Ulric the Jarl

by William Stoddard

  “There will be nothing in this land greater to contend with than was the white bear slain by Jarl Ulric,” said Tostig the Red. “The children of the ice king were strong ones. I would rejoice in ice and snow at this hour.”

  “It will be long before thou art frozen, O red one,” laughed another of the Saxons. “I am melting, like the ice king.”

  “Thou wilt make less noise when thou fallest,” said Tostig. “But cause me not to remember too much the sea and the good ship The Sword. Such thoughts bring me to hate the land, and I listen for the washing of the waves and for the cries of seabirds. It is not good, for the sea is far away.”

  Silence came then and the Saxons walked on along the highway, seeing all things as they went, but thinking of the blue waters and of the plowing keels and of the North. Ulric strode on in advance, and with him were Abbas and Ben Ezra, telling him many things that he might not be ignorant in his dealings with that which was before him.

  “Caius believeth,” Ben Ezra told him, “that thou and thy Saxons were engaged for him by his bondsman and purveyor Hyles, who was slain at Samaria for cheating him. We will have all care concerning that matter, but Julius feareth Caius of Thessalonica because of his near friendship with this Pontius the Spearman, who is master of Judea and Samaria under Cæsar. Win thou the good will of Caius, for he is a man of rank and gaineth power. Only trust not any Roman, for they care not for the life of a barbarian more than of a dog.”

  Ulric answered little, but he thought, and spoke it not.

  “These twain are Jews, but one is as a free Northman, a warrior, and the other is as a slave in spirit, fearing the Romans even more than he hateth them. I like not Abbas. He would sell me and mine as if we were cattle. Ben Ezra proveth a true friend and I will abide by his sayings. Here cometh a party!”

  Looking along the highway at that moment, he saw chariots and horsemen, but no flag nor any armor.

  “Who are these?” he asked of Ben Ezra.

  “Let them come nearer,” said the Jew. “It is likely they are travelers of importance. Halt thy men at the roadside and we will see.”

  At the word the Saxons halted, leaving the road free, and they were all willing to stand and watch this company that came.

  Four chariots there were, but the one which came first was gilded and carven and was drawn by four white horses. Over it was a silken canopy, and in it sat three veiled women. Of these two were on a front seat, behind the charioteers. He who drove was black and exceedingly uncomely, and beside him sat a large brown man bearing a spear and girded with a sword. These were turbaned and their apparel was good, but not upon them did the eyes of Ulric linger. On the back seat of the chariot, half reclining, was the third woman, and he said to himself:

  “This is the princess and the others are her servants. I would see a princess of this country.”

  Forward he strode three paces, and Knud said to Wulf the Skater:

  “How splendid is the youth of our jarl, with his golden hair and his face like that of Odin! There is none other like him!”

  “Beautiful is he!” exclaimed Wulf. “But his face is full of pride this day, and I think he is in anger. Speak not to him.”

  “The woman lifteth her veil,” said Tostig, “and she leaneth forward. Odin! She is wonderful! Her headdress is of jewels. Mark the jarl!”

  Dark yet fair, with the red of the new rose in her cheeks and with eyes like the lone stars in a winter night, was the young woman who so suddenly leaned forth to look at Ulric. Into his eyes, also, came flashing a great light and a smile of joy was on his face.

  “O companion of Hilda!” he shouted in Hebrew. “How camest thou hither from thy place among the gods? I am Ulric the Jarl, and I saw thee when I was on the sea.”

  Silent was this beautiful princess for a moment, but she grew pale and then red and she seemed to tremble greatly.

  “O maiden,” said Ben Ezra, “whoever thou art, drive on. He will not harm thee. He is a prince of the Saxons and thou mayest not have conversation with him. He is not for such as thou art, O daughter of Israel.”

  “Hold thou thy peace!” came from the maiden, as one of high rank may speak. “Warrior of the Saxons, come thou nearer. Thou didst not see me, for I was never on any ship. What is thy meaning?”

  Almost at the side of the chariot was the jarl, gazing into her face, but his voice was as the murmur of a harp in the wind when he replied to her.

  “O beautiful one!” he said. “Princess of the light and of the morning! More beautiful than are the flowers and the stars! Thy face was where the gods live and I saw thee in my dreams. I will give thee this token from Ulric, of the sons of the gods.”

  His hand had passed under the mail of his bosom and the bag of gems was there. Now he drew out his hand and he raised before the eyes of the Jewish maiden the perfect gem of which Ben Ezra had said that it was priceless.

  “He must not give her that,” whispered Abbas.

  “Hinder him not!” said Ben Ezra. “Little thou knowest such as he. Wert thou to interfere now, thy head were at the roadside before thou couldst breathe twice. Leave it upon thy shoulders, madman!”

  Abbas shrank back, clutching his fingers and scowling, but the Jewish maiden’s hand was already grasping the jewel and her lips were smiling with a surpassing sweetness.

  “I am Miriam,” she said, “and I dwell in Jerusalem. I shall see thee no more. But I give thee a ring for my token. Never have I looked upon such a face as thine.”

  From her hand she took a ring, and in it was a large, pure pearl, very brilliant, and the gold of the ring was yellow and heavy.

  “O Miriam,” said Ulric, in the deep tones of the harp of Oswald, “I will wear thy ring, but not in battle. I come soon to Jerusalem, and I will meet thee there, or I will meet thee in Asgard, among the gods, and I will take thee to the house of my father, Odin. Thou art fit to be a princess in Asgard.”

  His face was like the sun, but hers grew white again, and she drew her veil over it, for Ben Ezra said to Ulric:

  “Let none hear thee, O jarl. I know not this matter. Thy words may bring upon her a peril. Harm her not, but be prudent. Thou art a wise captain. Let her drive on. Forward, charioteer! On thy life linger not!”

  “Thou art right!” shouted back the brown man, nodding his head at Ben Ezra. “She is my mistress, but she is willful. On!”

  The black charioteer slackened the reins of his prancing horses and they sprang forward, but a great cry burst from the lips of Miriam, and the word of Hebrew that was in the sound of it was:

  “Farewell, my beloved! I have seen thee!”

  “Farewell, O princess!” but in the voice of Ulric, the son of Brander, was a faintness of strong pain, and he turned upon his heel, bowing his head.

  “Speak not to the jarl!” said Tostig, grasping the arm of Abbas. “What hast thou to do with an affair of a warrior and a woman? Wert thou to meddle with me in such a case, I would cleave thee to the jaws.”

  But the chariots all moved swiftly away, and so did the horsemen who were with them, but none of these were soldiers, and in the other chariots were but servants and much baggage.

  “The jarl hath marched on,” said Tostig the Red. “Follow and trouble him not; for that maiden was wonderfully beautiful and she gave him a ring of remembrance.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIV. The Passing of Oswald.

  THE NORTHLAND UNDER THE autumn sun was as the South, with green fields and forests and with glowing blooms upon shrubbery and in the hollows of the hills. The fiords were shadowy, with a coolness in the breezes which breathed among them that was pleasant to the wearied fishermen in returning boats.

  Upon the high promontory looking seaward at the north of the cove and of the village and of the house of Brander there were no pine trees. Its bald granite knob glittered in the waning light so that it might be seen from far at sea as if it were a beacon. It was not a place for men to seek having no errand to lead them, and not many feet had trodd
en upon it since the world was made.

  Nevertheless, this place was not at the closing of the day unoccupied, and from it there came a sound which went out over the wide water, and downward that it might mingle with the voices of the fiords, and landward, also, that it might be joined with the soft sighing and low whispering of the forests. Not loud was this sound at the first, but it grew louder, and then with it went forth a voice.

  “I think my strength faileth me,” said Oswald, the harper, pausing in his song. “The harp was overheavy to bring up the mountain. I grow old and I am alone. Hilda sleepeth in the tomb of Odin’s sons, Ulric is afar among unknown seas. Am I to die a cow’s death before he returneth? Who is there to make the mark of a spear upon my breast, lest I fail of Valhalla? I have fought in many a feast of swords. Why am I to perish slowly, without honor? Sad is the fate of Oswald if the valkyrias pass him and leave him to die in his bed.”

  Once more the song arose, but now his voice was stronger and he sang of war to the rocks and to the trees and to the gods among the fiords. The old gier-eagle on the withered pine tree northward listened intently, now and then fanning with his wide wings, until the spirit that was in the harping awakened him well. Loud was the scream that he sent back to Oswald, and he dropped suddenly from the branch of the pine tree, spreading his pinions and floating over the sea in a wide circle, rising as he went.

  “He is free to come and to go,” mourned Oswald, “but I am bound at home and I shall no more ride the war steeds of the open sea nor hear the clang of shields nor see the red blood flow. Where is the good ship The Sword this day? Where are Ulric the Jarl and his vikings?”

  Low bowed his head and his hands sought fitfully the strings of his harp, bringing out the notes of sorrow.

  “I will arise,” he said, “and I will go to Hilda’s room. I will play to her there and see if she will answer me. She hath not spoken to me since her eyes were closed. But she is with the gods and she hath many matters upon her mind. She hath spoken to Brander the Brave and to jarls and chiefs and kings that were of old. She hath seen Odin, and she hath heard sagas that we hear not until the return of the gods.”

  He stood erect upon the rock where he had been sitting, and he was not weak, for he shouldered his great harp and bore it with ease as he went down the rugged side of the mountain. Many saw him come, and they who were near enough greeted him, but he paused not to speak. He went not through the village, among the houses, but along the shore, where the tide was coming in and where the waves called out to him as he passed. He turned to listen to them, but across the water came no other voice, and he shook his head sadly.

  “Here was The Sword launched,” he said, halting at the head of the cove. “Here was the White Horse of the Saxons sacrificed to Odin. From hence the new keel went out behind the outing ice. Hilda of the hundred winters told me that there would be no return. Is it so? Will the young jarl never again put his foot upon this beach? Or did she speak only of the vessel? Who may know the counsel of the gods! For they speak unto all men in riddles and the meaning thereof is hidden from us.”

  He turned and walked to the house, passing through the great hall, bearing his harp, and he went on to the room of Hilda, looking in.

  “It is empty,” he said. “No other hath slept therein since she departed.”

  Bare were the walls, and the floor of cloven pine logs lay black, uncovered by rushes. One small table only remained, and upon this was a Roman lamp of bronze, which Brander, the sea king, had brought back from one of his voyages to Britain. There was oil in it and a wick, for such had been a bidding of Hilda to one of the older women and to the housemaidens. They feared much to let that lamp go without filling, if the oil dried away; but it had not been lighted, although a wick was in it.

  “I will bring fire,” said Oswald, and he did so, going out and returning. He set the flame of his small torch to the wick and it surprised him, for it would not burn.

  “O Hilda,” he exclaimed, “what is this thing that I cannot light thy lamp?”

  There was no spoken answer, but suddenly the wick took the fire and it blazed up a handbreadth, as if for a token.

  “Burn thou, then,” said Oswald. “I will sing to her.”

  Quickly they who were in the other rooms of the house and in the hall heard the sound of harping and the voice of a wonderful song, for it was as a love song sung to the dead, telling her of the living and asking her concerning the gods and of all the places of the gods, where she was dwelling. Men and women listened, looking into one another’s faces and whispering low, for the song was very beautiful and the harp answered as if it were alive.

  Joyously burned the lamp, with a clear golden flame, as the song went on, but it at last burned lower and lower and there came a red color into the fire.

  “There hath been much blood!” exclaimed Oswald. “I would I had been with the jarl in the feast of swords. The battle is ended!”

  For the lamp went out and the room was very dark, but he sat in the gloom by his harp waiting for what might come.

  “Disturb him not,” said all the household. “He ever mourneth for Ulric and for Hilda.”

  Much time went by and now and then there came from that room harp notes, one by one, very faint and low, but Oswald was saying to himself:

  “I have heard and I have not heard. All things are a riddle that I cannot read. Surely she touched the harp and her face was in the shadows. O Hilda, speak to me, for I am lonely! Tell me that thou hast not forgotten thy kindred!”

  Then fell he down upon his face in a deep swoon, and they who went in because they heard the sound found, also, the harp lying by him with its strings broken. They lifted him and carried him away, taking, also, the harp, but when he again began to breathe and opened his eyes the words that he first uttered were in another tongue than that of the Northland. They heard the name of Hilda, but even when he aroused himself and talked with them he told them naught of what things had occurred to him in the room of Hilda, the prophetess. For there are secrets in the lives of men wherein other men have no part, and no man openeth his hidden heart unwisely. The thoughts of friends whose bodies are far apart are often apt to draw near and to walk the earth side by side. Oswald, indeed, was sending his heart out after Hilda and after Ulric. If the saga woman had in any manner answered him, no man knoweth. Nor can any say that the soul of Ulric was nearer to that of Oswald because both were thinking of each other and of her who had departed from them.

  So may the gods look on from their places and see what men see not, and they may often smile, if they are kindly minded, to see men and women meet and embrace without the touching of the bodily flesh.

  Three days went by, and because of a request of Oswald’s many messages had gone out from house to house and from village to village, up and down the coast and far inland. To everyone it was told that the hour was at hand and that a token of the gods had come to Oswald, but that he was still living. Upon the fourth day all who were entitled to come, by reason of kinship or of their high descent, had arrived. Many men and many women had gathered, and among them were those who brought harps. These sat apart and they spoke to each other in low voices, tuning their harps and listening to the sounds which answered them from the strings.

  “The harp of Oswald is broken,” said one. “Who shall take it after him?”

  “No man,” replied the oldest of them all. “It is a harp which came from the East, in the ship of a sea king, and he gave it to the father of Oswald in the days when Hilda was yet unborn. Upon it are strange runes that none may read.”

  “It shall rest with him in his grave, then,” said another, “but Hilda said that he would need it not in the place to which he hath gone.”

  “They have both harps and harpers there,” said the old man, thoughtfully. “I know not the meaning of Hilda’s word. So good a harp must find a player, and I think the gods can mend it. We cannot, for we have no strings like these.”

  Before them lay the great harp upon
the floor of the hall, and one lifted it, placing it before a chair as if it might be played upon. There were yet three strings remaining, and the old man sat down in the chair and put out his hands, touching, also, the strings which were broken. Not from these, assuredly, came the sound which now fell upon the ears of the gathered vikings, but all were silent, for the spirit of song was upon this ancient one whom no man knew. Clear was his voice, but thin, and at times it wavered as if with age and weakness, but he sang the departing song of Oswald and of the old time. Strong were his hands also, for as he ceased he gripped with them and these three strings, also, were snapped asunder with loud twanging.

  “Hilda is right!” he exclaimed. “The harp of Oswald is dead. It will never sound again. Build ye a fire, high and hot, and burn upon it this frame of wood. I go to Oswald’s room.”

  Rising from his chair, all saw that he was tall and white-bearded, and none detained him while he went to the room of Oswald.

  “Thou art awakened, O Oswald, the harper?” he asked, as he entered the room.

  “Waiting for thee, old man,” came hoarsely from the lips of him who lay upon the bed. “Now lift me up that I may stand erect, and put my sword in my hand. I will not die a cow’s death, and thou art mine enemy, having full right in this matter.”

  “We burn thy harp, as Hilda gave thee directions,” said the old man. “We bury thee in a coffin at the foot of the great stone, thy arms and thy armor with thee.”

  “Also my bag of coins,” said Oswald, “and my cup of silver. I know not if I may need them. They have drinking horns in Valhalla. Smite me in the breast. Let the spear mark be a deep one that I may be known as a warrior.”

  In the doorway and within the room stood now chiefs and heroes and they had heard, and they said to the old one, “Strike him!”

  Deep and kindly was the thrust of the spear that was given to Oswald, and he fell to the ground as if he had fallen in battle, so that all the vikings were satisfied.