The men hastened to fetch armor for Orm and Sigtrygg, and the noise in the hall was very great as the rival merits of the champions were extolled and challenged. King Harald’s men deemed Orm the better fighter of the two, but King Sven’s men were loud in Sigtrygg’s praise and said that he had slain nine men in single combat without sustaining a single wound serious enough to require bandaging. Among those who talked loudest was Dyre. He asked Orm whether he was not afraid that the cold of the grave might make him cough; then he turned to his brother and bade him be content to have Orm’s chain for his share of the compensation and allow him, Dyre, to have Orm’s sword.
All this while, since they had first interrupted his story, Toke had been sitting in heavy silence mumbling to himself and drinking; but when he heard Dyre’s words, life seemed to return into his brain. He plunged his eating-knife into the table in front of Dyre’s place, so that it stood quivering in the wood, and tossed his sword, still in its sheath, beside the knife; then he leaned forward across the table, so quickly that Dyre had no time to draw away, seized him by the ears and the beard on his cheeks, and forced his face downwards toward the weapons, saying: “Here you see weapons as good as Orm’s; but if you wish to have them, you must win them yourself and not beg them from another.”
Dyre was a strong man, and he took hold of Toke’s wrists and tried to dislodge his grip, but only succeeded in intensifying the pressure on his ears and beard, so that he groaned and grunted but could not free himself.
“I am holding you here in amicable converse,” said Toke, “because I have no wish to disturb the King’s peace in this hall. But you shall not go free till you have promised to fight with me, for Red-Jowl likes not to hide her beauty from men’s eyes when her sister dances naked.”
“Let me go,” snarled Dyre, his mouth pressing against the table, “that I may waste no time in closing your mouth.”
“That is a promise,” said Toke, and as he spoke he released his grip and blew from between his fingers the wisps of beard that he had dragged from their roots.
The whole of Dyre’s face, apart from his ears, which were scarlet, was white with fury, and at first he seemed to have lost the power of speech. He rose slowly to his feet and said: “This matter shall be settled without delay; and your suggestion is a good one, for by this means my brother and I shall have a Spanish sword apiece. Let us go out and piss together, nor forget to bring our swords with us.”
“That was well spoken,” said Toke. “You and I can dispense with the formalities of kings. For your acceptance of my suggestion, I shall remain in your debt as long as you live; how long that may be, we shall shortly know.”
Then they descended the length of the King’s table, each on his opposite side, and strode shoulder to shoulder down the aisle between the long tables that faced each other across the hall, and out through one of the doors in the short wall at the bottom. King Sven saw them go and smiled, for it pleased him to see his men behave arrogantly, because this increased his fame and the fear in which his name was held.
Meanwhile Orm and Sigtrygg had begun to arm themselves for combat, and the part of the floor where they were to fight had been swept, so that they should not slip on the straw or stumble over the bones that had been thrown there for King Harald’s dogs to gnaw. The men who had been eating at the top and bottom of the hall now crowded forward to get a better view, squeezing into spaces on the benches and the long tables on both sides of the cleared square, as well as behind King Harald’s table and along the wall on the remaining side. King Harald was in high good humor and could scarcely wait for the fight to begin; and when, on turning his head, he noticed two of his women peeping eagerly in at one of the doors, he issued a command that all his women and daughters should come and watch the sport; for it would be a hard thing, he said, if they should be denied the pleasure of witnessing such a spectacle. He made room for some of them on his own royal bench, by his side and on his knees, and for others in the Bishop’s empty seat; the two most beautiful of his daughters, however, managed to find a space on either side of Styrbjörn and found nothing to complain of in the tightness of the crush that pressed them against him; they giggled coyly when he offered them ale, and drank it with a bold air. For those women who could not find room on the royal bench, another bench was placed behind the table in such a position that the King and his companions did not impede their view.
Hallbjörn the groom then commanded a fanfare to be blown, and called for silence. He proclaimed that everyone should keep absolutely still while the fight was in progress, and that no man might shout advice to the contestants, or throw anything into the arena. Both the contestants were now ready, and they entered the arena and stood facing each other. When it was seen that Orm held his sword in his left hand, an excited hubbub of discussion broke out, for a fight between one right-handed and one left-handed man provided difficulties for both of them, since it meant that the blows fell on their sword-arm sides, to which their shield offered less protection.
It was plain that neither of them was the sort of adversary that a man would choose to find himself pitted against; nor did either man appear to cherish any anxiety regarding the outcome of the contest. Orm was half a head taller than Sigtrygg and had the longer reach, but Sigtrygg was more squarely built and looked rather the more powerful man of the two. They held their shields well forward across their breasts and high enough to be able to cover their necks promptly, should the necessity arise; and each kept his eyes fixed on his opponent’s sword, so as to be able to anticipate the other’s blows. As soon as they came within striking distance of one another, Orm aimed a slash at Sigtrygg’s legs, but Sigtrygg evaded the blow nimbly and replied with a vicious swing that landed with a ringing crash on Orm’s helmet. After this opening, both men proceeded more cautiously, parrying each other’s blows skillfully with their shields, and King Harald was heard to observe to his women that it was good to see experienced swordsmen such as these at work, instead of the sort who rushed crazily into the fight leaving themselves open; for this meant that the spectacle would last longer.
“It is no easy thing to forecast which of these two is likely to prove the master,” he said. “But the red man looks to me to be as safe a swordsman as I have seen for many a month, for all his fear of the cold; and I shall not be surprised if Sven is one kinsman the poorer tonight.”
King Sven, who, like both the jarls, was sitting on the edge of the table to get a better view of the fight, smiled contemptuously and retorted that nobody who knew Sigtrygg need have any fears regarding the outcome. “Although my men are not averse to the sport of armed combat,” he said, “it is seldom that I lose one of them, except when they fight against one another.”
As he spoke, Toke re-entered the hall. He was limping badly and could be heard muttering a verse to himself; and as he climbed over the bench to his place, it could be seen that one of his legs was black with blood from his thigh to his knee.
“How went it with Dyre?” asked Sigurd Buesson.
“It took time,” replied Toke; “but he finished pissing at last.”
Everybody’s eyes were now on the fight, which Sigtrygg seemed eager to bring to a quick conclusion. He was attacking Orm savagely, trying to pierce his defense and concentrating on his legs and face and the fingers of his sword-hand. Orm was defending himself ably, but did not appear to be able to achieve anything very positive himself; and it could be seen that he was having trouble with Sigtrygg’s shield. This was larger than his own and was of tough wood, strengthened with leather; only the center boss was of iron, and Orm had to take care that his sword should not become embedded in the edge of the shield, for if that were to happen, it would give Sigtrygg the chance to snap it or wrench it from his grasp by a twist of his arm. Orm’s shield was made entirely of iron, with a sharp spike in its center.
Sigtrygg sneeringly asked Orm whether it was warm enough for him. Blood was pouring down Orm’s cheek from the first blow on his helmet, and he had be
sides received a thrust in the leg and a slash across the hand, while Sigtrygg was still unmarked. Orm made no reply, but retreated step by step alongside one of the long tables. Crouching behind his shield, Sigtrygg moved swiftly in to the attack, padding forwards and occasionally leaping to one or the other side, while his blows rained ever the more fiercely, so that it seemed to most of the spectators that the end could not now be far distant.
Then Orm suddenly sprang at his opponent and, taking Sigtrygg’s blow on his sword, drove his shield against Sigtrygg’s with all his strength, so that the spike on his own shield pierced through the leather and into the wood and remained embedded there. He forced the shields downwards so hard that the handles of both of them snapped, whereupon the two men both took a step backwards, freed their swords, and, leaping high into the air, slashed at each other in the same instant. Sigtrygg’s blow struck Orm in the side, piercing his chain shirt and causing a deep wound; but Orm’s sword buried itself in Sigtrygg’s throat, and a great shout filled the hall as the bearded head flew from its shoulders, bounced on the edge of the table, and fell with a splash into the butt of ale that stood at its foot.
Orm staggered, and supported himself against the table. He wiped his sword across his knee, replaced it in its sheath, and gazed down at the headless body lying at his feet.
“Now you know,” he said, “whose chain it is.”
1. The father of King Canute the Great.
2. A good poet and a strong fighter, who is supposed to have ended his days in America.
CHAPTER TEN
HOW ORM LOST HIS NECKLACE
THE FIGHT for the necklace was busily discussed throughout the palace—in the hall, the kitchens, and the women’s chambers. All those who had witnessed it were careful to store away in their memories everything that had been said and done, so as to have a good story to tell other men in the years to come. Orm’s feat in pinning his opponent’s shield was particularly praised, and on the next evening Styrbjörn’s Icelander recited some verses in ljodahattr on the danger of losing one’s head in ale. It was generally agreed that such sport as this was not to be enjoyed every Yule, even at King Harald’s court.
Orm and Toke, however, were confined to bed on account of their wounds and could take little pleasure in anything during the next few days, though Brother Willibald used his most soothing salves upon their injured places. Toke’s wound began to fester, making him delirious and violent, so that four men were needed to hold him down while Brother Willibald dressed it; and Orm, who had had two of his ribs broken and had lost a quantity of blood, was feeling very sore and enfeebled, and lacked his usual appetite. This last he took to be an evil symptom, and one that boded ill for his recovery; and he became very downhearted.
King Harald had ordered one of his best bedchambers to be prepared for them, with a walled fireplace to warm it, and hay instead of straw in the mattresses. Many of the King’s men, and Styrbjörn’s also, came to see them on the day after the combat, to discuss the previous evening’s happenings and chuckle over King Sven’s discomfiture. They made the room very crowded and noisy, and Brother Willibald had to rebuke them and finally drive them out; so that Orm and Toke were not sure whether it was more dispiriting to have company or to be left to their solitude. Shortly after this they lost the comradeship of their own men, who were all anxious to return home now that the Christmas feasting was over; all, that is, save One-Eyed Rapp, who was an outlaw in the Lister country and so preferred to remain at Jellinge. After a few days, a storm having blown up and dispersed the ice, King Sven put sullenly out to sea with few words of farewell. Styrbjörn, too, took his leave of King Harald, being anxious to lose no time in recruiting men for his spring expedition; and Orm’s men obtained permission to sail part of the way with them, paying for their passage by taking their turn at the oars. Styrbjörn would have liked Orm and Toke to join his company. He came in person to visit them in their chamber and said that they had made a good contribution to the Yule festivities and that it would be a pity if they were now to spend a week in bed for the sake of a few scratches.
“Visit me on Bornholm when the cranes begin to stretch their wings,” he said. “I have room for men of your mettle on the prow of my own ship.”
He left them without waiting for their reply, his head being full of urgent matters; so that this was all the converse they had with Styrbjörn. They lay for a time in silence; then Toke said:
“Welcome the day when
From the ship’s deck I shall see
Crane and stork and goose
Steer their course to the north.”
But Orm, after reflecting for a while, replied sadly:
“Speak not of cranes; ere then
They will have buried me
Where mole and curious mouse
Coldly shall brush my mouth.”
When most of the guests had departed and there was less confusion in the kitchens, Brother Willibald ordered meat broth to be prepared for both the wounded Vikings twice a day, to fortify them. Several of the King’s women thereupon volunteered to carry it from the kitchens to the bedchamber, being curious to see the men at close quarters. This they were able to do without hindrance, for, now that the feasting was concluded, King Harald had taken to his bed, and both Brother Willibald and Brother Matthias, to say nothing of the Bishop, were fully occupied in praying over him and giving him purges to cleanse his blood and his bowels.
The first woman to put her head into their room was the young Moorish girl with whom they had spoken on the first occasion on which they had entered King Harald’s presence with the bell. Toke gave a shout of delight on recognizing her and straightway bade her approach nearer. She sidled shyly in, carrying a can and spoon, seated herself on the edge of his bed, and began to feed him. Another girl entered behind her, seated herself beside Orm, and started to feed him likewise. She was young and tall, well made and pale-skinned, with gray eyes and a large and beautiful mouth; she had, besides, dark hair, with an amber hoop around it. Orm had not seen her before, but she did not appear to be one of the servants.
Orm, however, found difficulty in swallowing the broth, for his wound prevented him from sitting up. After a few mouthfuls he got some of the meat into his windpipe and began to cough violently. This made his wound ache and clouded his humor, causing him to groan with the pain. The corners of the girl’s mouth rose in a smile as he glowered sourly at her.
When the fit had passed, he said sullenly: “I have not been put here to be laughed at. Who are you, anyway?”
“My name is Ylva,” she replied, “and I did not know until this minute that you were the sort of man who could make anyone laugh. How can you, who slew my brother Sven’s best warrior, whimper at a spoonful of hot broth?”
“It is not the broth that troubles me,” said Orm. “A wound like mine is liable to be painful sometimes. I should have thought even a woman might have guessed that. But if you are King Sven’s sister, it may be that the broth you have brought me is bad; indeed, now I think of it, it has an unpleasant flavor. Have you come to avenge the injury I did to your brother?”
The girl sprang to her feet and flung the can and spoon into the fireplace, so that the broth spattered all over the room. Her eyes blazed fiercely at Orm; then, suddenly, she calmed herself and laughed and sat down again on the edge of the bed.
“You are not afraid to show when you are afraid,” she said. “That much, at least, must be said in your favor; though which of us is behaving the more sensibly is a question to which two answers might be given. But I saw you fight Sigtrygg, and it was a good combat; and be sure of this, that I regard no man as my enemy merely because he has injured my brother Sven. It was high time somebody taught this Sigtrygg a lesson. His breath stank loathsomely, and there was talk between him and Sven of his having me to wife. Had this happened, he would not have enjoyed many nights of wedlock, for I am not to be pleasured by any chance berserk whose fancy I may happen to tickle. So at least I owe you some thanks f
or saving me from that extremity.”
“You are an impudent and brazen wench,” said Orm, “and, I doubt not, a wildcat to boot; but it is always thus with the daughters of kings. I cannot deny, however, that you seem to be too good for such a man as this Sigtrygg was. But I myself have come out of this contest sorely scathed, and I do not know what the end of it will be for me.”
Ylva squeezed the tip of her tongue between her teeth and nodded and looked thoughtful.
“There may be others besides you and Sigtrygg and Sven who have sustained loss and injury through this contest,” she said. “I have heard about this necklace of yours which Sigtrygg coveted. They say you got it from a southern king, and that it is the finest jewel that was ever seen. I desire to see it, and you need not fear that I shall try to steal it from you, though if Sigtrygg had killed you it might have become my own.”
The Long Ships Page 18