The Harp and the Blade (12 page)

Nobody injured them, because slaves are valuable, but they grouped together weeping or staring around with piteous eyes.

A man who travels with Danes has often to harden his stomach, but I didn’t look at the captives any more than I could help. Not that they could be physically much worse off than in the life France allowed them; indeed, it was probable that they would be much better fed, plus being infinitely better protected. Moreover, in so far as slavery is concerned a villein’s status is only nominally above it; but at least here they could suffer among their own kind and with their own families.

When the meat was eaten and the wine drinking began it was time for me to make my bid. For though I was on good -terms with Thorgrim nothing definite had been accomplished toward accompanying him when he left. It was up to me to show that I would be an addition to the voyage, and I rose with my harp. “Shut up and listen to the scald!” others echoed my roar for silence.

Danes only want one thing, a lay to satisfy their concept of adventure. Nevertheless, a certain amount of care was necessary as to the exact choice of subject. There are so many feuds and factions among them that it is well to know a band’s leanings and connections before praising a leader or recounting a battle. I avoided this risk by choosing an incident from the far past.

“I’ll sing to you,” I called out, “of how Hogni got the Odinsword.”

“That’s fine!” one raised his voice above the general murmur of approval.

“Silence for the scald!” another took it on himself to command.

Merry and on the way to being drunk, they were in the mood to hear any fast-moving tale that didn’t step on their toes. Hogni was a popular figure with Danish poets, and his whole story was well known to everyone present. An incident of his life could, therefore, be told without preface. With one motion I swept the strings and flung out my arm dramatically.

“The king of the trolls caroused at yule,

Whiling winter with wine from the south,

Never fearing a foeman’s coming

To pierce this hill, piled high with snow.

No gloom
was
there, for glowing gold

Roofed the room where rang their songs,

Driving dark from deep in the caves

Where trolls hide well the treasure they win.

But one-eyed Odin entered the sleep

Of Hogni, telling the hero a sword

Of Wayland’s making might be his

If he forbore to fatten on rest.

Up rose Hogni to run on staves,

Skimming the drifts on skis, as petrels

Skim the waves of the wife-bereaver,

Swift on slopes as a sliding otter. ”

I glanced to make sure that I was holding Thorgrim’s attention. He was manifesting interest, though I couldn’t be certain how much. There was a nice but important point involved in the extent of his enthusiasm. Should I be forced to ask for inclusion in his company I would be consigning myself to the position of just another one of his followers. If, on the other hand, he should be moved to issue an invitation, I would be going along as a guest and an equal.

“The cold mirk-wood might cast no terror

On such a man. His mood was baneful.

He’d slake his longing or sleep forever,

Win the weapon or waste in his howe.

He found the drift his dream had showed him,

Winnowed the woof of winter’s loom,

Found the rift in the rocks behind it

And entered the earth there, eager for plunder.

A fearful fire-drake formed by Loki

Was there to watch but winter had lulled it;

Certain of safety, sightless with sleep,

Traitor to trust, the trolls’ guard lay.”

Thorgrim was watching his men. His own judgment of the poem was of less moment to him, naturally, than their reaction. If I proved someone who could help to keep them good-humored, and therefore easily handled, why that was all he wanted to know.

“No man-made sword could mar its life;

Steel-hard scales were scornful of axes.

Woe was Hogni’s should he wake it,

As well he knew; but he never wavered.

Hardy the hero who held his course

Past such a monster, mocking the peril!

Boldly he passed it, bored through the hill—

A dangerous mole in that dark passage.”

I was using every trick of harp, voice and gesture in the trade, and at the next line I caught up my cup with a flourish.

“Soon he heard ‘skoal!’ from skinkers by hundreds,

And, following further, found the cavern

Glorious with gold and glittering jewels,

Splashes of fire in a splendor of colors.

Careless the king sat, cracking jests,

Proud of his thanes nor thinking of evil;

But Hogni was grim and gripped his axe.

He would not turn with his task undone.

Wild were the warriors, wine-sodden trolls!

When Hogni harried the hall of their monarch.

Fierce was his onset, fast as an osprey’s.

He made no pause to ask pardon of any.”

They were with me now, exhilarated by Hogni’s swift daring, and laughed at the understatement. Downstream I saw the other three galleys pulling toward us. Fortunately all the rest had their eyes on me and failed to notice. I twanged my harp loudly to announce the climax of the lay.

“Before the ruler could roar for help

Hogni’s axe was high above him.

Keen was the edge the king saw then;

Trapped in his hall the troll sat moveless.

‘What will the hero have for my ransom?’

The ring-bestower wrathfully asked him.

‘I’ll give you gold or gorgeous gems

Craftily hewn from the hold of the earth.’

Loud laughed Hogni. ‘Leave it for dragons

Sour with aging to sulk over treasure!

Let cowards be misers—a man is before you!

I want no baubles, but Wayland’s sword!’ ”

They cheered the sentiment, but I was wry in my mind. Catch these or any other Danes I’d ever met turning down loot in favor of honor! Still the fact that they knew how they ought to feel was sufficient for my purposes.

“Not gladly given, the glaive was his

And warriors ran for weapons, raging;

They were all fain to follow Hogni;

Who leaped to leave them, laughing his triumph.

The noise unknotted the noose of sleep

That bound the fire-drake, fiercely it reared;

Sure no sword could shear its armor,

It deemed then Hogni was done with life.

But Way land forges no false weapons
—

They’re valkyries with vampire mouths,

Brands that none but the Norns can break
—

And Hogni carved to its cold heart.

Maddened with anger oncoming trolls

Rushed to catch and kill the riever,

But skillful on skis he skimmed away,

Bearing his booty back to his steading.”

They roared cheers, and Thorgrim himself refilled my cup. “Have you any particular plan?” he asked when we had toasted each other.

“Why?” I inquired offhandedly.

“We’ve a long voyage ahead, and there’s not a scald in the company. It ought to be a pretty interesting trip for you, too. Why don’t you join us?”

I made as if to consider. “Where do you go now?”

“To the Spanish slave markets,” he answered. “Maybe?” and he tapped the Varangian axe, “I may even decide to go back to Miklagard after that.”

Constantinople was a place I had long wanted to see, and Spain I had only visited once. “Thanks. I’d like to join you.”

“Good,” he nodded, and we both turned to watch the galleys land.

I
WAS
feeling good. Here my life was all arranged once more, and the prospects were excellent. If we made the great journey to Byzantium it would be strange if I couldn’t find the makings of some good poems. Moreover, if the expedition was successful I should return with pelf to spare. Triumphant chiefs are generous in their gifts to scalds.

Best of all was the thought of getting out of that accursed country where nothing ever turned out well for me. I shook my head cheerfully at thought of the Pictish priest. He had made good his threat, and I was glad to get out from under.

The first boat contained the plunder, including a half-dozen newly made slaves. With drowsy compassion I watched them being herded ashore. Then the roof of hope fell in. “Holy St. Patrick!” I breathed. But I knew that neither he nor anyone else would help me.

The fourth of the lot was the girl I’d met at the ford. It wasn’t that I cared for her as such or had the slightest concern for her personal welfare. She and her bravos had given me a bad scare, and I hadn’t wanted to re-encounter her. And at that moment I would have given all Charlemagne’s empire, had I owned it, for the privilege of not seeing her again.

Or if I hadn’t seen her before it would have been all right. I could think of her what was probably true of all the others. They were wretches whose lives it would take a deliberately sadistic master to make less endurable. And if the women were sold to Moorish harems, why, they would lead a sheltered existence compared to that to which they were accustomed, with outlaw bands periodically subjecting them to gang rape. The alternative for their kind was becoming some leader’s doxy.

But I had looked on this girl in her pride, and I could not so classify her. She was of my own sort, and whatever else she was she was no man’s whore. So though we had met as enemies the fact that we had met at all before placed an obligation on me. I shivered, feeling sick.

Her frightened eyes glared hate as the vikings cheered her beauty, but Thorgrim came between her and a couple of drunken youngsters. “Who takes prizes first?” he asked them dangerously, nor were they too crazed to remember he was chief.

Mustering a guard, Thorgrim sent the prisoners to join the others in one of the ships. “One good thing about getting older,” he said as he resettled himself comfortably, “is that you don’t let lust interfere with the profits. When I was the age of those boys I would have had that girl, and very likely she would have knifed me for it as soon as she got the chance. That kind doesn’t take to man-handling. As it is I’ll get a good price for her from some Moor, and let him get killed instead.” He stretched. “Feel like giving us another song?”

“No,” I said. I didn’t yet see what I could do.

I gained nothing but a headache and a morosely fatal feeling from that night, and I took ship the next morning with only the knowledge that I’d made some sort of gesture toward freeing the girl. Thorgrim, as I had taken for granted he would, had arranged that she, as his most valuable prisoner, should voyage in his galley. He took the tiller to steer up river, and I stood silently beside him.

It was just after we had started that she recognized me for the first time. I saw her eyes widen, then her mouth set in a yet harder line of hate. No doubt I was in just such company as she would have expected. I looked away from her, sweeping earth and sky in an aimless reach for courage.

My mouth was dry, and my hands started to sweat. If I was to help the girl, now was the time, before she was borne too far from kinsmen or friends who might take her in. Otherwise I’d have her on my hands, and the last thing I wanted was somebody to look after in that land where I wasn’t able to keep any decent footing for myself.

When the ship had straightened its course to head upriver I got behind Thorgrim. In addition to being jumpy with nervousness I disliked so repaying his hospitality, but there was no other solution. “Thorgrim,” I told him, letting him feel the point, “there’s a knife at your back. Move or yell, and you die.”

He stiffened, but that was all. “Well?” he queried; and his whisper carried his anger as well as a shout could have done.

“It’s the girl there. I want you to put us both ashore.”

“I might have known she’d make trouble,” he said bitterly. “Why didn’t you say you wanted her? Maybe I’d have given her to you.”

I paid no attention to that. Nor was there any use in telling him that I didn’t want her. He would merely have considered that incomprehensible meanness. I was sorry I couldn’t make him understand, for we had been friendly.

“Put us on the north bank,” I ordered.

He was too surprised and furious to stop arguing and make up his mind. “Why didn’t you fight me for her openly?” He was still pursuing the ethics of the case. “Only a bastard Irishman would drink a man’s wine, then knife him when his back was turned.”

Not bothering to point out that the wine in question was really the property of St. Lucien Abbey, I pricked him a little harder. If it came to the pinch I’d decided to kill him, too. He showed no mercy to any, and my last act would be to see that he got none. “Well?” I said in turn.

“No!”

He meant it. A Danish chief will do anything rather than compromise with his own sense of dignity. He’d let us both die and be damned before he’d accept the ignominy of being forced to surrender a valuable prize in the presence of his own men. I sought desperately for a sop to his pride.

“Look!” I urged. “If you’ll give her to me and let us go free I’ll make a lay about how Thorgrim the Varanger fared back from Miklagard to avenge his brother.” That had actually been a notable exploit, because Sweyn Bucktooth had had a great reputation as a warrior. “I’ll sing the tale in every land I visit,” I continued persuasively, “and I’ll write it in runes for men that live after us to read.”

It was that last touch that won him. A Dane is as desirous of having his name and exploits known by later generations as a saint could be of securing a place near the throne of heaven. Every man to his own immortality.