Читать книгу The Long Ships: A Saga of the Viking Age - Michael Meyer - Страница 18

While they were resting with the monks of St Finnian, Orm and his men deliberated deeply as to what course they should take once the slaves had recovered sufficiently for them to be able to proceed on their voyage. They were all eager to get back home, Orm no less than the others; nor was there much danger of encountering pirates at this time of year, when few ships were at sea. But the going was likely to be hard in the winter weather, which in turn might well result in the slaves dying on their hands; it would, therefore, they thought, perhaps be wisest to sell them as soon as possible. For that, they could either sail down to Limerick, where Orm’s father was well known, or up to Cork, where Olof of the Precious Stones had for long been the biggest dealer in slaves in these parts. They asked the monks which they thought would be the best plan for them to follow.

When the monks understood what their guests wanted to know, they chattered eagerly to each other, and were apparently much amused; then their spokesman said: ‘It is plain that you come from distant parts and know little about the way things are in Ireland now. It will not be easy for you to trade in Limerick, or in Cork either; for Brian Boru is powerful in Ireland now and, although you hail from a far country, you have probably heard of him.’

Orm said that he often heard his father speak of a King Brian, who waged war against the Vikings in Limerick.

‘He does not wage war against them any longer,’ said the monk. ‘At first he was the chieftain of the Dalcassians; then the Vikings in Limerick waged war against him. After that, he became King of Thomond, and then he waged war against them. In time, he became King of the whole of Munster, and then he stormed Limerick and killed most of the Vikings there; those that were not killed, fled. So now he is the greatest warrior and hero in Ireland, King of Munster, and Lord of Leinster; and such foreigners as remain in our coastal cities pay tribute to him. At present, he is waging war against Malachy, who is King of all our kings in Ireland, to win his wife and his power from him. Olof of the Precious Stones pays him tribute and has to send him soldiers to help him with his war against King Malachy; and even Sigtrygg Silk-Beard of Dublin, who is the most powerful of all the foreign chieftains in Ireland, has paid him tribute on two occasions.’

‘These are grave tidings,’ said Orm; ‘and this King Brian appears indeed to be a mighty chieftain, though it may be that we have seen a mightier. But even if all you say is true, I do not see why this should prevent us from selling our slaves to him.’

‘King Brian does not buy slaves,’ said the monk, ‘for he takes all that he requires from his neighbours and from the men of Lochlann. Besides which, it is known that there are three things which he covets more than anything else in the world, and three things that he abominates – and these last will be to your disadvantage. The things that he covets are these: supreme power, which he has already; the greatest quantity of gold, which he also has; and the most beautiful woman, whom all the world knows to be Gormlaith, the sister of Maelmore, King of Leinster. Her he has yet to win. She was formerly married to King Olof Kvaran of Dublin, who got rid of her because of the sharpness of her tongue; now she is wed to Malachy, the King of our kings, who so disports himself in her boudoirs that he is hardly fit to take the field any more. When Brian has defeated Malachy he will win Gormlaith, for he never fails to get what he wants. But the three things that he most abominates are heathens, men from Lochlann, and poets who praise other kings. His hatred is as violent as his greed, and nothing can assuage either of them; so, since you are heathens and Lochlannachs to boot, we would not advise you to approach him too nearly, for we do not want to see you killed.’

The men listened attentively to all this, and agreed that it would be unrewarding to trade with King Brian. Orm said: ‘It seems to me that the James bell was a good guide to us, when it led us to your isle and not to King Brian’s kingdom.’

‘St Finnian’s bell helped you, too,’ said the monk; ‘and now that you have seen what the saints can do, even for the heathens, would it not be a wise thing for you to start believing in God and become Christians?’

Orm said that he had not given the matter much consideration, and that he did not think there was any urgency about deciding.

‘It may be more urgent than you know,’ said the monk, ‘for there are now only eleven years left till the end of the world, when Christ will appear in the sky and judge all mortal men. Before this happens, all heathens will do well to be baptized; and it would be foolish of you to be among the last to do so. Unbelievers are now going over to God in greater numbers than ever before, so that in a short while there will be few of them left in their darkness; and certain it is that the coming of Christ is presently imminent, for the wickedest heathen of all, King Harald of Denmark, has just been baptized. Now, therefore, is the time for you to do as he has done and abandon your false gods and embrace the true faith.’

All the men stared at him in amazement, and one or two of them burst out laughing and slapped their knees.

‘You will soon be telling us,’ said Toke, ‘that he has become a monk like yourself, and shaved off his hair.’

Orm said: ‘We have travelled far and wide in the world, while you rest here with your brothers on this lonely island; nevertheless, you have greater tidings for us than we have to tell you. But this is no small thing that you ask us to believe, when you tell us that King Harald has turned Christian; and I think the most likely explanation is that some seafarer has put this idea into your heads, knowing that you are simple and incredulous and thinking to make sport of you.’

But the monk insisted that he had spoken the truth, and had not merely repeated some sailor’s yarn. For they had heard this great news from the mouth of their own Bishop, when he had visited them two years before; and on each of the next seven Sundays they had offered thanks to God, on behalf of all Christians whose homes had been visited by the Vikings, for the great victory He had gained.

This persuaded the men that the monk had told them the truth, though they found it none the less difficult to believe such remarkable tidings.

‘He is himself descended from Odin,’ they said, staring at one another in amazement; ‘how, then, can he bind himself to any other god?’

‘All his life he has had great good luck,’ they said; ‘and this was granted to him by the Aesir; his fleets have sailed against the Christians and have returned home laden with their wealth. What can he want with the Christians’ god?’

They shook their heads and sat dumbfounded.

‘He is old now,’ said Grinulf, ‘and it may be that he has become a child again, as King Ane of Uppsala did in former times. For kings drink stronger ale than other men, and have many women; and that can tire a man over the years, so that his understanding darkens and he no longer knows what he is doing. But men who are kings do as they please, even when wisdom has passed from them. Perhaps that is how King Harald has become ensnared into these Christian beliefs.’

The men nodded assent, and recounted stories of people in their homeland who had grown peculiar in their old age and had caused their families great trouble by their crooked fancies; and they all agreed that it was no good thing for a man to live until his teeth fell out and his understanding began to languish. The monks pointed out that worse things than that would befall them, for when the Day of Judgment arrived, in eleven years’ time, they would be dragged suddenly out of the earth. But the men replied that they would worry about that when the time came, and that they were not going to bother to go over to Christ for the fear of that.

Orm had much to occupy his mind, for he had to decide what course they would do best to take, seeing that they did not dare to go inland to the markets. At length he said to his men: ‘It is a fine thing to be a chieftain when there is booty to be divided up and ale to be handed around, but less desirable when there are plans to be made; and I have not been able to think out anything very good. Certain it is that we must sail now, for the slaves are as fit as they ever will be as the result of their rest here and the good food they have had, and the longer we delay the more difficult our journey will be, because of the weather. The best plan seems to me to be to sail to King Harald, for in his court there are many rich men who will be likely to give us a good price for our slaves; and, if he has in fact turned Christian, we have a fine gift to offer him, which should bring us at once into his favour. For my part, I would rather enter his service than sit at home as the youngest son in my father’s house, if indeed the old man and Odd, my brother, are still alive, which I do not know; and those of you who yearn to return to your homes will have an easy journey from his court to Bleckinge, once we have completed the sale and shared out the money. But the main problem will be to see that the slaves do not die, when we come up into the cold of the northern waters.’

Then he told the monks that he was prepared to drive a bargain with them. If they gave him all the goatskins they had, together with such clothes as they could spare, he would let them keep the two feeblest of his slaves; for, if he took them with him on the voyage, they would die, while if they stayed ashore and regained their health, they would be useful to the monks. In addition to this, he was willing to give them some Andalusian silver coins. The monks laughed, and said that this was a better bargain than most Irishmen managed to drive with Lochlannach; but that they would most of all like to have the James bell. Orm, however, replied that he could not spare this, and the bargain was concluded on the basis of his original proposal, so that the slaves were provided with something in the way of winter clothing.

They smoked fish and goat’s-meat to provision themselves for the voyage, taking besides a quantity of the turnips that the monks grew. The monks helped them with everything, behaving in the most friendly way towards them, and did not complain about their herd of goats being reduced to such small proportions by their guests; the only things that worried them were that the holy bell was going to remain in heathen hands, and that Orm and his men would not realize what was best for them and become Christians. When the time came to say farewell, they made one last effort to convince their departing friends of the truth about Christ and St Finnian and the Day of Judgment, and all the things that would befall them if they neglected to be converted to the true faith. Orm replied that he had little time just then to attend to such matters, but added that he would be a poor chieftain if he went away without giving them some token of gratitude for all the hospitality they had shown towards him and his men. Then, putting his hand into his belt, he drew out three gold pieces and gave them to the monks.

When Toke saw this, he laughed to see such open-handedness; but then he said that he was as rich a man as Orm, and that he intended in due course to marry into one of the best houses in Lister and become a great man in his district. So he, too, gave the monks three gold pieces, while they stood amazed to see such munificence. The other men did not greatly enthuse over the example of their leaders, but for the sake of their good names they, too, gave something; all except Grinulf. The others chaffed him for his thrift, but he grinned with his crooked mouth, and scratched his beard on his cheek and was content with the way he had acted.

‘I am no chieftain,’ he said, ‘besides which, I am beginning to grow old; no girl is going to marry me and bring me a fine house to live in, and no gammer neither. So I am only being prudent, in being thrifty.’

When the slaves had been led aboard again and chained to their places, Orm sailed away from St Finnian’s Isle and headed eastwards along the Irish coast. They had a strong wind to help them, and made good progress. All of them were troubled by the autumn cold, despite the fact that they had swathed themselves in goatskins; for Orm and his men had by now been such a long time in the south that they felt the cold in their bones more than they had been wont to. Nevertheless, they were all in good heart at being so near to their homeland, and their only anxiety was lest they should be intercepted by other of their countrymen who might be in these waters; so they kept a sharp look-out. For the monks had said that Vikings from Denmark were to be seen in greater numbers than ever around the English coasts now that most of Ireland had been closed to them by the might of King Brian, so that England was now regarded as being the best hunting-ground. In order, therefore, to avoid encountering other Viking ships, Orm kept the ship well out from the land as they steered up through the English Channel. They had good luck, for they met no ships; so they emerged into the open sea, and felt the spray of the waves growing colder, and sailed on until they sighted the coast of Jutland. Then they all laughed for joy, for it gladdened their hearts to see Danish soil once more; and they pointed out to one another the various landmarks that they had sighted when they had sailed southwards with Krok long before.

They rounded the Skaw and steered southwards, coming into the lee of the land; and now the slaves had to row again, as well as they could, while the bell of James sang the stroke. Here, Orm spoke with some men in fishing-boats who crossed their course, and discovered from them how far they were from Jellinge, where King Harald Bluetooth held his court. Then they polished their weapons and saw to their clothing, so that they might appear before the king in a manner befitting men of worth.

Early one morning, they rowed up to Jellinge and made their ship fast to a pier. From where they lay, they could see the royal castle, surrounded by a stockade. There were some huts down by the pier, and people came out of them and stared curiously at Orm and his men, for they had the mien and appearance of foreigners. Then the men lifted the bell ashore, using the same platform and rollers that they had employed in Asturia; and while they did so, a crowd of astonished spectators gathered from the huts to gaze upon so great a wonder and to learn where these foreigners had come from. Orm and his men found it very strange to hear their own language being spoken by others again, after having lived among foreigners for so many years. They released the slaves from their chains and harnessed them to the bell, to pull it up to the King.

Suddenly, they heard cries and sounds of confusion from the direction of the castle, and saw a fat man in a long cowl come running towards them down the hill. He was shaven, and wore a silver cross at his breast and terror in his face. He arrived breathlessly at the huts and, flinging his arms wide apart, cried, ‘Leeches! Leeches! Is there no merciful soul here who can give us leeches? I must have blood-leeches immediately, fresh and strong.’

They could tell he was a foreigner, but he spoke the Danish tongue deftly, although he was gasping for breath.

‘Our leeches up in the castle have fallen sick and lost their appetite,’ he continued, panting, ‘and leeches are the only thing to relieve him when he has the toothache. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, is there nobody here who has any leeches?’

No one in the huts had leeches, however, and the fat priest groaned and began to look desperate. He had by this time arrived down at the pier where Orm’s ship was lying at anchor, and there, suddenly, he caught sight of the bell and the men surrounding it. His eyes emerged slowly from their sockets, and he ran forward to examine it more closely.

‘What is this?’ he cried. ‘A bell, a holy bell? Am I dreaming? Is this a real bell, or is it a fabrication of the devil? How has it come here, to this land of darkness and evil spirits? Never in my life have I seen such a magnificent bell, not even in the Emperor’s own cathedral at Worms.’

‘It is called James, after an apostle,’ said Orm; ‘and we have brought it here from the apostle’s church in Asturia. We heard that King Harald had turned Christian, and thought such a gift would please him.’

‘A miracle, a miracle!’ cried the priest, bursting into tears of relief and stretching his arms heavenwards. ‘God’s angels have turned to us in our hour of need, when our leeches sickened. This is better medicine than leeches. But hurry, hurry! Delay is dangerous, for he has the ache badly.’

The slaves dragged the bell slowly up towards the castle, while the priest exhorted the men incessantly to use all the strength they had to pull it faster. He kept up a continual chatter, as though he had taken leave of his senses, mopping his eyes and turning his face skywards and crying out fragments of sacred jargon. Orm and the others gathered that the King had toothache, but could not make out what good their bell was expected to do. But the priest babbled about how lucky something was and called them messengers of God and said that everything would now be all right.

‘He has not many teeth left in his mouth, praised be Almighty God!’ he said, ‘but those that he has cause us as much trouble as all the other machinations contrived by the devil in the whole of this barbarous land. For, despite his age, they often cause him pain, all except the two blue ones; and when they begin to ache he is dangerous to approach, and blasphemes immoderately. There was a time this summer, when one of his molars was hurting him, that he almost sent Brother Willibald to join the martyrs; for he hit him on the head with the big crucifix, which should properly only be used for the soothing of pain. Brother Willibald is himself again now, praise the Lord, but he was sick and dizzy for many weeks. We resigned our lives to the mercy of God, Brother Willibald and I, when we came with Bishop Poppo to this land of darkness with our gospel and our skill in healing; still, it seems a waste to be threatened with martyrdom for the sake of a couple of old teeth. Nor are we permitted to draw any of them out. This he has forbidden us to do, on pain of death, for he says that he is not prepared to become like some old King of the Swedes who ended up drinking milk from a horn. You see the difficulties and dangers we endure from this king in our zeal to spread the faith; Brother Willibald, who is the wisest doctor in the whole diocese of Bremen, and I myself, who am both doctor and precentor, and am called Brother Matthias.’

He paused for breath, mopping the sweat from his face and panted at the slaves to move faster. Then he continued: ‘The chief difficulty which we doctors have to put up with in this country is that we have no relics to help us, not even so much as a single one of St Lazarus’ teeth, which are irresistible healers of the toothache and are to be found everywhere else in Christendom. For we missionaries to the heathen are not permitted to carry relics with us, lest they should fall into heathen hands and so become sullied. We have to rely on our prayers and the Cross and earthly means of healing, and sometimes these are not enough. So none of us can heal by spiritual medicine here among the Danes, until we have relics to assist us; and the time for that has not yet arrived. For although three bishops and innumerable minor priests have been killed by the people here, and some of the bodies of these martyrs have been recovered and given Christian burial, so that we know where to find them, yet the Holy Church had ordained that no bones of bishops or martyrs may be dug up and used for medicine until they have been dead thirty-six years. Until that time comes, this will be a difficult country for doctors to work in.’

He shook his head and mumbled sadly to himself, but then appeared to perk up again.

‘However,’ he went on, ‘now that God has seen fit to allow this great miracle to take place, things will become easier for Brother Willibald and me. True it is that I have never seen any reference in the Holy Scriptures to any special efficacy of St James as a healer of the toothache; but in his own bell, fresh from his blessed tomb, there must surely reside much power against evil of all kinds, even including bad teeth. Therefore, chieftain, it cannot but be that you are God’s messenger to myself and Brother Willibald, and to all of the Christian faith in this land.’

Orm said: ‘O wise sir, how can you cure toothache with a bell? My men and I have been in distant lands and have seen many marvellous things; but this would be the most miraculous of all.’

‘There are two cures for the toothache that we who are skilled in the craft of healing know of,’ replied Brother Matthias, ‘and both of them are good. Personally – and I am sure Brother Willibald will feel as I do in the matter – I am of the opinion that the ancient prescription laid down by St Gregory is the most effective. You will soon have an opportunity to witness it in operation.’

By this time they had reached the rampart with its surmounting stockade, and the great outer door was opened for them by an old porter, while another man blew on a horn to signify that visitors had arrived. Brother Matthias placed himself at the head of the procession, and began exultantly to chant a holy song: Vexilla regis prodeunt. Behind him marched Orm and Toke, followed by the slaves drawing the bell, with the other men urging them along.

Within the stockade lay many houses, all belonging to members of the King’s household. For King Harald lived in greater pomp, and with a more extravagant show of power, than his father had done. He had had King Gorm’s huge dining-hall enlarged and had added to its splendour, and had had longhouses built for his servants and followers. The completion of his cookhouse and brewery had been celebrated by poets; and men who knew said that they were even bigger than those of the king in Uppsala. Brother Matthias led the way to the King’s own sleep-house; for, now that he was old, King Harald spent most of his time there with his women and his treasure-chests.

The sleep-house was a lofty and very spacious building, though nowadays it was less crowded than it had been of old. For, since Bishop Poppo had repeatedly warned King Harald that he must take good care in every respect to lead a Christian life, the King had dispensed with the services of most of his women, retaining only a few of the younger ones. Such of the older women as had borne him children now lived elsewhere within the walls. On this particular morning, however, there was a great bustle of activity in and about the house, with many people of both sexes running around in anxious confusion. Some of them stopped to stare at the approaching procession, asking themselves what all this could mean; but Brother Matthias, breaking off his song, cantered like a drunken man through the crowd and into the King’s chambers, with Orm and Toke following him.

‘Brother Willibald, Brother Willibald!’ he cried. ‘There is yet balm to be found in Gilead! Royal King, rejoice and praise God, for a miracle has been performed for you, and your pain shall soon be driven away. I am as Saul, the son of Kish; for I went out to seek blood-leeches, and found instead a holy thing.’

While Orm’s men were, with great difficulty, contriving to bring the bell into the King’s bedchamber, Brother Matthias began to recount all that had taken place.

Orm and his men saluted King Harald with great respect, gazing curiously upon him; for his name had been in their ears for as long as they could remember, and they thought it strange to see him, after all these years, in such a sick and sorry state.

His bed stood against the short wall of the room, facing the door. It was stoutly timbered and lofty, and was full of bolsters and skin rugs; and it was of such a size that three or four people might lie in it without crowding each other. King Harald sat on its edge, surrounded by cushions, wrapped in a long robe of otter’s fur and wearing on his head a yellow knitted woollen cap. On the floor at his feet squatted two young women, with a pan of hot coals between them, and each of them held one of his feet on her knees and chafed it to keep it warm.

The most ignorant of men, seeing him there, would instinctively have guessed that King Harald was a great king, although the circumstances of royalty were absent and an expression of unkingly misery was upon his face. His big round eyes goggled with melancholy anticipation of imminent agony as his gaze wandered around the faces in his chamber and finally alighted on the bell as it entered the door. He seemed unable to register much interest in the sight that greeted his eyes, and panted in little gasps, as though out of breath; for the pain had temporarily gone, and he was waiting for it to come back and torment him anew. He was heavily built and of powerful appearance, broad-chested and huge-paunched, and his face was large and red, with shiny and unwrinkled skin. His hair was white, but his beard, which was thick and matted and lay down over his chest in tapering tongues, was a greyish yellow; though, in the middle there was a narrow ribbon, coming down from his nether lip, which had retained its full yellowness and contained no grey at all. His face was wet all round his mouth, from the medicines he had taken for the pain, so that both his blue eye-teeth, which were famous for their length as well as for their colour, glistened even more brightly than was their wont, like the tusks on an old boar. His eyes stood goggling from their sockets and were bloodshot; but an awful majesty lurked within them, and in his broad forehead and great grizzled eyebrows.

Bishop Poppo was not present, for he had been keeping vigil by the King’s bedside throughout the night, offering up prayers for him, and had had to listen to frightful threats and blasphemies when the pain had grown especially violent, so that in the end he had been compelled to retire and get some rest. But Brother Willibald, who had also been up all night experimenting with various medicines in company with Brother Matthias, had managed to remain awake and was still in cheerful spirits. He was a little, shrivelled man, with a big nose and pursed lips and a red scar across his temples. He nodded eagerly as he listened to Brother Matthias’ account of what had taken place, and flung his arms above his head when he saw the bell appear in the doorway.

‘This is in sooth a miracle!’ he cried, in piercing and exultant tones. ‘As the ravens of the sky succoured the prophet Elijah with food when he was alone in the wilderness, so have these wanderers come to our aid with help sent from heaven. All our worldly medicines have only succeeded in banishing the pain for a few minutes; for as soon as our lord the King’s impatience causes him to open his mouth, the pain returns at once. So it has been throughout the night. Now, however, his cure is certain. First, then, Brother Matthias, wash the bell well with holy water; then turn it on its side, and wash its interior, for I do not see on its outer surface any of the dust that we shall need. Then, in good time, I will mix this dust with the other ingredients.’

So they turned the bell on to its side, and Brother Matthias swabbed its interior with a cloth dipped in holy water, which he then wrung out into a bowl. There was a lot of old dust in the bell, so that the water he wrung out of the cloth was quite black, which greatly delighted Brother Willibald. Then Brother Willibald set to work mixing his medicines, which he kept in a big leather chest, all the while delivering an instructive discourse to such of the company as were curious to know what he was attempting to do.

‘The ancient prescription of St Gregory is the most efficacious in cases such as this,’ he said. ‘It is a simple formula, and there are no secrets about its preparation. Juice of sloe, boar’s gall, saltpetre and bull’s-blood, a pinch of horse-radish and a few drops of juniper-water, all mixed with an equal quantity of holy water in which some sacred relic has been washed. The mixture to be kept in the mouth while three verses from the psalms are sung; this procedure to be repeated thrice. This is the surest medicine against the toothache that we who practise the craft of healing know: and it never fails, provided that the sacred relic is sufficiently strong. The Apulian doctors of the old Emperor Otto fancied frog’s blood to be more efficacious than bull’s-blood, but few physicians are of that opinion nowadays; which is a fortunate thing, for frog’s-blood is not easy to procure in winter.’

He took from his chest two small metal bottles, uncorked them, smelt them, shook his head, and sent a servant to the kitchen to fetch fresh galls and fresh bull’s blood.

‘Only the best will suffice in a case such as this,’ he said; ‘and, when the relic is as powerful as the one we have here, great care must be taken over the other ingredients.’

All this had occupied several minutes, and King Harald now seemed to be less troubled by his pain. He turned his gaze towards Orm and Toke, evidently puzzled at seeing strangers clad in foreign armour; for they still wore the red cloaks and engraved shields of Almansur, and their helmets had nose-pieces and descended low down over their cheeks and necks. He beckoned to them to come nearer.

‘Whose men are you?’ he said.

‘We are your men, King Harald,’ replied Orm. ‘But we have come hither from Andalusia, where we served Almansur, the great Lord of Cordova, until blood came between us and him. Krok of Lister was our chieftain when we first set forth, sailing in three ships. But he was killed, and many others with him. I am Orm, the son of Toste, of the Mound in Skania, chieftain of such as remain; and we have come to you with this bell. We thought it would be a good gift for you, O King, when we heard that you had become a Christian. Of its potency in countering the toothache I know nothing, but at sea it has been a powerful ally to us. It was the largest of all the bells over St James’s grave in Asturia, where many marvellous things were found; we went there with our master, Almansur, who treasured this bell most dearly.’

King Harald nodded without speaking; but one of the two young women squatting at his feet turned her head and, staring up at Orm and Toke, said very rapidly in Arabic: ‘In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate! Are you Almansur’s men?’

They both gazed at her, amazed at hearing this tongue spoken at King Harald’s court. She was fair to look upon, with large brown eyes that stood wide apart in her pale face. Her hair was black and hung from her temples in two long plaits. Toke had never been fluent in Arabic, but it was by now a long time since he had talked with a woman, so that he managed to come out readily with his reply. ‘You surely come from Andalusia,’ he said. ‘I have seen women there like you, though none so fair.’

She gave him a quick smile, showing her white teeth, but then turned her eyes sadly downwards.

‘O stranger, who speaks my language,’ she said in a soft voice, ‘you see what reward my beauty has brought me. Here sit I, an Andalusian of Celbitian blood, now a slave-girl among the darkest heathens and shamefully unveiled, rubbing this old Bluetooth’s decaying feet. There is nothing in this country but cold and darkness and skin-rugs and lice, and food such as the dogs of Seville would vomit up. Only in Allah can I seek refuge from the miserable fate to which my beauty has brought me.’

‘You look to me to be too good for the work you are doing here,’ said Toke warmly. ‘You ought to be able to find yourself a man with something better than his toes to offer you.’

Again she smiled like the sun at him, although tears had come into her eyes; but at that moment King Harald roused himself and said angrily: ‘Who are you that mumble crow-talk with my woman?’

‘I am Toke, the son of Grey Gull of Lister,’ replied Toke, ‘and my sword and the dexterity of my tongue are all that I possess. But I intended no disrespect to you, O King, in addressing your woman. She asked me about the bell, and I answered her; and she replied that she thought it was a gift that would give you as much pleasure as she has given you, and be no less useful.’

King Harald opened his mouth to reply, but, as he did so, his face went black and he let out a roar and flung himself backwards among the cushions, so that the two young women working on his feet were thrown head over heels on to their backs; for the pain had returned savagely into his bad tooth.

At this there was great confusion in the bedchamber, and those that stood nearest the King’s bed took a step backwards lest he should become violent. But Brother Willibald had by now prepared his potion, and came boldly forward with cheerful mien and encouraging words.

‘Now, now, royal King!’ he said admonishingly, and made the sign of the cross twice, first over the King and then over the bowl containing the potion, which he held in one of his hands. With his other hand he took a little horn spoon, and chanted in a solemn voice:

‘The cruel pain

Within thee burning

Now shall be quenched

In the well of healing.

Soon shalt thou feel

The ache departing.’

The King stared at him and his bowl, snorted angrily, shook his head and groaned, and then, in his agony, aimed a blow at him and roared violently: ‘Away from me, priest! Away with your incantations and broth. Ho, there, Hallbjörn, Arnkel, Grim! Up with your axes and split me this louse of a priest!’

But his men had often heard him talk like this, and paid no heed to his fulminations: and Brother Willibald, no whit daunted, addressed him boldly: ‘Be patient, O King, and sit upright and put this in your mouth; for it is rich with the strength of saints. Only three spoonfuls, O King, and you need not swallow them. Sing, Brother Matthias!’

Brother Matthias, who was standing behind Brother Willibald with the great crucifix in his hand, began to intone a sacred hymn:

‘Solve vincla reis

profer lumen caecis,

mala nostra pelle,

bona cuncta posce!’

This seemed to subdue the King, for he patiently allowed himself to be lifted into a sitting position. Brother Willibald promptly inserted a spoonful of the mixture into his mouth, proceeding as he did so to accompany Brother Matthias in his hymn, while everyone in the bedchamber watched them with great expectancy. The King went purple in the face with the strength of the potion, but kept his mouth closed; then, when three verses had been sung, he obediently spat it out, whereupon Brother Willibald, without desisting from his singing, gave him another spoonful.

All the spectators afterwards agreed that it was only a few seconds after receiving the second spoonful, and before the priests had had time to complete a verse of the hymn, that the King suddenly closed his eyes and went rigid. Then he opened them again and spat out the potion, gave vent to a deep sigh, and roared for ale. Brother Willibald stopped singing and leaned anxiously towards him.

‘Is it better, your Majesty? Has the pain ceased?’

‘It has,’ said the King, spitting again. ‘Your medicine was sour, but it appears to have been effective.’

Brother Willibald threw up his arms for joy.

‘Hosanna!’ he cried. ‘A miracle has occurred! St James of Spain has answered our prayer! Praise the Lord, O King, for better times are now beginning! The toothache shall no more cloud your spirit, nor shall anxiety dwell in the hearts of your servants!’

King Harald nodded his head and stroked the corners of his beard. He seized with both hands a large vessel, which a page brought to him, and raised it to his mouth. At first he swallowed carefully, evidently afraid lest the pain might return, but then drank confidently until the vessel was empty. He ordered it to be refilled and offered it to Orm.

‘Drink!’ he commanded. ‘And accept our thanks for the succour you have brought us.’

Orm took the vessel and drank. It was the finest ale he had ever tasted, strong and full-bodied, such as only kings could afford to brew, and he drank it with a will. Toke watched him, and sighed; then, he said:

‘In my throat there is a feeling

Of dry-rot most unblest.

Do physicians know the healing

For me, that ale is best?’

‘If you are a poet, you shall drink,’ said King Harald. ‘But afterwards you will have to compose a poem about your drink.’

So they filled the vessel again for Toke, and he put it to his mouth and drank, leaning his head further and further backwards; and all those present in the King’s bedchamber agreed that they had seen few vessels emptied more smartly. Then he reflected for a while, wiping the froth from his beard, and at length declaimed, in a voice stronger than that in which he had made his request:

‘Thirsting I rowed for many a year,

And thirsting I did good slaughter.

All praise to thee, Gorm’s gracious heir!

Thou knowest my favourite water!’

The men in the bedchamber praised Toke’s poem, and King Harald said: ‘There are few poets to be found nowadays, and few of those are able to turn out verses without sitting for hours in cogitation. Many men have come to me with odes and lyrics, and it has vexed me sorely to see them while the winter away in my halls with their noses snuffling up my ale, producing nothing whatever once they had declaimed the poem they had brought with them. I like men to whom verses come easily, and who can give me some new delight each day when I dine, in which respect, you, Toke of Lister, are more fluent than any poet I have heard since Einar Skalaglam and Vigfus Viga-Glumsson were my guests. You shall both spend Yule with me, and your men too; and my best ale shall be provided for you, for you have earned it by the gift you brought me.’

Then King Harald gave a great yawn, for he was weary after his troublesome night. He wrapped his fur more closely around him, snuggled himself into a more comfortable position in his bed, and lay ready for rest, with the two young women on either side of him. The skin rugs were spread over him, and Brother Matthias and Brother Willibald made the sign of the cross above his head and mumbled a prayer. Then they all left the room, and the groom of the bedchamber strode into the middle of the palace yard with his sword in his hand and cried three times in a loud voice: ‘The King of Denmark sleeps!’ so that no noise should be made which might disturb King Harald’s slumber.