The Long Ships (36 page)

Ylva seated herself, drew her arm across her face, and burst into a loud and merry peal of laughter.

“The old man is as much a fool as you are, Orm,” she said, “though he is the best god-man I have yet come across. He thinks I am unhappy and that he can comfort me with nuts. But even in his kingdom of heaven I do not think there can be many people who are as full of joy as I am at this moment.”

Wax candles were brought in, fair and gleaming, and Brother Willibald followed with the mulled wine. He poured it out into a beaker of green glass, announcing as he did so that it must be drunk at once for its strength and flavor to be fully appreciated; and none of them dared to say that it should be otherwise.

Orm said:

“Fair the glow
Of gleaming candles,
Roman glass
And god-men’s goodness;
Fairer yet
The glow that gleams
Through the tears
Of virgin eyes.

“And that,” he added, “is the first verse that has come to my lips for many a long day.”

“Were I a poet,” said Ylva, “I, too, should dearly love to make a verse to enshrine this moment. But, alas, I cannot. This I know well, for, when the old Abbess condemned me to spend three days in prayer and fasting, I spent the whole time trying to compose lampoons about her. But I could not, though my father had on occasion tried to teach me the craft, when he was in one of his forthcoming moods. He could not compose verses himself, but he knew how it should be done. And that was the worse part of my punishment, that I was unable to compose a single verse to indict the crone who set me there. But it is all one now, for I shall not be ruled by old women any more.”

“That you shall not,” replied Orm.

There was much besides that he wished to learn from her, so she and the Bishop told him all that had happened during their last days in Denmark, and about their flight from King Sven.

“But one thing I have to confess to you,” said Ylva. “When Sven was almost upon us, and I did not know whether I should manage to escape his clutches, I hid the necklace. For, above all things, I wanted to prevent that from falling into his hands. And I had no time to get it back before we boarded the ship. I know this news will grieve you, Orm, but I could not think of anything else to do.”

“I would rather have you without the necklace than the necklace without you,” he replied. “But it is a jewel of royal worth, and I fear you will feel its loss more deeply than I shall. Where did you hide it?”

“That, at least, I can tell you,” she said, “for I think there is nobody here who will betray the secret. A short way from the great gate of the palace, there is a small rise, covered with heather and juniper, just to the right of the path below the bridge. On that rise, there are three large stones lying together in the undergrowth. Two of them are large and are buried deep in the ground, so that they are scarcely visible. The third lies balanced on top of them, and is not so heavy but that I managed to shift it. I wrapped the necklace in a cloth, and the cloth in a skin, and put them beneath this stone. It was a hard thing for me to have to leave it there, for it was the only keepsake I had by which to remember you. But I think it must still be lying there safely, more so than if it had accompanied me to this foreign land, for no man ever goes near that place, nor even cattle.”

“I know those stones,” said Brother Willibald. “I used to go there to gather wild thyme and cat’s-foot against the heartburn.”

“It may prove to be a lucky chance that you hid it outside the rampart,” said Orm, “though I fear it will be a difficult enough task to fetch it from its present hiding-place, so near as it is to the wolf’s lair.”

Now that Ylva had eased her mind of this burden, her heart was lightened. She flung her arms round the Bishop’s neck, squeezed almonds into his mouth, and begged him to bless them and marry them there and then. But this suggestion so horrified the Bishop that he got an almond lodged in his windpipe and waved his hands in dismay.

“I am of the same mind as the woman,” said Orm. “God Himself saw to it that we should meet again, and we do not intend to part any more.”

“You do not know what you are saying,” protested the Bishop. “Such ideas are the Devil’s prompting.”

“I will not return to the crone,” said Ylva, “and I cannot stay here. I shall go with Orm in any case, and it will be better if you wed us first.”

“He is not yet baptized!” cried the Bishop in despair. “Dear child, how can I marry you to a heathen? It is a scandalous thing to see a young girl so hot with lust. Have you never been taught the meaning of modesty?”

“No,” replied Ylva without hesitation. “My father taught me many things, but modesty was something of which he knew little. But how can there be any harm in my wishing to get married?”

Orm took from his belt six gold pieces, which remained from the small hoard he had brought home from Andalusia, and laid them on the table before the Bishop.

“I am already paying one Bishop to baptize me,” he said, “and I am not so poor but that I can afford to pay another to marry me. If you speak well of me to God, and buy candles for His church out of this money, I do not think He will mind if I get married first and baptized later.”

“He has the blood of Broad-Hug in his veins,” said Ylva proudly, “and if you have any scruples about marrying an unbaptized man, why do you not baptize him yourself here and now? Bid your servants bring water, and sprinkle him as you used to sprinkle the sick in Denmark. What matter if he gets baptized again later, with the others before the King? Twice cannot be worse than once.”

“The sacrament must not be abused,” said the Bishop chidingly, “and I do not know if he is yet ready to receive it.”

“He is ready,” said Brother Willibald. “And he might perhaps receive provisional baptism, though that is a ceremony which is seldom performed nowadays. It is lawful for a Christian woman to marry a man who has been provisionally baptized.”

Orm and Ylva looked admiringly at Brother Willibald, and the Bishop clasped his hands together and his face grew less troubled.

“Old age has clouded my powers of memory,” he said, “unless it is this good wine that has done it, though its effect is, in general, salutary. In ancient times it was a common practice for men who were not prepared to allow themselves to be baptized, but who yet held Christ in honor, to be provisionally baptized. It is lucky for all of us that we have Brother Willibald here to remind us of these things.”

“I have felt friendly toward him for some time,” said Orm, “and now he stands even higher in my affection. From the very first moment that I met him after the battle, my luck turned for the better.”

The Bishop straightway sent a messenger to summon the Abbot and two of his canons, who came readily to help him perform the rite and to see this foreign chieftain. When the Bishop had robed himself, he dipped his hand in holy water and made the sign of the cross over Orm, touching him on the forehead, the breast, and the hands, the while pronouncing blessings upon him.

“I must be growing used to this,” said Orm when the Bishop had finished, “for this frightened me much less than when the other fellow sprinkled me with the branch.”

All the churchmen agreed that an unbaptized man could not be married in the abbey chapel, but that the ceremony might take place in the Bishop’s chamber. So Orm and Ylva were told to kneel before the Bishop, on two hassocks that were provided for them.

“This is a posture I do not think you are used to,” said Ylva.

“I have spent more time than most men upon my knees,” replied Orm, “in the days when I used to serve Mohammed. But it is a good thing not to have to beat my brow against the floor!”

When the Bishop came to the part of the service in which he had to exhort them to multiply and to dwell together in peace for the remainder of their days, they nodded their affirmation. But when he commanded Ylva to obey her husband in everything, they looked doubtfully at each other.

“I shall do my best,” said Ylva.

“It will be hard for her at first,” said Orm, “for she is not accustomed to obedience. But I will remind her of these words of yours if ever they should slip her memory.”

When the ceremony had been completed and all the churchmen had wished them good luck and many children, it occurred to the Bishop to worry about where they were to spend their bridal night. For there was no room available in the abbey, nor in the houses adjoining it, and he knew of no place in the city where they might find lodgings.

“I will go with Orm,” said Ylva contentedly. “What is good enough for him will be good enough for me.”

“You cannot lie with him by the campfires, among all the other men,” exclaimed the Bishop in alarm.

But Orm said:

“The voyager,
Heir to the sea,
The good plower
Of the auk-bird’s meadow,
Hath a bridal bed
For his royal spouse
Better than straw
Or cushioned couches.”

Brother Willibald accompanied them as far as the city gate, to make sure the guards allowed them to pass through the postern. There they parted from him, with many expressions of gratitude, and made their way down to the pier where the ships lay. Rapp had left two men on board, to guard against thieves. These men, left to their own devices, had drunk deeply, so that the sound of their sleeping was audible from a good distance. Orm shook them awake and bade them help him pull the ship into midstream, which, though they were still befuddled, they succeeded at last in doing. Then they dropped anchor, and the ship stood swaying upon the tide.

“I have no further need of you now,” he said to the two men.

“How shall we get ashore?” they asked.

“It is not far for a bold man to swim,” he replied.

They both complained that they were drunk and that the water was cold.

“I am not in a waiting mood,” said Orm; and, with those words, he picked one of them up by the neck and belt and tossed him headfirst into the river, whereupon the other promptly followed him, without further ado. From the darkness echoed back the sounds of their coughing and sneezing as they splashed their way toward the bank.

“I do not think anyone will disturb us now,” said Orm.

“This is a bridal bed that I shall not complain of,” said Ylva.

It was late that night before they closed their eyes, but when at last they did so, they slept well.

    When, next day, the envoys appeared before King Ethelred with Gudmund and Orm, they found the King in an excellent humor. After bidding them a warm welcome, he praised the chieftains for their zeal to be baptized, and asked whether they were enjoying their sojourn at Westminster. Gudmund had occupied the night with a tremendous drinking-bout, the effects of which were still noticeable in his speech, so that he and Orm both felt honestly able to reply that they were.

The Bishops began by relating the outcome of their mission and giving details of the agreement they had reached with the Vikings, while everyone in the hall hung upon their words. The King was seated on a throne beneath a canopy, with his crown upon his head and his scepter in his hand. Orm thought that this was a new sort of monarch to see after Almansur and King Harald. He was a tall man, of dignified appearance, swathed in a velvet cloak, and pale-complexioned, with a sparse brown beard and large eyes.

When the Bishops named the amount of silver that they had promised the Vikings, King Ethelred smote the arm of his throne violently with his scepter, whereupon all the gathering in the hall rose to their feet.

“Look!” he exclaimed to the Archbishop, who was seated by his side on a lower chair. “Four flies at a single blow! And yet this is but poorly shaped for the work.”

The Archbishop said he thought there were not many kings in the world who could have performed such a feat, and that it testified both to his dexterity and to the excellence of his luck. The King nodded delightedly; then the envoys proceeded with their narration, and everybody began again to listen to them.

When at last they had concluded, the King thanked them and praised the wisdom and zeal they had displayed. He asked the Archbishop what he thought the general reaction to the settlement would be. The Archbishop replied that the sum that the Bishops had named would, indeed, be a heavy burden for the land to bear, but that it was, beyond doubt, the best solution of a difficult situation; to which the King nodded his agreement.

“It is, moreover, a good thing,” continued the Archbishop, “a joy to all Christian folk and highly pleasing to the Lord our God that our pious envoys have succeeded in winning these great warchieftains and many of their followers over to the army of Christ. Let us not forget to rejoice at this.”

“By no means,” said King Ethelred.

The Bishop of London murmured to Gudmund that it was now his turn to speak, and Gudmund willingly stepped forward. He thanked the King for the hospitality and generosity he had shown them, and informed him that his fame would hereafter stretch as far as the most distant villages of East Guteland, if not farther still. But, he went on, there was one thing that he was anxious to know: namely, how long it would be before the silver was actually placed in their hands.

The King regarded him closely while he was speaking and, when he had concluded, asked him what the scar on his face might signify.

Gudmund replied that it was a wound he had received from a bear he had once attacked rather thoughtlessly, allowing the bear to break the shaft of the spear that he had driven into its chest and then maul him with its claws before he at last managed to fell it with his ax.

King Ethelred’s face clouded with sympathy as he listened to the story of this unfortunate incident.

“We have no bears in this land,” he said, “much to our loss. But my brother, King Hugo of Frankland, has lately sent me two bears that know how to dance and thereby give us great pleasure. I should have liked to show them to you, but unfortunately my best trainer marched away with Byrhtnoth and was slain by you in the battle. I miss him greatly, for when other men try to make them dance, they move but sluggishly or not at all.”