The Long Ships

by Frans G. Bengtsson

  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 marvelous 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 splendor, 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 woolen 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, though 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 grayish 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 gray 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 color, glistened even more brightly than was their wont, like the tusks of 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, shriveled man, with a big nose and pursed lips and a red scar across his temples. He nodded eagerly as he listened to Brother Matthias’s 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 succored 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 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, saltpeter, and bull’s blood, a pinch of horseradish, 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 practice 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, smelled 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 toward Orm and Toke, evidently puzzled at seeing strangers clad in foreign armor; 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 Córdoba, 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' grave in Asturia, where many marvelous 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 speak 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, though 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 Gray 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 their backs; for the pain had returned savagely into his bad tooth.

  At this there was great confusion in the bedchamber, and those who 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 cæcis,

  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, when the King suddenly closed his eyes and went rigid. Then he opened them again, spat out the potion, gave vent to a deep sigh, and roared for ale. Brother Willibald stopped singing and leaned anxiously toward 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 his hands a large vessel that 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 succor 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 farther and farther 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 did good slaughter.

  All praise to thee, Gorm’s gracious heir!

  Thou knowest my favorite water!”

  The men in the bedchamber praised Toke’s p
oem, 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.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HOW KING HARALD BLUETOOTH CELEBRATED YULE

  GREAT men from all over the north came to Jellinge to celebrate Yule with King Harald, so that there was less than room enough for them at the tables and in the bedchambers. But Orm and his men did not complain of this overcrowding, for they had received a good price for their slaves and had sold them all before the festival commenced. When Orm had divided up the proceeds of the sale, his men felt rich and free indeed, and they began to yearn for Lister and to know whether Berse’s two ships had come home, or whether they themselves were the only survivors of Krok’s expedition. They offered no objection to staying in Jellinge, however, until the festival was over, for it was regarded as a great honor, and one that added luster to a man’s name for the rest of his days, to have celebrated Yule with the King of the Danes.