Faste’s scribe had disappeared; but when they went to pull the cart forward, they discovered him asleep beneath it. He was roused with a spear-shaft and was much mocked. He said that this fight had been no concern of his, since he was a state official whose business was collecting taxes, and he had not wished to be in anyone’s way, besides which, he had been tired after the night’s marching. The men admitted that it testified to his calmness of mind that he had been able to sleep throughout the battle.
They soon met Toke and his men, and there was great rejoicing on both sides. Toke had disposed of the enemy without much difficulty; as soon as he had come against them with war-whoops and arrows, they had turned and fled. The men thought it possible that they, too, had used up all their arrows.
When they arrived at the ship, Orm looked around him. “Where are the two boys?” he asked Toke.
“The boys?” replied Toke. “You had them with you.”
“I sent them along the bank to call you to our aid,” said Orm in a changed voice.
“What can have become of them?” said Toke, scratching his beard. “I heard hoofbeats and war-cries and saw the Patzinaks ride toward us and wheel their horses, and at once rowed ashore to help you. But I have seen nothing of the boys.”
One of Toke’s men said that, just before the ship had reached the bank, he had seen three Patzinaks emerge on foot from among the rocks, dragging something along; dead men, he had supposed, or possibly prisoners. They had dragged them toward their horses; but, he said, he had not given the matter more thought, because at that moment the ship had touched land and he had started thinking about the forthcoming battle.
Orm stood speechless. He took off his helmet and let it drop to the ground; then he sat down on a stone on the bank and stared into the river. There he sat, motionless, and none of the men dared speak to him.
The men stood muttering among themselves and gazed at him; and even Toke knew not what to say. Spof and Faste’s scribe carried the wounded aboard.
At length Orm rose to his feet. He walked up to Toke and unclipped from his belt his sword, Blue-Tongue. All the men opened their mouths in fear as they saw him do this.
“I am going to the Patzinaks,” he said. “Wait here with the ship for three days. If Blackhair returns, give the sword to him. If none of us returns, take it home for Harald.”
Toke took the sword.
“This is bad,” he said.
“Divide the treasure fairly,” said Orm, “as it would have been divided had I lived. It has brought little luck to us of Toste’s line.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
HOW ORM MET AN OLD FRIEND
ORM took Faste’s scribe with him and went to search among the fallen Patzinaks. They found one who was wounded but not dead, a young man, who had received an arrow in the side and another in the knee. He appeared to be in good heart, for he was sitting up and gnawing a piece of dried meat, with a long wooden flask in his other hand, while his horse grazed beside him.
This man was able to understand something of what the scribe said, and was pleased when he learned that they had not come to take his head. Orm bade the scribe say that they wished to help him on to his horse and accompany him back to his village. After the scribe had repeated this message several times, the Patzinak nodded and pointed at his knee. The arrow had gone right through it, just behind the kneecap, so that the head was sticking out from the inner side of his leg. He had tried to pull it out, he explained by gestures, but had not been able to do so. Orm cut the leg of his skin breeches and worked the arrow a little, pushing it farther into the knee until the whole of the metal head appeared, so that it might be cut off and the shaft drawn out from the other side. The Patzinak snapped his fingers as Orm did this, and whistled slowly; then, when the operation was completed, he set his flask to his mouth and drained it. The other arrow he had succeeded in extracting himself.
Orm took from his belt a fistful of silver and gave it to the man. His face lit up at the sight of it, and he seized it eagerly.
Near them there stood other horses, waiting patiently by the bodies of their fallen masters. They moved away as Orm and the scribe approached them; but when the Patzinak called them with a special whistle, they came willingly to him and allowed halters to be put round their necks.
They helped the wounded man on to his horse. He crooked his wounded leg up on the saddle and appeared not to be troubled by it. The scribe was unwilling to go with them, but Orm told him curtly to do as he was told.
“If you protest, I shall wring your neck,” he said. “It is I, not you, who am to become their prisoner.”
The scribe mumbled that this sort of thing was no fit occupation for a state officer whose concern was collecting taxes; he obeyed, however, and no more was said about this.
They rode away into the grassland, which was the Patzinaks’ domain. Orm said afterwards that a man might search long for a worse land and not succeed; for there were no trees or water, beasts or men to be seen there, but only grass and the empty air above it, and, occasionally, a kind of large rat that slunk away among the tussocks. Twice the Patzinak reined in his horse, pointed to the ground, and said something to the scribe, who then dismounted from his horse and pulled up the plants that the Patzinak had indicated. These, which were broad-bladed, the Patzinak then wrapped round his wounded knee, and bound them fast with a bowstring. This seemed to soothe the pain of his wound, so that he was able to ride on without becoming exhausted.
When the sun had climbed to half of its midday height, they reached the Patzinak camp. It lay in a hollow on either side of a stream, along the banks of which their tents stood in their hundreds. As they approached, hounds began to bay and children to yell, and the camp suddenly became full of horses and men. The Patzinak rode proudly in with his prisoners; then, when they had helped him from his horse, he showed the silver he had received and pointed at Orm.
Orm told the scribe to say that he wished to speak to their chieftain. At first nobody appeared to understand what he said, but at length a little bandy-legged man appeared who understood him and was able to reply in the scribe’s own tongue.
“Tell him this,” said Orm to the scribe. “Both my sons, who are very young, were captured by you during the battle at the weirs last night. I am a chieftain and have come to buy them free. I have come unarmed, as a proof of my peaceful intentions and good faith.”
The bandy-legged man pulled thoughtfully at his long cheek-beard and exchanged a word or two with the wounded man who had brought them. Their talk sounded to Orm’s ears more like the clucking of owls than the speech of men, but they seemed to be able to understand each other without difficulty. Many of those who stood watching grinned broadly at Orm and took out their knives and drew them across their throats. This, said Orm afterwards, was the worst moment of his life, for he took it to mean that they had already cut the throats of their prisoners, though he hoped that it might merely signify that they intended to perform the operation on him. This seemed to him by far the lesser evil, if, by allowing this to happen, he could enable Blackhair to go free.
He said to the scribe: “Ask him whether his two captives are still alive.”
The bandy-legged man nodded, and shouted to three men, who stepped forward. These were the men who owned the prisoners.
Orm said: “Tell them that I wish to buy their prisoners for much silver. They are my sons.”
The three men began to jabber, but the bandy-legged man said that it would be best that Orm and the scribe should go with him to the chieftains. They came to three tents that were larger than the rest, and followed the little man into the center one.
Three old men, wearing furs and with shaven heads, were seated on a sheepskin on the ground, their legs crossed beneath them, eating a mess from a large clay bowl. When they had entered, the bandy-legged man halted and signed to Orm and the scribe to remain silent. The three old men ate greedily, blowing on their spoons and smacking their lips with relish. When the bowl was emp
ty, they licked their spoons and stuffed them into holes in their furs. Then, at last, they condescended to notice that somebody had come in.
One of them nodded at the bandy-legged man. He bowed to the ground and began to speak, while the chieftains sat listening with dull expressions, giving vent to an occasional belch.
The one who sat in the middle was smaller than the other two and had very large ears. Tilting his head to one side, he stared piercingly at Orm. At length the bandy-legged man stopped talking, and there was a silence. Then the little chieftain croaked a few words, and the bandy-legged man bowed reverently and went out, taking the scribe with him.
When they had gone, the little chieftain said slowly: “You are welcome here, Orm Tostesson, though it is better that we should conceal the fact that we know each other. It is a long time since we last met. Is Ylva, King Harald’s daughter, who played as a child upon my knees, still alive?”
Orm drew a deep breath. He had recognized the little man as soon as he had begun to speak. It was Felimid, King Harald’s Irish jester.
“She is alive,” replied Orm, “and remembers you well. It is her son who is one of your prisoners here. This is certainly a strange meeting, and one that may prove lucky for us both. Are you a chieftain among these Patzinaks?”
Felimid nodded. “When one is old, one must take the best that comes,” he said. “But I cannot really complain.”
He spoke to his two fellow chieftains, turned round, and shouted toward the back of the tent. A woman entered with a great drinking-cup, which they passed around and which soon became empty. The woman filled it again; then, when it had again been emptied, the other two chieftains rose with difficulty to their feet and tottered out.
“They will sleep now,” said Felimid to Orm when they were alone. “It is so with these people that they easily become drunk, and then they at once fall asleep and remain thus for half the day. They are simple souls. Now you and I can sit and talk here undisturbed. You have had a long ride and are, perhaps, hungry?”
“You have guessed rightly,” said Orm. “Since I recognized you my anxiety has been lightened, and the three things that I long for most are to see my son again and to eat and drink.”
“You shall see him as soon as we have decided the question of his ransom,” said Felimid. “This will, I fear, cost you silver; for if I commanded otherwise, the whole tribe would become enraged with me. But first you shall be my guest.”
He shouted orders, and six women entered and began to set out food on a mat that they spread on the floor of the tent.
“These are my wives,” explained Felimid. “They may seem a lot for an old man, but such is the custom here. And I must have something to keep me amused, now that Ferdiad is dead and I can no longer practice my art.”
“This is sad news about your brother,” said Orm. “How did he die? And how did you come here?”
“Eat, and I will tell you; I have already eaten enough. We have no ale, alas, but here is a drink that we make from mare’s milk. Taste it; you have drunk worse.”
It was a clear drink, with a sweet-sour taste, and Orm thought it would be difficult to find kind words to say of it; however, he soon noticed that there was good strength in it.
Felimid made Orm eat all the food that had been brought, and shouted to the women to bring more. Meanwhile he told what had happened to him and his brother since they had trudged away from Gröning.
“We roamed widely,” he said, “as we told you we would when last we parted; and finally we came to the great Prince in Kiev. We remained in his palace for two years, delighting all men with our arts and earning great honor; but then we began to notice that we were putting on flesh. At this we were greatly afraid, and determined to leave, though everybody begged us to remain, because we wished, while our skill yet remained to us, to perform before the great Emperor at Miklagard, as had been our intention from the beginning. But we never reached him, for at the weirs we were taken by the Patzinaks. They found us too old to be of any use and wanted to kill us, so as to be able to set up our heads on poles, as is their custom. But we displayed our arts before them, the simplest that we know, until they prostrated themselves on their bellies in a circle around us and worshipped us as gods. Nevertheless, they would not let us go; and as soon as we had learned something of their language, they made us chieftains, because of our wisdom and knowledge of witchcraft. We soon grew accustomed to our new life, for it is easier to be a chieftain than a jester; besides, we had realized for some time that old age was, at last, beginning to stiffen our limbs. The great Archbishop Cormac Mac-Cullenan spoke truly when he said, long ago: ‘A wise man, once he is past fifty, does not befuddle his senses with strong drink, nor make violent love in the cool spring night, nor dance on his hands.”’
Felimid took a draught from his cup and nodded sadly.
“He spoke too truly,” he said, “and my brother Ferdiad forgot this warning when one of his women produced male twins. Then he drank deeply of this yeasty mare’s-milk and danced on his hands before all the people, like the King of the Jews before God; and in the midst of his dance he fell and remained lying, and when we lifted him up he was dead. I mourned him deeply, and mourn him still, though nobody can deny that it was a worthy death for a master jester to die. Ever since then I have remained here with these Patzinaks, in peace and contentment. They are like children, and venerate me deeply, and seldom oppose my will except when they go head-hunting, which is an ancient custom with them which they will not abandon. But now tell me how it has been with you and yours.”
Orm told him all that he wished to know. When, however, he came to speak of the treasure at the weirs, he thought it best to mention only the three sacks of silver; for he did not wish to pay more than need be when it came to fixing the ransom for Black-hair and Ulf. Lastly he described the battle with the Patzinaks. When he had concluded, Felimid said: “It is lucky that your son and foster son were taken alive. This was because of their youth; the men who captured them hoped to make a good profit by selling them to the Arabs or the Byzantines. You must therefore be prepared to pay a large price for them. It is lucky that you have the treasure within easy reach.”
“I shall pay whatever price you name,” said Orm. “It is no more than right that a large sum should be demanded for King Harald’s grandson.”
“I have not myself seen the boy,” said Felimid, “for I do not bother myself with the thefts and rapes of my subjects, except where absolutely necessary. They are always capturing men and treasure at these weirs. But it is time for us to settle this matter without delay.”
They went out of the tent, and Felimid shouted orders to this man and that. The two other chieftains were awakened, and emerged sleepy-eyed; then, when they and Felimid had seated themselves on a grass slope, all the people in the camp came running to the place and grouped themselves around them in a tight circle. Then the two prisoners were led forth by their captors. They were both pale, and Blackhair had blood in his hair; but their faces lit up as they saw Orm, and the first thing that Black-hair said was: “Where is your sword?”
“I came here unarmed, to obtain your release,” said Orm. “Because it was my fault that you were captured.”
“They came on us from behind among the rocks,” said Black-hair sadly, “and we could offer no resistance.”
“They clubbed us,” said Glad Ulf, “after which we knew nothing until we awoke to find ourselves bound upon horses.”
Felimid now spoke to the other chieftains and to the boys’ captors, and a long argument followed as to the amount of the ransom Orm should pay.
“It is our custom,” explained Felimid to Orm, “that all those who have taken part in the fighting shall have their share of the ransom, while those who have actually captured the prisoners shall have a double share. I have told them that Blackhair is your son, and that you are a chieftain among your people; but I have not told them that he is a great King’s grandson, for if they knew this there would be no end to th
eir demands.”
At length it was agreed that they should ride to the ship the next day, and that Glad Ulf should be ransomed with as much silver as could be contained in four of the Patzinaks’ tall hats. For Blackhair, though, they demanded his weight in silver.
Orm thought this an exorbitant sum to demand, even for so important a person as his son. But when he remembered his feelings of the morning, after he had learned that Blackhair had been captured, he reflected that, on the whole, things had turned out better than he could have expected.
“He is sparely built,” said Felimid consolingly. “You would have to dive deeper into those sacks of yours if you yourself had to be weighed. And a son is worth more than any amount of silver. I can see from his looks that he is Ylva’s child. It is a great grief to me that I have no son. I had one, but he died young, and now I have only daughters. Ferdiad’s sons will have to succeed me as chieftains.”
Later that day the Patzinaks went to the camp which the Northmen had pitched by the weirs, to fetch their wounded. Their dead they left lying where they had fallen, for it was not their custom to bury them, save when a great chieftain had died. But they were vexed that the Northmen had taken away their dead, thus depriving the men who had killed them of their heads, and declared that it was only right that Orm should pay them for robbing them of their lawful trophies.
Felimid upbraided them for making this demand, which he found unreasonable. When, however, they persisted, he said to Orm that it would be unwise to press the point too strongly, for their greed for heads was a kind of madness with them, against which no amount of reason would prevail.
Orm disliked acceding to this request, and thought that these Patzinaks looked likely to skin him to the bone; but since he was in their hands, he thought it would be unwise of him to refuse. He reflected miserably that his silver-sacks would become much lightened by the time he had paid the large sum demanded for the boys’ ransom and had given each of his men their share. After he had pondered the matter for a while, however, he hit upon a solution of the problem.
The Long Ships Page 56
