. He gives me a hand now and then with pestle and grater; yes, he once said if he were younger he would like to learn the healing arts. It seemed to him sensible that the earth must contain a remedy for the ailments that befell its creatures.”

As she talked, Sunniva was busy. From a chest she drew out linen, a broidered shift, a head-veil, the bright robe I had brought for Jensine long ago. These ready, she took a reed basket into which she set jar after jar, and lastly a cup and a small green bottle. There were several such bottles on the shelf, pale green and of a different shape from the rest.

“Is that your dark magic?” I asked unsteadily, “or is it just—bitter waters?”

She gave me a long level stare. “Nay, why should I answer an idle question? You know it yourself. . . . Now stay here until I call you.”

But, as one endless moment succeeded another, I found the wait intolerable. What were they doing? Why should I be shut out from the poor woman I loved? Had I not the right in some way to make myself useful? Then I heard her cry. A thin, piercing cry, that winged through the dusk and struck me with the mortal impact of a poisoned arrow. The past few years had inured me to cries of pain—it was not that. It was the indescribable quality of co-mingled fear and despair that made this frantic protest so insufferable. Even the anger which upheld me in most hateful situations was helpless against this. I stood there in cataleptic stupor unable to stir; unable to think—except that something older than thought worried and tore at my consciousness. This something had already formed a purpose my mind rejected. It had said: this is enough. . . .

Thorvald stopped once again, and turned a hard face to the priest. “Spare yourself the anxiety that I am inventing excuses for myself,” he said. “I have come to see that an act is never spontaneous—the impulse was there beforehand. That is my meaning. What is yet to be told is too real—too stark a truth to permit of invention. . . .”

To continue: When I got hold of myself I ran to the house only to be stopped in the gallery by Father Olav. “No, no, Franklin, not so fast,” he said. “Sit down and be patient. Your coming was a joy, but a great shock also. A very great shock . . . and these dressings—all this meddling with afflicted flesh is a terrible trial . . . you must wait till she is calmer . . . sit down, my son—and pray.”

I did not sit down; I did pray with all my fearful heart. For she had heard us and cried out wildly: “Why do you keep him from me? Let him come, that I may die . . . Sunniva, do you hear? Do you hear?” And her weeping, harsh and painful, drowned out Sunniva’s soothing murmurs. Pushing Father Olav aside I ran down the gallery nothing thinking; and yet, some hidden sense checked me at the open door. Jensine was not awaiting a half demented coward. I must collect myself; break free of emotion and somehow reach the calm heights that Sunniva inhabited. “Yes, I hear you, my lamb,” she was saying in steadfast voice. “So does he, I have no doubt. We will soon be ready. . . . There now. That is done. What a pretty, pretty veil. . . . Now, my little one, take another sip of wine for old Sunniva. . . .”

“No, no! It is a trick!” Jensine cried out, “I will not have it. I will not be drugged this last little while. . . . Oh, Sunniva, it was not another dream—he is here?”

“He is here. Waiting until you are calm. So drink this and compose yourself.”

There was a sigh, and a silence that seemed endless. Then I stepped through the doorway into that forbidden chamber, thick with shadows, heavy with the scent of burning spices and incense, fitfully lighted by a log fire, with windows wide open, where the patient was newly anointed and dressed—and yet the smell of death was there. A hideous presence that mocked all human effort. I was grateful for the shadows; grateful that I had learned to turn as hard a face to human misery as death itself. More grateful still that Jensine’s bed stood in a far corner between the huge hearth and the window. In that fitful light she resembled the attenuated figures on ancient ikons. Her thin little face, I thanked God to see, was still unmarked but her eyes were strange; too big, too black in their intensity, with something in their once calm depths that frightened me. Her hair, once so bright and golden, was now pale as straw but, thanks to Sunniva’s loving care, still soft and pleasing. Her little hands, now gloved, lay motionless on the bright spread.

I tried to speak but the words stuck in my mouth, my eyes stung, and there was a queer numbness in my chest. Sunniva saved me. She called from the bedside where she was finishing some last touch of comfort. “There is a seat there, Thorvald,” she said matter-of-factly. “I have got it ready for you.”

I saw then that an armchair, swathed in a clean sheet, had been placed beside a narrow table some feet from the bed. Yes, Sunniva had her wisdom not got of the conquerors. She would have thought little of the piety of certain holy women whom I had seen kissing bubonic sores. She was sensible and inflexible in her precautions.

When I was seated I found my tongue though nothing of sense to say. “Jensine, I tried to get here before. Many times—there was always some hindrance. . . . Jensine, do you not know me—see me?”

“Yes, I see you, Thorvald. Through a mist . . . a red mist. I always see you in a red mist,” she said, her eyes fixed in that wide peculiar stare. “I did not understand it at first. I prayed and prayed and prayed. Now I know. It is the mist of war. Always I see you in it yet you yourself are not red. Your face is always turned to the sky—to the sun. . . . Do you remember how we looked into the sun on the headland of our island? I could never bear it. You could stare at it. . . . Thorvald, do you know why you do all this killing?”

I was frightened. I looked at Sunniva and got nothing from her shut brown face. “Jensine, can we not talk of something else? Something pleasant—the island, mayhap. I have gone there once . . . the birds still nest and sing on the headland. . . .”

“I know. I see them too. God lets me see many things. But answer me, Thorvald—I get so tired of crooked answers.”

“My dearest, how can I answer what I do not understand?”

“Ah,” she said, closing her eyes, and tears, terrible to see, squeezed from under the blue lids. When she raised them again the dark look had receded and she looked at me with blue familiar eyes. “Maybe not, dear Thorvald. I shall tell you later. Not while Sunniva is here. She would stop me with a little drink. Always she has a drink—a handful of spices. And Father Olav has his prayers . . . and none of it makes me clean again. . . .”

“Oh, Jensine, you yourself are sweet and lovely. Nothing the worst disease can do. . . .”

“Will hurt my soul!” she broke in with a flash of spirit. “Thorvald, not you too! I get so tired of hearing of my soul. It must have been a wicked thing to need all this strafing. . . . Noon and night I am told nothing else matters save to return my soul undefiled to heaven. Oh Thorvald, it is true—and not true. The earth is made for living. Did you not feel it those mornings on the island with the sea wind blowing the field full of flowers and the wild birds crying? It was not my soul you liked that day we climbed to the lime tree. It was a girl—a girl who loved you and everything you did. Oh God, where is she now? that girl who used to look at you, Thorvald . . . at the way the sun shone on your head and brought out the blue lights in your black hair . . . at the way you walked. No one ever walked like you. She used to listen for your step and think of music. There was something so gay and light in it. And your strong brown hands . . . Thorvald, Thorvald, for the touch of those hands, so gentle, so kind, that girl would have sold her soul to a thousand torments . . . that is the truth and you know it.”

“My darling, I only know I love you,” I said, holding tight to the little courage I had. For this emotion had so told on her that her voice was a rasping whisper, and her thin face grew pinched, the delicate bones sharp under the tight parchment skin. “You must not tire yourself, or Sunniva will send me away. Let me tell you of the strange places I have seen—or of the king’s household. . . .”

“No, no!” she interrupted, moving her head restlessly. “There is not time for that, Thorvald. They will be at me again, Sunniva and Father Olav. And I must explain about the mist. . . . Sunniva! Where is she?”

“Here, little one,” Sunniva came out from the shadows. “Is there something you want—a drink perhaps?”

“No, you would put me to sleep. I want you to go away, Sunniva. Please! I want to be alone with Thorvald. Please, dear Sunniva, do that for me. You know what I have to tell him.”

“Yes, I know,” Sunniva answered soothingly, giving me a strange glance, beseeching yet defiant. “It is best to tell him of course; but not sensible to send me away. I shall sit in the hearth-corner and hear nothing . . . not unless you need me.”

Jensine gave a sigh and shut her eyes. She lay still so long I began to wonder if she had not dropped asleep. Then the blue lids lifted and the gaze she fixed on me set me trembling. I cannot describe the trance-like expression, so abnormal yet certainly not a mad stare. I thought then, and still think, the drugs might have been partly responsible. But when she started to speak her voice sounded natural, stronger than before, and at first was quite calm and gentle. What she said was something else again.

“Thorvald, do you know how long I have been dying? No, you need not answer. You are only to listen. It is six years, Thorvald. Even the wheel is not so slow. That is nothing. Father Olav tells me some lepers go on much longer . . . but I shall be done tomorrow. God has promised it. Does that surprise you? Thorvald—do you believe in God?”

“How else could I bear this thing? . . .”

“That is not what I meant. Do you believe God shapes our lives to His purpose—though it may seem a very strange purpose?”

“Oh, my dearest, I do not know!”

“Poor Thorvald. Never mind. I understand at last. I used to wonder and wonder about all those wars. I prayed and prayed. I could not bear always to see you in that red mist. I used to weep for you. Why is he not with his books, keeping his manor; doing the things he loves? Now I know God, too, trains his falcons. Do you remember what you told me on the island? They are killers! Clean swift killers.”

There was something so unnerving in the way she said this I found it hard to reply. “I am not quite all hawk, I hope,” I said. “A soldier is not so bad as that.”

“I am not talking about soldiers,” she said. “I am talking about you. What you are and what you have to do. It started in Holy Cross Cathedral when you swore before God to cherish me for better and for worse. Now the better is finished; the worst remains. That worst for you will set me free. God has promised me. I have seen Him. Heard Him . . . Thorvald, I am not mad! Nay, I am not! It began when the flesh fell from my arm. Ah, that frightens you; it is horrible. I have to shut my eyes when Sunniva mops out the sores. . . . I shut my eyes and pray to the Compassionate Heart of Mary. When I thought I should go mad I could feel Her loving presence: It gave me courage to grow bolder; to weep out all my fear, to beg and beseech deliverance. I cried to God Himself; I am little and afraid; I cannot bear any more this smell of the grave, loose me as Lazarus was loosed. . . . You are shocked, Thorvald? God was not shocked. Now listen and try to believe.

“It was a dreadful night. Another ulcer had burst on my thigh; even with Sunniva’s drink I could scarcely bear to be touched. . . . I could hear myself screaming—and I have not often screamed, Thorvald. I tried to struggle, to get free of all this frightfulness. Through it all I knew that Sunniva was trying to help me, and Father Olav kept praying. It was not an ordinary fainting fit. I did not regain consciousness in a few minutes. I slept in some deep secret place long enough to wake quite calm. The candle was burnt out, the hearthfire only smouldered. It was a black stormy night, but the room was not black as it should have been. . . .” She stopped on a plaintive sigh, and turned her face from me. “Oh, Thorvald, I am not out of my mind. No, but if you fail me, who knows? I cannot bear much more. . . .”

Can you think what I felt, Father Benedict, knowing she was weeping in utmost helplessness? Unable even to wipe away the tears? While there was I bound also, forced to watch her in rising fear and despair. How she knew what these fears were I cannot say. She could not have seen my face if that betrayed me. My chair was in shadow. Perhaps Sunniva had so arranged it. She arranged most things with uncanny foresight. As calmly as I could I tried to reassure Jensine. “Anything I can do, you know will be done,” I said. “I am not doubting the truth of your vision, my dearest—I only doubt the wisdom of wasting your strength. There is tomorrow. . . .”

“No!” She faced me again, alarming resolution in her dilating eyes. “Now is the time! But you must hear me and you must try to understand. Will you listen in silence? Will you try to be one Thorvald, not two? There are always two of you and that confuses me. Always arguing. One so dark and one so bright. Be now my Thorvald. The Thorvald who watched the sky, smiling while I told him all my little fancies so long ago. You did not mind then, if I told you strange things. Think me crazy. Why should you think it now?”

“I do not think so,” I said. “Since you wish it I shall listen without a word.”

There was a long silence. A stillness so complete that the far click of Sunniva’s knitting needles sounded loud in the vast chamber. The light wind became a ghostly mutter, and the soft pad of Father Olav’s feet treading up and down the gallery somehow deepened the uneasy quiet. Through it in some queer way I could see Jensine’s mind straining toward me. Questioning, seeking, imploring. Impossible to explain but terribly real. I could feel myself slipping into the vortex of this strange possession, exactly as a man succumbs despite himself to the skill of a passionate woman. The captivation was so complete that when she started to speak I did not marvel that for a little her voice seemed to have regained the measured cadences I used to think so charming. Nor was I startled at the first by what she said. I was listening with the sublime detachment one assumes in a dream where nothing seems incredible. Yet I remember every word.

“It was not dark when I woke,” she began. “There was a pale radiance in the centre of the room. A faint light that grew brighter as I stared at it. Like the rays of early sunrise faintly shot with blue, only more beautiful and steadily growing brighter. Yet I was not frightened. For there was a dear warmth spreading through me, as though my body were alive again. Alive and delighting in sensation. I did not trouble to think; I accepted it as an answer to my prayers. A moment of peace. Then my eyes were opened. There was a Divine Presence in that light. Incomparably lovely. Ineffably loving. I forgot I was a leper, loathsome and hideous. Something clean and sweet inside me knew itself safe and content as a child in its cradle. Then a little pang went through me for I thought I must be dying and had left no word for you, dear Thorvald.

“But it was not the angel of Death. For now a miracle befell. Beyond the radiance a fainter light formed on the wall. A dull, shifting light out of which there came a picture. A living picture more hateful than my leprosy. There was a dark hill with three crosses on it. Two were in reddish darkness. One stood out in lonely illumination. Like a pearl against black velvet. For the hill was black and desolate under the angry sky. More desolate still were the weeping figures beside the cross. Their tears must have scorched the earth for I felt them like gall on my heart.

“Then the light shifted pointing to the foreground. There a frightful crowd ebbed to and fro yelling, jeering, shaking staves and brutal fists—mocking now one sufferer, now another, but venting its hatred on the Divine Sacrifice. Hatred so unspeakable that every now and then the whole mass surged forward as though to tear with its own hands the Blameless Victim. When this happened they were thrust back by Roman spears. I had not seen the Romans until this happened. They were young men. They stood between the crosses and the angry mob and their spears glittered in the dull light. They were soldiers; their stony faces were neutral masks; but when they flashed their spears their eyes flashed contempt. They were Hawks of Caesar and despised the raging fanatics. And there was one among the soldiers, a tall dark man with an austere face who held himself aloof even from his fellows. Although he gave no outward sign I knew he was listening, not to the evil curses of the spectators, but to the agony on the cross. It was he who wet the sponge in vinegar. . . . As the hours dragged on and the hateful people grew more and more abusive, I could feel his rising anger in my own breast. I knew what he longed to shout at the insatiable monsters, and how, deep in his heart, he questioned even Roman justice.

“The more he thought the more intolerable it became for him to stand there listening. . . . Twice he turned to look at the Cross and his thought was as clear as the gleam of the spear in his hand; it is enough. . . . Then, so swiftly I could scarce follow him, he leaped up the hill. The spear glittered as it struck . . . everything shifted again. For an instant I saw the soldier leaning on his spear, cold, aloof, a neutral hawk once more. . . .

“All this I saw was swift as things in a dream, but it was not a dream. The White Radiance was still there. The Presence had shown me these images for more than consolation. I did not hear actual words but I heard the spirit of words. I know the scripture version of the spear thrust . . . now I knew that God Himself did not despise the impulse behind it. And it came to me with full conviction that I, too, might expect mercy.

“Thorvald, do you not see? Our Lord suffered six hours on the cross! My vision was not a sick fancy. It was an assurance that when my six years are fulfilled I shall go free. God does not lie! Thorvald, do you understand now? Do you see why I knew you would come today? For I did know it. There was no need for Sunniva to break the news gently. I never doubted that you would come. Never for a moment believed that you would fall in battle or to the plague. . . . No, it could not be. For you are God’s hawk, Thorvald—now do you see?”

Yes, I saw. The frightful delusion was only too vivid. I was as petrified as upon the first occasion when a heavy battle ax was levelled at my helmet and mere instinct saved me. Instinct, experience, common sense, none of these could help me here. I could neither move nor speak; I sat there in a chill of despair struggling to free myself from the spell of the wild dark gaze fixed upon me. From the fierce will in that dear pitiful face; from the dreadful conviction that if she were not altogether mad she was not far from it.

Before I could gather my wits she cried out sharply: “Thorvald! What is the matter? Why are you so horrified? Is it hell you fear? Then what of all the strong sound healthy bodies you have run through without a thought? Answer me that if you can. Is it worse to kill carrion than a live creature . . . ?”

“Jensine, in God’s name calm yourself. My darling girl, a soldier is not a murderer! Jensine, if I could give my life for you that would be easy—but this—”

“Easy! Yes, it would be easy!” she cried wildly. “A dagger is sharp and swift. It does not eat like a worm, inch by inch. . . . Sunniva!” she screamed, “Sunniva, come here!”

“Dear heart, I am here.”

“Take off these trappings!” Jensine said. “Let him see the thing he keeps from the grave where it belongs! Let him look at my breast and arms . . . Sunniva, do you hear?”

“I hear many things,” Sunniva said, her hand on Jensine’s head, gently firm. “Many things, none so foolish as this. No, my little one, you would not be so cruel. Be still now. Listen, there is a sound of waters. We Wends understand the spirit of many waters. Some are bitter waters—” Here Sunniva looked toward me, her deep brown eyes sharp and hard. “Very bitter and yet there is good in those strong waters. Only the brave endure them. Only the clean of heart find them good.”

Jensine, fighting a familiar soothing rhythm, had gathered all her forces for a last terrible protest. She pulled her head away from the caressing hand with a convulsive shudder, crying out so wildly that I leaped to my feet. And in my blind impulse to reach her I crashed into the narrow table, sending its contents to the floor. I had not seen them in the gloom. Two small bottles now in fragments at my feet.

“Stay where you are.” Sunniva spoke quite calmly through the storm of Jensine’s weeping. “No one crosses that barrier save myself.”

“Then do something!” I shouted. “For God’s sake, Sunniva, is there nothing will help?”

“I have told you. . . I told you long ago!”

She turned from me to the writhing girl and began her mesmeric sing-song. “My little bird, hearken to old Sunniva. We do not disbelieve your vision. Surely God is good. His miracles are strange and many, His servants also. Come, my brave child, be done with fear, the worst is over. Now let me fix your pillow and arrange your sweet hair. Then you will take a little wine and be your own dear self.”

“You will trick me!” Jensine wept. “Oh God, where are You? Do not let them trick me. I cannot bear any more. I cannot! Thorvald, listen, there is a spot on my face—do you understand? It frightens me more than all the rest. I cannot stand that! Thorvald, do you want me to lose my mind? Oh, Thorvald, have you less heart than that heathen Roman?”

“Jensine, I will do anything you ask!” I cried, myself half demented. “Anything! Anything possible. Only try to calm yourself.”

“Then promise you won’t let them trick me,” she moaned. “They are so clever, Sunniva and Father Olav. They drug me with prayers and little spoonfuls from the green bottles. It helps, they think, to let me sleep. It does not help! To wake is horrible. They do not call me out of the grave but into it. . .”

Father Olav had come in unnoticed and was on his knees at the foot of the bed. “Dear child, be comforted,” he now said, lifting a tear-wet face from cupped hands and looking at Jensine with steady eyes. “It has come to me that our prayers will be answered. I feel it in my heart and praise God for it. Get the wine, my son, it will ease her.”

“You will find all you need on the shelves,” Sunniva added, her little knowing eyes hard as agates.

I ran from that house of pain, and found it strange and shocking that the night should be cool and clean. I raced to the storehouse, knowing what I had to do, determined not to falter, and yet, once inside that secret place I stood minutes on end unable to move. There was a pale light from the window, for the moon had risen, and in this gray illumination the little green bottles on the shelves glittered mockingly. One spoonful and she slept for hours! The thought stabbed me and my sick heart turned over. I prayed. I prayed that Father Olav’s faith might be justified; that I might be delivered from this green snare. I prayed for a miracle of intervention. The only intervention was a sudden ebbing of all emotion. Why this concern for myself? So far had I done anything of cost for this woman whose pitiful life was somehow part of myself? I had not! Furthermore, who had ordained this furious worship of suffering. Was it true that God delighted in this oblique return to the deification of torture? No, it was not! Man glorified these things because he had not outgrown them; and only in pain felt himself close to something greater than himself.

I went to the moonlit shelves. Coolly, as though I were selecting war-gear, I began to pick what I needed. I found a pint bottle into which I poured a cupful of wine. To this I added the contents of one of the green vials. I stared at the mixture with dry eyes and thought of my hawks. They were swift but this was swifter. The thought passed over me without a ripple of response. I found a basket which contained clean glasses, added the original wine bottle and the smaller one which Sunniva would recognize as bitter waters, and then returned to the house.

Perhaps I imagined it but there seemed to be an expectant hush in the dusky room. A silence so heavy that the murmur of Father Olav’s prayers, Jensine’s laboured breathing, and Sunniva’s cat-like tread as she moved round the bed, were all inadequate against it. In this stillness we were as immaterial as shadows; our borrowed existence transient as the colours of the sky.

So it seemed. And yet, when Sunniva spoke, substance and meaning reclaimed the dark chamber. And when Jensine opened her eyes, unfrenzied, clear, gentle, as upon our first meeting, all my cool detachment fled. When she tried to smile the pain of it was sharper than any Roman sword. . . . That something bravely smiled up at me from those tender eyes was not a shadow—not of the flesh which withers as the grass. It held me fast in wonder and gratitude. And pierced me through and through with a sense of loss so unspeakable I could scarcely bear it.

Sunniva hurried forward. “You took your time,” said she curtly, with a quick glance at the basket. “Oh well, you found the right wine. . . . Set out the glasses, Thorvald. I never handle the things other folks use.” From the bed-stand she fetched a thin glass goblet. “This is Jensine’s. No need to touch it. . . . Well, what are you waiting for? Have you not learned the art of pouring wine in the king’s household? Get on with it. And be careful. It is good wine.”

I was careful. Sheltered by Sunniva, under her knowing eyes, I poured the wine, filling Jensine’s goblet last. . . .

“Well done, my falcon,” Sunniva said, hastily slipping the small bottle out of sight. Then, suddenly mild, and with great dignity she turned to the priest. “Come, Father Olav, you must take some heed for yourself. A drop of wine will do you good. And it will comfort Jensine to see us cheerful. Life, my old grandmother used to say, is like a string of beads; a little string of small occasions that live in memory. Let us be glad of this moment which is ours to share.” When the priest and I had taken our glasses, Sunniva picked up the goblet, lifting it to the firelight. It shone like a fine topaz.

“This is rare vintage,” she said, gliding to the bed. “The heart of the earth is in it, all the magic of a singing year. . . . Jensine, my little one, I give you sunlight in this little glass . . . the health and the wealth of the sun . . . now drink your golden wine, my child.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Jensine’s face, and her eyes fixed on mine. “Thorvald, did you pour it for me? Is it all right?”

“Yes, Jensine, I poured the wine. . . . It is all right.”

“You will not forget the rest?”

“My darling, I will not forget.”

“Thorvald, you must not be afraid. What God approves is always good.”

“I know . . . it is good, Jensine.”

“Oh, I am so glad,” she sighed, her thin face transfigured, “dear Thorvald, I knew you would understand. . . . Now I can take the wine. Oh, Sunniva, it is a good occasion. I drink to you all; to your goodness. . . . And to the good to come.”

Thorvald’s voice broke and he hid his face in the cup of his hands, the hard core in his heart melted at last. Too wise to speak, Father Benedict sat as still as a stone. Now he perceived how God might love the greatest sinner. Yes, now at long last he really understood the Fatherhood of God. For now he was one with the suffering of a fellow being, seared by his pain, burdened with the heavy guilt his relentless pain accused. . . .

Presently Thorvald said: “Now you know everything. She died in her sleep . . . without pain,” he added gruffly, rising to his feet. With grave composure he regarded the priest for a moment. “Father, you have been very kind. You have helped me. Not as you might wish, perhaps. I cannot pretend I should act differently if I had to relive that night. I understand that you must condemn me. But whatever your judgment I am grateful for your patience. And I regret that I did not fully appreciate the good care you took of us all these years.”

“I should not dare condemn you,” Father Benedict replied, springing to his feet with renewed vigour. “My son, you are greatly mistaken in many things. The Christian Church condemns sin, not the sinner. In that difference lies salvation. For your comfort let me remind you that to love greatly is to merit forgiveness. . . . I shall say no more. You know the way back. Nor would I shame you by making it easy even if I could. You know the way. It is the way of humility. The way of the prodigal son. . . . Now get some rest, Thorvald Eyvindson.”

Thorvald tilted his head to scan the stars now beginning to fade in the vast sky. “Yes, so I must,” he said smiling faintly. “Our Count of Darre will not tolerate incompetence on our last tomorrow. Good-night—and good morning, Father Benedict.”

Father Benedict tightened his shabby robe against the freshening dawn wind and shut his eyes in momentary weariness. Thorvald’s saga had affected him almost beyond endurance. It had stirred him to a deeper sympathy with the men who were his spiritual charges, and at the same time made him conscious of past failure. For if a man as hag-ridden as the Franklin had not come to him before, it was not surprising that a rebel like Sigurd had not done so.

Yet he had loved his mission, loved the loyal company, but for some reason he had been unable to translate his affection into simple human terms. That was a humbling reflection. It implied that he had been altogether deficient in the first essentials of his ministry; he had lacked charity and understanding.

Father Benedict winced, then pulled up sharply, jumped to his feet and pacing about, addressed the heavenly host. Yes, he had failed. God forgive him; he admitted it in sorrow and humility. Now he must forswear further futile introspection. There was still time for the Blessed Saints to take a hand in the struggle; after all his failure was their opportunity. Besides, all he asked was a little time—no unreasonable request of the Maker of Eternity—a few hours, that his men might find themselves and set their souls to rights.

Of course the actual problem was Sigurd and his wild companions. Wild, yes, and arrogant in their young strength, but not evil men; and there was Lavrans. “Oh, Help of the Righteous strengthen his hand, fortify his heart and give him the wisdom to aid his brothers—”

Completely lost in the fervour of his prayers, Father Benedict had failed to notice that the camp was waking. He was startled by the sound of Jacob’s voice booming in his ear, and for an instant seemed not to recognize the men before him.

“God’s Death,” Jacob growled. “Do you never leave off wrestling the Devil? You have the look of a bilious cloud.” He turned to his companion. “Go on without me, Skule. And before you take the watch make sure Hake has not sneaked out on the lake. He never thinks of danger when the cooking pots are empty. Take your bow, you may need it, though all seems quiet. If you need help call Thorvald.”

“Ivar Baardeson is no mean shot,” Skule said, frowning. “Or is there something amiss with his bow?”

“If there is I shall hang someone,” the Count snapped. “If I must explain the obvious to a seasoned soldier, then let me remind you Skule Ericson, that as between good and perfect a man’s life may be lost. Hell and damnation is that plain enough?”

Skule grinned. “Plain is the word. Thank you, sir.”

“Now then, Father,” Jacob glared at the priest, “are you trying to kill yourself. With me short of men? Go and get some rest. I will keep my devils quiet until breakfast—if Hake finds us any breakfast.”

“It is not rest I need but something to do. When it lightens I can finish the runes, but until then . . . Jacob, tell me the truth. Why am I so little trusted?”

“What truth?” Jacob sounded amused. “Had you not proof of trust in the hours spent with Thorvald? That bane of the Court who never gave his confidence to anyone.”

“There is no trust involved, Jacob. A reticent man who talks out of sheer desperation is really talking to himself, reasoning out loud, and his listener by choice is invariably a stranger. That is the trouble, Jacob. I am still a stranger to my communicants.”

The Count glanced up at the sky, now slate gray and featureless save in the east where a thin wash of light was spreading up from the horizon. “You priests expect too much,” he said abruptly. “None of us knows himself, let alone anyone else. But we cannot stand here beating our breasts. If you won’t rest then make the rounds with me. I am not quite easy about the back ridge.”

They turned west, following a narrow irregular track which angled upward to the highest elevation of the little island. From that height the dark hinterland opened before them; the treacherous woodland which lay like some multiple host of Pharaoh, barring their passage to Vinland, the friendly sea, and home.

After an interval of moody silence, Jacob turning to the priest whose long stride kept easy pace with his own, said: “You should talk of being a stranger to your flock. How much do you think I know of these men who have followed me so long? Rank, station, married, single, these things I know, but do they tell me what they are? No, and that is why they trust me. I take men as I find them. If they raise hell out of my sight it is not my business. You cannot prod and pry into a man’s soul and expect love for it. Is that truth enough?”

They had reached the high bank and had to pick their way through weeds and little knots of bright willow. The waters below were a gray misted mirror, the opposite banks a blur of dark trees. The Count’s words seemed to hang in the hushed air.

“No, Jacob. On a mission such as ours I should have been something more than an impersonal ear. Your mistrust of me was well-founded.”

“Mistrust! What put that crazy idea in your head?” The Count glowered indignantly. “I should as soon mistrust myself. And as to failure, what of me who could not manage my own son.” He kicked a stone and watched it bounce down the embankment and hit the water. “Ha! I see—what bothers you is that Lavrans did not return. Well, I tried to warn you, the lad was too taken with that savage.”

“Lavrans did return, Jacob. Late last night.”

“What? Then where the devil—”

“He went back. He had to go back.”

“God’s Death! Back where? To the savages?”

“To Mahigan’s people, the Ojibways. . . . Nay, let me explain—”

“Explain!” Jacob roared, stopping in his tracks, then sitting down with an angry thump. “What is there to explain? We run to traitors it seems.”

“Traitors! Traitors. I know nothing of traitors,” Father Benedict glared back. “Let me remind you that Lavrans was under no military obligation. He has the right to choose his own life. He has chosen to join these people because it may help us. The Ojibways are making ready to fight the Sioux, their ancient enemies. Our enemies, Jacob. The Sioux killed our men and mean to kill us too. That is the truth. And may God forgive us for snarling like wolves.”

The Count grinned. “God can do with a little honesty round this place. So you let him go—for our sakes? Your beardless Lavrans is to lead a rescue party of savages and save us? Come, come, is that a credible yarn?”

“Help might come that way,” the priest said sharply, hoping to avoid the trap baited for him. “Mahigan is a good spokesman for us.”

“Then why leave us here? No, no, my friend. There is something you are keeping from me. I surmise it is Sigurd, not the savages, your Lavrans has gone a-wooing, may their scalps run red!”

“Lavrans has not seen your son.” Father Benedict skirted truth, unhappily. “It was your pride kept us here. None of us dared suggest leaving the island. Then, too, the Ojibway had heard of the yellow scalps—that the magic in them makes wolves of weaklings. Mahigan is struggling with that monstrous superstition. Lavrans is their hostage.”

The Count grunted. “A fine prospect! You let him go—”

“I let him go. Here, as elsewhere, a man must do what he thinks right.”

Scowling into the brightening dawn Jacob questioned himself. “I wonder would I have been so wise if Sigurd had come to me openly? Who knows? There might have been some way found . . . but to steal off with six good fighters, like thieves of fortune! No Darre, to my knowledge, has so shamed his House before. Thank God his mother will never hear of it.”

“Lady Margit would have shown more sense than we two!” Father Benedict retorted, thankful of a safe tangent. “She would have known what was brewing and prevented disaster. With the wisdom of hindsight I have seen too late what your lady would have perceived at once. We could have sent the malcontents home. We had two ships beside the Royal Knorr. It would have been better to have sent home the ship we later lost in the ice floes. We are not blameless, Jacob. You forgot that Sigurd is young, made for high adventure—for love and laughter. And I—I was both stupid and blind.”

The Count made a grumbling sound deep in his throat, drolly contemptuous. “You mean you were unaware that Sigurd was making free with brown wenches? You were saved something, believe me!”

“That is a harsh accusation, Jacob. A hard thing to believe—”

“Aye—harder to accept. I should have killed him on the spot! He would have died a fool, not a damned traitor.”

“How dare you voice such a hideous thought?” the priest flared. “Would you face God with murder in your heart? Think you that wounded vanity gives you the right to pass judgment in this wise?”

Jacob, coldly scanning the still waters, seemed not to hear. “I had my bow strung,” he said grimly. “He was standing stark naked on the river bank, his body pale gold in the sunlight. His curling hair was a glittering crown—a bright and easy mark. It was Thorvald Eyvindson who stayed my hand . . . a clever man Thorvald. ‘Murder is small improvement on harlotry,’ he said, nothing moved, and with that frosty courtesy which used to keep the whole court at bay. ‘At least let the wench get away. She looks young and innocent but I doubt not she would fetch the tribe round our ears for the murder of such a lover . . . ah, I thought so. She is the chief’s daughter. A pretty creature if you like dark meat’.”

“Damn my lights!” The Count smote his thigh. “It was his voice—cold as the west wind. It blew out my rage and left me feeling foolish. Thorvald said nothing more but his peculiar compose was strangely effective. He was salvaging my pride at a price. I was to keep silent and pretend ignorance. By implication he was also reminding me that my jurisdiction did not extend to the private lives of the Company.

“Why not walk to the clearing?” he said. “Knutson has ordered a felling. A pity. I hate to see fine trees done to death. But then, the Commander seems to think that a stockade is a guarantee of safety. I think he is mistaken.”

“Why so?” I asked, taking his lead and trying to forget Sigurd.

“Forts have a way of irritating people. At all events we have spent three winters in Knutson’s Vinland and got along with the natives. Hake’s cooking pots have served us better than any stockade would have done.”

“King Magnus did not equip a royal company to feed savages. Let that be. What I want to know is why you call this Knutson’s Vinland?”

His black brows arched in cynical surprise. “Does it bear any resemblance to Vinland the Good? Have we found the slightest signs of past settlement? Settlement there must have been, and of considerable size, since the Church asked and received tithes from the Vinland congregation. Sir Paul is a master of law, but he seems to have neglected to inform himself on the Vinland voyages. This gulf is not Leif’s haven. Unless it has been sacked by the natives the Vinland settlement lies further south.”

“Then why have you not said so?”

“Frankly, because I am indebted to Paul Knutson. So far as I am concerned it makes no difference where he goes.”

“By the same reasoning it should make no difference to me if Sigurd strews the woods with half-caste bastards,” I shouted, and saw with astonishment he had gone pale.

“I dislike the word bastard, Count Jacob. It is as senseless as all other human malice. In any case your son is no worse than other young men. I should leave it at that.”

We had reached the clearing. It was near sunset and there was a keening wind; the felled trees reminded me of a battlefield. Overcome with a surge of loneliness, I sank down on a log, and my mind flew to Darre. Perhaps he sensed my mood, for he started talking in strange fashion.

“These trees have reached toward the sky for centuries, their crown fit for eagles. Yet here they lie cut down by creatures whose lives are as nothing to the growth of a forest. We are good at destruction. We start early. I remember a boy who came to the manor when I was small. He found a nest in a beech tree with three speckled eggs in it. He shrieked with delight as he crushed each thin shell. I have often thought of him when righteous men reach out to crush human happiness.”

That shook me out of the doldrums. “Is that your name for Sigurd’s wantonness—you call it happiness? And for that I must remain silent and let the camp laugh behind my back?”

“Silence seldom provokes laughter. But I was not thinking of Sigurd. It would be a shabby end to our mission to have our brains dashed out some morning for want of a little common sense. Did you happen to notice the girl’s face? At the moment I should say it is entirely to our interest not to destroy what she values.”

“Nonsense! These creatures have no sense of values.”

“They value female honour. As I said before the girl is the Chief’s daughter. She would never dare break a tribal taboo. Her relationship with Sigurd must have been accepted by the tribe.”

The Count gave a gusty sigh, and shrugged his great shoulders. “Well, there you have it, Father. He had made it clear enough that I could do nothing. He was right, you know. I soon discovered that Sigurd was not the only one who took an interest in the forest.”

Father Benedict looked stricken. “Where were my eyes? What was I doing all the while? Jacob, the stone mason was wrong. I should have stuck to humble toil.”

“Hold your wrath,” Jacob said, swooping to his feet. “Have you forgotten that in your fury to hew an altar you cut your foot and were laid up for weeks? That is to say you had to be content with hobbling about the little chapel, driving Lavrans crazy with endless orders . . . Anyway you could have done nothing.”

“Exactly!” Father Benedict retorted. “How the Lord puts up with us is beyond comprehension,” he added, clutching his robe as he swept past a prickly bush. “Those wretched men—” He got no further. There was a yell from the barricade that set both men running.

When they reached the beach the alarm seemed unfounded. A dawn mist hung over the water and the rising sun a bright glow behind the forest for the moment threw the shoreline into deeper shadow. All they could see was a boat in mid-water, its occupant peacefully fishing.

Jacob on the point of roaring at Hake, stopped himself. Skule and Ivar, he now saw, with bows strung were peering into the flirting mist, and on the slope Thorvald stood tensely alert, his formidable long-bow in readiness. Then he saw what engaged their attention, and understood why they were silent.

Three slender shapes detached themselves from the mist, racing over the water as light and swift as the wind. The Count looked at his bowmen, glared at the sun and swore. Who the hell could shoot against that glare! At a moving target! He glanced up at Thorvald and grunted. Trust that iceberg to remain detached. . . .

A screech from the lake tore the silence. Hake had woken from his dream of food. The little boat swung wildly leeward as the frantic cook splashed his oars. The poor fool would never get away. His screech fetched a yell from the redskins. Certain of their quarry the savages slipped speed, the three silver prows converging on the helpless boat.

In that instant the bowmen sighted. “Left!” shouted Skule. “Right!” Ivar echoed; and over their heads the long-bow lifted, the released arrow hissing as it flew. Then another and another. In midstream the far canoe seemed to lift from the water and fell back empty; a second later the other two spun like tops and began to drift away.

“God’s Death!” the Count yelled. “Sweet shooting! Marvellous, boys! Marvellous! Gives you an appetite, eh Baardeson?” he grinned, smiting Ivar’s broad back as he stomped past the barricade on his way to castigate the shivering cook. “You confounded limb of Satan,” he greeted Hake, lifting him out of the boat by the scruff of his neck. “What the hell were you doing out in the middle of the lake?”

Hake kicked and hissed: “What a question! Dying ten deaths to get your breakfast. Was I to fish from the trees? Aye, choke me, lord, and clean your own fish!”

“Get on with it then,” the Count laughed, landing the offender a wallop on the behind. Then he strode back to his men. “I take it that was a spying party. I wish I could return the compliment. I should like to know what goes on behind that stand of woods.”

Ivar grunted. “I saw enough of savage handiwork when our sick were murdered. Besides we shall get a taste of it shortly.”

The Count ignored this. Leaning on the barricade, his dark eyes sweeping the lake, he spoke to none in particular. “What I resent about this situation is our ending up victims of cross-fire. After surviving a hundred dangers it seems a mad jest to stumble in between two warring tribes. It makes no sense.” He struck the rampart with a tight fist. “Well, then we shall make sense of it! Resolute as Hardrada at Stamford Bridge we shall die like men.”

Skule laughed. “Fine. But I dare say Father Benedict finds Hardrada a poor inspiration for Christian soldiers.”

“That is his affair. It is my business to make the best of a rotten situation. Thank the lord we still have some arms; and let us not forget that we have them because of Hake’s habit of digging pits for our gear. We used to laugh at the poor man. Oh yes, we laughed at him the night we made camp on that accursed hill. ‘I smell evil in this place,’ he told us, ‘it is bad to stop here . . .’ ”

“Ridiculous superstition! The little knoll was green and peaceful, a perfect place for the sick men to rest. They could take their ease while we fished the lake. That was reason speaking! Because we had seen no signs of human habitation for days we had grown over-confident. Yet we knew by then that we had reached the dividing line between two great river systems and might have reflected that all over the world such rivers have been the highways of wandering tribes. No, no, we had nothing to fear. Altitude and latitude made everything right! That was all we could think of. When we lay in the forks of the big river we knew by the sun’s altitude that we had reached approximately the same latitude as that of Vinland to the West—a few more weeks would get us there . . . but Hake was right. Our companions were massacred—and here we wait the last dawn.”

“Right or wrong it is all one now,” Skule said, stretching his long arms and yawning. Then he grinned at Thorvald. “Fifty long-bows would settle the argument. As it is all I want is breakfast.”

Thorvald brought his eyes back from the distant shore. “Right. We should ask nothing more . . . but tell me are you sure there were only three canoes?”

“Of course there were more,” Jacob said. “The savages are no fools. Could they hope to take the island otherwise?”

“You mistake my meaning. These were not war canoes. They may have thought to make an easy capture—or it may have been some kind of trick. If there was another it would have headed back to whatever slip is their base of operation. It might be worth the risk to find it.”

“There was another,” Father Benedict spoke up, “It turned south and vanished round the bend.”

“Well then, we know where to keep watch,” Jacob said. “But risks are out. I cannot sacrifice a single bow to satisfy anyone’s curiosity.”

A mocking cry from the bank interrupted them. “Fish! Fish! Come and get it, you wranglers.” It was Magnus, a greying veteran singing down at them, his scarred face a broad grimace.

The Count laughed. “Who says we die for nothing? To escape the taste of fish no price is too high. Get going men. I shall stay here.”

“That is unnecessary.” Thorvald smiled. “I am quite willing to put off the glorious dish.”

“Then keep me company. I want a word with you anyway. . . . Oh, on second thought,” he called after the men, “send us down a mess. Hake can bring it.”

In a few moments Hake came scrambling down the bank holding a shield neatly quartered with grilled fish and dressed with a stew of red berries to which he pointed with pride. “Sour as gratitude, my masters,” said he. “A good dip for tasteless victuals. The bushes are full of these hard fruits. If I had a strainer I could set a brew. . . . Honoured lords is there a shirt to spare?”

“Search the gear. I give you leave to take whatever serves.” Jacob chuckled, then: “Hake, this fish is excellent. We are well served by the best cook in military history.”

“Certainly.” Hake’s ugly face was even uglier as he smiled, “your noble tongue speaks the truth. I have the touch—” he scuttled away imploring loudly: “Jumala, oh, lord of the sky, now help me find a shirt.”

Although they laughed at the odd little man, their thoughts were far from laughter. Suddenly Jacob laid down his jewelled knife, a campaign gift from Margit, and said earnestly: “Hake must not fall to those fiends. Thorvald, I lay it on you to save a last arrow for him.”

Thorvald was shocked: “There are other bowmen—why pick on me?”

“God’s Death! Must you question everything?” Jacob’s eyes narrowed, “Well then, the answer is simple. All my men are good at cracking heads in a foray, but I have seen you cutting your way through hell with the cool precision of a forester thinning a park. In a word you keep your wits no matter what the odds.”

Thorvald wiped his own knife and thrust it back in his belt. “I refuse just the same. Playing God is unpleasant business. Besides who knows what may turn up.”

“So you too saw Lavrans, and believe his fantastic yarn.”

“We have been helped by savages before.”

“By a tribe we had coddled, not to mention the charity of my son. . . . Look here, Franklin, tell me the truth. Has Sigurd taken up with the Ojibway and now proposes to save us when he finds the time convenient?”

“Neither Lavrans nor the Ojibway have set eyes on Sigurd.”

“Well, that is something to be thankful for,” Jacob said almost cheerfully. “I want no truck with traitors.”

“So I have gathered.” Thorvald smiled his rare smile, “Loyalty has always been the golden thread of our faith. I sometimes wonder if it has not made us intolerant. I think we forget that loyalty like everything else has to be learned. What chance had Sigurd to learn anything?”

“There is no arguing with you.” Jacob growled but he was comforted just the same. “The sensible thing is to consider the moment. I have been scanning the sky for smoke. It seems strange to see none. Even their small cooking fires betray a thin whisp if you know how to look for it. I wish I knew what they are up to. Everything about them gets under my skin. I never could understand how you dared walk among them in Vinland. And from the start I detested Mahigan.”

Thorvald laughed. “Mahigan is all right. I have met worse men in the king’s household.” He stretched lazily, got up in one easy movement, walked to the barricade where his bow rested and ran his hand up and down the smooth wood. “The English archers are the best in the world,” he said. “There is a legend that tells us how a band of English bowmen turned the scales against the Tatar hordes and saved the West. They were mercenaries, come by chance into a country devastated by the yellow furies; but they were Englishmen and so as a matter of course closed their small ranks against the great tide. I never touch my bow without a fleeting thought of that brave forgotten company. . . . Father Benedict labours to find a meaning in our defeat. I find it in this: for a moment of time we represent the forces of civilization; stand like the archers against the dark hosts of evil. Does it matter that our moment is less fortunate than theirs? Life is a compound of brave futilities. If no one dared to fail, no one could succeed.”

“Most men need a softer philosophy these days,” Jacob said curtly, “Magnus should have known better than to waste you on war.” Then his eyes twinkled: “Perhaps you were too much for our pious king. Myself I have never understood why you joined the expedition; not piety, that much I venture to know. But enough of this. I must see the men. I shall send someone to relieve you.”

The narrow plain seemed larger in daylight very pleasant in its multicoloured autumn dress. Only three men were in sight: Father Benedict, chipping at his stone; Karl Jaegar, close by, polishing a fine shield; and Hake, hovering over the fire stirring his famous pot. He had saved it from every calamity by the simple expedient of carrying it on his head. In a shipwreck it had saved his life when a spar crashed, striking him obliquely, and all but smothered him when he fell into the sea; but here it was boiling gallantly, exuding clouds of vapour and a stringent odour.

“Well, Father, how goes it?” Jacob asked.

“I am not satisfied with the side inscription.”

“Looks fine to me,” Karl said. He was a thin, wiry man with intense light blue eyes. He was fearful in combat, wielding a double-bladed ax with formidable skill, and he was so swift and light on his feet that he had earned the nickname of Cat-foot. The Count, whose life he had saved, maintained that Karl had leapt to his rescue over a mound of Russian dead with the ease of an insolent feline. Now his seamed face crinkled with sly amusement: “Perfection would be an insult to the future. Bear in mind that the defects of a vanished generation are very pleasing to their descendants.”

“I am not thinking of the future,” Father Benedict said. “I am thinking of the men who died.”

Karl shrugged. “Let us hope whosoever finds the stone will have as much perception. I doubt it.”

“You doubt everything except your ax,” Jacob grinned. “Did Grettir find anything wrong with the gear?”

“No. I saw to it. Everything is in order. We have a fair supply of arrows for the short bows at least.”

“Thanks to Mahigan,” the priest interjected, glancing at Jacob, “you might give him credit for that.”

“All right, all right. I give him credit for it,” Jacob snapped. “Where are the others? I told them—Hell’s thunder, what now?”

A shrill scream pierced their ears with its quivering pain. Karl caught up his ax and raced away, the Count hard at his heels. Father Benedict hitched up his robe, grabbed a spear and sped after them.

A strange sight met their eyes when they broke through the poplars which screened the back ridge. A scene of arrested violence that might have been the subject of an ancient tapestry. Ivar and Skule, leaning on their pikes stood perfectly still staring down at the lean brown bodies of two young savages stretched at their feet. And near the ledge which overhung the steep ascent from the water Old Magnus and Grettir Asmundson crouched behind a clump of willows, double-bladed bills gripped in expert hands.

Skule nodded at the newcomers: “Fishing,” he whispered, and tensed at a tiny sound, a silky trickle of dislodged sand. The billmen, straightened, braced themselves, the dread weapons poised.

In that instant two cautious heads sprouted from the ledge, cunning eyes in crudely painted faces glinting slyly; then the bills flashed in the white sunlight. Almost simultaneously Skule and Ivar sprang forward, their long pikes pinning the decapitated bodies to the shuddering banks.

“That was too easy,” Magnus grumbled. “They have tender necks, these chicks of hell. Pity there are no more, my wrist is stiff from lack of practice. . . . Too bad you missed the fun, Jacob.”

The Count stared at him coldly. “Will someone tell me how this befell? I ordered the banks cleared. These creatures do not fly! Is it that the king’s men have come—” he bit back the reprimand, for his eye had seen a thing to cool the hottest anger. Ivar had dragged one of the bodies away from the ledge. It lay chest down in the brown grass, a belt of silver plates about its slim waist. They had all seen it now and stood aghast.

“Turn the thing over!” Jacob ordered. Skule did so with a flip of his great hands, then wiped them on a tuft of grass with unspeakable loathing. They knew what they would see, but the seeing was as bitter as dawn to a woman betrayed. There was something obscene in the sight of that familiar buckle with its cross and crown of precious stones blazing up at them from the carcass of a murderous savage. For that princely ornament had been the king’s gift to Earl Bruse.

The same picture flashed through all their minds. Bruse going to the relief of an arctic garrison given up for dead. For who was there to dare a wilderness of ice and snow? Only a madman would attempt it! The Earl had his own thoughts on the matter. He brought his sea-birds nosing through the steam-fog of the ice-infested waters of the northern fjord with the genius of selfless courage and fantastic seamanship. While the besiegers made merry before a dying fortress Bruse stole in from behind with his men and supplies: food and wine and medicine, and hearty cheer to quicken the spirit . . .

All that was history; a shining paragraph in the long tale of human valour. The Count pushed aside the crowding memories and lifting his head said quietly: “Remove the belt. We can dispose of it decently later—thank you, Father,” he nodded at the priest who had hastened to do his bidding; and then he became aware of subtle change in the bated silence. “Well—what else have you found?”

Skule thrust his pike into a tangled skein hidden in the grass and held it up. Two bright scalplocks vibrated in the brisk air. The dreadful trophy struck at their hearts. They had loved the men who had suffered this indignity at the hands of the heathen. Gay Haakon, who had eased their loneliness with his happy faculty for turning aside the deepest gloom. The blond lock was his; woman’s bane they had called him long ago. . . . Then that other—how could they bear to look at the swirl of bronze coloured hair and think of Erlind taken in the sleep of exhaustion—slain as the helpless are slain by inhuman monsters.

Jacob made a downward gesture with his hand. Lord God, he thought bitterly, what a senseless ending of a noble life. Surely Erlind had deserved a better fate. Of all the gallant company which left Bergen so long ago none had so consistently upheld and practised the Christian principles of charity and mercy . . . All this he might have said for the easement of their hearts; but Erlind was always an unpretentious man averse from all praise. Well then let their praise be the deep tears of the heart. Silent and deep as the goodness of their great companion.

But now Skule gave a kind of groan, and turning on Father Benedict, shook the gruesome relics in his face. “Well, priest? Is this price enough to pay for heaven? Are you satisfied with the sacrifice? Does this thing fit the pattern you prate of so glibly?”

Father Benedict, the gory belt grasped in his scarred hand, looked at the angry man with steady eyes. “I have erred indeed if I ever spoke of any sacrifice save in humility. . . Yes, Skule, I am satisfied that even here the blood of the righteous is not spilled in vain. Now give me the scalps. I shall bury them by the Stone.”

“That was ill spoken, Skule,” the Count said when the priest had passed from sight. “The man has feelings like the rest of us.”

Skule stuck his pike into the ground with vicious force. “Then may we rot to judgment day. Feelings timed to the whimper of a sinner is not my idea of human emotion. Oh hell, what does it matter?”

Ivar Baardeson, who by now had dragged up the other corpse, stood scowling down upon the shapely creature in quizzical interest. “Nothing there,” he said to Jacob, booting the corpse with his toe. “Yet I wager this stripling was of some account, though not enough to suit his fancy. A scalp would have mended that. The young spark meant to steal a march on his betters—if you take my meaning.”

The Count glanced at his redheaded billman in familiar exasperation. “What meaning? Granted this carrion came to get his scalp; is that a singular revelation? Have we anything else this vermin wants? I doubt that your stripling came on his own. Savages move in packs. But it is possible that these hell-flies were sent on a double mission; to sight our defences, and if possible to—”

“Yes, yes, we know,” Skule spat contemptuously. “I was on the banks last night when Lavrans sneaked in. A call of nature is no respecter of secrets. I could not help overhearing the rigmarole of scalps and murder and magic . . . what matters is they got no more scalps. Now what do we do with this catch? Feed them to the fishes or throw them in a trench?”

“God’s death! Have we time to dig trenches? There are other uses for your hands and heads,” the Count shouted. “We must learn how the creatures swarmed up a bank we thought inaccessible. Lend me a stave someone. My legs are not so nimble as they once were.”

Fortunately for the Count’s temper he was saved the descent. They were hailed just then from below by a lusty voice, cheerfully blasphemous. A few moments later Grettir Asmundson, a fellow Goth and fast friend of the Darre kin, scrambled over the ledge, his broad flat face stretched in a furious smile. “Ha! You have had fun, I see, my doughty knights. But I ask you who was the fool inspected that bank? That I should like to know and clout his addled head.”

“Well, what have you found?” Jacob snapped.

Grettir’s green eyes twinkled. “A very handy indentation, my lord Count. At water level and clearly visible. The low bank has washed away and tree roots train into the lake. The canoe is still there, its white nose chewing at the roots.”

Jacob received this news in grim silence. It was he who had circled the island yet missed a thing any bright boy must have spied at once. What a commentary on their state of mind. Truth was, none of them took this defence seriously. It was an empty gesture induced by habit and ancient discipline. The incentive of genuine purpose was lacking.

“You are right, Grettir,” he said. “A fool inspected the bank. Myself.”

His sudden grin evoked a general laugh, which he quickly cut short with the familiar roar: “All right! All right! Get on with the job. Rid me of the pests and be quick about it.” And to Grettir: “Go back to camp and ease your harness; then hunt up Gisli. I mistrust his heroic notions.”

Grettir wiped his sweating face and chuckled. “Yes, our Visby bard would like nothing better than to sing a lay in the midst of fume and flame. Ah well, he has a neat tongue which served him better than a pretty face with the ladies. Ha! Myself I would trade all the wenches in Christendom for a keg of beer.”

Jacob Darre watched the squat sturdy figure lope away and suddenly found himself thinking of all the pranks they had shared in youth; horse fights, swimming, bear-baiting, and stolen moments with tavern girls. Battles, sieges, long treks through hostile territories; fetes in the king’s city, fine fare and finer tourneys; and always that brash familiar figure had brought an earthy humour to lighten stiff convention. Now they were a couple of crusty old fools, with the hearts of children. He frowned, his black eyes restless and moody. He was no thinker; he had not Benedict’s passion for dissecting human souls, but he sensed the inward conflicts that vexed his men. They wanted to be done with this farce; done with externals which no longer had significance.

What they sought was a sense of fulfilment; and this subjective longing, now insistent as pangs of hunger, was the source of the sharp tempers and contradictory behaviours. Thorvald’s uncharacteristic garrulity; Father Benedict’s expansive sympathy; goodnatured Skule’s burst of rudeness; the free impertinence of seasoned, disciplined veterans, and his own aching grief for a son unworthy of regret.

It was a terrifying insight into the deep yearning of the human soul: the hunger to be known, and to know itself a part of all that lives. And suddenly, by some tangent sorcery of cognition, he was reminded of a young recruit, outwardly like any other of the hundreds who had passed through his hands. A lad from up-country whom he had discovered in abject misery outside the camp. More from habit than actual concern he had stopped to ask the boy whether he were ill, or homesick. Or just scared. He had liked the honest answer. “Scared, sir. I was thinking it would be awful to die, just nothing. Never having lived. Nobody caring, or knowing what I mean.”

There it was. Always the same longing, whether vocal, secret, or distorted by fear. Always and everywhere the same. Yet he had a vague feeling there had been a subtle difference in that boy’s plaintive yearning; an urgent something he ought to remember. Even so, what did it matter? All that now remained of that troubled being was a young voice keening in the dark.

“Damn all stupidity!” the Count of Darre declaimed to no one in particular. Or perhaps to himself. For he was shaken by this queer shift in his customary plain thinking. It gave him the uneasy feeling of a man treading a bog. At any moment he might be in over his head. Abstractions were not his meat. A Christian should stick to simple doctrine of heaven and hell, lest the Devil confound him with perky riddles.

Wry mirth sparking his fierce black eyes, Jacob turned to his men. “Make haste there!” he shouted. “I did not ask for hell-hymns to those carcasses. Get the thing over! I want a step by step inspection of the bank. And sink that craft. We have no use for it.”

Ivar Baardeson, tugging at his fiery red beard, grinned: “True. Wings will serve our need shortly. Let us hope they run as sweetly before the wind as this sleek little craft.”

Skule broke into a laugh. “Why this haste, Captain? We have as little use for that as for all these precautions. What is there to do in such heathen haste? Myself, I have at last come to see that the scriptures make sense: take no heed for the morrow——”

The Count ignored this: “Take your axes,” he went on briskly, “and hew away anything a bat might cling to. I won’t have these creatures swarming down our backs. Get on with it! You should be finished by midday. In any case I want you all in camp by then.”

Count Jacob decided that a walk round the island would promote a better temper. There was no urgency about getting back to the clearing. Father Benedict was quite capable of keeping the men occupied in one way or another. Besides, if he had made other blunders in judgment he wanted to discover it for himself. The island defences might not be of any real consequence, but it pleased him to see how much his men had accomplished. The place lent itself to fortification. Yes, with fifty men it could be held indefinitely. He caught himself up short, suddenly reminded of Margit’s amused excuses for the boredom he had always suffered in civilian life. Soldiers and small boys never quit the game of make-believe, she had said. True. They never did. But then it was the rash, not the righteous, who extended the physical boundaries of civilization. Women never understood that. Fortunately for mankind soldiers and small boys discounted defeat. That was their strength, as well as their folly. By grace of that peculiar madness they conquered impregnable cities, defied the mountains, the hostile plains, the burning desert, and the raging seas. And this was also the reason that always, and always, the hounds of Death took them by surprise. The Count sighed as he swung past a windfall, and absently brushed his hard hand against the silken bole of a young birch tree. The touch sent his mind down the years to the birch grove at home, where he had built a little summer house for Margit the year Sigurd was born. . . . No, he must not think of that wondrous year. Let him keep to the business in hand.

So far as he could see nothing was amiss on the ridge. Nothing at all. Except for an occasional covey of duck which darted out from the russet shore-reeds not a thing was to be seen on the water. He turned his gaze to the east, for the moment tempted to believe that the deep forest offered a way of escape. The crossing was a simple matter; but then what? As far as the eye could see the woods stretched on and on in unbroken density—a formidable trap beset with hostile savages. No, if they must die let it be with some measure of dignity; not picked off one by one like hares on the run.

It was strange to have seen no smoke on the other shore; stranger still to have heard no sound of hateful revelry. According to Lavrans the Sioux were on fire with victory. They had taken prisoners which, in savage warfare, spelled a night of bestial festivities. Were they holding the sacrifice in reserve? Frowning at the ugly thought, his eye scanned the morning sky, now clear as glass, in which he was startled to see faintly mirrored grey wisps of smoke. Not the smoke of small cooking fires. Nothing so innocent was here reflected.

Revolted by the knowledge of what this pale tracery signified the Count cursed the hideous savagery of human nature. A feeling of despair, such as he had seldom experienced, swept over him at the thought of the good years wasted to no apparent purpose. He was tired of never-ending brutality; of primitive trickery and cunning; of filth and vermin and the bloody rites of stone age culture. It made his gorge rise; made him understand how a man might lose his wits and go berserk . . .

By this time Jacob had reached the slope of the barricade and was relieved to see Thorvald alone on the watch. No distemper would upset the Franklin. The sight of his captain in a sweat would rate no more than an elevated eyebrow. He was right.

Thorvald barely glanced at the glowering Count, and that with an abstracted gaze; yet he said: “So you have seen the smoke? Find it strange at this hour? Perhaps it is; perhaps not—considering the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” The Count seated himself on a boulder, and mopped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I thought the creatures did their burnings by night. Like all the rest of their abominations. And to my knowledge primitives are as stubborn about change as a village priest——” he stopped short, arrested by an unpleasant conviction. “I see,” he said slowly. “You think it is the scalps which are responsible for this departure from custom.”

“That seems fairly obvious,” Thorvald grinned. “Here as elsewhere the New-believers itch to prove their faith by novel display, some new twist in the old tortures. Why should that surprise us? Not so long ago white men spread-eagled their captives to the glory of Tyr. And ate their livers by way of attaining virtue—or was it immortality?”

“Lord forfend us!” The Count, really shocked, glared at the calm Franklin. “To hear you one would misdoubt you had a heart of flesh. Far from squeamish myself yet I could never stomach any kind of tortures. Whether new-fangled wheels and pulleys or the old tooth and claw, I never saw the sense of it. I assure you my men knew better than to play such games with helpless prisoners. What is more, if I so much as caught the Russians snipping an ear, or nose, I promptly shot them. No, I tell you—what the devil is so funny?”

Thorvald’s crooked smile changed to laughter. “Never mind. Go on from there. Armed with mercy you promptly shot them——”

“Of course I shot them,” Jacob roared. “In my soldiering I was always just. No false fiddle-faddle. What I could not settle decently with the clean edge of a sword, or the point of an arrow, I left to the Devil, or his hirelings—and welcome! To the best of my knowledge I seldom failed in duty. Yet now I have come to this shameful pass: to sit with idle hands while a parcel of heathen make ready to spit us. I take that hard, Franklin . . . damned hard . . .”

“I know,” Thorvald nodded. “We all resent a trap. Which is not very sensible of us. Creatures whose entire lives are no better than a trap-race are not entitled to amusing prejudices.” He shrugged, turning back to the lake, his attention captured by a sudden bustle on the opposite shore. “Well, well!” he said, “the fun begins. Here come the warlocks.”

As though on cue, three awesome figures had leapt out from the dark green curtain of conifers that lined the curving shore, and with mincing hop-steps converged on the water, whirled and minced back again. The leader, distinguished by four heads of hair, composed of the manes and tails of animals, carried a long slender pole which he now stuck in the ground some paces upshore. A wisp of yellow, fluttering from the top of this ominous flagpole, drew a quick sulphurous mutter from the disgusted Count, and his angry eyes moved with sharpened attention to the other grotesque performers. The first of these, less tall than his companions, was decked out in deerhorns and had his right leg painted a bright vermilion, the left a vivid green, in criss-cross stripes. The third man wore a headdress of skin and the feathers of a crane, its sharp beak projecting from his forehead. All three were cradle-naked save for a breech-clout. All three, again as if on cue, now began a kind of yelping chant, or invocation, as they hopped round and round their flagpole.

“Does this business signify anything in particular?” Jacob queried testily. “Is it elation or defiance; or do they think to lure us into the open by these monkeyshines?”

“I dare say the significance will be clear when the wizards have set the stage,” Thorvald said, drawing his sheath-knife to dig out a sliver from the heel of his left hand. “At any rate it looks to me as though our unpleasant neighbours were celebrating their new-found invincibility. After all they have us cornered. They have the scalps of our champions. In all probability they are practising a new step in an old dance. Stepping up the old pattern of terror and sacrifice. If the rites strike fear into the hearts of the enemy, and at the same time rejoice the heart of the Great Spirit, everything is perfect. Gods and men are satisfied. Only the victim withers.”

The Count of Darre swore silently, and began a quite unnecessary inspection of the log ramparts. He already knew every inch of the thing; that it would long outlast its present use. It was all a part of this maniac dream which had best be left unexplored, uninterpreted. The truth of it was that he lacked Thorvald’s ironic courage. It did not amuse him to have it pointed out that the common denominator of human behaviour was sadism. “Only the victim withers!” High and clear above the noises from across the water, he seemed to hear the words mocking him. And hard on their heels other long forgotten phrases rang in his ears. The ugly gossip about Thorvald’s young wife, said to be withering away in the seclusion of his manor. The victim of her husband’s neglect and the slow poison of the Wendish witch set to guard her . . .

Contemptible gossip! Come to think of it the Franklin was right. As between the faggots of the savage and the forked tongue of the civilized only the means of destruction differed. The wonder was he had borne himself so well; never giving ground before the harpies, or changing face to please the mighty.

Jacob leaned upon the ramparts, his eyes on the fantastic creatures on the mainland, his inner mind engaged with a strange thought. One of the rumours he had discounted insisted that Thorvald had bought his way out of the court and into the Paul Knutson expedition, for reasons that had no bearing upon Faith or the justice of the Cause. Obviously that bit of gossip contained a grain of truth, but now he wondered how many other members of the company had joined the Crusade for unstated reasons and possible ulterior motives. Now there was a thing he should like to discover. . . .

The din from across the lake refused to be ignored. It had changed character; the harsh unmelodic chant increased its tempo, rising at length to an ear-splitting yell. This assault upon the nerves, evidently the ultimate in heathen elation, was repeated by a hundred savage voices shouting from behind the screen of pines. And to climax the whole inhuman racket the clamour of drums sounded from the wood.

“Now we should see something,” Thorvald said, joining the Count. “Such delightful ferocity indicates something special. . . . I thought so! Here come the warriors.” He grinned at the black-browed man beside him. “Pretty! Would you say Solomon’s glory matched this magnificence?”

The Count grunted: “Solomon is overrated. It would be a mistake to underrate these husky brutes because their leaping and dissonant howls foretell the music of hell. Formidable foes in a short foray, I should say. Like some gentry I could mention, the chase and the frolic of sorties are their meat—not pitched battle, or any other honest toil.” He chuckled, adding: “Young Lavrans will have thick weather making farmers of his red brethren. . . . God’s Death, what is that . . . ?”

What indeed! Thorvald compressed his lips in a hard contemptuous line. No words could be more explicit than the evidence of their shaken nerves. Inhuman sounds wrung from the bowels of anguish were nothing new in the world. And yet, there was a new horror in it, heard under this clear sky in a virgin country. A more shocking obscenity in that distant pillar of smoke, now black and greasy against the clean blue sky. But to the savages the fearful sound was an incentive; the shouting swelled to a roar; the slow contortions of the dance changed to violent leaps and serpentine writhing. The entire scene, charged with the malice of the drums and the venomous hiss of rattles, was so evil that even Thorvald turned away with a shudder, and without knowing what he did walked to the cache of weapons and picked up his long-bow.

Ah yes, Jacob observed grimly, seeing how Thorvald’s fingers crooked round the resilient wood; there were times when the only decent course was to fight: when the forfeit of one’s life was as nothing compared with the satisfaction of striking a blow against evil. That held true everywhere, whether men knew it or not.

Hake chose this moment to come hurtling down the banks, his goblin face grey with emotion, something bright clutched to his breast. “Oh Jumala! Bright, blessed Jumala, make him understand——” he chittered, almost falling at the Count’s feet. “Master, you must stop him,” he wailed, to Jacob’s astonishment. “Honoured Lord, no one with sense would do such a thing. Even a kuffitar knows better, though he lives underground and never heard of the Catechism . . .”

“Now, now, Hake,” the Count tried to sound soothing, “compose yourself. Sit down. There is nothing to fear as yet. Ha! What have you there? Hake! Give me that belt.”

The agile Laplander sprang back out of reach. Eyes glittering fiercely, he clasped more closely the revered object in his hands. “No, no, no!” he shook his unkempt head. “The Earl mislikes it. I saw him, I tell you. I heard him sigh through all the yelling—so sad and sick it was. But the Father, does he hear anything for all his learning? Oh no! Talk, talk, nothing but talk! How should he hear the small voices? Old fool! He digs a hole for this gift of a king.” A gust of indignation swelled his stunted frame, and in sharp despair he appealed to Thorvald: “Franklin, tell him. Make him understand. You have the sight, lord—tell him before the Tongue-wagger gets here. . . .”

“What in thunder is all this?” Jacob roared, “is the man demented, or have I lost my wits? Small voices! holes! kuffitars! What in sordid sin am I to make of such jargon?”

“Nothing much,” Thorvald placated drily. “Hake disliked the idea of leaving Earl Bruse’s belt where the savages may recover it. He thinks even a hole blessed by a priest is not safe enough.”

“Safe as our own bones, I should say,” Jacob retorted. “What else should be done with it? God’s death, Hake, behave yourself. The Earl was my kinsman, and Father Benedict was fond of him. Is it likely either one of us would do him dishonour? Now stop gibbering and give me the belt.”

This command had immediate though perverse effect. Shocked to the core, Hake drew himself up with procrustean dignity. “I should behave myself?” he cried. “Has the cooking pot stood empty this while, although my dear master no longer eats? Have I not stayed to fill your bellies, when a sip of monks-hood would have sent me to my lord? For his sake I stayed, and will stay to the end. Because he loved Lady Margit, who taught him how to heal his grief, I have served you, Count Jacob. But this I will not do. I will not let this treasure become my Master’s eternal bane.”

“All right, all right!” Jacob growled in defeat. “Eternal what-have-you is not my brew, thank God. Fight it out with the priest. I wash my hands of the mess, whatever it is.”

Two astonishing things happened simultaneously: the drums across the lake stopped, the dancers melting back into the woods; and Hake, sinking to his knees, broke into a storm of weeping. Even Thorvald was at a loss for words. For some obscure reason the collapse of their tough little cook, whose comical superstitions had been a source of amusement, seemed the ultimate in misfortune. It had the impact of the unnatural. No one had ever seen Hake give way to grief in this incontinent manner. Even when the Earl was laid to rest in that lonely unmarked grave on the hill of massacre, Hake had not wept. He had knelt beside the crude bier, touched and stroked the mounded earth; and while the others made ready to leave, assembling war-gear, clearing away the signs of carnage, salvaging cached food, he had lain beside the grave, like any faithful hound, his sorrow as silent as the dead. . . .

“Now then, now then,” the Count began inanely, not knowing how to proceed. The poor devil had a right to his private feelings, and doubtless wished to be alone, but to walk away without some gesture of understanding seemed inhuman. Yes, but what in thunder was he to understand, that was the stickler. “Now then, Hake, my man,” he tried again, looking to Thorvald in rising irritation, “pull yourself together, and try to speak like a sensible creature. Whatever it is I assure you we shall try to understand.”

“Let me explain,” Father Benedict’s voice, almost at his shoulder gave the Count a nasty start.

“Yes, let the Father explain,” a second voice echoed, gruffly jovial. “It will make as good sense as the concert we just heard.” This was Grettir speaking, his face grave, despite the incorrigible twinkle in his green eyes.

“Must you sneak up on a man?” Jacob thundered. “I thought you had orders to slip harness and rest.” He glared at Grettir, then switched his ire. “All right, Father, get on with it. Explain if you can why even my cook has gone completely crazy.”

Father Benedict chose to reply by inference. With only a glance at his volatile friend, he stepped to Hake’s side. “Hake, my son,” he said gently, “I misread your intentions. I see now that you regard the belt as an object of veneration and want us to realize its true significance. You were afraid we did not understand that all such things are links between the living and the dead. Is that not so?”

Hake gave a convulsive shudder and scrambled to his feet. His face was a dull expressionless mask. “No, you do not understand,” he said slowly. “The king’s gift has a curse on it. My poor master hated it. Now he wants to be free . . . only the truth can set him free.”

Father Benedict, suddenly uneasy, considered the sullen face with its red-rimmed anxious eyes, very gravely. “Perhaps I begin to understand,” he said slowly. “The belt has evil associations. Your master hated it because it reminded him of some wrong that preyed upon his conscience. Is that right?”

Hake gave an angry little gasp. “He did not make the wrong! It was Gyda’s doing. She had him bewitched. In spite of the shame and suffering she brought him he could not free himself. He only saw what she wanted him to see—a poor innocent girl tempted to her undoing by the glamour of a princely name. . . . That is what he wanted to believe, wanted others to believe—that is why he fixed upon the tourney to kill the prince.”

Grettir spoke up hastily: “There have been worse reasons for mortal combat,” said he, “and less attractive settings than a public tourney. From all accounts it was a fine show; so full of thrills and excitement, and so good for business, that even the die-hards forgave their foreign queen for introducing such an extravagant pastime into the country.” He stopped on a laugh and tried to catch Hake’s eye, but the stubborn little man was staring down at the belt buckle glittering in the cup of his hands. “Hake, we all understand how you feel,” he resumed irritably, “but grief runs away with common sense. As an old war-dog I can assure you that any kind of combat has its accidents, and without benefit of witchcraft. Anyway a good Christian has nothing to fear from enchantments.”

Hake stood his ground. “Oh, yes. Certainly.” He blinked owlishly. “What you say is true, but this belt is no Christian thing. It won’t do any good to hide it in a hole. Only the hex of water will suffice. As a Christian you should know that. Why else have we so much of it in the world? Rivers, lakes, seas, human tears—and baptism of course. Only water washes out hell-bane.” He turned from Grettir and appealed to the priest. “Your Reverence, now do you see what I mean?”

“I do not!” Father Benedict was losing patience. “It sounds to me as if you thought the Earl believed in some obscure witchery.”

“Certainly. My master was a sensible man,” Hake answered proudly. “Many a night, while I rubbed the soreness from his tender skin, he would croon this and that incantation against loneliness. ‘Now that is a fine verse,’ he would say. ‘It makes one believe that good friends remember the best of a man. A fine thought, that; for you see, Hake, no one likes to be forgotten. No, but a man would rather that the wild fox sang above his grave than be wept of friends who do not know why they weep.’ Then he would call for his ale, and while I massaged his feet, or mended a hauberk, or set to rights the barracks, he would sing himself to sleep. Except when he had a woman to beguile him,” Hake amended with a shake of his head. “Poor master! There were few to his taste among the camp followers. Tush! I had to scrub them, wash their lousy heads in lye water. Oh, his men snickered, but they were quick to cast lots for the creature when I threw her out later on. But you know how it is: a cat cries for cream and a man for his pleasant vices.”

There was sheer relief in the wild laughter this fantastic speech evoked. It eased up tensions and frayed tempers. In laughing at this vision of a Torkel unknown to them they were also laughing at their own inconsistencies. For the man they had best known in the sweat and grime of battle was not to be confused with this stranger intent upon secret refinements and shoddy dalliance.

When he could speak, Jacob said mildly: “I still fail to grasp what you really want, Hake.”

“Perhaps all he wants is a show of affection,” the priest said, smiling. Then, changing the subject: “Jacob, I should like to take the small canoe and get a few ducks.”

“Gisli made off with it,” Grettir said.

“I hope he stays close in,” Jacob grumbled. “We know what the Sioux are up to, but not what is hatching on the other shore.”

“Poets and madmen are the darlings of the gods,” Thorvald grinned. “No one else speaks their language or pretends to understand them. He will turn up safe, and full of wondrous fancies.”

At the moment, among the fragrant conifers across the way, a ritual of horror, man’s oldest form of poetry, approached its climax. Lashed to a tree a young Ojibway sagged unconscious, almost done with pain, with the glory of fortitude, and the incense of burning flesh. Nearly done but not quite. His flesh hung in tatters, his eyelids were pierced with thorns; but in his breast the little red clock of eternity was still beating.

This was the high moment for which the entranced worshippers waited, thrilled and expectant, murmurous as an angry sea. And thus encouraged, the painted warlocks, confidants of the Great Spirit, stepped up to the sacrifice. There were three, each armed for his traditional task: with a tomahawk, with a knife, with deft iron fingers. Their timing was exquisite. The tomahawk crushed the chest-bone, the knife opened the cavity, the privileged fingers grasped the warm quivering heart. . . .

On their small guarded islet the Northmen heard the piercing echo of that final agony winging upward to the calm indifferent sky.

“Murdering brutes! May they roast in hell!” Jacob Darre cried in his loud rusty voice. “Their minds are too vile for human understanding.”

“Poor creatures. They live in darkness, and know nothing else,” the priest avowed, shuddering. “They are unspeakably vicious, and yet I pity their ignorance.”

“They know enough to kill for the fun of it,” Grettir said. “That makes them men, I suppose. Animals are not so inventive.”

Thorvald had nothing to say. He was staring at a patch of faded goldenrod, the colour of the embroidery of Jensine’s green gown, the gown she had fashioned with such loving care for her bridal—and he was trying not to remember her long agony; not to hear her piteous weeping, which by some incomprehensible justice of heaven made her one with the poor savage creature who had just now escaped his brutal tormentors.

It was now approaching noon. The sun, very bright, pale as honey and with a silver-white corona that dazzled human sight, stood high in mid-heaven. It gleamed with the piercing brilliance of a fabulous jewel set in the cold blue of the sky; it gave light without heat, radiance too remote for human comfort. The clear air was cool and crisp, and the fragrance it bore was of lush and lovely verdure now withered and spent, an aromatic ghostly fragrance instinct with delicate melancholy, like the secret reflections of a barren woman.

In the clearing the crackle of Hake’s fire and the quick accents of Father Benedict’s chisel biting into the stone were the only sounds other than the murmur of rough voices that strove against the icy silence which had fallen upon the weary company when that hideous cry splintered the morning calm. A peculiar silence, not of despair or regret or any secret shock of fear, but simply the normal glacial silence of Northmen in the grip of uttermost loathing and contempt. Even the priest preferred the chisel and hard stone to the counsels of piety he might have spoken. For with each blow that pruned a runic character he could with justice whack at his own conscience, and humbly recite the acts of Faith, Hope, Love and Contrition.

But it was Karl Jaegar, the sharp-witted cynic, who finally broke the enslaving reticence and expressed the root feeling of the desolate men. Lifting high his fearsome double-bladed battleaxe, he suddenly said: “I never thought to part with Gerta, my sweet skull-crusher, without regret, yet so it is. Gerta, good girl, agrees. For there is no fun feasting on carrion.” He sighed, adding diffidently: “My foster-father gave me this blade the year I finished service as squire. I had not the means to attain knighthood, but Sir Erling bade me be of good heart. ‘A man can serve his king, our Holy Church, and the cause of the widow and the orphan, just as meetly with an axe as with the long sword of the knight.’ So he told me, for I was young and vain and resentful of poverty. Yes, and to tune my thoughts rightly he added: ‘Karl, remember this. A man’s weapon is the extension of his individual hardihood and partakes of his spirit. No man is master of events, save by the grace of God, but he is master of his chosen weapon, and must himself elect what or whom he serves. Be faithful to the truth as you know it, and have the courage to accept defeat rather than to dishonour a decent blade’.”

“Sir Erling expressed a great truth,” Father Benedict said, gratefully. “There is a purpose and a challenge in defeat no less than in victory.”

But Ivar, hot-headed and furious, would have none of it. “Challenge be damned! If only my bowstring holds out until the pikes take over I shall be content.”

Then Skule, twin-soul, must add his farthing: “And if we rid the earth of a parcel of vermin that is purpose enough.”

Whereat Hake, outraged, reared back from the fire and shook the stick he was using to poke the flames. “What now? What next? Masters have you ticks in your heads? Why this sing-song because one fiend fries another alive? Bless me, how upside down can you get! Dear lords, virtuous cleavers of skulls, remember your own dead. Your champions: Bruse the valiant, Erling the good, and Haakon of the merry heart . . .”

“Be quiet,” Gisli Porse said, “we do remember, and shall pledge them in due course. . . . But listen, my friends, a thing may have purpose although the bones of it lie deep in drifted sand. That applies to memory as well as to mounds and lost cities. I am reminded of the sandbanks by the river Nid where King Olaf was buried in such ugly haste after his death in the battle of Stiklestad. Yet of that shame a well of healing waters gushed forth. There a small chapel arose, which gave place to Bishop’s Church, raised to the glory of Christ and Saint Olaf; and this in turn made way for the great Cathedral which today is the pride and wonder of the whole Northland. Purpose, design, chance—who can say?”

“Having begun so well must you end so badly?” Father Benedict queried, laying down the chisel to rub his sore palm. “We are not at Court, where rational nonsense all too often replaced sensible reason. Except as rhetorical speculation your question is both idle and irreligious. Mother Church leaves us in no doubt as to God’s care. . . .”

“Be at ease, Father. We do not question that the wolf has its lair and the hawk her prey. But I sometimes wonder why we have minds if not to use them. Oh well, that too is a rhetorical question.”

Father Benedict resumed his labour. Leaning forward at an awkward angle he worked with delicate precision. “I did not think you were serious, Gisli,” he said absently. “Would you say these characters stand out clearly? The grain is tricky on the side of the rock.”

Gisli, crouching down beside the priest, studied the runes for a long moment. “They look fine to me,” he said, and then slowly read aloud the inscription:

“Strange to think of it! They will have turned back by this time, to avoid the ice floes . . . the good old ship on her way to the straits. Perhaps through them, already heading south for Vinland quarters. . . . Will they wait there until spring, or turn the bowsprit home?”

Father Benedict blew stone-dust from the depressed Arabic numerals, running his fingers through the year. “They will wait. They have no Leif Ericson among them. They will wait until after Candlemas at least. Even the Hansa fleets remain in port between Martinmas and Candlemas.”

“I know, we both know. They will wait and watch. They will haunt the forest trails for miles, hoping to see us limping in from the west. Wait and wait and wait! And all they will see are the dark whispering trees; all they will hear is the cold wind keening . . . but how I envy them for all that.”

“What in particular do you envy them, my son? Is it the additional crop of years, with their sweet and bitter days? Or is it the imagined welcome they may receive at home that you envy—welcome by friends who very rightly have pursued their own ways in a world now strange to us and which would find us strange?”

“Now that is a cynical remark if ever I heard one,” Gisli retorted, settling down to watch the priest complete the inscription. “Cynical and unbecoming the Cloth.” He smiled, and his round pleasant face with its fine grey eyes, seemed as guileless as that of a child. A misleading impression, as many a maid and foolish foe had learned too late. “Without a twitch of remorse you imply that the poor old world is well lost. Worse still, that we ourselves do not rate a moment’s regret. Even so, I cling to my envy. For you see those lucky ten stayed by the sea which is the normal element of Northmen.”

Still smiling, Gisli glanced up at the sky, following the solitary flight of a bird soon lost to sight in the white glare of the sun.

“Why should I stress anything in particular, where everything is enviable?” he continued dreamily. “And yet, come to think of it, it is the small inglorious things that rate so highly. I envy them the smell and taste of good food and drink; the noise and laughter of the common hall, and the sound of neighbours riding into the courtyard for a cup of cheer. I envy them the hunt, and the chase, and the lightning flight of the falcon. I envy them clean clothes, decent shoes, and the peace and pleasure of the bed-place. All these I envy—and nothing said of the greater gifts of life.”

Father Benedict stood up to shake the dust from his robe; then sat down again, suddenly very tired. “You have the true singing tongue, Gisli,” he said drily, rubbing first one aching shoulder then the other. “Your orison to the Little might have moved me if I did not understand too well the intoxication of words.”

“I was perfectly serious,” Gisli smiled, “perfectly sober, if somewhat sentimental.”

“It is not what we say but how we say it that betrays us. We get just as drunk on words as on wine and for the same reason: to feel the glow of importance and the pleasure of fooling others as well as ourselves.”

“Oh well, you are right as usual. It was not this mess that started me off. It was a tiny yet miraculous thing. A bird no bigger than a pine cone sailing boldly the course of the sun. It set me thinking—which is the worst drunkenness of all.”

While this conversation transpired, the inseparables, Skule and Ivar, had gone for a swim. Karl Jaeger refused to join them. He preferred the company of Gerta and the warmth of Hake’s fire to a tumble in any kind of water. Watching the flames, pursuing his own thoughts, he was only vaguely aware of the conversation by the stone. Nor was he tempted to listen. He knew what he knew and that was enough. There was still one task to be done, one more play for himself and Gerta. That was as it should be. Gerta would have hated to be hung in some kitchen nook by a master grown useless as a rheumy dog—he had no complaints—he had seen too many men die on so-called fields of honour, and in a month or two they were fading names. So what did it matter where or how one passed from substance to shadow?

With Hake it was otherwise. Busy though he was, filtering a brew of berries from the pot to a water skin, using a birch tube for the tedious operation, he was all ears. Every word Gisli uttered thrilled his simple heart. At last he could restrain himself no longer. Gripping the skin bottle firmly, red juice oozing between his mud-brown fingers, he came running to the stone, bowed and muttered: “Hail Glorious Rock!”

“Hake, Hake,” Father Benedict sighed, “will you never learn. . . .”

“Excuse me, Reverence.” Hake hastily sprinkled a few drops of juice at the foot of the stone. “If I have offended the Earth Spirits that will quiet them.” Then to Gisli: “Master Porse! Maker of honey sounds, what are you waiting for? With such a tongue why envy the birds? Instead of sitting here lamenting the rapture of blackbirds why not raise a true lament; make us a tale of heroes who also took the course of the sun?”

Amused and a little startled by the queer little man’s intensity, Gisli laughed: “You flatter me, Hake. A rhyme or two does not make a poet, nor great bragging a good saga. . . .” Then he shrugged, “Now that is a lie I grant you. Legends, adventures, romances, these are but ghosts of great braggings. Truly, we might uphold the tradition.” For an instant his amiable face sobered. “All right, so be it. Now go back to the birds. After all I shot them at some peril, considering the Count’s temper.”

As if on call, Jacob, in obvious ill humour, came limping into the clearing. “You have a shrike’s voice, Gisli,” said he. “Damnation! My temper is as God made it. Do you expect me to creep through life, and out of it, like a cur?”

“Have you hurt yourself, Jacob?” Father Benedict asked. “I hope it is not the old wound. . . .”

“No. It is nothing!” Jacob roared. “I slipped like a fool, knocking my ankle bone. This devilish place is peppered with stones.”

“Sit down and let me see it.”

“I said it was nothing. Nothing!”

“I heard you, Jacob. Now let me see the foot.”

The ankle was red and swollen but no bones were broken. “As you said, there is nothing seriously wrong,” Father Benedict nodded, relieved. “I wish the same could be said of your disposition.”

“My disposition suits me. I never laid claim to the saintly spirit . . . go easy will you, that bone is not a rock.”

At which moment Hake rushed up with his wine bottle. “Master, give me your ale horn. Swelling heats the blood. This will cool you. It could be better, certainly. Also worse. It is the best I could do.”

“God’s death—” the Count shouted, then checked himself. There was such anxiety in the ugly face peering down at him. “Thank you, Hake. I can do with a drink,” he said, meekly handing up his silver-banded drinking horn. Then he took a nervous swallow, grinned, and tossed down the strange drink without pain. “Not bad! Upon my soul, Hake, you have nothing to fear here, or hereafter. Even in hell you would have the sinners drinking distilled brimstone, happy as hogs in a corncrib.”

“It is a gift, certainly,” Hake asserted, hugging the wine bottle to his chest, which gave him the appearance of a modest penguin. “The roots and bark give the bite,” he said, adding conscientiously, “I had a little juniper root tied up in my shirt-tail.”

“Ah! That explains everything,” Jacob said straight-faced. “I always thought there was a touch of magic about your brews, good Hake. . . . No, no more. Return to your cooking. I dare say you intend to surpass yourself this night.”

“Certainly. The birds are spitted, ready for the hot embers. Everything is seen to—” he started away, muttering to himself, then whisked back to challenge Gisli. “Master poet, have you sharpened your spits? Hotted the coals of memory for the feast?”

The Count laughed. “A moot question, eh Gisli? Have we live coals to play with, or is it only ash? . . . Now get along, Hake!” And suddenly impatient, Jacob growled at the priest: “Let be now, Father. Leave me a tatter of skin. . . . It feels fine, I tell you. Bound tight it will be good as new. Thank you.”

“If you had sense to sit quiet.”

“Sit quiet! Are you mad? Look at the sun! Past the zenith and you expect me to sit quiet?”

“It will race no faster even if you sit at ease amid the ashes for a bit,” Gisli interjected slyly.

“It is later, not now, that we shall need your active inspiration,” the priest told him. “Besides, you know that Magnus is quite capable of patrolling the banks.”

“Magnus should be relieved,” Jacob snapped, gingerly testing his foot. “And what about yourself? Grey as an old goat, and yet you refuse to rest! But I am to sit still as a pregnant woman nursing a false pain!”

“No, no, Count Jacob,” Gisli protested. “You are to sit, god-wise, a patient midwife to a heavy poet.”

“You fool! Incorrigible fool!”

“True. All who labour and bring forth are fools. The poet less than others; for he begets a dream from dust, not dust from dreams; and all his little pangs rise up to bless him. Fancy no more betrays him for he has drunk of Mimir’s well and eaten the immortal fruit of Yggdrasill.” Gisli laughed softly. “Take no offence, Father. These heathen fancies stand in bad repute I know, but I find them pleasant. Sweet as an old song—sad as the last sight of the receding hills of home. . . .” Grave now, Gisli swept the hair back from his brow, as though to clear his vision. “No, we shall not see again the mountain spires of our country, nor hear the songs of her many waters. Except in fancy where nothing fades. Do you not remember how gently the sunlight lay upon the peaks, veil on bright veil, and yet how quickly they drew back into the mist. . . . Perhaps a land grieves when its sons depart, however glad their going, and on what goodly mission. . . . Perhaps! But this I do know: the sons grieved. All the pageantry of departure only intensified the sadness of farewell. . . . And yet, that was their one historic moment—and we, their ghosts, may relive it on recall. . . .”

It was a serene, sunny day. There had been no rain since dawn. The newly painted white houses glistened in the sunlight. The sky was a clean blue, washed with pale gold, with here and there a fleece of drifting cloud. Everywhere this harmony of colours. The colours of Our Lady—of our Company sworne to Her service. White, blue, gold.

From towers and balconies, from ridge-poles and windows, from the barrows of fishwives, and from every stall in Shoemaker’s Alley, flew pennants and flags and streamers of bright cloth. Down in the harbour a forest of banners waved in the brisk wind; and upon the slopes, in the meadow, where the booths of the King’s Men had been erected, the same profusion of colour stood out against the sky. Streamed brightly above the field of tourneys; now the field of God.

For the Archbishop had blessed the ground; blessed the tents and the booths; blessed the Company and their retainers; blessed the food and the flowing wine; blessed the poor who sat in patience on the edge of the field, waiting their share of the feast, and the lofty speeches of the great men of the kingdom.

When all was done the Archbishop unfurled the standard of the Company, a gift of Mother Church for their inspiration and protection. Paul Knutson’s reply was simple. With God’s help the Company would hold to its sacred objective, the reclamation of the apostate Greenlanders. As servants of the Cross they could do no less; as men, subject to the limitations of humanity, they could do no more than give their lives to the cause.

The people, the poor of Our Lord, quietly munching the cakes and ale of charity, wept to hear him. There had been other more eloquent speeches but these words were simple as their daily bread. A fine gentleman; and the same might be said of his Company. . . . Yes, but was it not a pity that the king got it in his head to send such men careening to the brink of the world in search of lost souls when right here in the clearing there were sinners in plenty? Between bites of savoury sausage and drams of small beer, the alert poor, nicely primed for a favourite sport, began to classify the sinners; the enviable, and those of common design, and with spicy enjoyment stripped them to the bare bones.

How do I know this? Why should it matter? I know it because even the humblest skald has the wit to seek the root of things in the ragbag of human contention. . . . There was a girl, naturally. A pretty piece with saucy eyes and saucier lips who caught my fancy. A young baggage, if you wish, but a friendly baggage. And I had had enough of fine talk and the purple insincerity of gentlewomen. . . .

A kind of sadness had laid hold of me. An inward weeping for the things I had lost. I was caught on the spindles of memory and wanted to be freed—or so I then imagined. For at the time it hurt to remember, in sharp relief, our old manor and its friendly way of life.

In this mood I rather resented the young girl’s easy welcome, which only raised a laugh. “Darling man, why so sad?” she asked, her inquisitive glance running up and down my figure. “So finely bedecked, you go to play the fife of deliverance, yet wear the face of a jilted lover. Sit down, dear soul. If you must weep, weep on my shoulder. Better still, have a bite of sausage. It has a smitch of garlic, very good for low spirits.”

I sat down. “No sausage, thank you.”

“Dear man, have I not heard you sing somewhere?”

“I think not. Why?”

“If not to gather gossip for a lay, or limerick, why are you here amid fisherfolk, crofters, and stray geese?”

“For the same reason you eat garlic. To raise the spirits.”

“Tell me the truth, dear soul. For the truth I might kiss you once, or perhaps twice—perhaps thrice if the taste suits me.”

“What truth remains which has not been told by the King, or the chancellor, or the fierce Archbishop?”

She laughed, cracked a cucumber, handing me one half. “Good sir, consider how it is with simple folk. When the King speaks we curtsy; when the chancellor clears his throat we curtsy; and when the Archbishop lifts a finger we cross ourselves and curtsy. With all this bowing and blood to the head how should we understand what they say? We take it for granted they are right, of course. Certainly. That is why they are what they are. That is clear. What is not so clear is the reason for this rush to save sinners by the king’s gallant gentlemen.”

Again she laughed, a low throaty sound, and hitching closer slipped her arm through mine. “Now tell me is it not the business of monks and friars to fish for souls? Why should the Black Franklin, said to eat the hearts of women, and the Earl Bruse, hero of Vargo, who kills his rivals without batting an eyelash, and old rips like Cat-foot Karl, who is never above buying a trinket for a kind girl, why should such as they turn holy before it is natural and beyond remedy?”

“My pert wench, have you never heard of crusades? Of penitent’s adventures?”

She lightly kissed my cheek. “Darling man, we waterfront geese hear everything. A girl who draws ale for sailors, and for the King’s soldiers now thick as fleas everywhere, hears many things contrary to the catechism. At first it made me sad. So many crooked seams where I had thought the world straight. Nothing pure white in high places. Everything mixed up like a bad wash. Dirty gray as Bergen fog! Oh, I took it hard, dear soul. But you learn. You stop snivelling and make the most of things as they are. For if you learn to listen with a laugh or a tear as befits the occasion, there is always food and fun to be had. . . . Oh yes, we learn this and that, sweet singer of Visby. Ha! did you think I did not know you? And that scandalous song you made for your lady?”

She pecked at my cheek again giggling softly. “Tell me, was she so beautiful? Is it true that she rubbed her skin with spikenard and goat’s milk and slept in a silk shift? Did you love her dearly, and now go to die in Greenland for her sake?”

There was no mirth in me but I had to laugh. “Yes, she was beautiful. She still is beautiful. I loved her dearly, but I do not go to die for her in Greenland or anywhere else. I go—we are all going. . . .”

She was not listening. Her soft warm body tensed, and a delicious sigh issued from her moist red lips. “They said he was beautiful,” she murmured, “those drunken Gothland soldiers; beautiful and wicked. . . . How could anyone be wicked with a face so perfect? Like the faces on the gold medallions the Hansa lords hang around their necks. . . . I did not believe them; I did not think any creature could be so fair.”

“What are you talking about?” I snapped, nettled by her quick indifference to the comfort of my breast. Then I followed her gaze and had the shock of my life. Her wild praise was not so far amiss. The young man she was staring at was an arresting sight even in that throng of elegant gentlemen. He sat his horse with careless ease, and dismounted before Paul Knutson’s booth with the enviable air of one owning the world.

“The vain fool,” I said. “Does he mistake this affair for a tilt yard where pretty cocks try their green spurs? In any case what could he hope to accomplish at this late hour?”

“The brave do not need to think,” the enchanted baggage told me. “See how boldly he faces the Commander, and that furious crow in black velvet.”

“Bold indeed!” said I. “Do you happen to know whom you are calling a black crow, wise wench?”

“Of course I know! Now be still, I am trying to think. . . . Yes, it must be so, although it makes no sense. But that is the nature of sacrifice, I suppose.”

“Have you lost your wits?”

“Hush! Listen: A queer old man came to the tavern one night and paid me a piece of true silver just to hear him talk until dawn. He had a hard thin face, and thin scarred hands, and in his eyes an other-where look. So I reached for my beads and prayed for us both. Of all he said I understood nothing until now. There are gods and gods, he said. Great gods, who spun the worlds, layer by layer, like fine firm onions; and there are little gods invented by peevish men to terrorize their neighbours and to glorify themselves. The upshot was that the whole lot got out of hand now and then, turned on their inventors and scared them to the marrow. When that happened the only cure was to start a war, or to launch a crusade. . . . Poor soul, I thought him off his head, but now I begin to see what he meant by finding the right sacrifice.”

I laughed as I had not laughed for days. I told her that her lovely hero, Sigurd of Darre, the darling of the dales, was not likely to fall foul of fortune. In all probability he had come to see the expedition sail, taking advantage of a grand occasion to bedazzle the beauties gathered there. “Depend on it, and be cheered,” I added, more to tease the girl than from any spite toward Sigurd. “The only sacrifice the heir of Darre is likely to suffer is in the hard choice between one easy wench and another.”

A harsh expletive, which seemed to be wrung from the depths of Count Jacob’s being, halted Gisli’s narrative. Did that get through, he wondered, staring at the hard face of his long-time captain, noting the grey pallor, and also, with rueful regret, the swift disdain that forswore it. “The civilized thing would be to apologize for that remark,” Gisli said quietly, “to say I had not meant to offend you. I cannot say it, Count Jacob. Our misguided regard for you in this respect has been too costly. Because of it we all helped to destroy Sigurd. Now the blame lies heavy, and makes us cruel.”

“That is an extravagant statement,” Father Benedict interjected coldly. “This is scarcely the time to entertain malice and base resentment. . . .”

“Let him be,” Jacob said. “It is time we understood one another. Go on Gisli, but make it brief. Any tale of my son’s meretricious conduct had better be brief if I am to listen.”

Gisli’s exasperation took refuge in momentary silence. How could a man, otherwise generous and just, be so intolerant of his own son? So determined to shut his eyes to anything of a mitigating circumstance. Certainly it was a hard thing for a man of Jacob’s integrity that Sigurd should have been bound over to Paul Knutson because of impending disgrace. But after all the decision was Lady Margit’s. . . .

“I see you have given up a bad job,” Jacob said, reaching for his boot-thongs, and starting to bind his ragged footgear.

On the contrary I am wondering how to continue. It just dawned on me that my tavern girl was nobody’s fool. In her queer way she understood the complex nature of sacrifice. “You think yourself a poet,” she said, “yet do not understand that dying can be easy for a man with one eye on heaven. There is no sacrifice in giving up what you despise.”

Then she patted my cheek with the kindness one shows to a backward child. “Listen, dear man. You need not feel affronted by this last moment recruit. He did not come of his own free will; he was made to come, and with the firm counsel to stay away until he had worn loose the weakness which endangered the honour of his house. This I was told by a Gothland soldier who was born on Darre lands.”

Gisli eased his position, shifting closer to the stone, and held up his hand to check the outburst crowding Jacob’s lips. “Please. You gave me leave to speak. Let me do so without comment; let me try to set right one wrong in my own fashion; for all our sakes, for none of us has much to be proud of in his relationship with Sigurd. You, Count Jacob, were too intolerant to see good in anything he attempted, and the older men followed your example. With the possible exception of Thorvald, whose understanding goes deeper than he cares to admit, the same can be said of the rest of us.”

You asked me to be brief, not an easy request, my Captain. Incidents, removed from the context of the main event, are misleading, but I shall do my best. I shall dispense with the fanfare of departure, the impressive blessing of the little fleet, the tears and tender farewells . . . but I shall ask you to look back without bias to the proud young creature standing by himself at the ship’s rail, taking leave of all he held dear. In all that company none could have felt the sadness of departure more than Sigurd. Lost, alone, unwelcome and suspect. Yet he bore himself well. I made note of that, I assure you. For I said to myself: now we shall see how the Darling of the Dales conducts himself in man’s element. I expected one of two attitudes, swaggering brashness, or sullen obedience.

I was wrong. Sigurd’s behaviour on that tedious outward passage was admirable. There was no show of ill temper as the days dragged on and the windless sails becalmed our ships, a circumstance which raised many a snarl from the rest of us who were long used to the vagaries of the sea, and the cramped confinement aboard ship.

The heavy Knorr, loaded to the gunwales with supplies, sat the water like a brooding hen; and round her the faster ships wove and fretted: Erlind’s resplendent Hership; Earl Bruse’s black and gold Skeid. And under the wing of the warship the dove grey Vistabyrding (provision ship) flying stout purple sail, transporting tubs of butter, hard bread, smoked and salted meats, stock fish and herring, and great kegs of ale and wine. Our good Gray-Goose.

At this name, Hake jumped to his feet, scurrying over to the men. He had a hauberk in one hand, a sponge of fat in the other, which he waved defensively. “Honoured poet, this I must hear, it will strengthen my arm to rub this harness. Tell it right, Master Porse. The Gray-Goose will lie uneasy in Greenland waters unless truth be told. . . . Save your wrath, Count, the birds are safe, you shall feed well. . . . Continue, Master Porse, but do not anger the soul of the grey ship. It was not the Skraelings who got the best of her. The water-people took her. Oh yes! For days and days I felt their hands on her. Perhaps it was the smell of spice and garlic. . . .”

“All right, all right!” Jacob growled, “the water-people took her. Now hold your tongue. This is not a tale of your Gray-Goose, nor have we reached Greenland waters. We are becalmed, it seems, in more ways than one. . . . At least I was under the impression that we were to hear a threnody of a renegade, not a song of ships.”

Hake bowed to the stone, caught Father Benedict’s eye and quickly crossed himself, the lump of fat still tight in his palm. Then he sat down, giving Gisli a sympathetic grimace, and turning to Jacob, burst out: “Dear Master, the world has not your like in cracking skulls, but in other things—” his tongue clacked pity. “We were becalmed, he said, and you take that as wandering from the theme? Tush, tush, even a Lap has more insight . . . it was a long calm, excellent lord; and your temper nibbled and nibbled at Sigurd’s endurance, just like the Water-people scrabbled at my Gray-Goose. Oh yes. Next to the devil, you are to blame for what happened. . . . Excuse me, Master Porse. Now I shall truss my tongue and wait for you to break the calm, greet the winds that swept us to Iceland, where the air was chill as a virgin, and the harbour-master crusty and sound as good bread. On second thought, why stop there for more than a stave? We rested, fed, took on fresh water and fagots. The chief mariner gave us directions and a map to guide us, the Bishop sent letters to the Eastern Settlement, blessed us and prayed for good weather. Which was instantly answered. Do we need more, Gisli Porse?”

Gisli slapped the cook on his grimy shoulder, laughing: “Now I understand why the Laps are famous for legend. They know how to bridge time and take eternity by storm. No, we need not linger on Iceland. Let us follow the pattern of the Sagamen who leapt from peak to peak unmindful of what lay between. So keep an eye cocked, king of cooks, for here we go.”

Four days’ brisk sailing brought us within sight of the Greenland glaciers. After taking counsel with Earl Bruse, Paul Knutson decided to set the course for the Western Settlement. The Greenland sea was known to be treacherous, ice-free only a short time in the fall. If we lingered at the Eastern Settlement, where life was said to be fairly pleasant since renewal of trade with the kingdom, we might endanger our real project, which was the rescue and relief of the smaller settlement.

The pity was that none of us knew anything factual about the nature of the country. The most we knew was derived from the “King’s Mirror” which painted a dreary picture at best. The interior of the turtle-backed island was a vast unbroken ice sheet, yet having a snow-free belt on the west coast which extended beyond the Arctic Circle. In brighter vein we gathered that the short summers were pleasant, that the grasslands supported large herds of domestic animals. More dependably, we knew from Greenland exports that game and fish and the famed falcons were plentiful. But for all that most of us secretly despised a way of life so meanly curtailed and had no great desire to waste precious time in the Eastern Settlement. We would touch there later, discharging the Bishop’s errands and dispensing the King’s cheer.

Thus, self-assured and superior, we stood our ships in grand formation, Erlind’s Hership, manning twenty benches, in the lead. Graceful and sure as the arctic fox, the beautiful ship ran before the wind, her figurehead sparkling in the sun. After her the heavy Knorr ploughed the dark sea, her square multicoloured sails bright as summer birds. In her prow stood Paul Knutson and his lieutenant Haakon—our Haakon of the merry heart. Then came the smart black and gold Skeid, light and swift as a swallow, Earl Bruse’s last and best beloved. . . . Last in line, the Gray-Goose followed her betters, her only adornment a single blue and white flag. . . . Now, now hold it, Hake! Give me time. I know she had her graces, our good grey ship. She had on board the king of cooks; and in the foreroom the handsomest man in the expedition: Sigurd of Darre.

“You flinch, Count Jacob? Perhaps it has occurred to you that a young man eager to prove his mettle under critical eyes would not himself choose the defence of fish-bales and tubs of butter? No. But it was then, in that humiliating moment when you ordered Sigurd to the Gray-Goose, that I began to like your son. He understood what the command implied and he took it as well as the most seasoned soldier takes the niggling affronts of a superior officer. There was scarcely a flicker of expression in his face when you added that the defence did not require fine harness.

“You did not anticipate danger; we had long since left the sea-lanes familiar to pirates. I dare say you reasoned that with nothing save the freakish elements to beset us it was safe to send a stripling to such a post however badly armed; and it would teach him seamanship and humble his pride to work with common sailors.”

Hake lost patience: “Let the eagle pluck his own breast!” he cried, busily rubbing Thorvald’s hauberk. “He knows all this. Certainly! The Devil plucked him by the ear and told him what to do: bind your son on the rock of your holy rage; let him squirm for all to see. It will make or break him. . . . That is how it was.” Hake shook the ball of fat in their faces, grimacing horribly. “It is always so when men play God. Besides, where was the danger? Strong as whales we sped northward, seeing nothing more menacing than scruffy hills, fish-mouth inlets and the Devil’s Nightcap high in the distant sky. . . . But now I tell you, my masters—and may I be stricken dead if I lie—on the third day, just as I was skewering a hunk of mutton, I heard something: swish, swoosh, out of nowhere, that made my flesh creep. Something evil was in the air. Then I heard the water-people snickering under the bows, patting and patting our good Gray-Goose. Just as a poor crofter pats the beast he means to kill. . . . Excuse me! Master Porse, continue: bring on the fray!”

Gisli loosed the neck of his jerkin absently, frowning at some secret phantom, then resumed:

As I remember it the Hership had just cleared the mouth of a narrow inlet when that sound, sudden as a gust of wind from a mountain gap, startled those of us who were idling aboard the Knorr. It was the sound of slim, incredibly swift, skin boats, pouring out of the inlet to dart upon the ponderous Knorr, fleet and insolent as water bugs. Some of these boats were at least twenty feet long, carrying a dozen yelling, fur-clad little men; others were narrow as coffins, pointed at both ends, with a covering midway, and contained a single occupant. All these furious creatures were armed with spiked staves, knives, or strange murderous harpoons. Yet at first sight they seemed more curious than threatening. They darted in and away, sometimes coming so close to the Knorr that her spray washed over them. Lieutenant Haakon called up his bowmen, but the Commander forbade action. It might endanger the Norse settlements, he reasoned, if we attacked without just cause. In all probability these men were a fishing party whom we had surprised and thrown into momentary panic by reason of our foreign appearance and the size of our ships. Ever the scrupulous judge, Paul Knutson retained the same calm which had characterized him at Gulathing in Norway, as he gravely considered the queer raging tumult of the water bugs converging on the Knorr. He still believed that the show was mostly bravado, but finally conceded that their wicked staves might injure the ship.

“Let us try them with white flags,” he told his lieutenant. “Most people recognize the symbols of peace.” Then to our dismay he bent over the rail making friendly gestures, showing himself unarmed, and hailing the screaming natives in his cheerful ringing voice. Except that it served to arrest our other ships, this eloquent performance completely miscarried. The yells split the air in wild thunder and in the same instant something bright and deadly struck the Commander’s broad chest. Fortunately it rebounded harmlessly but the dent it left on Knutson’s breastplate was a telling argument for the striking power of Skraeling weapons; and a wicked looking missive it proved to be, a most ingenuous device of stone and ivory.

This hostile retort, which ruffled even Knutson’s admirable temper, was the herald of an instant assault upon the ship’s hull. “Ah!” Knutson intoned, the red of slow anger dyeing his face. “Now they ask for it! They mean to sink the ship. . . . Lieutenant, let them have it. Greet them cheerily!” And snatching up the battle horn, he blew loud and long, the sharp clear notes out-soaring the weird din. Hard, high, and sharp, the Hership and the Skeid answered. Then the fun began.

Against good armour the tickle of flying barbs was nothing, but the Skraelings were remarkable sailors, wheeling and whisking with singular dexterity their extraordinary fleet, intent on one thing with desperate courage. They purposed to take our ships from below; sink them, salvage the goods, and leave us to the fish. Poor devils, they reckoned without knowledge of modern arms, and of such ships as the Skeid which was as swift and fluid as their own skin craft. Nor could they have guessed at the power of the Hership manned by such fighters as Erling and the Count of Darre.

The uneven engagement was no more than a fast amusing furore for the bored company. The Skeid rushed in among the enemy craft, a glittering angry dragon, loaded with death. She had been designed on the lines of a fighting Skuta, with the upper part of the gunwales so made that the crew could step onto it, either for the boarding of an enemy, or the better shooting. She justified her designers; the goose-feathers flew thick as mountain showers. Meanwhile, from the opposite direction, the Hership mowed down the disordered enemy, scattering them like so many screaming birds. . . .

Just an hour’s sport; but in the din and shouting, the wild sweeping pleasure of the warships, no one had taken thought for the Gray-Goose. Yet in her lay the prize most coveted by the Skraelings: food, fats, clothes and gear; practical wealth to any savage. This prize was in the keeping of a handful of sailors, more accustomed to splicing ropes and caulking sprung seams than handling weapons. The one fighting man aboard—and he a swordsman—was young Sigurd, his most efficient aide a furious little cook.

“Desperate mad, you mean,” Hake broke in with a hiss. “We had three bows! Three short pigeon killers, and two cases half filled with arrows. I tell you, the poor young man nearly wept with rage. Good rage, masters. Quick as a cat he leaped to the top of a bale of hides and shouted his orders. We must hold our own; shorten sail and fight. Let the devils board, he told us; the oars were handy gadgets for crushing heads, and what we had in the firepot was also useful stuff. In the meantime he shot and shot, as pretty a marksman as any aboard the Hership. Oh yes, but a single bowman is no match for a swarm of savages. All the Skraelings who fled from the warships made for us. Sure, they must have something to save their faces. . . . Certainly! And of course the water-people wanted our hull. A little sacrifice to the gods of the deep. Oh yes, say what you like: that was the price of escape; that and Sigurd’s evil wound.”

Father Benedict, smarting for his friend, spoke up quickly: “That will do, Hake. Let the story proceed unhampered by such drastic invention. It seems to me, Gisli . . .”

He was interrupted by the arrival of Thorvald and Grettir. They had a fresh scrubbed look, and Thorvald’s wet black hair clung to his head like an old-fashioned casque. At sight of Jacob’s foot, eased upon an improvised rest, concern leaped to their faces. The Count did not let them speak. “I take it the fun is over across the lake,” he said, “nothing stirring on the other shore?” Now why had he said that, he wondered crossly; was all this white-washing of Sigurd leading him to false hopes?

“Nothing doing anywhere,” Thorvald answered.

“If we had wolf-ears we might think differently. The camp is too far back for us to catch the sounds of their happy orgies,” Grettir amended, throwing down his shirt and rubbing his hairy torso with angry vigour. “Hake, good rascal, what is the meaning of this? Have you left the cooking pot to Cat-foot Karl?”

“Ha! You may well ask,” Jacob snorted. “Our cook has turned poet, and our poet—” he shrugged. “Sit down, men. We have here a Drapa in the making. A Calendar of my son’s mighty deeds. You may find it strange enough to be diverting.”

“Strange, certainly,” Hake snorted. “Very diverting for the fine heroes on the warships. A good shoot! All the sea full of bobbing greasy heads. Oh yes, but what of our Gray-Goose scuttled by the yellow devils? That was not so funny for Sigurd. He would be blamed, of course. Just the same his thought was for the cargo, so there we were waist deep in water heaving kegs and bales into the crazy sea. Compared with that wild struggle all your fancy shooting was child’s play. But until my master came to the rescue, no one spared us a thought. Except for Sigurd the whole cargo would have gone to the bottom. . . . Now proceed, Master Porse,” he concluded, grabbing up his rag and reaching for Thorvald’s mail. Gisli grinned.

We are in Greenland waters, you perceive. The grand skirmish is over; boats are being low ered to rescue men and goods from the sea. The Gray-Goose was indeed a stupid loss. Knutson admitted it; he also commended Sigurd highly, and had the good sense to detail him to Earl Bruse’s ship. Perhaps he reasoned that Bruse, himself the victim of a scheming woman, might have more sympathy for the young man than the Count, his father.

So there we are. Dusk is falling over a slate-grey sea where nothing now stirs save the breath of the heavens. The low hills are mantled in black, like old women crouched in a pauper’s field. Seamews cry mournfully; and mournful sounds the horn for our sinking ship. Then we shape our course northward again, keeping well off shore, running before a good steady wind through the dark starry night.

Gisli made a pause, his eyes remote and brooding. Who was he to attempt the impossible? What tongue had the skill to interpret the peculiar sorrows which lay in wait for them in the coming dawn? How could one find words to impart the paralyzing effect of the experience to come? It was easy to state bald facts, but the subtle impressions which reach down into the very depths of consciousness defy common speech.

In stepping on Greenland shores they had stepped into a forbidding zone of silence, ineluctible as the silence of eternity. That was hardly the kind of thing one said in an improvised saga. So he went on simply:

You all know what we found and did not find at daybreak. None of us can have forgotten the thrill of our first sight of a civilized settlement after endless days at sea. It was a bright day, and all the little stone houses were clearly etched against the dun-coloured hills; the square tower of the church a bold landmark in the alien sky.

We crowded the ship’s rail, thrilled to the marrow; sounded the horns and shouted our heads off. We raised a thousand echoes in the stony hills as we sailed into the dark blue mouth of the fjord; but nothing human answered us. That was the first shock, which we hid from one another. Those not occupied in berthing the ships loudly praised the harbour: wide, deep, sheltered from cross winds, where a sizable fleet might ride at anchor a bow-shot from the unobstructed shore. True. What we also noticed and preferred not to mention was the curious absence of any ships of any category whatever.

That was more than strange and we all knew it. Strange also the mute homesteads on the hills, the tongue-tied houses near the shore. Uncanny not to hear the inquisitive barking of dogs; nor any scurry of children—not a whisper of human voices. Strangest of all to see on the speckled flanks of the hills little flocks of sheep, adrift, unattended; and in the home-fields, where the hay was ripe and tall, stray cattle browsing in unrestricted freedom.

Before we touched shore, before the first boat was lowered, we were done with rejoicing. Something was terribly wrong. Pestilence? Slaughter? No, we had all seen dead hamlets in the days of the plague. This was no charnel place; nothing offensive except the mysterious silence. There was nothing here in any way familiar; nothing for the mind or hand to tackle. As we walked from house to house, and from homestead to homestead, this eerie silence walked with us. Wherever we went it met us and took leave of us. It halted our footsteps in the empty courtyards; hushed our voices at the open doorways. “Is someone there?” we called. “Is someone there?” and the cold vacant rooms echoed: “Is someone there? . . .”

There was nobody anywhere. There was nothing. No signs of violence nor of pestilence; nothing anywhere to explain the hasty departure of the entire population. Haste there had been, that much the mystery yielded indirectly. Small household effects left behind indicated haste, and also increased the loneliness of the solid little houses. There was an old shawl lying on a hearth stool, where the ashes were swept into a tidy heap, the feather sweeper left beside it. It spoke to us, that old mended shawl; told us plainly that some old lady had clung to the last to the familiar homey tasks and had been impatiently called away. There was an apron on a kitchen peg in a house clean as the morning, a neat little ghost of a tidy house-mother. On a bench in the next house stood a cracked mixing bowl; in another a straw tick had been left. And in the window sill of yet another small house lay a rag doll in a green knitted suit. . . .

While this search was in progress Father Benedict and Lavrans had gone to investigate the church. . . .

Gisli stopped to smile at the old priest, sunk in troubled reflection. “Do not take it so hard, Father,” he said affectionately. “It is true that the disgraceful neglect of that poor little church supported the accusations made by the Greenland sailors to His Majesty. On the face of it, a people who left behind them the sacred vessels of the Sanctuary, more mindful of pots and pans, must be a wretched lot. None of us blamed you for your indignation. And yet, I could not forget that little doll, the swept hearth, and the tidy house, and I wondered. . . .

“No, do not distress yourself, Father Benedict. For the Mass you said in that desolate church irradiated every stone with divine beauty. No service in the King’s chapel had so moved me . . . and I understood how rightly the Bishop of Bergen had named you the Broom of the Almighty. Certainly you swept that church clean of all defilement for all time. And swept us into your pocket for better or for worse; every one of us eager to follow your bidding wherever it should take us.”

The chase was only begun. Knutson sensibly reminded us that there were ten known fjords in the Western Settlement which in all contained ninety homesteads and four churches. It was inconceivable that all these places should be abandoned. In all probability fear of the Skraelings had drawn the people together in some place less vulnerable to sea-borne attack. In any case we must search all these places. Energetic and cheerful, he took possession of the tiny hamlet, ordered a strand-feast (our invisible hosts ought not to begrudge us a sheep or two) to put us in a better frame of mind, doubtless thinking we had need of clear wits to map out some plan of action. This was done by sending out small detachments to the several homesteads.

An impatient exclamation from the Count interrupted him. Gisli straightened, meeting the angry black eyes calmly, almost with humour. “I am not purposely tiresome,” he said. “I recall these things because I want you to consider their effect upon the company; to remember how, as the futile search ate away the days, even old campaigners began to grouse, losing their tempers over nothing, finally flatly refusing to go on with it. The very thought of wintering in that forsaken place induced dreams of mutiny. It was Earl Bruse who averted the storm by telling Knutson that he agreed with the men, that any further stay was useless, that the people must be sought elsewhere; furthermore, with his knowledge of northern seas, he did not propose to sit land-locked in Greenland while the ice ground his ship to kindling.

“I wanted you to reflect on all this if perchance it might reveal Sigurd in less odious light. He was sick, please remember, suffering a festering wound, which he had neglected out of a foolish desire to meet your test of manhood. . . .”

“Ha! I have known cowards to put off pain for other reasons,” Jacob muttered.

“Other cowards, perhaps,” Thorvald intervened curtly. “Sigurd never lacked courage.”

“God’s Death!” Jacob shouted. “Is this a conspiracy to make me out a liar?”

“Nonsense, Jacob!” Father Benedict said. “Because your conscience pricks you, you misjudge everything. I am sorry to say it, but you have been unjust and intolerant toward your son. You should be thankful he had more generous judges.”

The Count tensed, glancing from one to another in formidable dignity.

“Now heed me, gentlemen. I am not aware of having appealed for judgment. Furthermore, I have never been interested in the popular pastime of glorifying blackguards. It was my impression that Gisli Porse had a wrong to right. I must have been mistaken. . . . Now if you will kindly move aside, Father, I shall be off on my own business.”

“Oh hell! Come off the high-seat, Jacob,” Grettir shouted at his old friend. “There is nothing to do and you know it. Tuck in the tail of your pride and give the boys a chance. If they have something good to say of Sigurd, fine. Myself, I never doted on the handsome pup, but a man can be mistaken. Maybe he was teaching the Vinland wenches the short catechism . . .” he laughed, nudging Jacob’s shoulder. “Sure, why not? Have you forgotten the little buttercup we came across in Finmark long ago? Such a love-bird! We had to teach her the ten commandments to keep her from stabbing her husband. He bored her, poor girl. Besides, she liked our gear, particularly the long shield which hid a girl if she snuggled real close; and she liked our singing.”

“All right, all right!” Jacob protested. “So we played the fool. Is that any reason for sitting here while Gisli racks his brains for some formula to convince me of Sigurd’s integrity?”

Gisli laughed, his eyes unsmiling. “Quite right, Count Jacob. I have been seeking a persuasive formula, obviously to no purpose. I perceive that I should have told you in plain barrack’s fashion that upon three occasions known to myself you wronged young Sigurd. In Greenland you condemned him as a coward for not submitting to the hot iron for his wound. In Vinland you arbitrarily misjudged and belittled all his attempts to further friendly relations with the natives. Lastly, you wronged him, and yourself, when you dismissed him as a traitor beyond the pale of decent men. . . . These are hard words, which I should have preferred to withhold although they state the facts accurately. The superficial facts at any rate. The truth of the matter must be sought in our individual attitudes. Myself, I was too indolent to provoke a storm by telling what I knew. Hell! I was just as sick of the crazy wanderings as Sigurd. I simply lacked his courage to walk out on that pesthouse in the Bay. . . . Worse still, I lacked the guts to tell you then that Sigurd did not sneak away like a thief as you suppose. No, he came to the hut—he came seeking you the night Paul Knutson died. That is the truth, Count Jacob.”

Jacob was stunned beyond the help of anger. A thin beading of sweat broke out on his forehead as he stared, seeking he knew not what confirmation, in Gisli’s tense half-averted face. If this were true. . . . Oh God, if only it were true. . . . The thought cut two ways, each as sharp as the other, each unbearable, and yet—pulling himself together, he said tonelessly: “That is a strange statement, Gisli. If Sigurd came to the hut as you say what was to hinder him from speaking to me? As I recall it he had quit our company before Knutson came down with the fever. Surely someone would have noticed such an unexpected return and told me about it.”

“Who can talk to a wounded walrus?” Hake cried, giving a flip to Thorvald’s mail, all the rings singing sharply. “That was not the only time he tried to speak. Ask Father Benedict; he too tried to get you to listen, but all he got was a growl. Nobody dared mention the poor young man.” This broadside delivered, Hake appealed to Thorvald. “Franklin, you saw Sigurd that night and can tell him how it was. You were not so sick as Master Porse. You had been afoot for three days, helping to swaddle the corpses. . . . What an indignity! Not a decent sail for the lot; no graves in the icy earth. Nothing to be done except pile them up like cordwood, and let them lie in the grey drizzle until we had hands to fling them in the sea. . . . You remember; now tell them what you saw that black spring night; what you heard above the howling wind and the whimpers of delirious men.”

Thorvald shook his head. “No, Hake,” he said gently, “rubbing salt in a wound is brutal medicine. As for Sigurd: I saw him briefly, but a disordered mind is untrustworthy. I was seeing too many things in that reeking dark, which hung like a veil between the living and the dead, to be clear about anything.”

“That is not like you, Thorvald Eyvindson,” Hake said. “You see the round of things in time. Now I will tell you a thing. One day when we were drifting down the river of red willows my dear Master suddenly said: ‘Hake, time clears many a muddle. Do you know I begin to understand why my poor cousin bolted. The stench of pestilence is not the climate of normal youth.’ Then he got to talking of that other winter we spent in the north. The year we lost the Skeid and almost lost the Knorr; the year of the great hunger when we found Mahigan. ‘Oh yes,’ Master finished, ‘I can see it clearly at last. Sigurd made a cruel choice but what else could he have done? The Darres are a fighting breed. He could face the perils of the unknown, which implies a challenge, but not the half-life to which the Company seemed forever committed. No, I cannot blame him, although I pity the Count. When all is said, each of us acts in accordance with his own nature. . . .’ That was my Master’s opinion when time had cleared his vision. Has it done nothing for you, Franklin? Was he not right in his estimate of Sigurd?”

“He was right,” Thorvald said shortly. “Although I have done it myself, passing judgment on other men is a vicious form of vanity. Under the circumstances Sigurd’s choice was inevitable. Pressed into a crusade that meant nothing to him, all the normal drives of youth thwarted, his every act suspect, or at best merely tolerated, and with all hope of a return to civilization growing fainter and fainter, it seems to me his decision was nothing strange . . . except that it took courage of a high degree. As for the manner of his departure, that too implies the courage of rare restraint when you consider his motives and bear in mind the scene which confronted him when he entered the barracks, stepping from the black night into the blacker presence of death itself. Surely none of us has forgotten that hour. . . .”

They saw it in the mind’s eye, fixed in eternal duration: vivid, terrible, and majestic. A rude place built of rough logs, furnished with bunks, and wall benches either side the door. A long smoke vent pierced the low roof; the iron earth beneath was cleft down the center with a fire trench, the only source of heat and fitful illumination.

On this night in question the merciless wind had clogged the smoke vent with particles of bark, moss and clay torn from the roof. Consequently the fire burned badly, alternating tongues of flame and puffs of acrid smoke which obscured the vision. In this grey murk the bunks, usually curtained at this hour but now open, had the appearance of black slits in the heavy walls. A grim forbidding place, forever fixed at the centre of a congealing darkness, yet not unlike countless other outposts of forgotten men.

Then why should they remember with intensified emotion this grim repellent shelter, and this sombre night of fearful shadows? Death and disaster were long since commonplace. For days the hapless company had known that Paul Knutson was dying; that at last even his iron constitution, ineffable patience, and obstinate purpose, had run its course. Or had it? Was it some prescience of inescapable destiny, implicit in Knutson’s resolution, which distinguished above others this particular tragedy? Who could say with conviction what extra perceptions the human soul might utilize in moments of high despair? And who was to say that Sigurd, lacerated by his own inner conflict, was not equally susceptible to the subtle overtones of the human drama which confronted him when he swept in out of the night, and quickly, as if arrested by an actual presence, fell back against the door, pressing his tall thin figure into the sheltering folds of the Vadmal curtains.

For there was something there which dominated the darkness, halting Sigurd’s impetuous entry as sharply as a spear at one’s breast. A small luminous thing: the silver Pyx which alone of sacred appointments had survived the shipwreck of the Skeid; it cut through the gloom with triumphant radiance. All eyes were drawn to it in concentrated devotion, all their senses straining to follow and participate in Father Benedict’s prayer for the dying. For in some strange way it now seemed to the stricken company that something more than a man’s life stood in judgment; that something of unitary purpose particularized in the resolution of Paul Knutson was also appealing to the Divine Mercy.

Father Benedict, kneeling by the dying Commander, prayed in a steadfast unfaltering voice:

“Kyrie, eleison!”

“Christe, eleison,” the shadowy figures of the Earl, Count Jacob, and young Lavrans, whispered in unison.

“Kyrie, eleison—Sancta Maria.”

“Ora pro ea——” Jacob bent closer, his grieving eyes searching the yellow emaciated face of his long-time friend for some sign of recognition—“ora pro ea, orate pro ea——”

“Omnes sancti Discipuli Domini.”

“Orate pro ea.”

Now the sick man stirred, his thin hands groping feebly. “Jacob——take my trust—Jacob—” his eyes sprang open, startlingly alive, bright and unclouded. “Do not grieve, dear friends, though our task seems obscure. . . . It is good to have seen . . . to break bread with the Future . . . God’s will . . .” the blue lids quivered, closed, and a sigh, barely audible, tore at the hearts of his kneeling comrades, unashamed tears on their grey emaciated faces, they continued the prayer for the dying:

“Per nativitatem tuam.”

“Libera ei, Domine.”

The dying man turned his head on the rude pillow, as a child seeks familiar comfort in the night. With utmost gentleness Father Benedict crossed the thin hands on the still breast; his own eyes moist but his voice clear and assured:

“Per adventum Spiritus sancti Paracliti.”

“Libera ei, Domine.”

Paul Knutson, the honoured of kings and the envied of men, had quietly withdrawn into the nebulous Past. Safe now alike from praise and blame. One with the Past which had shaped his adventurous soul; one with the Future his prophetic vision beheld; forever one with the Trust he left to his fellow trail-breakers. Jacob, inwardly weeping, heard in his heart the grand voice speaking: “The wind’s way is God’s way, Jacob. The seed of Tomorrow is borne by the storms of Today.” Yes, he heard it, as clearly as the grave concluding prayer.

“Peccatores,” Father Benedict recited; and the kneeling men, and the weeping sick in the dim obscurity of their bunks, replied:

“Te rogamus, audi nos.”

“Kyrie, eleison.”

Father Benedict sighed: “Hake puts us to shame. Alas, I perceive to my sorrow, none of us had the charity to consider Sigurd’s youth and inexperience of the world. We expected too much; understood too little—it is true, indeed, that his was a tragic sacrifice.”

Grim, rocklike, though silently grieving, Count Jacob said coldly: “I am grateful to hear that Sigurd had the decency to come to the hut—even if he had not the courage to carry out his intentions. But if this digging up of trifling decencies is done in my behalf, for my comfort, pray spare me further efforts. I have not the stomach for such tender mercies. I was taught, in my youth, that discipline and duty are the portions of a man. The clansmen of Darre were no saints, God knows, but few to my ken, turned tail in an evil hour.”

“An arrow in the back can be as deadly as one in the chest,” Thorvald said. “The point here seems confused. Had you thought, Count Jacob, that flight into the unknown wilderness, with no resources other than the woodlore they learned in Vinland, their weapons, a little dried meat, and the canoe they built themselves, was a prospect little likely to appeal to timid men?”

“Good sirs, come awake!” Hake cried, his patience exhausted. “The trouble started in Greenland; with the hot iron. Certainly. The young lord, sick with pain, took fright from the holy fire. What a scandal! Who ever heard of such a thing? What else could be done with a green wound got from a poisoned dart?” Hake made a terrible face and shook the chain-mail until every ring rattled. “Nay, I will say it now, meek though I am and nothing but a cook. Such roaring I never heard! ‘You fool, you damn weakling!’ our noble Captain shouted. ‘Stop your howling! do you want to lose your arm?’ And the young lord shouted back: ‘Get out, get out; leave me alone—what do you care if I lose both arms . . . get the hell out. . . .’ Certainly. What else should he think? How had he got the wound in the first place? Ha, defending the Gray-Goose in nothing but a jerkin! Sure. And why did he hide his hurt, fine sirs? Ha! You know the answer. A son of Darre must not whimper, make a fuss over a scratch! Oh no, instead he dives into the sea to rescue kegs, aye, and though he gets no thanks for it, heaves and hauls, like a young ox, raising the skin boats Knutson wanted for a memento of the fight. The Skraelings cockshells now stored on the Big Ship we left by the sea. Yes, the boats Paul Knutson requested to be taken to his church: Saint Halvard’s Church. Certainly. That would please the patron Saint of Oslo who lost his life saving others. A fine thought, no doubt; but if those skin boats ever reach Norway, Sigurd had some part in it. You might consider that and think less of so-called cowardice. There are many fears in this world, good sirs. My Master feared bats as much as Sigurd feared the fire. Sure, and what of our Captain writhing in shame that someone should think his son a weakling? Does that make him a coward? Good, my lords, only fools are without fear. . . . Now I go to spit the birds; the Franklin can finish his tale.”

So saying Hake laid the polished mail at Thorvald’s feet and with a sibilant sniff trotted back to the fire, and the sceptical company of Karl Jaeger, who greeted the cook with a twisted smile: “Your skills are many, little man,” he said. “That was a fine stew you stirred up yonder. Tell me, did you so love our precious Sigurd as to warrant pricking his father to the heart?”

Hake hissed like a snake. “I spoke for my Master. They disremember he had sense and a good heart; not just a stout arm in battle; and skill at sea . . . let them snarl and snap. They will listen the better to the waking. . . . I will not let them forget. . . .”

Karl grunted: “I see. . . . Here, give me those spits to sharpen.” He held out his thick brown hand, and his eyes were oddly gentle. “You are a stout creature, Hake—more power to your brews.”

In the circle round the Stone a self-conscious silence reigned for a moment; a shamed hush none wished to break, or knew how to bridge without further offence. Finally the Count sharply raised his head and snapped: “Well, what is the end of the tale?”

Father Benedict bristled at the tone and more his old self said: “Take heed, Jacob! Your attitude is nothing noble. Such wilful anger is a sign of a bad conscience.”

“Never mind my conscience!” Jacob retorted. “You can see to that later. This prior’s picnic was not of my devising. Now get on with it! Let me hear the full score of my ignorance. I misread my son’s fine character in matters of courage. That may be so. I grant you it had best be so if he now means to govern the blood-lusting savages he evidently prefers to his own kind. . . . Now tell me the rest.”

Thorvald and Gisli suddenly grinned at each other, and both turned to the unshakeable Count with obvious affection. Thorvald spoke first: “There is little to tell, and none of it will affect your opinions. Yet I think you should know that Sigurd effected many changes in the lodges of the Redmen in Vinland. In the lodge he shared with Neengai, the little brown wench you deplore, he insisted upon neatness and order, and himself carved and stained with wood dyes, pillars and cooking utensils. He carried this neatness to the compound; an oddity Neengai finally attributed to the heavenly origin of her golden lord. A point of view her suspicious, disapproving relatives were forced to accept after Sigurd had out-fought and out-shot all the male members.

“This is not said in defence of miscegenation which I find repellent, as do most of our people. No, but it does show a gift for leadership. It took patience and tact to cozen and incite towards civilized behaviour a pack of indifferent, contemptuous, cruel savages. It may not have been high achievement to teach those Vinland natives the enjoyment of games: foot-racing, wrestling, and hand ball, to which they took with zest. Not a great achievement, but the sense of play is the first step in the humanities. A big step away from such monstrous amusements as those which the Sioux across the lake are now enjoying. . . . Sigurd may have failed the high tradition you venerate, Count Jacob; he will not fail in civilizing whatever tribe he governs.

“Father Benedict was proud of the few catechumens who came to his Vinland chapel the third winter of our stay; they would not have come but for Neengai who went to please Sigurd and brought her friends with her. It is true the Algonquin were friendly because our winged ships impressed them, and the terror of steel links and long swords made for caution; nor should we forget the persuasive argument of Hake’s cooking pots.” Thorvald smiled deprecatingly and concluded: “Arms and food may have been our best defence, yet I venture to suggest that Sigurd’s friendship with the natives helped us a great deal. I think it was largely his doing that Neengai’s tribe not only accepted us but protected our camps while we searched the seaboard. To put it bluntly, I think that neither Knutson’s stockade, nor Father Benedict’s kindness could have worked the miracle. That is all I have to say, Count Jacob. The Cross and the Sword are sometimes beholden one to the other.”

Once again Jacob felt the sting of doubt. Was it possible he had been guilty of deliberate injustice? It was hard to be sure of anything when one’s emotions raddled the senses; even harder when the subject in question was so difficult to understand. Sigurd had always been a puzzle to him. His cheerful waywardness, disregard of convention, and indifference to the duties of his future station, these habitual characteristics had always been a source of displeasure to Margit. At thought of Margit’s hurt, Jacob pulled up with a scowl. Devil take these apologies! he pressed himself. There was no denying that Sigurd had a queer streak in his makeup. Something not to be explained away as youthful roistering; no sensible person looked for perfection in a high-mettled youngster. He, himself, had made the most of the casual amusements which keep a soldier from going crazy, but he had never even contemplated an intimate attachment with border wenches. . . .

This retort on his tongue, he caught Thorvald’s cynical eye, and checked himself. The Franklin would quickly dispose of any such comparison, doubtless pointing out that even the worst foreign service offered eventual escape. True. That hope did not apply here. Sigurd must have foreseen how this business would end even before Knutson took to his bed; he must have renounced all hope of return last winter. . . . And now Thorvald had the impertinence to suggest that in some way Sigurd’s defection might save the expedition from complete failure. That was a bone he refused to swallow!

At last he said: “You have a cunning tongue, Franklin. I take it you would have me infer that Sigurd’s shameless desertion is a blessing in disguise—an act of mysterious providence. Then tell me, am I right in suspecting that Lavrans has had news of him, assurance of this mating of the Cross and the Sword?”

Thorvald glanced at the priest, who quietly said: “Tell him, my son. Our good intentions have gone awry.”

“Lavrans has not seen your son, Count Jacob, but he had news of him from Mahigan’s people. There is a legend in the making: a legend of a Golden God who came out of the North to save a small tribe from extinction. They call themselves Mandans.”

The Count turned his face aside for an instant. “Thank you, Thorvald,” he said tonelessly. Then, swinging about, he stared at Gisli intently for a moment: “Well, Master Porse, have you anything to add to your arctic epic? I have the impression you were cut off midway by this curious gilding of Sigurd.”

Gisli laughed. “No gilding. I just wanted to explain Sigurd’s horror of the hot iron. It seems he saw a wretched creature branded for theft and never got over it. I learned that and much more from his delirious mumbling. You see, I often sat with him through those fevered nights. If you had taken thought for him then, things might have been different . . . but that is incidental. What I really wanted to give you was Sigurd’s message. It was this: ‘If the Count, my father, should ever ask about me tell him I am sorry for everything. Tell him also that I have always known that my brother Guttorm is a better Darre than I, for he loves the land as I love the sword.’ Then he was gone; his coming so silent, his leaving so swift, I sometimes thought, with Thorvald, it had all been a sick illusion. Later . . .” Gisli broke off with a shrug.

The implication of that gesture was clear to them all. Later, in that dreadful time of pestilence and semi-starvation, no one dared mention, much less plead, for the deserters. They had understood and sympathized with Jacob’s cold fury. His attitude was that of a man firmly rooted in a tradition of fraternal brotherhood. It was a code as old as man’s first faith and to break it was to weaken the slowly forged bonds of human loyalty. Oh yes, they had understood his reaction then, as instinctively as they now understood his need to be done with bitterness. That was why they had devised and encouraged these tales.

Norse reticence, no less than military training, did not permit a direct expression of affection. They had to rely upon Jacob’s perception to glean from these unaccustomed confidences their whole-hearted regard. For what they wanted above all else was to restore his self-confidence, and by inference make him see that they had followed him to this blind end out of regard for himself rather than from duty to any nebulous cause.

There was nothing in Jacob’s face to indicate any such awareness. If anything, his demeanour was a shade colder. But then, swiftly rising, he stood for a moment, as if assessing anew the men before him; the tiny remnant of a loyal Company. Finally: “I thank you, lads,” he said almost curtly; and turning to Father Benedict queried: “Will you come with me, Father? It is time we changed the watch at the barricade.”

When they had gone Thorvald said: “There is a man’s man. May the breed endure.”

Gisli smiled at him. “So it will. Our harsh Old Country will see to that.”

The glittering sun, intent upon its journey, began its sure descent of the pale blue dome of the sky; a calm featureless blue, yet with here and there along the paler washes of the horizon little fleecy clouds that drifted through immensity like straying lambs nibbling the scant forage of a mountain flank. There was stillness everywhere; not a sound from the hostile mainland; not a ripple on the face of the dreaming waters; no unusual activity in the small beleaguered camp of the Northmen. The Count of Darre, back from his inspection of the island, had quickly, in customary gruff fashion, briefed his men on the final details of their defences. That done he ordered rest. It was now past None (three o’clock) and with nothing to be seen of the Sioux—nothing to be learned of the invisible menace in the gentle grove beyond the lake—the practical thing was to take full advantage of a most welcome respite before the coming storm. “Except for the watch, you are to stretch your bones and sleep until Midur Aften (five o’clock)” he told them firmly; and after a slight hesitation added: “We must have patience with Hake. God knows he has had but slight reward for long service. So if he insists upon some kind of Wake for Torkel we must put up with it, delusions and all. . . . Oh well, my lady used to say that every soul is a haunted house, not all its ghosts in good repute.” He dropped his eyes, lest they betray how mention of Margit affected him, then in strangely gentle tone added: “All that aside, my friends, it will do us good to get loose of ourselves and turn our thoughts home.”

No one troubled to reply, for no reply was expected. As old campaigners they had long since learned the art and the wisdom of imposed rest. They did not need to be told to take advantage of a lull between hostilities. They understood perfectly that Jacob took this way of reminding them that as individuals it behooved them to be grateful for an interval of peace in which to centre their own memories and find the meaning of their lives. In any event it was pleasant to lie in the sun, free of harness and the irritant of useless arguments; to stretch at ease on the brown breast of the earth, comforted by her permanence, which in some peculiar way was their permanence also. That was a reassuring conviction inherent in the race. And yet, as the moments sped, a feeling of apprehension seized them. There was something out of joint in the perfect moment; something in the character of the silence as depressing as the atmosphere which precedes a thunderstorm. It had the ominous quality of the stillness which falls upon the earth while the thundercloud stands overhead, holding back the winds, as it sights the golden field it means to destroy.

They had not long to wait the first thunderclap. It came in a furious roar from the waterfront where the Count was standing watch. Snatching up arms and shields the startled men heard, as they raced to the lake, an unfamiliar sound, as of a concerted guttural humming which increased in volume and ferocity with each flying instant. “Damn hornets!” Karl Jaeger shouted, hefting Gerta, his double-bladed ax in a characteristic gesture of satisfaction. “Do they mean to sting us in broad daylight?”

“Who can say—” Grettir flung at him. “Takes little daring to bag a dozen men. . . .”

“Ha, they make a show of it!” Old Magnus grunted. “Honours before slaughter. . . .”

Honours or not, what they saw as they assembled at the barricade was certainly a spectacle of savage splendour. Graceful as the long ships of the ancient Norsemen, a dozen war canoes had swept out from the mainland, from the fir-screened inlet, whither the hostile craft had sped that morning, and where, as Thorvald suspected, the enemy had secreted their war canoes. For there was no mistaking the nature of these great canoes with their cargo of shouting braves fiercely impressive in the magnificent Sioux regalia. The cold white sunlight took fire from the painted host, blending vermilion, ochre, of the hawk faces, the silver and copper of breast ornaments, into a living rainbow whose vivid promise was death, not deliverance.

The Count glared at his men. “String the bows,” he growled, “but no shooting. Something crooked here—wait and see.”

Karl Jaeger chuckled mirthlessly, and struck the barricade with the flat of his famous blade. “Crooked? Meseems their intent is plain enough. The scarlet fiends think to befright us! Ah, Gerta, my beauty, I pledge you a tasty bite ere long.” He kissed the grey blade, then shook it on high.

“Knowing devils,” Grettir observed. “Keep out of bow-shot . . . hell, what are they up to?”

The guttural chant had changed to a jeering canto of fluent insults. Obscene merriment timed to a show of feathered lances which the leering savages shook aloft in a kind of airy riotous abandon. Queer, Jacob mused in frowning perplexity; it was one thing to taunt a handful of trapped men, quite another to publish their presence in this fashion to the enraged Ojibways who, according to Lavran’s report, were gathering forces on the plains, and who had their spies everywhere. These warlike Sioux, despite their childish exhibition, had the unmistakable aspect of cunning and clever warriors. They must know what was brewing beyond the pines; they could not be fools enough to have put implicit trust in the magic of yellow scalps alone. Or could they? Uneasily he bethought him of the many talismen and sanctified relics which more enlightened men hid in their breasts, confident of protection.

“Well, what do you think?” he snapped impatiently. “Is it a trick to draw us to the back ridge?”

“Who knows?” Grettir frowned. “Yet I think not. There is no place back there to beach a fleet of boats; no possibility of a successful attack in that quarter. They know that, but if they should try some fancy stunt Hake will sound the alarm. We left him to watch the ridge.”

The Count grunted. “Not good enough. Hake is too obsessed with ghosts and Lapland magic just now. Skule, you take over. The ridge is safe but I feel less certain about the cave where our boats are hidden . . . we may not need them—even so . . .” he shrugged and left the sentence dangling.

“You flatter the red devils,” Grettir said. “If they nose out the boats they be hounds of quality. Baardeson screened them so thoroughly it almost takes a second sight to find them. Which gives me to think, Jacob; why, there is the perfect hide-out for our kettle king.”

“So you, too, put faith in Lavran’s pretty tale? No, Grettir, the little man is better dead than left to lose his wits after the slaughter. I shall see to it myself.”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” Father Benedict said, “I forbid it, Count Jacob. You have not the right to dispose of human life in arbitrary fashion; not to question that help may come. If too late for us, that is as God wills, but of this I am certain: however desperate the attempt your son will make it. Grettir’s suggestion is a good one.”

“Nay, now good sirs,” Gisli said amiably, “why fret yourselves? Our little Lap is quite capable of making a decision. He has the right, surely, to choose his own bane.”

“That may be,” Jacob began, and stopped. The savage cat-calls which had died away in the distance now rang out more fiercely than before, a frightful clamour of gutturals swooping in from both sides of the island; but again the great canoes swept along out of range save for the long-bow. “We could take a few howlers,” Ivar Baardeson said, stringing his bow with a single motion of knee and arm. The Count shook his head. They could not afford the waste, and he believed with Grettir this was no more than a parade of strength on the part of the hostiles. Let them yell and shake their feather-sticks; the long-bow should speak in due course.

Then Thorvald said: “Queer. There was an even number of canoes. I counted them. It is not so now.”

Jacob frowned. It was true; only five of the fleet were speeding away from the right of them. Now what? he wondered; but having learned much of native trickery in the Algonquin country, decided to ignore his curiosity. He could not afford a surprise landing with his men scattered and out of armour. It might be nothing; the wily creatures may have bethought them to make a final essay of the banks, for they were far from fools these redmen. But the tense attitude of his small band told him they, like himself, were thinking what would happen if the savages managed a landing. A fine mess! For while they dispatched two score screaming fiends the whole war party might easily swarm up the sandy bar, over the barricade, and take them from the rear. Damned unpleasant prospect . . .

Then they saw her. A swift beautiful craft shooting out of the long reeds now a bow-shot from the sand bar, her crew bent low as willows in the wind, the glinting paddles soundless in the water. “God’s death!” the Count exploded, astonished and relieved. “If their fighting matches their skill on the water we die at decent odds. . . . Hold it, Baardeson! let them go. Whatever they were up to it has done us no harm . . .”

A shout from Karl startled everyone. “Look there! A fine token of expert skill . . .” and he leaped over the barricade and plunged into the shallows almost before his companions had grasped his meaning, or seen the monstrous thing bound to poles and now rocking gently in the reed-blown water. Grimly they watched him drag the thing up onto the bar; and to their revolted senses Karl’s hearty curses had a righteous sound. They followed him in silence and stood in frosty disdain staring down at the hideous remains of what had been a man. The legs were charred, the hands mutilated; the eyeless face was a travesty of human features, the young chest cleft open. “Look well upon me,” the morning sacrifice seemed to say, and was meant to say: “This is what awaits you at the hands of the Sioux.”

“Cut him loose,” the Count ordered curtly. “He has earned a meed of respect, poor creature. Karl, fetch a shield—wait! Make it Erlind’s shield. It seems befitting. . . . Be quick about it—this rede is a sorry thing to contemplate.”

The command startled the little group. Erlind had held his shield in peculiar regard. No one else was ever allowed to touch it; a strange foible in a man otherwise so free with his possessions. Once Haakon had twitted him about it: “You make a fetish of that black and silver thing,” he had said. “The giver must have been exceeding fair, or as jealous as Brunhild.”

“The giver was my mother,” Erlind had replied quietly. “A hard gift for a woman who hated war.” There he had left it; as disinclined to explain the paradox as to disclose the speech which had made the shield a symbol. For she had bound him to a concept barely risen above the horizon of human brutality when she implored: “Dear Erlind, remember this: courage without honour, strength without mercy, these are evil things.”

To the last he had acted upon that simple, supremely difficult command. Neither the king, nor any other liege had swerved him a hairbreadth from it. He had refused any part in punitive expeditions, any share in the spoils of war. These peculiar notions irritated the nobility, which saw no reason for fighting unless it paid off here, now, and hereafter. And it annoyed the king that the foremost Champion of his own native Gothland, should have the taint of a tolerance which embraced outcast, enemy, even the heathen, in its unprecedented generosity.

All this they knew; and perhaps this gesture, which at first affected them adversely, was a fitting tribute to Erlind’s humane spirit. At least this charitable use of the shield was a more suitable end than letting it fall into the sportive hands of the Sioux. Whether or not this perception was unanimous, the general tension eased, and none demurred when the dead man, now decently wrapped in the long, blue cloak of the martyred Haakon, was firmly bound to the great shield.

This completed, Jacob stepped forward, his sombre gaze resting upon the strange bier. “Men, it was said of Erlind that he fought in the line of duty, but spent his heart and his goods on the vanquished. It therefore seems right and befitting that his shield should go to earth in the same spirit.” He paused, glancing at the priest in odd anxiety. “What do you say?” he asked gruffly. “Will you pray for this ill-used creature?”

Coming from Jacob this request might have been startling if the priest had not understood its secret implication. In the Count’s mind the martyrdom of Erlind in some way embraced this broken creature whose unpitied suffering shamed the human heart. Father Benedict looked hard at his old friend, then his tired face lighted. “Our Lord Jesus Christ set no limit on His love for mankind, no bounds upon His mercy,” he said, and made the sign of the Cross above the great black shield. He prayed as he had never prayed before, all his militant soul surrendered to the Divine Pity. He prayed for the slain man, and for his brutal slayers; for the victim and the victors in the grim pursuit of hatred. This prayer, uttered in the simple language of his early youth, plain as the salt of the earth and as abiding as the grass of the field, had the impact of a perfect faith, the moving beauty of absolute sincerity. It released his little company from the ugly spell evoked by the hideous sacrifice. For now they saw him as a fellow being; knew his pain and agony to be their own—as theirs to come was his . . .

The long day was closing, one by one the ragged clouds banked above the western horizon were taking jewelled fire from the glittering mane of the descending sun. Indistinguishable from the gilded horizon the brown savannas of the endless plain, a sea of grass beyond the tangled woods and twisting coulees, assumed for a little time the melancholy beauty of an enchanted country; eternal home of the lonely human heart.

Long ages ago a sun-loving people had followed Odin and his twelve paladins up from the Black Sea into the white wilderness of Scania, bringing with them their own peculiar covenant of promise. The shadow of this ancient covenant was the lodestar of Norse adventure. The Pagan Vikings looked upon the sky as the celestial clock of a nameless deity. Wherever they chanced to rove they had only to scan its familiar face to feel at home. The sun was their constant god; the moon and the stars made safe their desperate voyaging. At journey’s end the glory of the sunset illumined the narrow way to Valhalla. To these sturdy wayfarers life was a swift passage from light to Light. Death did not concern them.

Their Christian descendants had long forsworn these unfettered concepts for the complex mysteries of a noble faith; but the lovely pageantry of the sunset still exerted the same irresistible spell; evoked the same fugitive sadness, the same loneliness and regret, and the same triumphant aspiration. Now, as of old, the enchantment persisted. One by one the little group of men in the clearing heard the call and wandered up the banks to watch the matchless prairie sunset. No one had spoken; no one ventured to speak—time enough for that in the dark night ahead. For this was the last summons to the supreme beauty of the world.

Thorvald, standing apart from the others, was lifted up into another sunset, shared hand in hand with a smiling Jensine, and the hard bitterness melted from his heart. Jacob, savouring the loyal devotion of Margit, her courage and strength, knew that the house of Darre was safe in her keeping. Father Benedict replaced the dark pines and brown coulees of the prairie with landmarks of childhood, and heard again the cradle songs of his young mother. The grey cynics, Magnus and Karl, brought to mind the golden day when first they followed the Emperor into battle to set the world to rights. The right was still unsettled, but they remembered the Cathedrals of the Eternal City confidently soaring into the blue sky, and heard again the chiming bells, which then, and now, brought healing to the mind.

For Gisli Porse, the Comforter was a misty Being with a book of luminous names in her hands. “These are the true song-makers,” she seemed to say, “the listeners who heard amid the bustle of life the far faint sound of music; the lonely hunters of bright illusions. Saturday’s children, they sang in the dusty wasteland, and the winds of Eternity caught up the song. . . .” Gisli smiled to himself and thought of his mother, singing at her loom; still singing in his heart. One thing was true; the songs of a people were living bridges between the generations. They were not the simple harvest of a poet’s brain. They sprang from the deep wells of loneliness—from the hearts of the living and the dead.

The inseparable friends, Ivar and Skule, standing quietly side by side, each had his secret wound and sore regret, now stripped of pain. Ivar’s family had perished in the plague, untended and desolate, while he, unaware of the pestilence, was on the high seas about the king’s business.

Skule lost the woman he loved to a less venturesome brother; a methodical thrifty man who preferred a ripe harvest of corn and the normal increase of sheep and cattle to the indifferent rewards of battle, for which he had no taste, and less still for holy crusades. Now the shock of Anna’s choice no longer pricked him. He wished her well in her joy of sheep, fatted cattle, and bulging granaries.

Grettir Asmundson, realist as always, rejected the temptation of whispering memory. He had been a long-time guest at the banquet of Life, he told himself firmly; he had received his full measure of sweet and bitter fare. Now the feast was over, the unseen host risen to welcome other wayfarers. Yes, he had drunk deep and dined well; now it behooved him to depart in good grace.

So now, the sunset glory done, he said, in oddly gentle voice: “It was a fine sight, my friends . . .” and his brown leathered face had an inward glow, more eloquent than speech.

Then they heard the weird keening, or was it a prayer?—And saw, some distance from them, the kneeling figure of Hake swaying to and fro to the rhythm of his heathen chant. No one said anything, but when they would have passed him unnoticed out of deference to his feelings, he sprang up in heightened agitation. “I have heard a thing,” he said, “in here where the truth speaks.” He struck his breast, and turned to Jacob. “Do not laugh, great lord. What I heard is not my making. No! The people of the snows have keen senses, like the deer, their brothers. They have sharp inward ears. . . . I heard the din of battle terrible as thunder. Terrible as the sea in a rage. Ay! for my Master will be there shouting down the wind; and Erlind’s sword I saw uplifted, and Haakon’s blue cloak flying . . .” he stopped and wrung his hands, his little ugly face screwed up in sudden pain. “There was more—much more. Sounds from afar—from the South. . . . There will be some who will hear it. Others, tired of earth voices, will not . . .” his voice fell to a whisper, his sad eyes fixed on Jacob’s face: “That is as the good God decides. Yet this you should know, my lord: the Outcast marches fast to our relief, but the miles are long and hard . . .”

Before anyone could say a word Hake had rushed away, calling back as he vanished into the willows: “The birds are nearly done . . .”

“He means well,” Jacob said stiffly. “Let us give him time to set the feast.”

Some while later they had cause to marvel at the Laplander’s ingenuity. The circle of the campfire had been transformed into a banquet place. Hake had spread cloaks on the ground, and by removing the leather facings of three shields, now polished brightly, had proper trenchers for the golden birds. He had gathered evergreens which he proudly fed the fire. “My dear master, the great Earl, liked a breath of green in his fire,” he said, and bobbed his head to the priest.

Father Benedict understood what the little nod implored. He gave the blessing from a full heart, his warm voice infusing the familiar words with special significance. A significance the silent group fully apprehended, yet no sooner were they seated than merriment took over. They praised the tasty birds, the perfumed fire. No king had ever commanded a more fragrant flame; but then no king to their knowledge had a cook half poet, half pixy.

Hake was pleased. He understood them better than they knew. If their praise took the form of jest it was no less sincere. Of course they were all slightly mad (their queer crusades and endless battles testified to that); it was an ailment peculiar to the white race. There was no contentment in their strong bones; no end to their curiosity and conquest. A queer people, but he had got used to them.

Hake blinked his bright little eyes, picked up the water skin, and forcing a smile began to fill the drinking horns. This done he went back to the fire and stood there feeding the flames little wings of evergreens saying to each: “Now fly you home, small spirits, and sing above the smoke vent of the gammer (mud hut) and my old woman will hear and understand. Aye, she will listen, the good soul, for what else is there to do in the grey dusk of Finmark when the icy mist of the sea drives you to the fire?”

He made a sign above the fire: a short cross, encircled, the ancient solar symbol; then he sighed, wiped the sticky sap from his hands on his ragged breeches, and turning round said importunately: “Masters, I have kept the red juice for remembrance. It will not shame the dead for the little berries fed from the veins of the earth. Honoured Captain, speak the word and let us begin.”

Jacob glanced at the priest and to the latter’s surprise said: “Well, Father, do you object? Our Hake fancies the heathen practice of eulogizing the dead.”

“Why should I object?” Father Benedict said quietly. “I should not call it heathen but human . . . why else has our wise church made provision to elevate all worthy ancient customs? You know better, my friend—Masses for the Dead would not benefit the living without an act of true remembrance.” He drew up the cloak he was sitting on and wrapped it round his shoulders, for the air had sharpened, and his old bones were grumbling for rest; then he said with a dry chuckle: “My Count of Darre, have you forgotten I come from the Uplands, where grace before meat is a hurried thing, and the night scarcely long enough for the tales of Champions?”

“Well and good,” the Count said, glancing up at the sky, now drained of colour, lustreless as a faded grey shawl with ragged sooty fringes trailing earthward, “you have the word, Hake. We wait upon your pleasure. Now proceed.”

Hake stared at the firelit faces, blank and impersonal as painted figureheads, and was filled with despair. Were they laughing behind those masks? Dared they laugh because his plea was simple and he had no other gifts save faith and affection for his Wake of fellowship? Then he caught Thorvald’s searching glance and felt better. So he spoke to the kindness he sensed in that dark calm face: “Franklin, you know how it should be done,” he said, wringing his hands. “Master Porse has the gift of tongues. He will speak for my dear Earl. That is fine; that is as it should be. But the pouring . . . would you have a scullion draw the king’s toast?”

“Now, now . . .” the Count began and stopped. Thorvald had risen and was saying: “No, that would never do. Give me the wineskin, Hake . . . I have had practice pouring strange brews.” He took the skin and quickly, with the easy grace peculiarly his own, he filled the horns held out to him by a company now alert and serious, for there was something in his face that stilled the jesting tongue. Then, his own horn filled, the skin returned to the grateful servant, he took his stand midway of the circle. He said: “Friends, I give you the king—his justice, and his prosperity . . . I give you the men who died for a king’s dream.”

“The king! The king’s men!” rough voices echoed him.

When the chorus died Thorvald stood silent a moment, a tall, graceful figure against the background of leaping flames, his dark head slightly inclined, his eyes upon the silver horn in his hand. Then, in quiet voice imbued with deep emotion, he said: “In this strange place it is good to know that even misadventures find their place in legend—the men we now pledge are safe with the ages. . . . Friends, I give you the Champions: Earl Bruse, the gallant; chivalrous Erlind; Haakon of the merry heart . . . I give you all the honoured and beloved dead who lie in God’s peace.”

When he resumed his seat in the circle there was an interval of silence; a moment dedicated to the riches of the heart. Then Hake, sloe eyes shining, plucked from his bosom the dead Earl’s belt. “Reverend Father, Scourge of all Devils,” cried he, neatly disposing the questionable object in Father Benedict’s lap, “hold fast this thing while Master Porse makes his tale. I will not have him struck dumb! You have seen for yourself that even a bloodthirsty savage was no match for it . . .”

“Hake—what am I to do with you?” the priest sighed, “My son, your demon is a wild imagination . . .”

“Jumala give me patience!” Cunning leapt in Hake’s small eyes. “Where else do devils breed? Ha! bethink yourself, Honoured Reverence. My poor Master had no swine to house his demons. They rode him to death—now he shall have peace.” Muttering to himself he scuttled over to Gisli Porse and squatted down before him. “Master Porse, bestir yourself. You were at the tourney. Very fine to see, bright as a jay amid the queen’s ladies. There was no fat on you then, master poet. Oh, I made note of it from my humble place where I stood with my master’s squire. You were the king’s jongleur the squire told me. Spare us the singing but tell the truth. Now I hold my tongue.”

This gusty mixture raised a hearty laugh. “You unflattering rogue!” Gisli took a friendly swipe at the little cook. “So I am fat now and no singer? I wonder what else you saw on that day of days? Nothing to knightly credit, I venture . . .” he looked away, the smile faded. “Yes, I was there, and as you say to write a song. But, mark you, the king was no realist. What he wanted was a pretty chanson; a verbal wreath to toss at the queen’s feet. Poor woman, she doubtless found our Northern ways unromantic and inelegant. At any rate nothing was spared to make the tourney a seven-years’ wonder. Not since the days of the Royal foragers had such a display shocked and thrilled the gaping crowds. But, truth to tell, until I quit that excellent company I was bored. The novelty wore thin; there was something alien, artificial, in the fanfare of trumpets announcing this and that emasculated exercise. . . . What was there to see? By what magic of words was I to shape this vain show into telling verse? Ordinary people demand more than expert tilting in their chansons.” Gisli ran a nervous hand through his hair and a frown wrinkled his high forehead. “You ask too much, Hake. It was all so long ago . . . besides, the king had the good sense to cancel the commission. In fact he paid me well to shut my mouth!”

“There is no king here!” Hake hissed at him. “Oh, quibbler, what of your promise? Have I not filled your belly, shined your shield, polished the thousand links of your mail? Is it too much to ask a few words in payment? What are you afraid of? Why do you lie, Master Porse—do you remember . . . ?”

“Oh, hold your tongue!” Gisli snapped, grinning wryly. “I do remember the accursed belt! If that is what you mean. Heaven knows the presentation was no secret. Not the mystery you make it. King Magnus was far too good a showman. He liked his audience; had a turn of speech to sway the public when he chose, when the occasion fitted the leaning of his faith and heart. He spoke well that day, our Gothland king.”

He paid a fine tribute to the garrisons of his northern outposts; to the men, who, at the cost of loneliness and hardships, held the Christian Kingdom against the constant inroads of the Barbarians. He described the plight of Vargoy, buffeted by storms, besieged for endless weeks: the garrison dying of slow starvation, of the wounds they were too weak to tend, of fevers and the skin-plague. He made the stilled listeners see with his eyes the appalling isolation of the tiny fortress a-crouch before the howling winds, clinging with desperate tenacity to the frozen earth, its blind eyes fixed upon a frozen sea. He made them hear the sick and the dying mumbling encouragements to one another: “A white death is as good as any . . . let them take the walls from the dead if they can!”

God willed otherwise. For it was then, in the hour of their extremity, that the Earl, outriding the winds and the treacherous icefloes, drew his rimed and battered ships into the harbour. Desperate courage was nothing new in Gothland history, but in all the annals of the North this rescue was a thing apart. It was a feat of divine madness. In a word, the hero of Vargoy had accomplished the impossible! This was the verdict of chivalry. There was another, the more enduring verdict of the Church: “the relief of Vargoy was a testament unto the heathen that the Cross-bearers are an Invincible Company.”

What else the king said as he presented the belt was drowned in the shouting and the female chatter round me. If the Earl made the reply it must have come by grace—our Torkel was not a man of easy speech.

Gisli made a pause, a troubled expression overspreading his amiable face; then: “Hake has accused me of wilful evasion. Rightly so. I mislike a recital of events without a proper knowledge of their inception.” His unhappy eyes fastened upon the stern features of the Count, whose grimness, he knew, masked a bitter hurt and a vast impatience. Well what did the old man expect? Revelations in letters of fire? Then he continued:

The highlight of the Grand Tourney was to have been the much publicized contest between the Hero of Vargoy and the German champion, Prince August, heir presumptive of some kerchief kingdom in Saxony. The prince was a handsome, extremely affable young man, justly famous at arms, and very well liked wherever he went. A pleasant change from the arrogant Hansa lordlings! It is true his gallantries were common gossip, but when was that considered a great defect in princes? Even in my island home, where the old ways were so cherished, Prince August was a welcome guest, his summer visits anticipated with genuine pleasure. . . . Have patience, friends! This is no pointless eulogy. I would have you see the prince as I saw him that gala day: a resplendent figure in glittering sea-grey armour, his helmet brightly plumed, a pale green scarf knotted at his elbow; I want you to feel with me his unsuspecting ease, his lively grace.

So little was he the grim knight of fancy that I found myself thinking, not of the ordeal to come, but of the favour he carried. Who was the lucky lady this time, I wondered, and for once bent a willing ear to the feminine chatter round me. A chanson, you see, is enhanced by a touch of hearts-ease. And I bethought me with amusement that if Mistress Gyda were present it served her right to see how quickly men recover of vixen-bites. It must sting her monstrous vanity that on this grand occasion her colours were absent from the lists; the evil impress of her charm nowhere in evidence. So I thought. I had no reason to suspect, no inspired warning that the sombre man at that moment advancing down the field, bore in his simple, turbulent heart the ghostly colours of the fateful lady.

There was nothing spectacular about Earl Bruse. His heavy unburnished armour was strictly functional. Despite the momentary glory which the king’s favour cast upon him he might have been any ordinary fighting man: strong, resolute—no nonsense about him. And yet there was a difference; though this was a thing the cheering crowd would not have perceived. No one perhaps save the few of us who knew his easy seat, his last moment, almost reckless, yet brilliant deployment of arms. How can one explain these dubious impressions? It was something felt rather than a thing discerned. There was not time for that. But as he came down the field, grim, graceless, his lance fixed at an unusual elevation, a shock went through me. The kind of shock we have all known when unexpected danger springs from ambush.

Gisli flung out his hands in a gesture of negation. “Oh, think what you will! That is the best I can do. The whole thing was crazy. A kind of nightmare of conglomerate sounds, stirring colours and eruptive action. One moment there was the jubilant expectancy of a holiday crowd primed for the final thrill; and in the next instant the gallant spectacle exploded in their faces. There was an ear-splitting crash, intensified by the high unearthly scream of maddened horses; a wild boiling up of swirling dust through which the bright figure of the prince seemed to vibrate like an image espied under moving waters. . . It was as swift as that—a single paralyzing assault upon the senses, then it was over. When the dust cleared away Prince August lay dead in the field . . . Well, there you have the slaying—the crime, if you must so call it. Myself, I side with the king. If Magnus, who had expressly forbidden violence, saw fit to exercise clemency, he must have had good reason for it. In any case it seems to me his friends should not be less generous.”

All this while Count Jacob, listening with growing apprehension and distress, held fast to his temper, restrained from lashing out at Gisli by the memory of the morning’s uneasy feeling when he had felt that his recollection of the tourney was incomplete. Nevertheless, he was not prepared to sanction a revelation which stripped a dead man of decency and honour. Furthermore, according to his stern concepts, it was equally reprehensible to establish a crime and then dismiss it as of no consequence. Such an attitude was inadmissible. It reflected one of two suppositions: contempt for the truths they lived by, or a most singular malice towards Earl Bruse. . . .

Fortunately for all concerned these sentiments were never expressed. Hake created a startling diversion. Going down on his knees he tugged at Father Benedict’s robe in frantic appeal. “There was no clemency! That untruth was part of the curse my dear master had to bear in silence. Maybe it was generous to spare his life, but then the king had to save his own face. Somehow. Oh, yes. He had to find a way; and the way he found was hard and cruel. He took the Earl’s sea command away and sent him to farm taxes on the outer islands. What an indignity! Yet that was not the worst, nor the end of his justice. No, no. Much later, when the Earl, trying to make some sort of life for himself, wrote to the king asking permission to marry an island woman he got a sharp refusal. It was then in a fit of anger that my master let the truth fly: ‘The king is of opinion that the way of the transgressor should not be made easy,’ he said. ‘He would have me remember my debts and not stretch the credit too far.’ Then, more to himself than to me, he repeated the hard sentence passed on him in secret. ‘Cousin, I can neither condone, nor convict you according to the letter of the law, for the slaying of Prince August. We owe you too much, my people and I. But now heed me, Torkel Bruse. The belt designed as a mark of honour, you shall henceforth wear as a badge of shame. For the good of your soul let it be a perpetual penance for the great wrong you committed—a wrong neither you nor I can mend in this world. . . .’ ” Hake sat back on his heels, and pointing to the belt coiled in Father Benedict’s lap, hissed angrily: “Look at it! Look hard! Look behind the glitter to the deceitful creature who ruined his place in the world. Aye, and in your remembrance too! Oh, you all remember his valour—as the king remembered his skill at sea when he needed a navigator for his mission. You like to pay tribute to your champion, the great soldier, whose cheerful courage was as constant as the sun. Yes, yes! You remember the brave deeds for they make good telling—then you think: poor Torkel! Poor fool to be taken in by a woman!” At this point grief overwhelmed him. He covered his face, rocking from side to side to the rhythm of his misery.

Karl saved the situation in his crusty fashion. “He has something there, our kettle king,” he said. “We like to boast of brave deeds; and we must have spotless heroes. Slimy rubbish!” He turned to the Count with a sly chuckle: “Relax my friend. Every honest blade bears a few battle scars; and from all I ever heard in holy quarters the same is true of men. It is for sinners, not saints, that heaven opens the butter tubs. As for the charming prince, I must confess I shed no tears over his untimely death. There are princes in plenty to keep the hounds of war howling to the end of time. . . But the wench! Ah, Jacob, there was a black pearl of most peculiar lustre. If you had seen her yourself you would understand Gisli’s sympathy for Torkel. Our poet had a taste of her magic, and the bite of her claws.”

Old Magnus cocked his head, grinning at Gisli. “I never heard Gyda’s lament, or how she managed to have you fined for assault against her innocent person. The only thing heard in every Visby alehouse at the time was your infamous lampoon. Let me see, how does it go:

This scandalous nonsense, sung in a high unmusical voice and tragic tempo, threw everyone into fits of laughter which cleared the air momentarily. Father Benedict, anxious to maintain the genial mood, began to talk of lampoons in general. “It was queer,” he said, “that the two peoples most skilled in this sadistic art were, so to speak, at the opposite ends of the earth. Northmen and Arabs. It would be interesting to know why men so dissimilar in thought and habit had this one thing in common.”

“One thing did you say?” Magnus scoffed, hoping to incite the diverting argument the priest wanted. “What about guile, and slave running, not to mention a thing called cruelty?”

“Oh well, they were heathen, one must remember.”

“Speaking of heathens,” said Skule, “if the creatures who sent us that prize this afternoon ate their captives in decent animal hunger I could understand it, but not this slavering around a dying victim to raise their appetite for dog stew. Nor could I ever appreciate the intricate tortures more civilized men devise as spiritual aphrodisiacs.”

“We were nurtured too gently,” Ivar thrust in. “How should we apprehend such lusty vices having known the delicate air of court hypocrisy, where treachery and murder are softly wedded to gentility and virtue.”

“Well, then, you will understand my gentle infamy,” Gisli caught up the theme, glancing sideways at Jacob whose face had sobered and now showed signs of growing irritation. “You will remember it was in many towered Visby, incomparable city of rascals and roses, that one really caught the scent of Gomora, and the dazzle of Babylon. To the merchant princes who raised our churches to the glory of God and the profit of their own souls, a lovely woman without a decent dowry was nothing but a snare to the senses. To make anything of her attractions such a woman had to be as cunning and hardheaded as the profiteers who ruled the city. . . I think that explains the bewitchments and deceits of Mistress Gyda. I also think we might humour Hake and let him dispose of the belt. It may not be accursed but it carries uneasy memories.”

“Yes—” Father Benedict picked up the belt, letting the bright links play through his fingers like the beads of a rosary. And such it was, to his thinking—a rosary of shame and regret and mortification. “Yes, I agree with you. It has served its purpose—to what essential designation it is not for us to say—” he paused, his eyes searching Hake’s anxious, half mistrustful face. “My son, if I tell you that your love for Earl Bruse is an effective portion of the most powerful exorcism against evil to be found in the world, will you accept that as the truth? It is the truth, Hake. Hatred had its evil day, but Love has eternity. . . Take the belt; and when you dispose of it do it with the grateful understanding that your master’s debts are paid—the heavy burden washed away forever.”

Hake had listened intently, eyes and ears seeking inward assurance of sincerity. Satisfied, he held out his hand for the belt. “Thank you, Reverend Father. Your words confuse me, but I see good in them. Now I know my master can rest easy. Oh yes, certainly—and yet—something tells me he wants to be seen in better light. Not through this fog of foolishness!”

When Hake had vanished up the slope Jacob said abruptly: “Grettir, what do you know of this matter? You were on sick leave at Darre, so I just remembered, when Margit was making arrangements for Torkel’s marriage.”

Grettir gave a start, which he tried to cover with an exaggerated gesture. “Why should I know anything of Torkel in those days? I never saw him at Darre. As for Lady Margit, she kept her own counsel like the sensible woman she was.”

“Let us be done with cross-purposes, Grettir. It is no betrayal of Margit to tell us what happened. You see, in the midst of these depressing revelations, I suddenly remembered that Margit had written me about that time, telling me amongst other household news that you had come to Darre on sick leave and were slowly recovering from a bad wound. Almost in after-thought, so it seemed, she added that she was considering a possible match for Torkel. Now, news of that sort slips a man’s mind. I should have forgotten it altogether if the courier who brought the letter had not been such a colourful rascal.

“While he stoked his belly he regaled the garrison with the most outrageous scandal. The island was in a state of shock, so he informed us, because Lady Margit (herself ‘old family’) was said to be seeking a wife for her kinsman Torkel in the city, ignoring the better claims of the landed gentry. No one could understand her choice, he told us, for the girl, though attractive, was a perverse creature, as full of tricks as her unscrupulous father, whose gallantries were legion.

“To tell the truth, I could not understand it either. Margit is not a woman easily deceived, nor one given to impulsive action. Consequently, when I heard nothing more about it, either by letter or when I returned home, I took it for granted that Margit had discovered her mistake, and that was the end of it. Obviously I was mistaken—now what do you say, my friend?”

Grettir thrust out his bearded chin and stared at Jacob in vexation bordering on hostility. “Nobody ever got the better of Margit,” he snapped. “But I can see that I owe it to her to tell the story.”

The extent of her mistake lay in listening to the appeals of an old friend, Katrine Gille, the girl’s mother. Here she was with the most beautiful daughter in the world and not a penny towards a dowry, completely helpless to keep her innocent lamb from the wolves of Visby. Island born herself, Margit had no difficulty in reading between the lines. She made inquiries and soon learned that Gyda was indeed a beautiful girl, something of a rage and with an air of peculiar mystery about her. These reports made her uneasy, sorry for the girl, and sorrier for Katrine whose anxiety now seemed justified. I think it was at this juncture that Margit began to toy with the idea of smoothing the road for two unfortunate persons: Torkel Bruse was a rich young man with an honest title which Swedish law still recognized; in vulgar parlance, he was a good catch. But he was ugly and shy and sensitive, and had yet to gather the glow of fame and heroism. It must have seemed to Margit that these two were made for each other, that in coming together each would supply what the other lacked. At any rate Margit invited mother and daughter for a visit to Darre—and as you said a moment ago I was there on sick leave.

There was a pause while Grettir mopped his brow, cudgeling his brains for a reasonable method of dealing with an unreasonable situation.

One thing I can affirm, he began, Katrine had not exaggerated Gyda’s looks. She was a dainty dish—a nixy of a girl—one of those queer wenches whose every gesture, however modest, is lethal. God knows I was never a foe of pretty females, but I was thankful at the time for wounds that kept my blood from boiling, and my senses where they did some good. Even so I kept my distance—he grinned broadly—. Yes, Jacob, I went to the lengths of sitting with your baby daughter in my lap at meal time, and even then felt unsafe unless Margit sat beside me. But whether Gyda was really beautiful or not I cannot say—she had the witchery men die for, steal, lie, and kill their rivals to possess. . . I cannot say either how soon Margit recognized the kind of girl she had to deal with, for Gyda behaved with utmost courtesy and discretion. But I do remember quite clearly the day Margit first expressed her doubts about the betrothal.

The visitors had gone for a walk and we were sitting in the courtyard watching the children at play, when Margit said: “Grettir, you know the world, and women. Tell me what you think of this odd girl. Will she make a good wife and mother?”

I made light of it. “You ask too much, Margit. My experience is of no account. I like my wenches warm and simple; but then I am not a marrying man.”

“Ah, that is answer enough,” she said gravely. “But what am I to do? Mistrust of a chilly temperament is not sufficient cause to send them packing; to say nothing of wrecking poor Katrine’s high hopes.”

“Oh well,” said I, “the young folks will settle it for you. They may not take to each other. Torkel may not like her; and the girl—who knows what she really wants?”

“Nonsense!” Margit was short. “What she wants is self-evident. She wants wealth and position. Katrine has brought her up to expect it. As for Torkel, it seems he saw the girl at some festival in Visby and thought her an angel in human form.” Margit looked away in distress, her little hands tightening suggestively. Then, very softly, very firmly, she added: “He wrote to thank me for my good offices, Grettir. Yes, he wrote that not even in his wildest dreams had he ever aspired to such happiness! . . . Can you wonder that I am troubled? Torkel was always dear to me. He was such a shy, lonely little fellow when he came to us at Gelline Manor. It was not the loss of his parents that made him so. For they, worthy creatures, were too concerned with their own souls to take tender thought for a son begotten too late in life to be quite seemly. Oh no, what he felt so deeply was a sense of being different, somehow inferior to his happy cousins. You may not believe it, Grettir, but he was a delicate child, awkward and ugly, and given to hiding away for hours on end in the thick of the groves. He was as hard to win as any wild creature. That he took to me I have laid to the fact that both of us were unattractive, silent, and really strong-willed persons. His confidence won and his mind made up, nothing swerved him from it. By that will he made his sick, stunted body grow strong and powerful; mastered all the Edrottir of ancient days, and won his spurs with honour. At great cost, with endurance past belief, he made himself a man of great promise—and now. . . Oh, Grettir, how could I have been such a fool? I am not, as a rule, given to thoughtless, impulsive behaviour.”

“Except where friends are concerned,” I said. “Take me, for instance, living here, for no good reason, on the fat of the land. You have a soft heart, Margit.”

“Nonsense. What would Jacob say if I turned you loose, still limping, and thin as a reed? Besides, I have designs on you, my friend. I shall need your help. I have decided to lay the matter before Fredrick. You are familiar with the roads and more capable than I to get us decent sailing to the island.”

At this moment Hake scampered into sight, puffing and panting, a bundle of seething excitement. “The wolves are feasting,” he cried. “I saw the glint of fires. Little cooking fires. They are bold to be so near the shore. What a pity we are so few! A dozen more and we could sink them asleep. Pluck their eyes while they snore. What a calamity! For look you, good sirs, the sky is clearing. It will be black as pitch, aye, but with a thousand stars. . . Certainly. But who am I to grumble for the waste? My dear Master is happy. His shame is sunk, that is something . . . my lords, have you finished with the tale of the Devil’s daughter?”

“No, it is a slow birthing,” Skule laughed. “Fetch your brew, little man, that may help it along.”

“Certainly. A dry birth—”

“Hake!” Jacob’s voice rooted him. “You are sure of the fires? Cooking fires—not witch-flares in your own head?”

“Lord of a Hundred-Killings, I saw what I saw,” Hake replied firmly. “Have I not eyes? Senses the white man lost in his cradle? Ho, I said to myself, what is this? Are the redskins creeping to the cove? These little fires a trick? Will they brave the demons of the night to get their war craft and try to take us in starlight? Nay, nay! I sent my eyes to see. They are hungry and eat early. They need a little sleep. Certainly. They were busy last night. Very busy. Mark me right. They will sleep a little. Then the drums will sound. Not loud and near. Oh nay, muffled and teasing as from a distance. They are cunning, the red fiends . . . they will come when the stars dim—in the grey gloom before sunup . . . Now I fetch the brew.”

Karl had risen at a glance from Jacob, and now Magnus joined him. “We take the watch,” he said. “See for ourselves these happy fires. Anything else, Jacob?”

“Nothing. All dispositions are made. Make the rounds and return.”

When their steps died away the Count returned to his tangle: “Well, get on with it, Grettir. What are you waiting for?”

“Escape—” Grettir retorted. “Some miracle to melt your stubbornness. . . For look you, Jacob, there is no reasonable explanation of outraged feelings. None of us speaks the same tongue when it comes to such things. Indeed, we do not understand ourselves! That was Torkel’s misfortune. He suffered when he should have laughed. Assumed a tragic role in a comedy. . . He was too young to realize that Time is the enemy of moral indignation; that howsoever nobly we press the arrow to our hearts we wake one day to ask ourselves, was this my golden sorrow? This shabby incident? This ridiculous farce? This bawdy jest? And so we laugh at last. . . .” He shrugged, frowning into the grey distance. “The trouble is we came into the world wailing—and learn to laugh too late. . . Well, since you must have it, here is the tale . . .”

It was a rainy night, the household gathered in the hearthroom, when the Lady Margit announced her change of plans. With the Count away at the wars, and his Manor so isolated in the highlands, it seemed more feasible to celebrate the betrothal in her own ancestral home. It would please her kinsmen. To them no spot on earth was so beautiful as the historic Isle which the “Guter” had redeemed from the sea, and their descendants transformed into an earthly paradise. A land of pleasant villages and rich estates, crowned by that treasure-house of noble arts and teeming wealth, Visby, the Star of the Baltic.

There might be an element of selfishness in her choice, she admitted. Indeed, she had a longing to revisit scenes beloved in childhood. The holy wells of Gans and Bro churches; the ancient cairns; the grave of Anganty; the wide marshes with their ancient water courses; the green meadows and deep groves where the ground is a carpet of flowers in June. Most of all she wanted to visit the dim fir forest where the “ship-settings” of the ancient dead so touched the heart and quickened the imagination. There were pious folk who shunned these burial places of the heathen Vikings, but her father had liked taking her there; and through his eyes she had come to see the solemnity and beauty of the death-ships with their grey stone bulwarks and decks of green-sward, patiently waiting some future hour in the still, listening forest; a timeless fleet with prows turned to the sea. . .

The Lady Margit laughed and quickly changed the subject. I understood that all this talk was a kind of testing; that all the while she had been watching Gyda, secretly amused by the girl’s boredom. Amused, and convinced, that her suspicions were not unjustified. Mistress Gyda was not a sensitive creature—no true Gothlander.

“Ah, these are impractical sentiments,” Lady Margit attested. “Forgive me. We who have deep roots in the ancient Island are given to eulogize the past. We forget that to newcomers we are not an historic monument to human striving, but a fabulous Mart where the goods of the world flow in and out like the tides.”

Cheerfully she turned the talk to drapers and jewellers she esteemed in Visby; spoke of old shops and bazaars tucked away between greater buildings, or in some crooked street overshadowed by tall leafy trees and the frowning watchtowers of the city. “Unless Katrine objects,” she said lightly, “I should like to see to your wedding garments, my dear Gyda. We have had no important marriage in the family for a long time.”

Though this was spoken so agreeably I was hard pressed not to laugh. Lady Margit had assumed her sleepy mask; that innocuous expression of simplicity designed to stimulate over-confidence in persons she mistrusted. Gyda was no exception. I caught the flicker of triumph in the glance she flung at her poor stupid mother. Katrine saw nothing. Dabbing at her moist eyes, she sniffled: “That is too generous, dear Margit. Much too generous! I—meseems, Oh Margit, it is too much.”

“Nonsense! Old friends are not bound by polite fiction. I have made up my mind to it, Katrine. But that aside, I feel sure Gyda will be glad of a week or two at home before the ordeal of meeting a lot of inquisitive future kinsfolk. I well remember my own nervousness on first coming to Darre. In addition, on the practical side, we need the time to haggle with our canny merchants. We must have the best, and not be cheated. Is it not so, Gyda?”

Gyda dropped her sleek head modestly. What a saint she looked! And what a contrary quality flowed from her even in stillness. How gently she spoke: “You are very kind, Lady Margit,” she said, her mouth barely moving, then slowly curving in a smile to catch the heart. “So kind. But you must not spoil me. Mama says I have a greedy streak.”

“Why, Gyda,” Katrine whimpered, her sheep’s face flushing. “My dearest child. . .”

Lady Margit laughed. “Oh, I scarcely think that a few dresses will do much harm,” she said, rolling up the scarf she was knitting for little Sigurd, and rising to her feet. “That would be unfortunate,” her sleepy gaze rested an instant on the modest girl; then she finished: “An Earl’s wife must be equal to vanity now and then. At Court if not in the home. Now you must excuse me while I settle the children. Sigurd, young rascal, bethinks him the night is made for pranks.”

A few moments later I too left the hearthroom. I had no taste for Katrine’s vague chatter; no interest in Gyda’s studied silences, which I knew to be an invitation to worship. Under other circumstances I might have enjoyed baiting the pretty witch; but I was still weak of my fever and felt the need of rest.

Lady Margit had given me a pleasant chamber over one of the storehouses in the back courtyard, because she knew I was often restless and liked to wander the fields when I could not sleep. On this particular night, however, although the rain had stopped, and the air was mild and fresh, I had no inclination to wander anywhere. Less so after I had climbed to my loft and discovered that wine and oatcakes awaited me on a little table beside the window.

Somewhile later, as I was sitting there at my ease, and yet, for some reason, in the grip of loneliness; suddenly resenting the years spent in foreign service; fruitless years whose sole effects were an addiction to violence and the footless existence of a soldier; glooming thus I was startled by the sound of pealing laughter. Scornful ugly laughter, in despite of the silvery voice. I had not lighted my candle, and so could see without being seen, for there was bright moonlight. What I saw was a completely transformed creature. There was nothing gentle in the girl I now beheld arrogantly pacing ahead of her poor stumbling mother, indifferent alike to her feeble pleas and foolish terror. “Oh child, you must listen!” Katrine wailed. “Darling, you really must. . .”

They were close now, for Gyda had chosen the path to the moors, and this led past my window. I saw her glance up at the window, and satisfied by the darkness, she snapped out viciously: “Stop being a fool! And speak low if you must. Grettir, ugly brute, may awaken.”

“Looks are not everything, Gyda,” the poor woman tried to be firm. “Your father—Oh dear, what is it?”

“What is it?” Gyda mimicked, freeing her dress from a snag. “You drive me mad! So my father was a rake-hell! He wasted your precious dowry! What of it? At least you got some fun out of it. You had a handsome beast to share your pillow—not an ape.”

This was too much even for Katrine. In a burst of rage she caught hold of her daughter’s cape and stood fast. “Gyda, I swear to God, if this is how you feel I shall tell Margit. I will not let you bring shame to this household.”

Gyda gripped her mother’s clutching hands and with a smile hard to describe dug in her fingers. I heard Katrine’s cry of pain, and then the girl’s voice, almost gentle. “You will hold your tongue, my darling mother. If your conscience bites take it to the church and pay to have it silenced. You will not interfere in this barter. I know what I am doing and what I mean to get.”

“Oh, Gyda, I implore you. Think child, it is one thing to trifle with young men of no consequence, quite another to break faith with a man of powerful family related to the king. . .”

“Oh, go back,” Gyda told her. “Go back to your beads and bawling. A man is a man no matter what his connections. And that, my dear mother, is all I need to consider. Now leave me alone. . .”

Grettir paused reflectively, held out his horn to be filled, drank quickly, and went on:

Things of this kind do not bear repeating. Yet I felt that Margit was entitled to some warning. Just before our departure I therefore made occasion to tell her I had come to suspect that Mistress Gyda had other heart interests. Lady Margit laughed. “Good! Whoever he is we shall not discourage him. . . You know, I too have come to suspect this and that, Grettir. Particularly the truth of Katrine’s tales of poverty and hardship. I should not be surprised if her wretched dwelling was entirely comfortable.”

How right she was! Thrand Gille would not hear of our finding a hostel. “My dear Lady Margit, what a preposterous idea,” said he, flourishing a dusty hat and flashing fine dark eyes. “My house is a delicious ruin, full of whispering mice and malicious ghosts, but there is no restraint on merriment—and no cockroaches. Nay, madam, I cannot permit the monks of the hostel to supersede me this side of heaven.”

So we lodged at the house. A good substantial house, well-furnished, entirely comfortable, and set in a fine garden. The upper chambers were large and airy with a fine view of the ancient street, and all the appointments bore the stamp of Visby elegance.

At dinner there it was even more evident. Nowhere else could such food be found on the table of a middle-class lawyer even though he served in the counting house of the Guild masters. I caught Margit’s eye as the meal progressed, one imported luxury following another, and what I read there was both amusement and disgust. Much later, when the household had retired, I bethought me of the garden and the inviting street. To my surprise, Lady Margit heard my limping step and came to her door. “Wait,” she whispered, “I, too, need air.” In the safety of the street her pentup mirth broke bounds. She laughed and laughed. Indeed, had anyone met us they must have thought us mad, or drunk, or both.

We were lucky. The Night-Watch had long since passed; no traveller chanced our way. We walked to St. Karin’s Church and sank exhausted in the porch. “Was there ever such another household?” Margit sighed. “The mistress a fool; the master a blackguard; the daughter a hypocrite. . . Oh, well, it must be the mixture of sour piety and salubrious sin that made the girl such a prig of iniquity. You need not laugh! There are as many prigs in the Devil’s camp as elsewhere. Nothing is so smug as the self-satisfied sinner.” Then she grew serious. “I have been very foolish; now I must make amends. I cannot let this thing go on. There must be some way out and you must find it.”

“How so? What on earth can I do, Margit?”

“Prowl, my friend. While I shop with the saint, you can seek out the sinners. Visit the popular dens where all good men are welcome and all good women excluded. I think you will come across things helpful if unpleasant. . . . Oh, Grettir, I have a strange foreboding; I have the uneasy feeling that Gyda, like the temple maids of long ago, plies her wares even here—in the sanctuary!”

For the next few days I followed Margit’s bidding. I hunted gossip in guild halls, in warehouses, in taverns, on the quay, all to no purpose. It began to look as if the tattlers had amended their ways. Finally, I wandered into the Fenris Ale House, a highly respectable place kept by two old dames of invincible virtue who had taken up this unusual occupation in penance for their father, a notorious skipper whom some had labelled a black raider; and who had met his death in a drunken brawl in the stews. His daughters thereupon had resolved to establish an ale house where honest sailors might enjoy themselves without danger to purse and limb. Severe, angular, strong as horses, the righteous dames were equal to the task. I misdoubt if Hardrada himself would have ventured to pick a fight in the cool calm of the Fenris Ale House. But the ale was excellent; and good solid food was served in the long firelit dining hall that gave upon the sea.

It was here, in this citadel of propriety, that I got my first hint of Gyda’s latest conquest. It came about quite simply. I was hungry and while I waited for a dish of ragout, glumly sipping small-beer meanwhile, one of the old dames came to my table and sat down. “Bless my soul, you look a sour dog,” said she not unkindly, for it seemed she remembered me. “You were livelier in the Count’s company. My lad, that should teach you to keep to your own country.”

“So it has,” said I. “The noble German Empire must do without me.”

She glanced around cautiously: “Devil take them all,” said she, “and you fighting fools also. For while you rush hither and thither killing stupid peasants the damned Hansa gobbles up the world. They have their toe in Bergen; soon it will be the heel, and the toe pointing to Russia. Oh, laugh if you like. I am used to it. Who takes thought for the future? We are a rich city. Our merchants live like princes; their silly wives ape foreign ways. Our own customs count for nothing. Even girls of good family behave like sluts!”

“Then I am lucky. Shall we drink to my single state?”

“A lame leg is no excuse for lame wit,” said she, pouring herself a thimble of brew. “What goes on in this modern Sardis puts me off my feed. . . By the way, why are you here at this time and with Lady Margit?”

A pockmarked wench arrived with food, so I said nothing until she stalked away. But now I understood why Dame Helga had sought me out.

“So you dislike the charming girl Lady Margit has picked for her cousin—is that it?”

“I dislike many things; among them to see our old gentry hoodwinked.”

Again she looked around cautiously. Then: “Grettir, sometimes it is kind to be cruel. Lady Margit was kind to us when we first undertook this business. She made a point of coming to see us when everyone was laughing behind our backs; whispering that poor father was not to be floated out of hell even on the best ale in Gothland. I have not forgotten her help. So now she ought to be told that the girl is bad. Stop grinning! I am not thinking what you think I am thinking. She is bad at heart. A passionless Brunhild, if you can imagine such a creature. Now listen; this Gyda is like a spider. Trouble is her web. Any foolish insect is welcome if it suffers for her amusement. She is completely selfish and wears the face of a gentle saint. I dare say even you would melt to jelly seeing her glide down the church aisle—demure as the angels, piously clasping her hymnbook, and dripping seduction like a burning candle its hot grease. . . Now mark this, for I must be off about my work; on two occasions young men were brought here half dead from fighting over the wench. Married men, I might add—and still the game goes on. The latest prize is a German prince, if you please!”

“She has nerve, let us say that for Mistress Gyda. Are you sure of this?”

“Would I waste my time and yours otherwise? Of course I am sure. I have eyes. I too attend Saint Karin’s, and hear more than Mass. God forgive me. Furthermore, I learned something which seems significant from one of Gyda’s victims. Herr Ollenbach, the Hansa House-father, is leaving for the south to set his fishing lodge in order for the royal visitor. It seems that Prince August has expressed a desire for rural solitude. The lodge is near Hoburgen. Now why that particular spot, which borders on the Gelline estates?”

“Oh, come, now Helga. Gyda is too greedy of wealth and position to play her game that badly—risk an enviable marriage prospect for a light flirtation.”

“Greed is a funny thing. And princes are known to be generous. Take it or leave it, my man—but tell Lady Margit.”

I told her of course, expecting indignation. There was none. Lady Margit, sewing some finery for Gyda, heard me without comment. When I was done, she smiled. “Thank you Grettir. This news relieves me of any scruples in dealing with the girl. Good. We shall leave for Gelline Manor tomorrow. There is much to be done. . . The noble prince must not be disappointed in rural hospitality.”

I could not follow this peculiar reasoning. “You mean to encourage the business? But, Margit, that is inviting bloodshed!”

“I trust not,” she replied calmly. “What else can I do? Do you think Torkel is to be persuaded against his desire by talk? By gossip? I know him too well! He has the simple man’s chivalry. He clings to what he believes in with fearful stubbornness. Unless he comes to see the flaw for himself no amount of good counsel will move him. Why should it? He is his own master. Save for the ties of affection we have no authority over him. . . Words start mischief easily enough. They do not end it. I started this thing; now I must do what I can to mend it. What better tools have I than Gyda’s concupiscence?”

Grettir broke off, scratched his head, glancing round the firelit faces in some concern. How was Jacob taking this intimate evoking of Lady Margit, for whom he had such jealous affection? None too badly it seemed. Like the rest he had the reflective air of men listening to any strange tale of long ago. Yes, Grettir mused parenthetically, the damper of the new pieties had subdued many impulses but it had not altered the two great passions of the Norsemen; the thrill of battle and the love of Saga. . . . He resumed his tale:

Gelline Hall is a very old house, sheltered by ancient trees, and set amid acres of cultivated land, orchards, pastures, and wild woodlots. It faces upon the overland highway, and its weathered slate and timbers and dark stone wall lend an otherwise simple house a formidable appearance reminiscent of less peaceful days. The peasants still call it the Castle. But what has more bearing on this story is a graceful little structure of island sandstone that stands in a dense grove some distance from the main buildings of the manor. This “Little Hall” was built by Lady Margit’s father for his daughters and their friends, to give him peace in his own household.

In all probability, Lady Margit had this isolated place in mind when she formed her plans. She must have counted on the romantic appeal of secluded groves, and dim lanes winding to postern gates. At any rate she set about her campaign with skill and determination. To everyone’s astonishment she had no difficulty in rousing her brother Fredrick to the duties of a host. Baron Gelline agreed that with a royal visitor almost on his doorstep the least he could do for the honour of the island was to set an example of old fashioned hospitality. He would hold festival in the grand manner; in the fine robust extravagant fashion of ancient days.

This announcement, made a day or two after our arrival, threw his housefolk into confusion. Had he forgotten, the housekeeper asked, that for years past they had been getting along with a handful of indifferent servants? Now he proposed to entertain the gentry, and a foreign prince to boot! Fredrick waived this aside: “Well now, Marta,” said he, “from what I see riding about the country our good people still produce children. Find the help you need. Get whatever you require to make this show worthy of your pride, my good woman. But do not fuss me with it. Go to Margit. She has a head for such things.”

It was a fine affair. Fredrick, in court dress, received his guests affably, though with something of the manner of a Cardinal who bestows a free blessing, his mind elsewhere than on the milling throng. To his neighbours there was nothing odd in this benevolent vagueness. The oddness was in the sight of their hermit dressed in festal raiment and playing host to a glittering personage. To a foreign prince of wit and charm and obvious gallantry. The ladies were enchanted. Needless to say, Mistress Gyda contrived to be unique. A pale aristocratic lily of a girl in a bouquet of daisies and dandelions. Torkel was never less notable; shyness made him awkward; worship of the lily-maid kept his tongue tied. He could only look and languish—a poor chained bear dreaming of wild honey.

No, it cannot be said that Torkel showed to advantage, or that he had much joy of the evening. A state of affairs Katrine perceived and misliked, for she was genuinely fond of him. Sincerely troubled, she approached Lady Margit and expressed opinion that Prince August was exceeding the bounds of courtesy in his marked attentions to her daughter. “It looks queer, Margit,” she said, “it does indeed. He ought to pay some heed to the judge’s daughters. They are people of consequence, and if slighted. . .”

“Nonsense!” Margit laughed. “People of consequence cannot afford to feel slighted. Snobs, my dear Katrine, pick up where royalty leaves off. Depend upon it, far from finding his attentions queer, these fine new people of consequence will think the more of Gyda. From now on their exclusive doors will open wide to your favoured daughter.”

“Do you really think so, dear Margit?”

“I bank on it,” said Margit, and walked away to speed a parting guest.

Again Grettir paused, and now he seemed troubled. “Good friends,” he said, “in more fortunate cases no doubt this would be the place to stop. We all know how our people compete with one another when the festival spirit takes hold of them. Anything serves as a pretext. The cutting of a hayfield, or the reaping of a silvered stand of rye. Anything that offers fun and frolic, a little betting on the reapers, a little pinching of pretty maids. All made good and graceful in the cakes and ale to follow. If nothing else transpires there are old landmarks worth the seeing, ancient sites agreeable to visit in pleasant company. And of course there is always Oja church with its famous nightingales. Yes, yes, the nightingales!” Grettir shrugged, and his grin had an ironic twist. “The drift is fairly obvious.”

Mistress Gyda made the most of bird-song and moonlight. Torkel’s simplicity encouraged boldness. The poor fool said nothing; saw nothing; and was satisfied to follow her like a dog. She had him, and meant to keep him. He was her key to the Court, and the Court was the portal of the great wide world. She had nothing to fear. Nothing at all.

Little things are straws in the wind. Though how the wind will blow is another matter. There came a time when even Torkel’s forbearance ended. It happened at the judge’s house. If I remember rightly there was an historic tower, with an old well, near the place and the young folk had gone there to read their fortunes. I learned of this when Torkel, black-browed and furious, accosted Margit. Luckily, she and I were alone at the time, remarking the rose gardens said to be the finest on the island. “Cousin, this is too much!” Torkel blurted. “Gyda has gone off with that scoundrel. My God! You know what these foreign upstarts are like. Whatever they want—Oh God, Margit. . .”

“Now, now, what nonsense is this?” Margit considered her kinsman with sleepy eyes. “My dear Torkel, if you listened to anything around you, understood anything other than swords and horses, you would realize that no girl can resist a wishing-well. My dear, why not join in the fun? Go there with silver in your palm and see the face of your beloved in the wise-water.”

“Ha! A silver poniard will suffice for what I want to see.” He glared at her. “You are right, cousin. I shall go there with silver in my palm—and by God I shall cut his heart out and toss it in your magic well!”

“Torkel, Torkel, what a boy you are!” Margit clutched his arm, leaned on it tightly and laughed. “Now then, my bold warrior, heed me if you please,” she said, laughter done, her voice very firm. “Would you play the fool to a gallery of gossips? Make yourself the laughing stock of the island, of all Gothland? Should you expect to advance your suit with a coveted woman by such infantile conduct as you now propose? Cut his heart out indeed!”

“Why, Margit, you talk as though our betrothal were not settled—as if . . .”

“Exactly!” Margit interjected. “Fredrick has made no commitments. Marriage is not an excursion of the senses. He wants to be sure that you are suited to one another, and your common destiny.”

“Oh—” Torkel was taken aback, then burst out hotly: “But that is silly! Applied to Gyda, I mean. Even Cousin Fredrick must see what she is. . .”

“Likely he does. It is fairly obvious,” Margit said drily, and gave him a little pat on the shoulder. “Remember your manners, young man. Put on a cheerful face and join the young folk. You know the way, and how to conduct yourself—at a pinch.”

There was a strange brooding gravity in the long look he gave her. “No, Cousin, I ride home. I have no need to be shown the face of my beloved in a well of water. Good-night, my lady.”

Shortly thereafter we took leave of our host; the groom brought our horses and we set off, silent and oddly depressed. Mayhap we sensed that forces beyond our control had entered the play. At any rate there was nothing in the serene and lovely landscape to engender gloom. Here was the homeland every soldier dreams of in the field. Little houses snuggled down in the soft shadows, their tiny windows winking cheerfully in the night. The dim fields and the dark trees still and peaceful. A homey, happy place. Yet here I was fretful, almost angry. Why this tortuous delay, I wondered; why not make a clean break and send the girl home?

As though she had caught my thought, Lady Margit said: “Virtues are seldom unmixed blessings. I have touched on Torkel’s fierce loyalty; which is only to say he is stubborn beyond telling. When he was a little boy he had a dog, a sheep-killer. Do you imagine that anyone could make him believe it? Oh no! He ran away with the animal, and was lost in the woods for days. In the end we had to farm out the dog with a squatter woman who maintains herself selling herbs. Until the dog died of old age Torkel used to go there with scraps of food for the ugly animal. . . The pity of it is that such loyalties root in the heart. The ordinary fanatic is, in somewhat, subject to spiritual authority, but your loyal soul heeds no external counsel. To such a one the least betrayal is a kind of death. . . Oh, my dear friend, I should have bethought me of that—I should. . . .”

“You take this too seriously, Margit. Loyalty in love is not a male attribute.”

“You are mistaken,” she said coldly. “We are not discussing venery, but devotion. In that respect men are superior to women. You need not smile! Nor remind me of wife-beaters and lazy drifters! It is true for all that. The devotion of men to selfish wives, ungrateful children, worthless kings, and fantastic causes, is, for me, a miracle of integrity. But my point is that Torkel happens to be the kind of man whose real happiness depends upon the exercise of extravagant devotion. That is a wonderful but thoroughly uncomfortable quality. It leads to a thousand hurts and a thousand illusions. . . Alas! this is no easy matter. I am sore beset, my friend. Oh, I could send the girl away, discredited and in disgrace. She deserves it, the little monster! How then? Do you imagine poor Torkel would thank us for the kindness? See anything other than bigotry and cruel pride in the hard creatures who thus besmirched a dear defenseless girl? Would it help him to lose faith in his family? Is it not the ultimate of humiliation to have our illusions, our most cherished deceptions, killed and brushed away like so much rubbish by the people we love? Do we thank our friends—indeed do we ever forgive them—for pointing out that our idols are lumps of very common clay? We do not! We come to hate them; have every right to hate them. For they have shamed us where no human creature bears to suffer shame: in the secret temple of his heart. . . Nay, nay, my friend, I have enough to answer for as it is. I shall wait upon circumstance. It is my conviction that untempered cleverness always over-reaches the mark.”

“In short, you will see to it the girl hangs herself higher than Haman.”

“Exactly,” Margit asserted quietly, with emphasis cool as the sting of water. Then she spurred her horse into a brisk trot and said no more the remainder of the way home.

“Devil take it!” Grettir complained. You have heard enough to guess how things befell. Margit was right. Mistress Gyda had so little trouble disposing of Torkel’s suspicions, was so certain that no one saw through her pliant hypocrisies, or perceived the bent of her ambition, that in the end her cleverness over-reached itself.

She made the dangerous mistake of misreading Margit’s placid air of polite detachment; she assumed that the delay in proclaiming the betrothal publicly was a matter of some kind of protocol dear to the old-fashioned gentry. In the light of what befell, it is clear that Gyda never suspected that all her devious movements were reported to Lady Margit.

She had not sufficient insight into the peculiar loyalties of old families, into the ties that bound them as withe-ropes bind the seat of justice, to realize that any affront to the Gelline House was an affront to them all. A schemer herself, not above bribing this and that youngling to do her bidding she, nonetheless, had not the wit to perceive that others, with better cause, might play the same game. Yet so it was. Her measure taken, Margit began to receive, by way of her old housekeeper, the relay of gossip summed up and sifted in other kitchens. Furthermore, Lady Margit had her own willing ravens. One of these was the young girl Selma, a niece of the gamekeeper, a lively little chit who now and then gave a hand with the vegetables, and with berry-picking, but who, for the most part, roved the woods with her uncle.

So now we come to the fatal incident. The comedy which was to have such undreamed repercussions. The long-expected which, nonetheless, had the force and shock of the unexpected. The surprise of a barb from the clear blue. Nothing untoward had transpired. All that day Mistress Gyda had spent her bewitchment upon Torkel. She had trailed him to the smithy to watch him temper a sword, to remark upon his skill and declaim upon the historic interest of the jumbled pieces of arms gathering dust on the walls. She had coaxed him to show her the kennels where a valuable bitch had thrown a first golden litter. Naturally she next hit upon the excellence of horses and horsemanship and with artful praise drew him to the pasture. There, as it chanced, I overheard her singing Torkel’s praises in the saddle; making much of the horseflesh idling in the field. The upshot was that in the evening they rode off to Oja Church to hear the nightingales.

They had been gone an hour or two and the household was settling down in normal fashion. Katrine was off to bed with her beads, a brew of herbs, and a headache. Lady Margit was putting the children to sleep. The housefolk were in the great kitchen enjoying the nightly mug of ale and the day’s gossip. It was hot and rather sultry, so I went out to the courtyard where the trees cast a cool shade and the tiny night-sound drifting through the heavy atmosphere was somehow comforting. Perhaps I nodded. At any rate I was startled when Lady Margit touched my shoulder and in a strange voice said: “Grettir, I have incredible news. Gyda has made an assignation with His Highness right here. He is to join her in the Little Hall when the household is abed. In Little Hall! Now that I shall never forgive. No! Now she shall have no mercy, for she has shown herself in all things equally contemptible.”

“True—but how do you know this? Mayhap it is mere invention?”

“It is no invention! Who would dare invent such a thing? Little Hall is a shrine to our father’s affection. . . Nay, there is no mistake. Little Selma brought the news. She was in the woods with her uncle the gamekeeper this afternoon. Near sundown they caught sight of a youngster whose furtive behaviour aroused old Stephen’s suspicion. He thought the boy might have snared a rabbit or was up to some other youthful mischief. It turned out he was a courier to the lovers. Stephen caught him as he fetched up a bit of paper from an oilskin bag stuffed into a hollow tree. Stephen is a man of parts. He pretended to make nothing of the paper; scolded the boy for childish games, and shooed him away with a threat of caning if he ever caught him despoiling the trees. Then he sent Selma to me. . . There it is—now I must see Fredrick. Forestall his sometime habit of prowling the grounds. That would be unfortunate. Most unfortunate for my plans. . .”

“Margit!” I was alarmed by the steel in her soft voice. “Nay, now, surely this is a man’s business. . .”

“Why so? Surely this is not an occasion for decent swords! There is no call for heroic gestures, Grettir. Let us be honest. If it were not for Torkel we could afford to laugh at this proud strumpet.” She stopped, stared at me through narrowed lids, then smiled. “Of course that is what she deserves. That is how we shall destroy her—by laughter. . . Now, if you please, go up to the long gallery and wait for me. I shall join you after I have talked with Fredrick.”

The long gallery runs the entire length of the house. The master bedrooms open upon it and from its high seclusion you have a fine view of the highway, the orchard, and the Little Hall. I wondered at Gyda’s audacity as I found a seat and looked about me, but on second thought I realized that in many ways Gelline Manor must appear a safer rendezvous than Prince August’s lodge. For one thing Baron Gelline’s hermit existence discouraged casual visitors; for another, his few servants were staid middle-aged folk who had long since become accustomed to their master’s peculiar requirements. The evening meal done they retired to their own quarters and left the Baron to his queer pursuit of ancient lore and tireless scribbling. Even now with the invasion of Lady Margit the great house retained its monastic atmosphere; with nightfall it rose above the plain in silent, massive, eyeless contemplation. No, her choice, though doubtless inspired by malicious resentment toward the complacent gentry, was not so strange after all.

It was some time before Lady Margit joined me. She had her knitting and was perfectly calm. “Everything is arranged,” said she: “Marta will see to it that the servants retire early. And Fredrick . . .” she smiled, “poor Fredrick scarcely grasped the point! How should he with his nose buried in some godless classic smuggled to him heaven knows at what price. However, he has promised to shutter his windows, and not to stalk the moon.”

“And we?”

“We keep vigil, my friend.”

“To what purpose?”

“Whatever purpose springs to mind.”

“Good lord, Margit. . .”

A clatter of hoofs in the avenue cut me short. Gyda and Torkel were returning. From the sound of her honeyed laughter the outing must have been a complete success. It was dusk by now, but even so we could see their faces as they drew up at the deep porch; Gyda smiling, and Torkel bewitched. As he helped her dismount he held her close for a moment before he set her on her feet. There was such tenderness in the gesture I was fired with hatred for the girl. Whatever humiliation Margit dealt her she deserved it. I glanced at my lady and saw that she was pale, her strong little hands dead-still. Then she rose briskly. “Go to your room for a while, Grettir. I shall do the same. I must meet the girl as usual—give her confidence of her pleasant venture.”

I left my door ajar and, nothing ashamed, listened. Lady Margit inquired about the nightingales. Oh, they were in full chorus! The excursion had been delightful. A little tiring. I heard the girl yawn, and Torkel remark on it. Were they hungry? Margit politely asked. No, oh no, they had supped at a cottage inn. A little wine, perhaps, urged my lady; she had it by her to help her sleep. Yes, that was acceptable. They would come in for a moment and take a nightcap with her. All free and friendly, you perceive; nothing more friendly than Margit’s pleasant good-night. . .

I cannot say how much later it was when I felt safe to enter the gallery from my window. It was dark but the moon was rising. It would be light enough shortly. At the moment, however, I could barely distinguish Margit’s small figure, alert and very still, in the shelter of a great pillar. She saw me at once and motioned for me to remain where I was. Evidently she had heard some sound which my unadjusted senses had missed. Then I heard it: the muffled creaking of a cautiously opened door, and the dull click of the lock as it shut. Pressed against the wall, black-ribbed with the shadows of the huge pillars, I waited, less patient than Margit whose immobility was one with the stones of her ancient house. Ah, the girl was cautious! Long seconds passed before her shrouded figure glided out from the porch. But then, true to her vanity, she must turn and, with a gloating expression, look up at the sleeping house. Then she drew her veil and darted away, light-foot as a young fox. Not until Gyda had vanished into the darkness of the massed hedges did Margit stir. Then she joined me and we sat down on a cross-bench under the grilled balustrade. “A fine piece!” I muttered. Margit flashed open her remarkable eyes. They were ablaze. “Quite!”

“What now?” I asked.

“Speak low, please. I drugged Torkel’s wine—but the irritant of love—” she left it there.

“Thanks be I am not your enemy!”

“I have it all thought out,” she said, ignoring levity. “I know every inch and corner of Little Hall. The back door has been barred for years. She will use the front entrance, but the lower floor will not meet her requirements. It used to be our bower room. Now it is a storage place for wools and linens, furs and extra robes. Now and then the weaver puts it to better service. Still, it is not a place for the entertainment of princes. For that the upper chamber is more fitly equipped. It has not been much altered since my sisters and I slept there long ago. We had the whimsey to have it so . . . on the few occasions when we have got together in the old home we have slept there. It makes me feel young—and our dear father’s presence seems close.” She turned away, and I knew what she was thinking.

“Sorrows of sentiment are a luxury,” she now said. “Our father was a practical man. When he built us the little back staircase to our chamber he put an end to Nurse Ellen’s grousing. She had no peace of her bed-place below because of our noisy scurrying in and out. . . If now the staircase makes an end of a worse pother why should I gloom about it?”

“What do you mean? What a staircase? How should that. . .”

“Hush! Listen. . . !”

Faintly, then more sharply, the drumbeat of flying hoofs smote the silence. A familiar sound on the main road, and yet we were startled, for so hard it is to accept the personification of one’s ill knowledge. We shrank back against the dark pillars, hoping against hope, that the rider would pass, yet straining to hear and see. And there he came, speeding into the rim of our vision, a superb horseman, swift, sure, eager. For a fractional moment horse and rider stood out clearly on the slight eminence where the main road swung out to by-pass the angle of the great wall; then he vanished, lost in the darkness of the trees behind Little Hall. Margit gave a shuddering sigh, and sat down abruptly. “Well—” she began, and sprang up again in alarm. A wild piercing whinney shot from the grove and was answered from the pasture. The hubbub was instantly made worse by the baying of hounds. “Oh, the fool!” Margit gasped, “the silly fool! To ride a stallion on an errand of stealth. . . Dear God! Torkel! What are you doing here. . . ?”

Woken by the din he had doubtless bethought him of his precious mares. Margit’s start of alarm instantly fired his suspicion. He stepped forward swiftly: “A queer question, cousin. What ails you? Who rides a stallion—and why should it upset you?”

“Why not, young sir?” Margit was curt. “It seems you were startled from sleep. Is it remarkable I should be shaken?”

The sparring was useless. He had seen what I had hoped he might miss. A furtive light in Little Hall. A stealthy gleam that flitted past an upper pane, to appear a moment later in the slit of the door, and again stole upward, illumined the dormer window, and dimmed at the fall of a curtain. He stumbled to the balustrade, and the sudden anguish in his face, a dark illumination of understanding, told its own tale. He knew—knew that he knew; and in that sharp experience the Earl-to-be was born. Quite true; but the seeds of destiny germinate in darkness—great flashes of insight leave us blind. Oh yes, he knew now what manner of angel he had worshipped, but his manhood, his self-esteem, the pride of a fighter, would not let him so soon accept it. “Oh no! Oh no! No! No!” he cried, his thick square hand striking the balustrade. Then he grew still, congealed in the bitter sap of shame, yet with something vital fighting and fighting. Something that tore itself free and turned on us fiercely: “This is your doing, Madam,” he hurled at Margit. “I told you the German was no good. That he hounded and hunted. Never left her alone. That women—helpless innocent maids are his meat. You laughed! I was a young fool. A silly ass. So I was—to believe you. . . I could have stopped him. Killed him before he. . .”

“Before he destroyed a good, sweet, innocent girl,” Margit finished for him in a voice so coldly contemptuous it stung like a whip. “That is the song men sing of maids they have not themselves seduced. It fools nobody. Believe me, women are not so easily destroyed! They are tougher than that, and quite as skilful in lechery as men. More clever by far, and such excellent liars they deceive themselves.”

The shock of her words had the effect she sought. He was hearing her, listening. She took advantage of it. “Torkel, you are right in part. I am to blame for this wretched business. I regret it with all my heart. But you are wrong if you think that all the blame lies with the prince. Think. Would he have come here unbidden? Found, at random, the secrecy of Little Hall?”

Anger flared in his frozen face. “That is enough. I shall not be stopped this time. . . I will kill him if I die for it.”

He made to brush past, but she caught his arm fast. “Now heed me, young man. Kill him if you must. But not here—in a coward’s rage. There have been no murders in this Manor. That shame you shall not bring to it. This is my heart’s home, Torkel. Here you were loved. Here you shall be respected. . . Oh, my dear, dear kinsman, take the harder part. Withhold your hand. Wait upon judgment. Trust me. Let me work this out in my own way. As I had hoped to do without your knowledge.”

He was not lightly persuaded. I, too, thrust in an oar—declaiming upon the king’s wrath; the ruin he would bring upon the family, the shame, the scorn. None of which touched him. It was Margit’s final sally that got him. “Very well. Go then,” she told him coldly. “Take him in her bed. That will make a brave tale—a crowning glory for her innocence.”

He stared at her in bleak bewildered silence for a terrible moment. “I see—I see—” the words were an effort; then pitifully: “I beg your pardon, cousin . . . you are right, of course.”

When he was gone Margit leaned against the balustrade sick with pity. She did not weep and make moan. That was not her way. She took respite in silence, gathering her forces with a stern resolution, that brooked no dallying with useless regrets. In less time than I can tell it, she stood erect, adjusted her head-shawl, smiled wryly, and said: “Now for the sally, friend Grettir . . . let us get on with it.”

(Grettir cleared his husky throat, flung a stick into the fire, and chuckled reminiscently.)

I have made some mad sallies in my day but none so mad as that. Not that the tactics were faulty. Far from it! They were devilish clever, worked out to perfection in every detail. It was Lady Margit’s determined purpose that neither culprit should escape the reproach of sardonic humiliation, but there was a refinement of rare distinction as between the two. Gyda was to find herself in a completely untenable position, far too delicate and ludicrous for the employment of cunning and deceit. As for the royal gallant, it was enough that a humourless German should have his vanity sorely bruised. Quite enough! For even the boldest passion but rarely survives the brunt of ridicule.

Well, there you have the general design. That its execution was successful the tragic sequences we have already discussed are sufficient proof. But at the time nothing so fateful forewarned us. In truth, except for our sympathy with Torkel, we set out in the spirit of arch jesters. Cats for stealth, we crept through the thickets and shrubs to the garden of Little Hall. We carried a closed lantern for the final boarding, so to speak, but at the moment the moonlight sufficed us. Hounds and horses had given up keening. Everything was slumberous and serene, nothing untoward to be seen or heard. Nothing, that is, save the faint stir of a beast in the far grove, the sound of a restive hoof pawing the earth; and a glimmer of light at the edge of the upper window at the back of the hall. Lady Margit gave a soft laugh at sight of it, handed me the lantern and bade me wait where I was. She wanted to make sure no one had tampered with the back door; that the one way of escape open to the grand culprit should be ignominious flight down the ladder. She had also to effect entry by way of a window already loosened and unshuttered, in the tiny dressingroom which adjoined the main entrance. This accomplished she returned with the key. Now everything was in readiness for the comedy. Caution was a thing of the past. We stepped out boldly arguing at the tops of our voices. Margit insisting that an intruder had disturbed the hounds, and I testily deriding the whole thing as silly. Nothing had been disturbed in the back courts. What was there to steal in Little Hall? But she had seen a light—she was sure of it. There was no light, I persisted; we had best go home and stop being idiots. In answer she gave a cry of elation. She was wrong, was she? Then what of that open window? If there was no thief, it must be the youngsters, Selma and Petra, she contended. For now she remembered having given them permission to borrow some old masks for the mid-summer festival, which were kept in a chest in the upstairs bedroom. “Silly children!” she exclaimed loudly. “Why, their uncle will be furious. They need a boxing, the little pranksters.”

We were at the door now. “Quick,” she whispered, “not too much time—enough for escape, but not in dress parade. . . .” The next moment we were on the threshold, our footsteps stabbing the stone floor, our peevish shouts, to the imaginary children, ringing to the rafters.

There was no response to this innocent seeming clamour. Not a whisper of sound from the upper chamber. For once Gyda was as witless as any other trapped creature, as harrowed by quaking fear as the most stupid servant wench. Rightly served, yet, as we tramped up the stairs, I had a fleeting pity for the wretched girl. It must have been a harrowing eternity of time. I glanced at Margit and read nothing in her calm face. Which is to say that all the guile of the Serpent would in nowise alter her purpose.

The vast room was in complete darkness—the uneasy darkness where the heavy silence is itself the great betrayer. Unfamiliar to the place the dim shapes of this and that ponderous object had for me no appreciable meaning. But Lady Margit slowly brought her lantern to bear upon chests, cupboards, chairs, benches, the hearth yawning like a toothless mouth, and lastly full upon the great bed in the far alcove, where the merciless beam picked out the shivering occupant, now staring at us with wild black eyes.

“Dear me!” My lady was properly astonished. “Why Gyda. . .”

In her soundless way she hurried to the bed and with a sigh of simulated dismay seated herself on an adjacent settee. “My dear girl, what an unfortunate nuisance. . .” She set the lantern down on a footstool where its light should be most telling. “I had no idea you had formed a liking for Little Hall.” She laughed softly. “It was the hounds, you see. Usually they are such sensible animals. And when we saw the light. . .”

The girl had courage: “You thought of thieves,” she said, and drawing the sheets up round her white shoulders, added: “I am very sorry to have caused alarm, Lady Margit. I meant no harm. I had a headache and Mother has such a silly dislike of fresh air. I knew it was cool and quiet here.”

Lady Margit smiled. “Quiet and remote. I understand perfectly . . . poor girl, you should have told me you had a headache. I might have given you an excellent remedy. Would you like Grettir to fetch a potion for you?”

Something sword-sharp flicked in Gyda’s knowing eyes. “It is gone now,” she said, and managed a thin laugh, “frightened away. I am quite all right, thank you.”

“Are you indeed?” Margit’s voice was very soft now. “I expect it was fatigue. I shall scold Torkel for keeping you out so late. It shall not happen again, I assure you. . . What is the matter, my dear? Are you cold? But of course you are! You should have a blanket. These old stone houses are always cold at night. . . Grettir, please get a blanket from the chest under the window. . .”

“I do not want it!” There was a tinge of hysteria in the girl’s tone. “I want nothing. Nothing. . .” Now there was naked terror in the delicate white face. What new thing affrighted her, I wondered. Was there something incriminating hid away in the chest? Then I saw that Lady Margit was staring intently at something bright that was caught in the pell drapes of the bed. With maddening deliberation she bent down, plucked it loose and turned it slowly in her hands. “A very noble spur,” she said “silver and gold . . . how extraordinary!” She felt with her foot and kicked its mate. The tiny scraping sound was a shriek in the dead-still room. Then she dropped to her knees and brought up a purple garment which she held at arm’s length. “Well! This is a fine thing. What on earth are Fredrick’s velvet breeches doing here? Dirty and dusty, kicked under the bed! . . . My dear Gyda, you should have notified the housekeeper and had the place cleaned. One must observe the common decencies—do you not think so? The future bride of a great Earl commands many exceptional privileges, but congress with dirt and disorder are not among them. Plain speaking Mistress Gyda. I think you must and do agree.”

Gyda said nothing. Her hands gripped the sheet, no whiter than her face, and her eyes seemed incapable of any movement whatsoever. They were glued in hypnotic hatred to the gaudy garment in Lady Margit’s small firm hands. My lady gave a little dry laugh, shook out the purple breeches, slowly and with fussy care ran her fingers under the elaborate waistband and down the silver-embroidered seams, considered the intricate pattern, which everyone for miles around knew and recognized. Then she folded the garment and tucked it under her arm. “Have you anything to say, Mistress—anything to ask before we leave you to peace and quiet? Your head no longer aches, and you have no need of a blanket or a soothing draught? . . . In fine, and very rightly, you want nothing more of this House with its tedious pride and fidelities. Mistress, with the best will in the world I bid you good-night. Unfortunately that is the extent of my goodwill. But I can assure you that when I have given this finery to Baron Gelline he will be enheartened to put horses at your disposal in the morning.”

So saying, my lady picked up her lantern and made to leave. Then the storm broke. “You devil!” Gyda cried. “You will pay for this jest. Oh, you fool, do you think Torkel will believe you? Your old-wive’s tale against my tears? Your malice against my helpless innocence? Wait and see! Cast me out if you dare. It will nothing change your dumb kinsman. . .”

Lady Margit regarded the angry creature with unruffled calm and towards the end of the tirade turned to me with her sleepy smile. “Grettir, on second thought, I believe it would be more courteous if you fetched the blanket after all. Prince August will have found the waiting in our dull sparrow grove a trifle chill. And the way home . . .” she shrugged, and came away with no further notice of Gyda.

That was the end of the miserable business. So we thought. At any rate mother and daughter were gone before I woke in the morning. I never saw the girl again. And precious little of Torkel. Fredrick, roused from his dreams, took possession of his distraught kinsman. Now and then I caught sight of them as they rode home from hunting. But they kept to themselves; had their meals in the Baron’s study, and slept there as well. A few days later they left for a cruise of the Baltic and a season in Copenhagen. Fredrick, for all his loathing of social contacts, was of the breed that accepted the responsibility of brotherhood. . .

Grettir sprang to his feet, stretched like a cat priming its muscles, and with a grin of relief faced his long-time friend. “You have got your peck of meal, Jacob. Now, for God’s sake, fling it to the ravens, and come limber your bones.”

Silences are more eloquent than words. When the two obstinate old friends had walked away with a firm united tread, their companions continued to stare into the fire for some time. Even Hake, whose stubbornness and cunning had evoked Torkel’s saga, now held tightly to the clapper of his ready tongue, and more tightly still to the strings of his heart. He was happy. Now these knights who had hitherto prized his master for the bite of his ax and his great skill at the helm of a ship must see him in rounder figure. That was good. Certainly. That was what he wanted. . . . Yet there was a cold dew on his heart, a feeling of emptiness, a sense of utter bereavement. So it was! With the last service done the umbilical cord of devotion which had bound him to his master was completely severed. Now there was nothing. Blinking his bright bird eyes, Hake scrambled to his feet and made for the clearing where the Rock stood firm in a pool of deepening shadow.

To the realists, Skule and Ivar, the little silence was a gesture of common courtesy, the gesture decent men paid one another at the last parting. They had misliked sitting as midwives at the birthing of a man neither one had known; and they preferred their own blunt Bruse, of cheerful resolution, to the chivalrous indecisive Torkel thus thrust upon them. The man who had safely led them across the northern seas and piloted their ships, season after season, in the crazy futile search for the colonists, was the comrade they missed and meant to avenge in the forthcoming fray with his murderers.

But now, in their silent tribute, let them remember that which was worth remembrance. Torkel Bruse, ax on shoulder, eyeing the primal forest behind the first camp, and shouting lustily: “Fall to, lads! Here is worthy timber for a dozen New Jerusalems. Come boys, up and at them! To hell with knightly dignity! Watch the bonder lads. Ha! there be skill for you. A cut to cleave the toughest head. Come boys. Cut your wedges. Cut true! Here we go. Devil drive and the chips fly!”

Thus to a chorus of jest and jeer and juicy curses, down came the first tree victim of the Earl’s furious ax and what a roar that occasioned. “Ah, you beauty! You pearl of price!” the conqueror shouted, red-faced and sweating, for in truth he had no skill in this king of slaughter. “Look at her, you louts! Clean-limbed as Lileth and ten times more useful. Give her a cheer, the grand lass. God speed the Green Spirit!” Skule grinned at the memory of that fine clamour. It had fetched his Excellency, Commander Knutson, on the run bethinking savage raiders were upon them. And behind him came the good Father stave in hand all set for the fray. Aye, aye, set also for stern rebuke of high-stomached fools who in levity and foolishness published their position to a possible enemy.

“Ha! Let them heed the sweet din!” Bruse had chuckled. “Let them hear the white-wolf howl. Good Father, get the devil back to your own business. . . . And you, my Lord Commander, bethink you to raise a fort by witchcraft? Or soft prayers? Damnation, my Lord, if there be Skraelings round about the sooner we know it the better.”

So they were left to their toil and the constant cheerful bellow: “Now boys. Up with the walls! On with the roof. . . . Pegs, boys, pegs! Heaven hangs by a miracle. Not a roof-tree. Beams, staples, pegs, that is the trinity we need. . . . Another plank there, my louts. Straighter lads. Straighter! Devil take it, brothers. Are we weasels, bethink you, to wriggle in and out crooked seams? Keep her straight. Good. Good. . . . Now then on to the cookhouse. God save us, bethink you a decent cook gets his stew by incantations? Roasts his deer by air? Come, come, get the moss off your legs!”

That was the Torkel they remembered. The human fury who drove them, and drove himself, from dawn to dark, though this was not their part, nor his. Oh, nay. They were then a goodly company, with bonder sons in plenty to hunt and fish, haul and hew and build. “Quite so!” the Earl had jeered. “This ungentle work is not the labour for lovers. For gallants and courtiers. Oh, nay and nay. But look you, brothers. The gentle touch goes amiss with Skraelings. And they will come. There be more than fox and deer and small game in this fine woodland. And when they come will you butter their bonnets with gentle speeches? Come, come, lads, limber up for the fun. Lay to, and Saint Michael forfend us.”

That was their champion. Fame and honours cheerfully forgotten he had toiled like any tenured serf, stripped to the waist, sweating his heart out, and betimes singing as he worked. Thanks to this tempest, this lusty unaffected vigour and friendliness, the work had progressed with amazing speed. Stout huts had risen in the clearing. Barracks and tiny chapel; the cookhouse and smoke shed; store rooms for the precious goods brought from home: seed grains, dried meats, salt fish, hardtack, flour, meal, kegs of ale and mead and wine; vadmal and blankets, footgear and plain and fancy garments, cloaks and furs; great stores of stuff the generous people of the triple kingdom had pressed upon the crusaders for their own use and for the relief of the benighted Greenlanders.

Of all this bounty the most precious was the grain. “We should be fools to feed on barley broth and porridge when the woods are full of game, the Vik alive with fish,” Earl Bruse had told them at the house-feast when they had first broken bread in the new barracks. Commander Knutson, though courteous as always, had shown displeasure at this curt censure. He had called for a banquet, decent attire, good food and fine cheer. A fit celebration and thanksgiving. A tribute of Christians to Christ and the Blessed Virgin in whose keeping they had fared so well.

Nay, it was not the time for carping. More eloquent than usual, Father Benedict had enlarged upon the thankful theme with so much ardour that even Jacob, who misliked oratory, had been so moved he cast a black frown upon his burly kinsman. Nothing daunted, Bruse banged the table. “My lords, I dislike this air of festival. Instead of sitting here, like un-spurred cockerels at a banquet, we should be burning the cleared land and planting winter rye. We should bethink us of the cattle we fetched from Greenland and plough a field for spring fodder. We should be cutting the wild grass, and draining the marsh that gives on the Vik to make us a pasture. Aye, that is what we should be doing . . .”

“My dear Earl, it is not our intention to lay out a farm,” Paul Knutson had stemmed the storm mildly, satiric light in his eye. “We have built a good post as a base of operations. Anything more seems to me a waste of time and effort, grave faults not to be encouraged in His Majesty’s servants.”

“Graver fault if they starve,” said Bruse, “and fall like carrion to the Skraeling.”

Ivar, in particular, remembered the argument which had then ensued. He had found it amusing. It was so typical of the age-old strife between the cautious theorist and the reckless fighter. Paul Knutson had maintained that to his thinking this was not the habitat of Skraelings. From what he had observed of the natives in Greenland they were a scruffy stunted folk, made so by the severity of their precarious existence.

Here nature was lavish. Races, native to this rich river basin, watered by a glorious river which fed into the sea, must surely fare well, and therefore should have less cause for hostility towards strangers who minded their own business. It was the hunger-driven who were vicious.

The Earl had found this amusing. “Your logic, my lord, is as lean as my courtesy. The well fed are not always gentle. There has been bloodshed and bickering in prosperous Gothland. Murders and mayhem in the highest places. Indeed the more men have the less they are inclined to share it with others. Thus I know it to be in all the border lands and all the islands I ranged for His Majesty . . . why in hell expect angels here?”

Ivar smiled at the memory, glanced at his companion and found him smiling also. So it went with minds that strummed the same string. They heard the same music whether from near or far. They marched abreast in the gray limbo of fancy with the same unbroken fidelity which had marked their concord as they tramped shoulder to shoulder through the reek of bloody battle. Yes, it was still so. At this moment he ventured to swear they were both bethinking the same things. Remembering with impatience, mingled with deep affection, Paul Knutson’s obduracy in all that pertained to his quest, and in particular his curious conviction that his camp was pitched in the green heart of Vinland the Good. That there were no signs of human occupation, not so much as the ruin of a single booth, or the slightest evidence that a white man’s culture had taken root in the place, he brushed aside as of little significance. The settlement was somewhere up the river. They would come to it in due course. But that was not their true objective. The Vinland diocese adhered to the Faith, paid its tithes to the Holy See, and was safe in God’s keeping. Their mission was to seek the lost sheep. The apostasized Greenlanders. Hence they must camp in neutral ground, for it was most unlikely that those benighted souls would venture to approach a Christian Settlement. Obviously they must be sought in some hidden bay or narrow vik, or sheltered island, which reminded them of home.

This delusion never left him, nor that other almost fatal obsession that nothing was to be feared at the hands of simple savages. Fortunately for all concerned these pontifical exhortations vanished with the nightly ale. In the morning unofficial scouts assumed more practical attitudes; watched the forest with cynical and keen regard to the natural treachery of human kind; and foremost among them were the Franklin Thorvald and young Sigurd of Darre.

Even so it was Hake the cook who sounded the alarm on that long-gone October morning when they had had their first encounter with Knutson’s noble savages. Rushing in out of the dawn, banging a potlid and screaming in top voice, Hake had waked them with the force of a thunderbolt. “To arms! To arms! The devils are here!” he cried, racing up and down the long hall, now banging the potlid, now a man’s head. “To arms, my lords! the beach swarms with demons . . .” then he flew to his master to buckle on his belt, hand him his shield and the long sword that was a terror incarnate.

In the clatter of arming, Hake’s sly lament went unrebuked by his betters. In any case the howls from without sanctioned exaggeration. Such blood-curdling dementia they had never heard before, nor beheld such fearful creatures as now converged upon the barracks in a leaping, snarling ferment of obscene fury. Count Jacob removed his eye from the peephole and growled at Paul Knutson: “Your simple savage, my Lord, cut his teeth on hell-horn! How say you now—is it sally or sermon?”

Paul Knutson ignored the thrust. “Both, my friend,” he said, “we must attain a double victory. Killing a hundred naked wretches is not enough. It will only fetch yet other raiders. We must employ terror—show ourselves invincible . . .”

Then he sprung his thunderbolt. There was to be no massed sally. The champions were to take the field—stand fast and do nothing. What an order! Even Earl Bruse, who courted danger for love of it, had stared dumbfounded. Had the first squall of danger turned the man’s wits? The old veterans eyed one another askance; so much for courtiers! their ribald humour slyly proclaimed. The Count of Darre, stiffly correct, considered his superior in baleful silence. Franklin Thorvald, grinning to himself, caressed his long-bow with significant tenderness. Haakon shifted his mailed shoulders and laughed: “You make us hell-bait, my lord. Well, why not?” And then Erlind quickly stepped forward. “I take your meaning and find it good,” he said, his deep voice oddly impressive against the uproar outside. “We three are the terror you wish to employ. The invincible targets which superstition will translate into miracle. I think it will work. . . . Well, friends?” his eyes yellow as a hawk’s, gleamed in his golden face, “Do we go—shoulder to shoulder?”

Aye, shoulder to shoulder they strode into the dawn. What a sight! The recollection brought a glow of elation, a thrill of utter satisfaction. For, as Ivar thought upon these three, so different in capacity and temperament and yet so fiercely united in deed and danger and integrity, he had the curious feeling that the essence of this unity was something indestructible; something immortal which was their sacrifice to this unshaped world. Surely there was some prophetic meaning in that magnificent moment when the three champions stepped out into the rising sunlight and made their stand, firm as rooted trees, against the hail of whining arrows. Iron men, white men, face to face for the first time with the fury of a strange world.

All the rest was anticlimax. The battle was won before the bowmen levelled their fearful shafts, and the Count sallied forth to drive the screaming horde back into the water. It was won by terror; by the awesome spectacle of three men standing firm against flying death; calm and invincible as spirits carved in stone. . . .

For the Franklin Thorvald the mute interval had the grey significance of candle’s end. The moment their differences died away, extinguished by the cold breath of complete understanding, they had accepted the Truce of Death. Conflict was the spur of life. That was something he had learned long ago. It was the feud with his father, the endless sparring with the king, the war in his own flesh, which had kept him fiercely alive even when the core of his heart was slowly dying with Jensine. It was the flame of that conflict, transmuted into hatred of her destroyers, which had brought him to this unknown wilderness, and which had held him to his avowed purpose: the extinction of his House—the only immortality his pious father believed in. Father Benedict lamented that unfilial resolution, and condemned the lack of charity in his conduct. It was a grievous sin to preempt judgment, which rightfully belonged to God. A Christian should exercise mercy. . . . With that lofty sentiment he had no quarrel. It was the counsel of a sincere, stubbornly righteous, brave old man. He might have believed in the mercy and justice he propounded but for those years spent amid the fleshpots and cruelties of Rome . . .

He had no regrets. He had stood firm when Paul Knutson had urged him to command the ship which was to sail home at season’s end. “Franklin, you do ill to persist in self-destruction,” the sick man had insisted. “You are young—a good life awaits you.”

“My Lord, if the overland passage leads to Vinland, is that not time enough to join the ship?”

“Who knows—who knows . . .” the feverish eyes shifted here and there. “The best plans go amiss . . . I believe in . . . Franklin, other matters prey on me . . . I am beset by fears—dreams . . . sometimes the curtain lifts for the dying. Last night I heard the bells tolling in Norway—a knell of doom, Thorvald . . . I bethought me that your father mistrusted the League. He is a shrewd man . . . I beseech you, Franklin, return while you can. . . . Our little country needs her strong men—her noble youth . . .”

Thorvald winced at the memory. Nay, he had no regrets, and yet he wondered whether he might not have complied with that piteous request if his father’s name had not been mentioned. What did it matter? There were better men than he aboard the ship and by now, please God, her prow was turned home.

But it was good to be done with the heat of resentment. Now he could think of his father as they had walked the hills together in the young days. In the bright morning of the passage. A waterway to the sea. Aye, with all my heart life when worship and wonder filled his heart—and none half so wonderful as the gay adventurer who walked the earth like a god, and outsang the winds of the sea. Yes, now at long last, in this grey mist at candle’s end, he could recall that gallant figure without pain, and so pass on. Pass swiftly to the small green glen beside the little highland lake, where his dear love slept sweetly in her unknown grave . . .

To Father Benedict the silence was a welcome respite from the turmoil of emotional conflicts. All the long day he had been oppressed by the spoken and unspoken clash of sentiment. Now that amity was restored in the camp he ought to be thankful, uplifted and refreshed, but that was not the case. All virtue had gone out of him! He tried to pray, and the words mocked him; the sinews of his soul were as withered reeds, and there was neither warmth nor brightness, nor charity, in his obstinate heart. Miserable sinner! He was weary, not with well-doing, but through his own resentment, his uncharitable censure of the lonely men in his care. Let him be honest if nothing more. This sudden hiatus of despair was the natural consequence of his own limited perception. He had been repelled, and filled with despair, by the appalling shoddiness of human ideals; by the belated discernment that human sorrows in the main had little kinship with ennobling tragedy. Injured pride, thwarted ambition, unrequited appetites, these were the substance of human woe . . .

Oh wretched man! Who was he to sit in judgment of human frailty when his own charity faltered at the first thrust of displeasure. All day he had listened to the inward voice of mockery: So there are your Knights of the Cross! Your noble crusaders! Malcontents, adventurers, dupes of desire and circumstance—a bitter cynic, the best of the lot. Father Benedict shuddered with self-loathing to see himself so narrow and mean of heart, so lacking in the first principles of pity which was the core of Christian faith. God have mercy on him. Like some priest of Baal he had demanded perfection, sacrifice without blemish. He had forgotten that the Lord God made one demand only: “Take up your cross and follow me” . . . With a sigh that was a respiration of humility, Father Benedict arose, glanced up at the sky where a single star gleamed on the horizon, and with lightened heart slipped into the long clearing to keep vigil beside the Stone . . .

It was very still in the clearing. The light had died in the sky but in this strange country the dusk came down slowly, slipping over the earth like the shadow of great wings, pale pearl-grey, grape-blue, then the soft black. Back home there was not this gentle interval. One moment the grand peaks blazed in jewelled light; and the next the shoulders of the mountains shut out the sun and night came down with the swiftness of a hawk. The little thought stabbed the priest; he had always loved that swift transition: light to dark and dark to light again. When he was very little listening to his mother tell her children the sacred story of the crucifixion, the resurrection, and the transfiguration, it had all been as vivid and real and eternal to his infant mind as the black night of the mountains and the glory of the victorious sunrise. Perhaps it was only the children who read the face of nature with something of the tender perception of the Saints when they walked the dim valleys and the bright hills of home . . .

With stern resolution he dismissed the nostalgic memory and walked swiftly to the Stone. He looked at it for a long moment. This was the last work of his hands—these few runes which no human eye might ever read. A few scratches to epitomize a lifetime! That should teach him humility. Very true; yet there was comfort in the thought that the last small labour was a work of love. He ran his hand over the Stone with quiet satisfaction. Good grey-wake, it would last; it would stand here a long time; mute witness to a band of men who left behind them no broken monuments of bloody victory, but a prayer: Ave Maria—save us from evil. He nodded, crossed to the log seat and sat down. The dusk had thickened, the great wings were closer, the rhythm of the earth changing, the stillness like an indrawn breath. It was good to have this serene moment in which to make his devotions.

Somewhile later, when he must have dozed a little, Father Benedict was startled by a scurrying noise and the sharp clatter of firewood. It seemed very loud in the heavy silence, rather like the sound of a frantic creature breaking through a thick windfall. He blinked his eyes and peered into the gloom. Of course it was no animal! It was Hake laying a new fire in his customary wild fashion. “My goodness!” the priest exclaimed mildly, “is there need of that? I should think—Hake, have I slept long? . . . Where are the others?”

“One thing at a time, Reverence.” Hake flung down two more bundles of neat faggots, stood back to consider the heap. “It should be higher. Certainly. No use being thrifty.” He started towards the woods, changed his mind and rushed up to the Stone. “What a question! Are we crows to sit in darkness? What would they think—the others—” he patted the Stone with his rough little claw, “if we left them alone in this inkpot and hugged the cooking fire, like the fiends across the water? . . . Oh yes, you had a wink or two, honoured sir. Why not? A catnap is good for tired bones. The other lordships are on the beach. Nothing to see. Just stay where you are, Reverend Father. You have no better sight than the rest. Now I fetch the embers.”

Oh well, he was right, Father Benedict admitted. Tonight there would be nothing to see, nothing to hear until the drums began talking. Nothing to be done. But he could not sit still; he could think better on his feet, and walking soothed his restless nature. The air was chill now with a damp smell in it that put him in mind of Vinland; and he wondered what would become of his tiny chapel and of the fields they had sown to corn. He wondered if anything they had tried to teach the natives would endure or if it had all been a futile waste.

Suddenly he remembered how Erlind had answered that question long ago in the time of great disturbance in Vinland when it had seemed as if all their efforts to establish the friendship of the Algonquins were wasted. Then, as now, the priest had wondered whether any of their teaching would last. “They will keep what is useful to their way of life,” Erlind had said in his calm fashion, undismayed by the havoc all round them. For their fields had been overrun by a hostile tribe, the precious grain burned, and Hake’s kitchen garden laid waste. This token gesture completed they had swept down upon the Algonquins, maiming and killing in a holocaust of destruction. The raiders had been shrewd, choosing a time when the braves were hunting, and, what was worse still, when the Vinland barracks had been reduced to a few men, the main force being on the water engaged in the endless quest of the lost Greenlanders. As might have been expected the Algonquins blamed the white men for their misfortune, and the enraged warriors, returned to their desolated compounds, instantly called a war council.

When the drums began their sinister throbbing Erlind put on his armour, and sword in hand, confronted Paul Knutson: “We cannot remain here if we fight these people. We can beat them now, but the element of time is on their side. They can afford to lose a hundred braves, we cannot lose twenty and hope to hold the wilderness. As enemies they spell doom; as friends they are useful. I shall talk to them—they know my voice.”

Father Benedict leaned upon the Stone lost in thought. There had been no battle; indeed there had never been any grave trouble with that particular tribe. How had Erlind appeased them? At that time neither he nor any other Northman had been fluent in the Algonquin tongue. Had Erlind said anything of moment, or had he relied upon that strange informing silence of his to speak for him. . . . Who could say? He had gone alone, that was imperative, he had contended. So all they ever knew was that the drums stopped beating towards dawn, yet Erlind stayed with the savages for three days. When he returned he had a drawn, weary look, but all he said was: “There will be no trouble. They are quite reasonable folk—except in their hospitality.”

Father Benedict, still communing with himself, resumed his restless pacing. He might, he told himself, have given thought to the long unselfish service of Erlind, when he was carping against the lesser men of the Company. He, at least, had embraced the cause in a crusader’s spirit, and for no other reason than faith in a righteous mission. He had spent himself freely in every way; and, until that dreadful sickness had laid its hand upon him, his strength and fortitude were beyond telling. Father Benedict winced at the terrible recollection of Erlind’s death, the manner of which he still found impossible to reconcile with Divine justice. He had been taught, and he himself had taught others, that the blood of the martyrs glorified God, but a stubborn little voice which refused to be silenced, told him insistently that even a supreme sacrifice must be apprehended by the living to have any meaning on earth. And surely it was the children of earth, not the denizens of heaven, which required testimony . . .

The crackle of Hake’s fire brought him back to the present. Again he glanced at the sky, now a deep black canopy pierced here and there with the bright cresset of a star. Hake was right—it would be a night of stars; but it was cold. Grateful for the cheerful blaze he hurried to the fire. “When you come to think of it, Hake,” he smiled, “our ancestors were not so foolish when they saw something godlike in a fire. No doubt it was the first good they knew; the first great power they tried to understand and work with.”

Hake flung more faggots on the blaze. “Certainly. It taught them hospitality,” he said. “That is a good thing for frightened creatures to learn.”

“That is a wise saying, my son,” the priest observed gently, “perhaps the day will come when we shall see the whole world in hospitable light.” He was elaborating the pleasant theme, and holding up his ragged gown to let the heat warm his legs, when the Count came limping out of the alder bluff. “God’s blood!” he roared. “With those crooked legs and tattered gear you put me in mind of the Russian prophet who foretold victory for Magnus. A most eloquent scarecrow, like yourself, Benedict, but, unlike yourself, a bit muddled in his magic. Poor fellow, he got his names twisted; the only victory gained in that second witchhunt in Russia was won by Erlind.” Jacob sat down with a grunt on the green log which served as bench and eased his ankle up onto his knee. “A fine mess Magnus made of it! But then what can you do with a king who fancies himself the sword of Gideon and therefore scorns the counsels of old campaigners.” Frowning, Jacob fell to rubbing his foot with angry vigour.

“Here, here, what do you think you are doing?” the priest objected, seating himself beside the Count. “Let me rub your foot, you go at it as though you were skinning a fish. . . . I too was thinking of the past; of Erlind in particular.” Father Benedict tied the thong of the Count’s leather hose with exaggerated care. “There, that should help, if you keep off your feet tonight, which you won’t of course. At the first grumble of the drums you will be rushing about the place like a wounded lion.”

At this point Gisli Porse and Grettir, emerging from the willows, slid into the firelight. “What now?” Grettir grinned at his gloomy friend. “Have you found a fresh grievance to whet your temper, Jacob?”

“No. I was chewing an old cud. Wondering why Erlind was so meanly rewarded. It sets my teeth on edge to think that such a man should be murdered in his sleep. All the men were in bad shape after the fever; none so worn as he. . . . I—Oh damn it all! I might as well shout at the sky. There is no answer to be had.”

“Perhaps not,” Gisli remarked softly. “But I remember a strange thing Haakon said in the time of the fever when we thought Erlind was dying. ‘At least he will die in a land big enough for his spirit,’ he said bitterly. He was terribly weak himself but he hung on to me with the strength of despair determined to make me understand that none of us had really known the man he worshipped. Erlind had been moulded body and soul by that great expatriate Eric Kolbeinson. All his military training, his wide pity, and his contempt for our distorted principles of might makes right, he had derived from Kolbeinson. And if it had not been for his mother he would have chosen to follow Eric to the end. It was Solveige, his mother, who prevailed upon him to adopt our cause instead. It was a righteous mission, that appealed to her heart, and one she could plead to her son with a clear conscience.” Gisli walked to the Stone and looked at it in silence. Then he said: “It was fitting to leave this witness. But I do not think it matters where a man dies. It is his life that matters. Erlind made his own memorial in the hearts of the people he befriended and in the affections of his daily companions. And I think Haakon was right—he lies in a land big enough for his spirit.”

During this speech the rest of the men had entered the clearing and found seats near the Stone. For a time no one spoke, and then, when Old Magnus finally ventured: “God rest his soul. What you say is true. Erlind no longer felt at home in the old world. I for one—” he was cut off by an ominous sound, a hateful rhythm, long familiar and ever menacing. The war drums of the Sioux were tuning up! They had heard similar muttering in the bays and woods of Vinland; they understood each phase of the ritual and could easily visualize the scene beyond the lake. These stylized snarls of a stalking death were an old story without variations. Yet there was a difference. Not in the drums; not in the dark intent of the beater. The difference lay in the consciousness of the listeners; in the shift of the delicate balance between the free and the unfree. Men who have no freedom of choice in the disposal of their lives instinctively abandon the chancy illusions of the free.

No one troubled to comment on the message of the drums. The only noteworthy element in it was its muted accents which conveyed a sense of distance. The camp of the Sioux, the muffled tone informed the listeners, was far from the shore, and for the time being the musicians were devoting their energies to inflaming the murderous passion of the warriors. It was cleverly devised, impossible to hear without a tightening of the muscles and a savage response in every nerve. The steady beat set up pinpricks of fury in the brain and the deadly rhythm encoiled the senses as might a hungry python.

Hake refused to put up with the assaulting sound. Jabbering angrily he flew for more faggots and flung them on the fire. “No need to spell the Devil in darkness,” said he. “Noble lords, in my country when the winds howl, and the wolf slinks across the moon, we out-sing the evil phantoms in the comfort of a good blaze. Certainly! That is only common sense. Good sirs, why should Life go unsung, while over yonder Death is served with drums?”

“Good for you!” Gisli cheered. “Bring the wine skin, and I promise you a song or two. The little man is right; let us out-sing the dark music. We have the lovely night, the stars, the comfort of a fire, what more do we need for the setting of a merry little rondel, a good old ballad, and if our lungs last a really fine rondo.”

They sang with full-throated enjoyment, as Northmen love to do on all fraternal occasions, finding release in communal singing for emotions and sentiments otherwise too difficult of expression. They sang whatever came to mind; gay little tunes, romantic melodies, old ballads in minor key, and tricky, fanciful rondos. And when these thin, half alien strains began to pall, Old Magnus surprised them all by an expert rendering of ancient metres; and so for a time they tried their skill at the recitative chanting beloved of the Viking bards.

Hake kept the horns filled with his queer brackish brew, which made no matter, for there was ferment enough in their hearts; and finally, when they ran out of innovations, they noticed with relief that the distant drums had settled down to a less violent rhythm, more readable in its sustained purpose, and therefore more tolerable. The men in the clearing understood its meaning perfectly. All doubts and speculations as to the coming dawn were at an end. That in itself was a great relief and yet it was a minor factor in a much greater experience—in that deep sense of liberation which is the supreme gift of the spirit to men who, in the face of imminent destruction, quietly come to terms with outrageous fortune.

In this deep quiet of the stilled senses, this gentle twilight of the heart, the trapped men found themselves thinking of one another in unabashed affection, conscious of the abiding ties of faith and fellowship which sustained them. As by one accord they drew nearer the Stone and in a while first one, then another, began to speak of home. They spoke of simple things: youthful adventures and amusing escapades; of house customs enshrined in memory; the making of tiny sheaves of grain in Christmas gift to the birds—and the secretive offerings of milk to the Little People—and the lovely ceremony of bringing home the yule log. They brought to mind country fairs and church festivals: the happiness of Easter when young and old rejoiced in the Risen Christ. They called to mind the stir and excitement of family celebrations; christenings; name days; weddings; by which devious ways they came at last to Haakon. Gay, impetuous Haakon, who had stolen his bride from under the nose of her haughty kinsmen, and midway in his flight suddenly remembered he had no place to take the maid. “Good Lord!” said he, pulling up their horses and shouting with laughter (so his lady maintained), “I never thought where to take you, Eleanora. It was job enough to get you from your jailers. Well, never mind. Erlind will see to it. . . .” So off they went in opposite direction to Erlind’s old grey manor where a wet and angry bride was taken in hand by Erlind’s mother. A rude beginning for a wedding now famous in Oster Gothland. Very rude indeed, for a day or two later the maid’s outraged kinsmen, armed to the teeth, rode into Erlind’s outer heath, but there all wrath oozed out of them. For they were met by an impressive company, also armed, but extremely courteous. “We are honoured indeed,” said their smiling chief, “but then I should have realized that the Oxmain family are too great in strength and honour to harbour malice. We hope that our wedding ale will not shame the kinsfolk of Eleanora Oxmain. . . .”

It was a week’s wonder in the dales that the stormy Oxmains should have changed heart and from avengers turned merry wedding guests. It was no thing of wonder to the men in the clearing. They could visualize Erlind as he must have looked in that moment, armoured in quiet strength and formidable resolution, and with that strange smile which somehow made as little of his own show of strength as of his opponent’s anger. A smile which seemed to say: these grand gestures are a bit silly, let us get on to more pleasant business.

So now they spoke with ease of Erlind, of all he had done at home and in the wilderness; and of the love Haakon bore him, that rare true love which only men are capable of, and that but seldom. They spoke too of the others, the lesser men who had died with the champions. For it seemed right that the ten whose death was recorded on the Stone should share this gentle interval with them. Father Benedict had the final word:

“It is good to have lived in the company of honourable men.”

Once again the drums picked up a faster rhythm, the beat sharp, authoritative, challenging. This too was a familiar play to the men in the clearing. It was addressed to the warriors in a kind of final dedication to battle. Listening to the taunting din, Gisli found himself thinking: not with fasting and prayer go they forth to battle, but with a great noise and shouting. . . . Well, well, the Knutson Company had also gone forth on its high mission with a great noise, a great shouting, the jubilant hail of bells—and here they were! Here, by a twist of fate, all those early hopes and aspirations, all the later toil and hardship, the despair and suffering of the Company, were to reach an end, strange as the strangest fable and equally incredible. Or was it true, as the ancients contended, that the end is implicit in the beginning; that man himself creates his own destiny after the pattern of his own peculiar fate.

Father Benedict frowned upon that heathen word; he preferred to rename it the Will of God. Did the name matter? Did the new connotation clarify the riddles of chance and mischance which beset human life? Gisli glanced up at the starry sky and smiled to himself. Up there in any case a serene law prevailed. His restless gaze fell upon the Stone and his thoughts turned to Erlind. There had been much talk of that remarkable man; and at first he had disliked the unqualified praise, as Erlind himself would have disliked it. But now, on deeper reflection, it seemed to Gisli that the Saga of Erlind, like a great river, had absorbed all the divergent streams of their individual lives; and that if they could but understand the significance of his life and death they might perceive a like meaning in their own.

Gisli was not alone in this pursuit; the oldest, most persistent obsession of Norsemen was, and still remained, the riddle of man’s place and portion in the universe. They were good Christians, perfectly content to leave the dogma of their faith in consecrated hands, but something of the old Norse curiosity refused to be utterly silenced. And the years spent in the wilderness had encouraged a free exchange of opinion and forthright argument. It therefore came as no surprise when Skule, apparently following the track of Gisli’s thought, suddenly said: “If anyone cares for my opinion as to Erlind’s fate, I find it devilish queer reward for the good life that he should lose his scalp to the savages. With due respect to Erlind it seems to me he might have been wiser to stay in Germany if Norway was too small for him.”

“Oh well, that might be said of others,” Grettir agreed. “In all probability we should have lived longer, or died in better company. However, I think Erlind had a feeling of kinship with this strange land. I remember the time he and Haakon returned from exploration duty in Vinland. He had been so long away that Knutson was rather put out with him. ‘Well, you see, we have been walking in the future,’ he said, ‘laying ghostly claim to a new world some lucky future race will inhabit. . . .’ ”

“True enough! What are your ghosts but shadows of things past or things to come?” This from Karl, the cynic. Stroking his beloved blade he chuckled to himself. “Oh yes, Gerta and I have seen and heard many queer things in our time. Some of the ghosts persist. . . . Once when I had been fighting with the Emperor’s forces in Bohemia and was left for dead in the field, I came to myself in the skin shelter of some kind recluse. How had he found me? By my shadow, said he. What did he mean by that? Why, he had felt my need! In the spiritual world every fervent desire made its impress. How else did I think that the hope and faith of mankind cast the pattern of the future? The poor man is crazy, thought I. Whereupon he laughed and patted my shoulder. ‘Do not quarrel with words. Look behind them. In a blind world it is better to seem foolish than wise. If I spoke of the forces of the human spirit I should end up in the fire. It is safer to call them shadows and suffer the pity of ignorance.’ A strange man . . . but now, it seems to me, his meaning and counsel are of a piece with Erlind’s way of life.”

“Bless my soul!” Jacob stared at his caustic friend in astonishment. “You surprise me, Karl. You also give me heart to say something myself. So far as I could tell Erlind kept the kernel of his faith to himself. He lived what he believed. That, to my thinking, is the true significance of his life and death. There was a rightness, and a plan in everything he did and hoped for.”

“Ah! Now we have found a centre into which all these ideas fit like the spokes of a wheel.” Father Benedict sprang to his feet, confronting the tiny remnant of his flock with elation, with a smiling confidence reminiscent of the Royal Chaplain they had once known, admired and ofttimes resented. Now the smile was kind; the arrogant eyes gentle. “I am grateful to your recluse, Karl,” he said, stepping to the stone, his hands upon it as upon a lectern. “Deeply grateful. What he said to you put me in mind of a little incident which I should have used for my instruction. It happened when I was a boy. I came upon my mother earnestly engaged in drawing lines on the barren ground before the house. She was a sensible woman and this seemed such a foolish thing to do that I asked her about it.

“ ‘I am laying out my garden,’ she said.

“ ‘But there is nothing here but stones.’

“She smiled and stood back to admire the lines and angles of her pattern. ‘The stones are my incentive. We must clear them away for I have already thought violets and rue and mountain laurel in their places. . . .’ ”

Father Benedict was silent for a moment. The lunatic drums continued their defiant clamour. Faster. Madness masked in sound. The young trees in the clearing raised their dark shapes in the waxing moonlight. A thin wall of beauty against the black menace. Overhead the stars burned the appointed hours. . . . The priest came to himself.

“Bear with me a little while. Do not be offended by the simplicity of this personal recollection. It came, I do believe, in answer to an urgent need. I have tried so hard to reconcile the irreconcilables. I should have looked behind them . . . to the Divine pattern. . . . I should have dwelt less upon the failure of our mission and more upon the rightness of its purpose and direction. I should have remembered with understanding that: ‘faith is the assurance of things hoped for the evidence of things unseen.’ Yes, I am truly grateful to your hermit, Karl Jaegar. . . . His words have thrown a light upon a familiar truth. A truth we have all lost sight of in the confusion of our anxious minds. We are the instruments of God. His agents in a still primitive, unregenerate world. That is a high privilege. As Christians it is not for us to say what our poor works signify or do not signify. No, our duty is at once more simple and sublime. It has been given us to remove the stones, and to trace beyond hope and beyond fear the pattern of things to come. . . .”

The words fell into a void. The drums had stopped; and the silence coiling in upon them had the effect of a physical shock. The noise had been frightful, but its frightfulness was tangible, a thing one could force out of mind by an effort of will. From the silence there was no escape. It was shapeless, soundless, and its discarnate tentacles were the reaching fingers of death.

The shock passed. The figures by the fire got up swiftly, their voices cheerful, all their talk commonplace. Hake, darting to the Count, asked if it were time to fetch the arms; everything was ready—oiled and burnished to the best of his ability. Jacob shook his head. “Time enough to creep into our coffins when the stars fade. We can do with a little unrestricted freedom. . . . Men!” he roared, as though his voice were to carry across a parade ground. “You have leave to butter the town! Now get moving and make it lively. . . .”

It was a stale joke but they laughed. Thus in times past the Count had been wont to give leave to his green levies. To frightened, nauseated country boys half dead from their first battle. But if the humour was missing the sentiment implied was clear to everyone. Harsh with his sergeants, uncompromising with his equals, the Count of Darre had loved his boys. . . .

In twos and threes the men drifted away. Father Benedict remained with the Count. They stood together by the Stone for a long moment in silence. Two old warriors, straight and tough as the pines of their native land, they stood there in deep quiet regarding each other with steadfast eyes. The burden of mistrust and mislike had fallen from them. They had come to the end of the story and found it good.

“Father, I have been an old fool. I ask you to forgive me. . . . I ask it of a friend; and I ask it of my priest.”

“With all my heart, Jacob!” Father Benedict’s face lit from within. He gave his blessing warmly. Then happiness overflowed in a smile. “It is good to have reached a better understanding of ourselves. When all is said, Jacob, the story of a man is a little history of his search for himself and his relationship to other men. Just now you called yourself a fool; then what must I call myself? For years I have preached obedience to God and our Holy Faith yet all the while the broom of my intellect was stirring up whirlwinds. I see now that my fierce desire to press on and on had in it an element of pride. Because I believed in our mission I refused to entertain any possibility of being wrong when I urged the men to continue the overland passage. I was so sure it was the right thing to do I came to believe it was God’s own plan. . . . That did not help me when I stood beside our dead. I realized then that I was guilty of gambling with human lives. . . . Oh yes, somewhere in the press of human anxiety I had lost my sense of proportion, forgot that a priest is a minister, not the master of men. . . .”

Jacob touched his arm. “Let us go up to the headland. It is a pleasant spot for your meditations. The men will be back in an hour or two. Until then we are free. Grettir and Magnus can be trusted to keep their eyes on the barricade. . . . They have some novel plan for a better employment of the bills.”

Skule and Ivar had gone off by themselves. They had a favourite spot which faced the mainland, a lip of land which thrust out over the water, and under which the boats were hidden. The water was grey glass, here and there touched with the lustre of a reflected star, and, midway of the far shore the moon had laid a silver path. The shore itself was a dark wall of massed trees. It was so still that the sound of a waterfowl whirring up from the reeds, which defined the shallows of the island, seemed as loud as a thunderclap. Skule laughed: “Queer thing, silence. It wakes a thousand new feelers in a man, yet he jumps at the sound of a bird.”

“Ghosts. We are never sure but that the past will catch up with us in a quiet moment.” Ivar chuckled. “We hide from ourselves in noise. . . . Come to think of it the significant difference between civilized men and savages is in their use of hilarity. The savage raises hell before he kills—we riot afterwards.”

Skule skimmed a stick into the water and grunted. “Look, Red-beard, I am fed to the teeth with wisdom. All this fuss about why and wherefore has no effect upon the only truth we know. Whatever we are we die. I grant you I find it amusing after a lifetime of danger to end up in a trap. . . . But what does it matter? Who is there to miss us . . . ?” He turned over on his back and stared up into the sky. “I might be sorry for Haakon’s wife—if I knew anything about the fidelity of wives. . . . I am sorry for Lady Margit.”

“Yes, I could almost wish that the ship we left in the Northern Sea never finds its way home . . . dead men should die but once. Still, Lady Margit will face up to it. I only hope no one tells her of Sigurd.” The big guardsman ruffled his wild hair and sighed gustily. “You know, Skule, we may be wrong about all that. There are worse things than grief . . . at least it gives you a feeling of belonging to the human race. That can hardly be said of us, my friend. The business of destruction is not very rewarding.”

Skule sat up and laughed. “Ivar, the bow, not your tongue, is your good weapon. In bowmanship you know the rules. Now you are off the mark. Loneliness is the common denominator of humanity. . . . Come along, let us join the men down by the lake.”

Meanwhile Thorvald and Karl had gone to the other side of the island. The banks were lower here and they had a view of the curving, indented shore and the pines behind which the invisible enemy awaited the dawn.

“Jacob is a stubborn man,” said Karl. “He has made a picture in his mind and no one can change it. Hardrada’s death ring! Oh, sure, armoured men can stand against naked savages a good while. We know that. We have done it before. But I ask you why should we invite the tide when a trickle is to our advantage? If we could destroy some of those damn canoes we might make a real show of it.”

“So I reasoned.” Thorvald glanced up at the sky and frowned. “But the moon as well as the Count is against us . . . and yet it could be done. We know from this morning’s fire that the camp is almost directly opposite the barricade. And the cove into which the canoes vanished is really a slip of the deeply indented shore to the west of us. If we crossed over from here and hugged the indentations we should reach the cove safely. The trouble is to cross in this light and with our heavier craft.”

There was a scurry behind them and Hake, dangling a helm, sidled up to Thorvald. “Do you not feel the wind rising?” he tugged at Thorvald’s sleeve. “The moon will soon be hid. Certainly. The Little People are sweeping up the clouds. Look!” He pointed to the pale wisps, like the combings of wool, above the distant tree tops.

“The craft is no problem,” Karl said. “We did not sink the canoe which brought the burnt offering. . . The Old Man is a bit too dramatic betimes. . . What do you say; shall we go?”

Thorvald glanced at the redoubtable ax-man sharply. What lay at the back of those glinting green eyes, he wondered. Hope? A vision of Sigurd coming to the rescue? Or did he think that a handful of men could vanquish a whole horde? “Yes,” he said shortly. “Lead the way—we must be quick about it.”

The canoe was hidden under a fall of evergreen on the banks below them. They slithered down with the stealth of redskins, and just as silently pushed the beautiful craft into the shallow water. Hake was right behind them, a determined little gnome, still clutching the helm in his tight hand. Thorvald, squatting on a muddy strip of shore to unlace his shoes, suddenly recognized the silver chasing on the helm. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked coldly. The helm was Haakon’s and he had thought it buried on the hill of massacre.

Hake returned the stare undismayed. “You have all had your say. It is time Haakon had a word. Certainly. The savages are superstitious. Let them think the dead man walked in the night—left his mark in a gutted boat. I am no fighter, honoured lords, but I can pick a hole or two as well as any Norseman. . . . Here, let me help you off with your breeks. Our lordship the Count will misdoubt your innocence if you come back dripping.”

Karl had already stripped to his ragged under pants over which he now hooked his broad leather belt from which suspended the sheath of a heavy hunting knife and a hook to safeguard Gerta. “The little man is right,” he grinned. “Whatever scath we can do it is better for a touch of witchcraft. Besides, we may need him . . . he has the eyes of a cat.”

Nothing more was said. Hake took his place midway of the slim craft, and his companions as in a single movement raised their paddles and the canoe shot out across the still surface of the lake with a rustling whisper. They got away unobserved and as Hake had predicted the cloud-sweepers came to their rescue. The moon was obscured for a few moments, long enough for them to get well off the island. They were expert paddlers and made short work of the direct passage. But having gained the opposite shore they drew in under a tangled windfall and took time to listen. So far as they had been able to observe there had been no sign of savages this side the cove. But who could be certain what this dark country held in abeyance? They heard nothing ominous however. A tiny rustle of some small creature startled from its hunting; the sleepy complaint of a bird. Hake shook his head. Nothing here—no sound or smell of danger. But for all that they proceeded with extreme caution, gliding under shelter of the shore, watchful and wary as the savages themselves.

The pace fretted them but they were rewarded for their caution by obtaining a clear view of the south bank of the cove before they ventured to enter the glittering mouth. They had not been mistaken.

There, row on row, lay the great war canoes. There must have been forty of the long ships, a formidable array in the quiet night. This tribe which meant to gobble them up as a prelude to their annihilation of the Ojibway, must certainly have gathered in full strength for their abominable undertaking. Or perhaps it was a migration, one of those shifts of population which always spelled terror and death for the more peaceable native. The two white men studied the array with cynical eyes. It was strange to have survived the endless perils of the arctic seas, to have overcome and made peace with the savages of the Eastern seaboard, and after months of fever and semi-starvation, to penetrate this far into a seemingly uninhabited plain, only to find themselves a kind of holy bait between two warring heathen nations. . . . Thorvald, automatically making count of the handsome craft, found himself recalling one of Sunniva’s unalterable precepts: sooner or later the wolf falls foul of his own shadow. Eric would have agreed with her. He had meant the same thing when he said that any participation in acts of violence affirmed the brotherhood of Cain. . . .

The little canoe, riding lightly as a leaf on a purple pool of shadow seemed for an instant to be an integral part of an abiding mystery. A tiny segment of an ephemeral landscape which nonetheless faithfully reflected an immense and always changing reality. It was a queer impression to have in such a place at such a moment. . . . Like those hilltop moments when he had stared into the sun and felt himself part of an indivisible world of sun and sea and sailing cloud. . . .

It was darker in the narrow cove and the silence had an alien quality. They could see nothing to warrant this feeling but they were aware of it the instant their canoe moved into the black water of the slip. With infinite caution they slid from shadow to shadow and finally sheltered under a spread of the everpresent overhanging willows. The drooping branches were bare which was all the better for they could glide under the lacy barrier of twig and branch without fear of what lay behind—and they could look out from this pliant prison and take note of the scene before them.

In the foreground beyond the canoes low clumps of shrubbery broke the vision. It was difficult to see clearly upshore because of this intermediate barrier of grotesque shapes and shadows. For some inexplicable reason they seemed more menacing than the tall trees behind them. Harmless familiar shapes in any other country, here they might hide red-toothed danger. Yet there was no sign or stir of life. By common accord the Norsemen glanced at Hake whose lynx eyes were staring into the darkness with the motionless intensity they had come to respect. Finally he pointed. At first they saw nothing, but then low down between the pillared shadows of a clump of spruce trees they sighted a tiny red glow which from this distance seemed no bigger than an overblown rose. They knew what it was and the knowledge was not enheartening. East or West or in this prairie limbo the redmen were equally skilled in building their minute fires. In their years amongst them the Norsemen had learned to do it themselves. An almost smokeless fire, built in lee of a rock or other windbrake, from which one drew surprising heat and comfort with the minimum of danger in hostile territory. But here, surely, caution did not enter in. For days the Sioux had published their presence with the full blown arrogance of predestined victors. It was ironical that this behaviour, which in effect was a brazen challenge to the Ojibways, stemmed from the suppositional magic of the yellow scalps the Sioux had taken.

“The canny devils must have set a watch on the canoes,” Karl whispered. “If so why not on shore?”

Thorvald did not answer; he was calculating the distance between their little craft and the war canoes. Fortunately they were drawn up in close formation; more fortunate still—and thanks to Mahigan’s instruction—both he and Karl knew where to strike the vulnerable seams. . . . Now he said: “We must swim for it. Let us work from the middle and do what we can. There is not much time. Hake will stay here and sound the alarm. . . . You understand that, Hake?”

The Laplander nodded unhappily. He mistrusted these flimsy birch-bark boats. How was he to keep from drifting? And how was he to get the helm to the chief’s canoe if he sat here in a treacherous cockle-shell? Luckily for his peace of mind when the men slipped into the water they found it very shallow at this point, a wash of a few feet over pebbly soil, currentless and calm as a duck pond. All he had to do was sit still and use his eyes. . . . The problem of the helm Thorvald settled by putting it on his head.

“Be quick then, lords. And keep your ears awake,” Hake whispered. “I smell evil—not strong; but it is there . . . listen for my catbird with the extra pipe . . . do not forget that, masters.”

With the ease of fish the two men struck out across the slip, swimming under water when the clouds cleared the moon. Except for the sibilant murmur of the water against their moving bodies not a sound was to be heard. The watch by the ball of fire—if watch it were—must be dozing, dulled by their foul feasting and the long nattering of the drums. Perhaps! The only certainty with savages was their cunning.

They reached the line of war canoes, and eased themselves by clinging to the gunwales. Then they set to work. No easy task despite their knowledge of where and how to effect most damage. As a start Thorvald disposed of Haakon’s helm, laying it midship of the largest canoe. A child’s futile gesture, to be sure, but then were they not all reduced to the status of children, helpless captives of destiny?

Oh well, Swedish hunting knives had the bite of reality! There would be casualties beyond quick repair in this smooth-skinned flotilla. That was a cheering thought in a cheerless situation. For they were hampered by the need of stealth, and the necessity of worming their way from craft to craft like water rats. Then it happened. Into the soundless night dropped the startling cry of a catbird.

Both men sank into the water and strained every nerve to hear the feline approach of the savage. They heard nothing. Not a breath. Not the quiver of a twig. But they knew by the inward thrust of their own impulses that Hake’s warning was justified. Something or someone was there!

Thorvald, taking advantage of a passing cloud which deflected the moonlight, raised his head level with the stern of the canoe to which he clung. There a few paces upshore directly in line with his vision two towering figures obscured the landscape. By instinct rather than conscious thought his eye sought his companion although he knew him to be far down the line and possibly out of sight. The instinct was mutual. In that fearsome moment Karl’s hand shot up and Gerta’s grey face glittered dully. Then he sprang. Thorvald, gathering foothold for his own leap, felt himself a dotard beside this human cat who curved through space and landed on his feet without a sound. A cat with the hammer of Thor! Quick though Thorvald was, his knife gouging a savage windpipe, Gerta was quicker. Her leering blade shattered the red man’s skull in a single blow. The fugitive horror was so quickly sped, so noiseless, that the whole thing had scarcely ruffled the night silence. Two lives had dropped into nothingness unheard as pebbles cast into a well.

But for all that the Norsemen did not venture to move for a long moment. There might be other eyes by that fire; other wolf-ears tuned to the slightest sound. . . . The moment passed. Thorvald looked down at the dead men with a stir of resentment. . . . What fury drove the human race to fling itself into the pincers of insatiable destruction? He glanced at Karl and saw that he was staring into the faceless wood behind them. Then he turned sharply: “Come, we can do no more,” he said. “I have a feeling those two will be missed. They were young men, painted for battle.”

They slipped into the water and without mishap reached their canoe and a Hake jittering with apprehension. The smell of evil was stronger, he told them. As strong and evil as he had found it on the hill of massacre. He had been frightened. The white lords were so insensitive to the warning signs of nature. There must be a whole host of devils over there the air was so full of wickedness. Then he asked about the helm and was instantly cheered. Good! Haakon’s lady was a mettlesome woman and would be glad if she but knew that her ghostly lord had the means to terrify his murderers. They let him talk since his voice was pitched to a crooning murmur which eased their own taut nerves. For the nearer they drew to their tiny island, so like a foundered ship on a black unfriendly sea, the more they felt the guilt of deserters. What if they had not returned—and the Count of Darre had had to meet dawn with a force of seven disheartened men? That was his point of course. To keep unbroken the faith which had held them in a tight loyal fellowship all these latter months of incredible pilgrimage. . . .

When the canoe drew into the island the men were a little startled to see the tall figures of Skule and Ivar looming before them. Yet they could hardly have expected to escape undetected by one or another vigilant eye. “So you saw us cross over.” Thorvald jumped ashore and held out his hand for Hake.

“Lucky for you we recognized Hake.” Skule took hold of the gunwale to help beach the canoe. “Ivar was all for taking a pot shot—said he had got a deer by moonlight why not a redskin . . . do you want to hide this thing again?”

“Shove her out of sight,” Karl answered. “What about the Old Man?”

“Magnus has him fussing around the barricade. The Count wondered where you had got to. . . . We reminded him that the Franklin liked privacy. . . .”

“Count Jacob might accept that, but I misdoubt Father Benedict believed it,” Ivar put in. “He is shrewd in more things than theology. Meseemed he had a queer look in his eye as he listened to our lies. . . . Make haste, lads—the Old Man has a mind to inspect our armour. . . . Tell me, did you find the cove?”

While they dressed Thorvald described the adventure dryly. Nothing to be proud of since all they had accomplished was the damage of a few canoes. And, of course, they now knew beyond question that their foes were as plentiful as the plagues of Egypt. So mayhap it was fitting that some of the deadly creatures should be forced to swim to the barricade. Whereupon Karl broke in with a lurid reference to Gerta’s unsatisfied appetite, and was heading into his favourite topic when a quiet voice spoke from the brown banks behind them. “You have done well, my sons. But now you must hurry. . . . It would grieve the Count if his concern and sense of duty were to be misunderstood. It would grieve him still more if he were to discover that his commands had been broken.” Father Benedict peered down at them anxiously. “Dear me, that will never do,” said he, scrambling down the bank. “You are wet as muskrats. Quick! Kneel! let me dry your heads. . . . You have laughed at my petticoats, but see, in emergency even a ragged soutan serves both God and man. . . .”

Somewhile later all the men were gathered in the clearing. They had donned chain-mail and were lined up for the Count’s inspection. It was no dress parade. He went over them with the probing search of a physician. Every buckle and strap, every conjuncture of link and plate, was examined with knowledgeable care; and last but not least he gave earnest attention to the thongs that bound their feet. Hake brought up the shields, and these too, the Count of Darre examined one by one. He paused at Thorvald’s shield, a beautiful thing. All that remained of the fine equipment once so familiar in the king’s retinue . . . well, well, they had lost a deal of treasure when Earl Bruse’s ship was crushed in the ice. . . . Things of themselves did not matter, but something indefinable and very precious had been lost with them. . . . Yes, and Father Benedict’s altar—the holy oils and sacred vessels . . . in truth it was the sea that had despoiled them. . . . A glint of humour lit his black eyes. God gave and God took away—why not the sea? Adventure, daring, courage, these were the gifts of the sea. Why should it not take toll of its creatures? . . . He handed Thorvald the shield. “This befits you more than the long-bow, Franklin, but I misdoubt not you will have need of both.”

After a briefing of what he wanted done when the attack began—especially as pertained to the three long-bows and the choice of weapons to supersede them—the Count dismissed the little group, and joined Father Benedict on his seat near the Stone. It was a formal dismissal: crisp, impersonal, almost cold. But Jacob’s face, as he turned from them, though rigidly controlled, was as grey as the rock that drew his tired eyes. When he had seated himself, stiffly erect, he seemed a grim formidable figure, with all the stern grace of a hard self-sufficient breed. But the priest was not deceived. He had too wide and intimate a knowledge of the reverse side of this cold, defensive shield. The pain. The suffocating emotion . . . the heart bleeding inward. Aye, he knew—he knew it well.

To still his own disquiet and the sharp trembling that seized upon him, Father Benedict clenched his hands against the cross which lay like a warm ray on his breast. How many deaths a man dies through his affections, he thought. And his mind flew to Lavrans, the gentle lad delivered into darkness; he thought of Paul Knutson, whose dying faith was bright as a flame; and after him in a misty panorama all the other faithful gone beyond the rim of time passed before his inner vision; and then Sigurd marching before a strange gale. . . . Now he too looked at the Stone. At the Rock whose calm face held the dimming moonlight as it held in its heart his own dedication to the great champions. Truly a man’s affections were as leaves on the spreading branches of his soul. The winds of adversity stripped them, one by one, and each falling leaf was as a mortal wound. . . . Through a mist of unshed tears he stared at the Stone and tried to search his mind for the comfort Jacob needed; and little by little, as the shapes of unfamiliar objects assume their right proportions in the night, the truths sought were revealed to him.

“Jacob, has it not occurred to you that despite tragedy and misfortune we have accomplished a rare thing on this pilgrimage? We have established a united spirit. I am quite serious, Jacob. It is a rare accomplishment. We Norsemen fight well together, we are good comrades in arms, but that is the extent of our unity. It is true we set out in a common cause, but have we not discovered personal reasons for the undertaking? Intensely human reasons: boredom, love of adventure, the desire to escape unpleasant incidents, the need of secret penance. Knowing this, is it not a minor miracle that we held together all these years? Jacob, consider . . .” in his earnestness the priest peered into his friend’s face intently—“is it likely that any ordinary motive, whether vanity or fame, or even a great cause, could have bound us so tightly? No! What held us together were the trials we suffered in common, the sorrows that lifted us out of ourselves. That was our portion in the trial of love which is God’s way of binding His worlds together . . . dear Jacob, let us not grieve too much—the living and the dead are closer than we think.”

“You are a good man,” Jacob said stiffly. “I was thinking of Margit. . . . I could not have borne a prescription from the Church. It forgets the forsaken feeling no man escapes. Does that shock you?”

“Nay. I am a man as well as a priest, Jacob. The Church, my dear friend, like any mother, survives the small rebellion of her children. . . . Now I must leave you for a while—if anyone needs me I shall be in my little alder grove.”

The night was ending. Here and there a tree drew out of the dark mass as a distinct individual form: pine, willow, poplar, alder; pale delicate shapes emerging from the grey gloom into the half light of a slowly waking world. Silence still reigned in the clearing. Even the wind went softly; and the crackle of the fire had died down to a whisper of forked yellow tongues. Only the firm grey rock was unaltered. It stood in the wavering landscape, serene and incorruptible as the faith that informed it.

Beside the fire the little group of armoured knights lay at ease; in a feigned sleep that released each man to his own intimate dream. Yet all eyes were fixed on the sky; every ear alert for the smallest sound. The priest and the Count kept vigil by the Stone. They were remarkably alike at this moment. Both were helmeted and armed. Although one man wore a robe over his armour and the other was distinguished by an ornate breastplate, they looked exactly what they were: two embattled warriors faithful to a single cause. They were done with the luxury of words. Like their comrades by the fire, they too watched the sky and waited.

But on the headland which faced upon the eastward rolling plain, Franklin Thorvald leaned against a silver poplar, his lonely thoughts homing. He was back on another headland, waiting for another sunrise. The summer air was full of wheeling birds and his young heart was full of laughter. There was a girl’s soft hand in his (the small trusting hand he had not learned to fear) and his brown cheek burned to the fugitive touch of sunbright flying hair . . . my little love, your hair was a cloud of pale gold—and all your little gay thoughts were golden too. . . . Oh, Jensine! . . . Do you somewhere remember those short happy hours? Have they shut out the rest . . . the living death. The bitter, bitter waters . . . can you see into my heart that held you so dear—

“Franklin—master—” a queerly soft voice whispered from behind him. “Do not shut the door. She is here. Little and bright. And in her hands she holds a goblet of golden wine . . . it is so, Franklin. You poured it once; she pours it now. That is as it should be, she says. It is good. It is all right.”

Thorvald looked into the ugly, earnest face of the Laplander and what he saw there stopped the bitter words on his lips. He remembered Sunniva and the strange intuitive wisdom of simple people. He remembered with a shock something she had said to him after Jensine died: “Do not grieve at her release, Thorvald. . . . Keep the door open, my falcon. She is free now . . . only you can shut her out.” He had never spoken of that. Not even to Father Benedict. He had scarcely listened. Grief and anger and black hatred for the senseless cruelty of the world imprisoned his senses. Yet something in him had heard and remembered. . . .

Hake edged closer and with a shy pleading gesture laid his hand on Thorvald’s linked sleeve. “We who get our bread in hard lonely places learn to trust the Spirit. . . . We make ourselves a bridge and the word of the Spirit comes over into our senses. . . . It is very simple.”

Thorvald stared at him in silence a long moment, and then the warmth of his rare smile flashed between them. “Yes, Hake. Very simple. As the beauty of the sunrise—and the love of God is simple.”

The night had made way for a pallid dusk. Here and there in the sky an intermittent star glittered feebly and winked out. It was the leaden moment which marks the changing rhythm of the earth; the heavy hush between night and dawn. The clearing was a neutral zone, flat and featureless as the heavens. On this grey indifferent strip the little company now stood at attention. Grey, silent men awaiting the final summons of destiny.

On either side of the Rock Father Benedict and the Count of Darre faced the East. To their knowing eyes the dwindling dusk and the phantom grey along the horizon were habitual phases in a familiar spectacle. Yet they watched with the tense expectancy of men confronted by the unpredictable. Experience and instinct informed them of what to expect but the shapes of this experience were a hydra-headed crew. The one dependable factor in their knowledge of savage warfare was the native preference for dawn attack. They would know shortly. To give the devil his due, these natives, like the rattler, had their ominous sounds, informative for those who had the ears to hear.

They were not mistaken. At the first brush of light the heavy silence was pricked by a parody of bird notes. Shrill, mocking, spears of sound that tore and teased the senses as a cat tears its prey. . . . The Count of Darre looked at the priest and nodded. The hour had struck.

Father Benedict quietly stepped forward. There was peace and grandeur in his momentary silence. In grave compassionate elation he surveyed the firm fragment of a great company. Nine men! Nine knights of the Cross they were as composed as if their ranks comprised nine hundred. The horrid din that scarified the air did not touch them. Their eyes were set on the brightening sky. The shadow of destruction lay over them . . . but the sun was rising!

But now pain twisted the Father’s heart. What he yearned to say had grown too big for words. They were his sons—his beloved sons in God. It had been granted him this night to search their hearts and to absolve them from sin. . . . A mist filmed his eyes and through the mist he saw the first white rays of the sun irradiate Heaume and helm and breastplate. It seemed to him a sign of grace. The bright illusion eased his emotion. Now he could speak. Aye, after all, little needs be said. They had fought the good fight. Now the long night was closing. By human standards their mission had failed. But God worked by mysterious ways. . . . His instruments were many and none so strange as the human mind. Although their crusade had come to naught, their dream of planting the Cross of Christ in the wilderness would come to pass. Once thought, once dreamed, the idea soon or late found expression. When or where was God’s business. Truly, they had done their part. All that man could do they had done. Now they might depart in good cheer. “What God wills we accept. In Him is our end and our beginning.” Father Benedict blessed them, making the sign of benediction over their bowed heads. Then very quickly (for now the mocking cat-calls had turned to savage howls) he gave his friends the ancient kiss of peace; and then made way for Jacob, Count of Darre.

Jacob held himself stiffly. A hard grey figure he gazed at his men with black, burning eyes in a face colourless as stone. His voice was as hard as his manner and hid the same volcanic emotion. “Men, this is the end of the road. It has been a hard, inglorious adventure. Now we shall give it glory. . . . You know what I expect of you. I know that you will do it. . . . God be with us.”

Now the stiff figure sagged a little, a spasm twisted the set face but discipline is the strength of the soul. Without haste, with the courtesy becoming the fraternity of knights, Jacob Darre took leave of his men. He laid a hand on each man’s shoulder and repeated the inaugural injunction: “God made thee knight. Be proud!” When he came to Hake, half hidden behind Thorvald, he paused a little. “Good lad,” he said, and bending swiftly, kissed his cheek.

Now the sun had cleared the horizon, flooding the sky with crimson and gold, filling the earth with beauty. Off shore unspeakable malevolence greeted the miracle. The Count faced his little company short sword in hand. “God’s death!” he shouted, “Let us change this tune somewhat.” Turning sharply, he marched his men through the clearing to the bald elevation which commanded the barricade. There they stopped. What a spectacle! So far as eye could see the shore beyond the narrows was a blaze of wild colour; a solid swarm of howling savages. And putting out from shore, swift and arrogant as deadly serpents, the long war canoes set their prows for the island. At sight of the Norsemen, a thin, glittering line on the low escarpment, the canoes leapt forward. The hubbub on shore erupted in hysterical shrieks.

The Count of Darre called back over his shoulder to the long bowmen: “Take them quickly!” With his left hand he gestured to the bills. Then he glared at Father Benedict, barring his way with the sword. “Keep back, Father! Stay with the bows . . .”

Father Benedict smiled: “No, Jacob . . .” he thrust aside the sword and held up the cross. “My son, in God’s name I disobey. In the end the Church leads her children.”

As he pressed down the hill he lifted his voice high above the raging din and began to chant the Gloria Patri.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

[The end of The Immortal Rock by Laura Goodman Salverson]