Читать книгу The Ward of King Canute - Ottilie A. Liljencrantz - Страница 5

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At a hoary speaker

Laugh thou never.

Often is good that which the aged utter;

Oft from a shrivelled hide

Discreet words issue.

Ha’vama’l.

She made a convincing boy, this daughter of the Vikings. Though she was sixteen, her graceful body had retained most of the lines and slender curves of childhood; and she was long of limb and broad of shoulder. Her head was poised alertly above her strong young throat, and she was as straight as a fir-tree and as supple as a birch. A life out-of-doors had given to her skin a tone of warm brown, which, in a land that expected women to be lily-fair, was like a mask added to her disguise. The blackness of her hair was equally unconnected with Northern dreams of beautiful maidens. “Dark-haired women, like slaves, black and bad,” was the proverb of the Danish camps. Some fair-tressed ancestor back in the past must have qualified his blood from the veins of an Irish captive; in no other way could one account for those locks, and for her eyes that were of the grayish blue of iris petals.

The eyes were a little staring this morning, as though still stretched wide with the horror of the things they had looked upon; and all the glowing red blood had ebbed away from the brown cheeks.

She said in a low voice, “My father... Fridtjof...” then stopped to draw a long hard breath through her set teeth.

For the moment Sister Wynfreda was not a nun but a woman,—a woman with a great yearning tenderness that might have been a beautiful mother-love. She ran to the girl and caught her tremblingly by the hands, feeling up her arms to her shoulders and about her face, as if to make sure that she was really unharmed.

“Praise the Lord that you are delivered whole to me!” she breathed. “Gram told us—that they had taken you.”

Gazing at her out of horror-filled eyes, Randalin stood quite still in her embrace. Her story came from her in jerks, and each fragment seemed to leave her breathless, though she spoke slowly.

“I broke away,” she said. “They stood around me in a ring. Norman Leofwinesson said he would carry me before a priest and marry me, so that Avalcomb might be his lawfully, whichever king got the victory. I said by no means would I wed him; sooner would I slay him. All thought that a great jest and laughed. While they were shouting I slipped between them and got up the stairs into a chamber, where I bolted the door and would not open to them, though they pounded their fists sore and cursed at me. After a while the pounding became an exertion to them, and one began to talk about the mead that was waiting below. And after that they whispered together for a space. At last they began to laugh and jeer, and called to me that they would go down and drink my wedding toast before they broke in the door and fetched me; and then they betook themselves to feasting.”

Sister Wynfreda bent her head to murmur a prayer: “God forgive me if I have lacked charity in my judgment on the Pagans! If they who have seen the light can do such deeds, what can be expected of those who yet labor under the curse of darkness?”

“I do not understand you,” Randalin said wearily, sinking on the grass and passing her hands over her strained eyes. “When a man looks with eyes of longing upon another man’s property, it is to be expected that he will do as much evil as luck allows him. Though he has got Baddeby, Norman was covetous of Avalcomb. When his lord, Edric Jarl, was still King Edmund’s man, he twice beset the castle, and my father twice held it against him. And his greed was such that he could not stay away even after Edric had become the man of Canute.”

It was the nun’s turn for bewilderment. “The man of Canute? Edric of Mercia, who is married to the King’s sister? It cannot be that you know what you say!”

“Certainly I know what I say,” the girl returned a little impatiently. “All English lords are fraudulent; men can see that by the state of the country. Though he be thrice kinsman to the English King, Edric Jarl has joined the host of Canute of Denmark; and all his men have followed him. But even that agreement could not hold Norman back from Avalcomb. He lay hidden near the gate till he saw my father come, in the dusk, from hunting, when he fell upon him and slew him, and forced an entrance—the nithing! When he had five-and-fifty men and my father but twelve!”

She paused, with set lips and head flung high. The nun got down stiffly beside her and laid a gentle hand upon her knee.

“Think not of it, my daughter,” she urged. “Think of your present need and of what it behooves us to do. Tell me how you escaped from the chamber, and why you wear these clothes.”

“They were Fridtjof’s.” She spoke his name very softly. “I found them hanging on the chamber wall. In the night the men began to entertain themselves with singing, and it could be heard that they were getting drunk. It had been in my mind that I would stay where I was until they forced the door; then, because I would like it better to die than to marry any of them, I would throw myself out of the window, and the stones below would cause my death. But now it came to me that if I could dress so that they would not notice me, there were many good chances that I might slip past them and get out through the postern. I waited till they were all still, and then I crept into the women’s room, and found the bondmaids huddled in their beds. They got afraid at the sight of me, for they thought I was Fridtjof’s ghost; and they dared not move. So I had to go down alone.” She shuddered in spite of herself. “Never did I think that darkness could be so unpleasant,—when one is listening for sounds and fears to put out a hand lest it touch something alive! But I got past the door and through the guard-room, where the Englishmen were snoring so loud that they would not have heard if I had stamped. In a niche in the wall outside I found Almstein the steward hiding, full of fear. I made him follow me out of the postern and around to the gate where...my father...and...Fridtjof...” Her voice broke, but she struggled on. “The English dogs had left them there... My father’s face was...wounded...and the moon made his hair all silver round it, so that the blood looked to be black blots... And Fridtjof’s sword was in his hand... Always he had wished to go into battle, though he was no more than fourteen winters old... There was a smile on his lips... I made Almstein dig two graves. He is a cowardly fellow, and it is likely that he would have left them there till the English were gone. I kissed Fridtjof’s mouth...and...and I laid...my father’s cloak...over...over his...face.”

It was useless trying to go on; a deep sob shut off her voice and threatened to rend her when she tried to hold it back. Sister Wynfreda strove with gentle arms to draw her down upon her breast.

“Suffer the tears to come, my daughter,” she urged her tenderly, “or sooner or later they must.”

Randalin pulled away almost roughly, dashing the drops from her eyes.

“They shall not!” she cried brokenly. “They shall not! Am I a weak-minded English woman that I should shed tears because my kin are murdered? I will shed blood to avenge them; that is befitting a Danish girl. I will not weep,—as though there were shame to wash out! They died with great glory, like warriors. I will fix it in my mind that I am a kinswoman of warriors. I will not weep.”

The older woman shrank a little. To ears attuned to the silence of the grave, such an outburst was little less than terrifying; she was at a loss how to soothe the girl. To gain a respite, she stole away and renewed the wounded man’s bandages.

After a moment Randalin rose and followed, buckling her cloak as she went.

“Since I am become this man’s lord, I think it right for me to see how he fares before I leave him,” she explained. Once more she spoke gently, though the fire of her pride had quite dried her tears.

“Before you leave him?” The form in the faded robes turned inquiringly toward the erect young figure in its brave scarlet cloak. “What is it you say, my child?”

But Randalin was bending low over the green couch. “Do you know who I am?” she was asking urgently of the woodward. “Fix your eyes on me and try to gather together your wits.”

Slowly the man’s wandering gaze focussed itself; a silly laugh welled up in his throat. “It would be no strange wonder if I did not,” he chuckled. “Odin has changed you greatly; your face was never so beautiful. But this once you cannot trick me, Fridtjof Frodesson.”

There came a time when this mistake was a source of some comfort to Randalin, Frode’s daughter; but now she stirred impatiently.

“Look again, and try to command your tongue. Tell me the state of your feelings. Can you live?”

The man shook with his foolish laughter. “You cub! Will not even being killed cure you of your tricks? If you who have been in Valhalla do not know what Odin intends about my life, how can I know, who have stayed on earth?”

Sister Wynfreda’s hand fell upon the girl’s arm. “Disquiet yourself no further,” she whispered. “It is useless and to no end. If it please the Lord to bless our labors, the wound will soon be healed. Come this way, where he cannot hear our voices, and tell me what moves you to speak of leaving. Is it not your intention to creep in with us?”

As she yielded reluctantly to the pressure, Randalin even showed surprise at the question. “By no means. My errand hither was only to ask for bread. I thought it unadvisable to venture into the castle kitchen, yet it is needful that I keep up my strength. I go direct to the Danish camp to get justice from King Canute.”

The nun reached out and caught the gay cloak, gasping. “The Danish camp? You speak in a raving fit! Better you thrust yourself into a den of ravenous beasts. You know not what you say.”

Offense stiffened the figure under the cloak. “It is you who do not know. Now, as always, you think about Canute what lying English mouths have told of him. I know him from my father’s lips. No man on the Island is so true as he, or so generous to those who ask of him. Time and again have I heard my father bid Fridtjof to imitate him. He is the highest-minded man in the world.” Her voice as she ended was a stone wall of defiance. Sister Wynfreda made a desperate dash down another road.

“My daughter, I entreat that you will not despise my offer. The yoke is not so heavy here. Here is no strict convent rule; how could there be? We are but a handful of feeble old women left living after those who led us are gone, to the end that heathen fog smother not utterly the light which once was so bright. In truth, most dear child, you would have no hard lot among us. A few hours’ work in the garden,—surely that is a pleasure, watching the fair green things spring and thrive under your care. And when the tenderness of the birds and the content of the little creeping creatures have filled your heart to bursting with a sense of God’s goodness, to come and stand before the Holy Table and pour out your joys in sweet melody—”

But Randalin’s head was shaking too decidedly, though she was not ungentle in her answering. “I give you thanks, Sister Wynfreda, but such a life is not for me. My nature is such that I do not like the gloomy songs you sing; nor do I care for green things, except to wear in my hair. And it seems to me that I should be spiritless and a coward if I should like such a life. I am no English girl, to tremble and hide under a mean kirtle. I am a Norse maiden, the kinswoman of warriors. I think I should not show much honor to my father and my brother were I to leave them unavenged and sit down here with you. No, I will go to my King and get justice. When he has slain the murderer and given me the castle again, I will come back; and you shall come and live with me, and eat meat instead of herbs, and—”

In her desperation, Sister Wynfreda caught her by the wrists and held her. “My daughter, my daughter, shake off this sleep of your wits, I entreat you! The men you are trusting in are dreams which you have dreamed in the safety of your father’s arms. They among whom you are going are barbarians,—yea, devils! It were even better had you married the son of Leofwine. Think you I know nothing of the Pagans, that you set my words at naught? Who but Danish-men laid low these walls, and slaughtered the holy nuns as lambs are torn by wild beasts? Have I not seen their horrid wickedness? You think a nun a coward? Know you how these scars came on my face? Three times, with my own hands, I pressed a red-hot iron there to destroy the beauty that allured, else had the Pagans dragged me with them. Was I a coward?”

Randalin’s eyes were very wide. “It seems to me that you were simple-minded,” she breathed. “Why did you not thrust the iron in his face?”

But Sister Wynfreda’s expression changed so strangely that the girl foresaw an attack along another line, and hastened to forestall it. “It is not worth while to tell me further about the matter. Do you not see that it is by no means the same? I shall be a Danish woman among Danish men. I shall not be a captive, to be made a drudge of and beaten. It is altogether different. I shall be with my own people, my own King. Let us end this talk. Give me the bread and let me go. The sun is getting high.”

She glanced at it as she spoke, and found it so much higher than she had realized that her haste increased.

“No, I dare not wait for it. It is necessary that I get a good start, or they will overtake me. They are to join Canute near Scoerstan; I heard it talked among them. My horse is somewhat heavy in his movements, for he is the one Gram rode yesterday; I found him grazing by the road. Let me go, Sister Wynfreda. Bid me farewell and let me go.”

Clutching at her belt, her arm, her cloak, the nun strove desperately to detain her. “Randalin! Listen! Alas! how you grieve me by talking after this manner! Wait, you do not understand. It is not their cruelty I fear for you. Child, listen! It is not their blows—”

But Randalin had wrenched herself free. “Oh, fear, fear, fear!” she cried impatiently. “Fear your enemies; fear your friends; fear your shadow! Old women are afraid of everything! You will see when I come back. No, no, do not look at me like that; I do not mean to behave badly toward you, but it will become a great misfortune to me ii I am hindered; it will, in truth. See now; I will kiss you—here where your cheek is softest. I cannot allow you to take hold of my cloak again. There! Now lay your hand upon my head, as you do with the children when you wish them good luck.”

Because there was nothing else to do, and because the thought of doing this gave her some comfort, Sister Wynfreda complied. Laying her trembling hands upon the bared black head, she raised her despairing face to heaven and prayed with all the earnestness that was hers. Then she stood at the gate in silence and watched the girl set forth. As Randalin turned into the sunny highway, she looked back with a brave smile and waved her cap at the faded figure under the arch. But the nun, left in the moss-grown garden, wrapped in the peace of the grave, saw her through a blur of tears.

“God guard you, my fledgeling,” she whispered over and over. “My prayers be as a wall around you. My love go with you as a warm hand in your loneliness. God keep you in safety, my most beloved daughter!”