The Harp and the Blade

by John Myers Myers

  Not much past sunrise I met the first wayfarer, a worn man on a disinterested mule. “Don’t go any further,” he warned me. “There are Danes down river.”

  “How many ships?” I asked.

  “Seven,” he said, but I wasn’t impressed. They’d never reach Tours with just those few.

  “Anybody making a stand against them?” I inquired next. “No,” he said disgustedly. “There’s no leader, and all anybody thought of was getting out of the way. I’m just riding to let people know they’re coming.”

  He went on, and after a moment I followed him. He’d warn them at the monastery, and they’d escape all right; but there was something I had to do for Father Michael. But when I got back I went first to see if my waif had been taken care of. As I had half suspected he had been deserted.

  He was awake and knew me. “What’s all the excitement? The Danes coming here, too?”

  “Yes,” I told him. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to move you.” When I picked him up he gasped, but he made no other sound while I struggled the short distance to the abbey with him. The monks were all busy loading wains in preparation for flight out of reach in the forest. I put my burden down and looked at them grimly, but they weren’t inimical any longer. Calamity had temporarily cured them of pettiness, and they met my eyes sheepishly.

  “Father Raoul,” I addressed the sacristan, “this man has already been wounded by the Danes. If they find him here they will finish what they started. You will take him with you?” Though a fumbler, he was a good-hearted old man, and I knew that he was one of the few that had not been actuated by malice the day before. “Certainly we’ll take him,” he said hastily. “Are you coming with us, too, my son? You’re welcome.”

  “No, thanks. Where’s Father Michael?”

  My friend was in a horse litter, shrunken and pale. It looked to me as if he might not survive the rigors of an overland journey, but I could help him a little. “I’ll see that the books aren’t burnt, Father.”

  His drawn face lighted with pleasure. “That’s splendid,” he whispered.

  “I’ll hide them and leave word where they are.” I hesitated while I thought of a safe place. “The message will be in a box under the northwest corner of the wheat field. Good luck, Father.”

  He had no more strength for words, but his hand squeezed mine slightly. As I left him to enter the abbey they were placing the wounded man on a part of one of the wains where piled bedding would soften the joggling for him. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Finnian, an Irish bard.”

  “I’ll remember,” he said.

  I hadn’t told Father Michael where I was going to put the books, for the idea would have worried him. An old burial vault was the place I had in mind as being at once weatherproof and safe. The Danes would never look there because they had long ago learned that Christian priests, at any rate, didn’t bury valuables with their dead. It took me well over an hour to accomplish my task, then I returned to await the vikings.

  The monks had taken things of practical worth and the more portable valuables, but there was still some loot. The Danes wouldn’t be too pleased, but at the same time they wouldn’t be put out of humor by complete disappointment, which was good for my purpose. I filled a couple of demijohns with wine, gathered a bunch of cups, then put them all on a table I’d dragged out into the court.

  After a while a dragon came into sight, swiftly legging it up river, and I climbed down from my perch on the wall. No Dane could resist a monastery, so I knew there wasn’t any danger of them passing me by. When I heard them beaching a ship I filled a mug with wine and walked over to open the replaced shot window just enough to peek through with one eye.

  A powerful, squat black Dane led. He had horns on his helmet, carried a huge axe and walked with a bow-legged swagger. About twenty warriors streamed after him, and I heard other ships landing. Marshaling his followers, the chief roared for the door to be opened. He himself apparently expected no results from this order, for he called out for those just arriving to bring a ram. I unlocked the door, slipped a chip of wood between it and the jamb to hold it closed, and went back to my wine.

  “Get your weight behind it,” the leader was urging. “Hard now!”

  I’ve never seen more surprised-looking men than the ten Danes who breezed through that door carrying a heavy, utterly useless log. Braking, they stood there, looking foolish and gaping at where I sat on the table idly swinging my legs.

  “Why don’t you put it down?” I added to their astonishment by speaking to them in their own language. “It’s a pretty hot day to be running around with that sort of thing.”

  The bandy-legged viking had followed them and was leaning on his axe in the doorway, glaring at me uncertainly. I was obviously no part of a monk, and what’s more I was grinning at him good-humoredly. I felt friendly, too, and not a bit concerned. It’s perfectly easy to get along with Danes when you haven’t got anything they covet. He began truculently enough, however.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Drinking,” I illustrated.

  “Why didn’t you open the door when I spoke?”

  “Get your own men to open a door for you,” I told him calmly. “Of course, you did, but it shouldn’t have taken that many. When a door isn’t locked one man can move it quite easily.”

  The log plumped to the ground. It takes a little time for a Dane to see what jokes he can see, but he gets a lot of fun out of one when he does. They roared, and finally bow-legs as well as the other vikings who had crowded to the door to peer in whooped with laughter also. I laughed with them and slapped the demijohns invitingly.

  “Work first and drink later,” the commander said sententiously. “Anybody here but you?”

  “No,” I replied offhandedly. “They got wind of you and cleared out last night. I happened to be passing by and moved in as there was no other decent place to sleep.”

  He thought of something, and his voice grew edged again. “I suppose you’ve taken everything.”

  I smiled to myself. Nothing hurts a Dane’s feelings like prethieving him. “There’s a lot of junk in there that you might like,” I reassured him. “The only thing I wanted was this. Skoal!”

  After directing his men, who went about the business of pillaging like the old hands they were, the chief decided to join me. “I’m Thorgrim Gunnarson,” he said when I filled a mug for him and introduced myself.

  Looking at both him and the big axe, which was not Danish made, though I had seen others like it, I thought a minute. Wherever Danes gather they tell about those among them who have distinguished themselves, and it’s part of my business to know such things. This was not a great viking leader but none the less a man who had won himself a name.

  “You’re Thorgrim the Varanger,” I said. “Sweyn Buck-tooth killed your brother, you returned west, called him to a skerry, and slew him.”

  He was delighted at being recognized, and from that point on I was in a favorable position to deal with him. “How far up are you going?” I asked.

  He smacked his lips ruminatively. “That depends on what there is to take and how much trouble there’s likely to be in the taking. Do you know anything about that?”

  As I knew how small a force he had and as long as I was counting on going with him, I didn’t want him to go any farther. There would be hard, fruitless fighting in which I had no lust to take part. “There’s a man just up the line called Chilbert who is considered very tough,” I informed him. “He doesn’t like anyone but himself to do the thieving, and he has a lot more men than you have to back him up.”

  Thorgrim nodded. “I’ll go up and take a look at him. If it doesn’t seem feasible I won’t land.”

  I’d pressed my point as far as I could. “How’s the luck been treating you?” I inquired.

  “Oh, not so bad,” he said cheerfully. “We’re not strong enough to attack any really fortified towns, and the Loire has been pretty well picked over; but there are a
lways slaves. They’re the most valuable thing next to gold itself.”

  “Everybody around here seems to have cleared out,” I said. “We’ll round up some though,” he responded confidently. “These Frankish villeins seldom run far. They’re more afraid of a territory they don’t know than they are of being caught.” The miscellaneous booty from the abbey, consisting largely of sacramental appurtenances, trimmings, and assorted items of personal property, was being piled up outside. Then inevitably they set fire to the place. The abbey was soon burning furiously, and the Danes watched, pleased.

  Others, meanwhile, had been sent inland to capture any people and commandeer any livestock that hadn’t fled or been driven out of reach. Thorgrim and I took a demijohn to the shade of a tree so that we could loaf in comfort until the foragers returned. “I was told you had seven ships,” I remarked. “Where are the other three?”

  “I sent them to scour the north shore,” he answered.

  “They’re supposed to meet us back here before dark.”

  Wine in quantity in the middle of a hot day put me to sleep. By the time I’d waked, the raiding parties had started to sift back; nor was Thorgrim’s optimism unfounded. Between them they had seized enough cows and pigs to feed the pirates, in addition to one horse which Thorgrim sacrificed to Odin, hanging it and cutting its throat. There were, too, nine assorted peasants, of which none was old or a very young child. The latter is too poor a risk, being liable to perish on the voyage to the slave market.

  Nobody injured them, because slaves are valuable, but they grouped together weeping or staring around with piteous eyes.

  A man who travels with Danes has often to harden his stomach, but I didn’t look at the captives any more than I could help. Not that they could be physically much worse off than in the life France allowed them; indeed, it was probable that they would be much better fed, plus being infinitely better protected. Moreover, in so far as slavery is concerned a villein’s status is only nominally above it; but at least here they could suffer among their own kind and with their own families.

  When the meat was eaten and the wine drinking began it was time for me to make my bid. For though I was on good -terms with Thorgrim nothing definite had been accomplished toward accompanying him when he left. It was up to me to show that I would be an addition to the voyage, and I rose with my harp. “Shut up and listen to the scald!” others echoed my roar for silence.

  Danes only want one thing, a lay to satisfy their concept of adventure. Nevertheless, a certain amount of care was necessary as to the exact choice of subject. There are so many feuds and factions among them that it is well to know a band’s leanings and connections before praising a leader or recounting a battle. I avoided this risk by choosing an incident from the far past.

  “I’ll sing to you,” I called out, “of how Hogni got the Odinsword.”

  “That’s fine!” one raised his voice above the general murmur of approval.

  “Silence for the scald!” another took it on himself to command.

  Merry and on the way to being drunk, they were in the mood to hear any fast-moving tale that didn’t step on their toes. Hogni was a popular figure with Danish poets, and his whole story was well known to everyone present. An incident of his life could, therefore, be told without preface. With one motion I swept the strings and flung out my arm dramatically.

  “The king of the trolls caroused at yule,

  Whiling winter with wine from the south,

  Never fearing a foeman’s coming

  To pierce this hill, piled high with snow.

  No gloom was there, for glowing gold

  Roofed the room where rang their songs,

  Driving dark from deep in the caves

  Where trolls hide well the treasure they win.

  But one-eyed Odin entered the sleep

  Of Hogni, telling the hero a sword

  Of Wayland’s making might be his

  If he forbore to fatten on rest.

  Up rose Hogni to run on staves,

  Skimming the drifts on skis, as petrels

  Skim the waves of the wife-bereaver,

  Swift on slopes as a sliding otter. ”

  I glanced to make sure that I was holding Thorgrim’s attention. He was manifesting interest, though I couldn’t be certain how much. There was a nice but important point involved in the extent of his enthusiasm. Should I be forced to ask for inclusion in his company I would be consigning myself to the position of just another one of his followers. If, on the other hand, he should be moved to issue an invitation, I would be going along as a guest and an equal.

  “The cold mirk-wood might cast no terror

  On such a man. His mood was baneful.

  He’d slake his longing or sleep forever,

  Win the weapon or waste in his howe.

  He found the drift his dream had showed him,

  Winnowed the woof of winter’s loom,

  Found the rift in the rocks behind it

  And entered the earth there, eager for plunder.

  A fearful fire-drake formed by Loki

  Was there to watch but winter had lulled it;

  Certain of safety, sightless with sleep,

  Traitor to trust, the trolls’ guard lay.”

  Thorgrim was watching his men. His own judgment of the poem was of less moment to him, naturally, than their reaction. If I proved someone who could help to keep them good-humored, and therefore easily handled, why that was all he wanted to know.

  “No man-made sword could mar its life;

  Steel-hard scales were scornful of axes.

  Woe was Hogni’s should he wake it,

  As well he knew; but he never wavered.

  Hardy the hero who held his course

  Past such a monster, mocking the peril!

  Boldly he passed it, bored through the hill—

  A dangerous mole in that dark passage.”

  I was using every trick of harp, voice and gesture in the trade, and at the next line I caught up my cup with a flourish.

  “Soon he heard ‘skoal!’ from skinkers by hundreds,

  And, following further, found the cavern

  Glorious with gold and glittering jewels,

  Splashes of fire in a splendor of colors.

  Careless the king sat, cracking jests,

  Proud of his thanes nor thinking of evil;

  But Hogni was grim and gripped his axe.

  He would not turn with his task undone.

  Wild were the warriors, wine-sodden trolls!

  When Hogni harried the hall of their monarch.

  Fierce was his onset, fast as an osprey’s.

  He made no pause to ask pardon of any.”

  They were with me now, exhilarated by Hogni’s swift daring, and laughed at the understatement. Downstream I saw the other three galleys pulling toward us. Fortunately all the rest had their eyes on me and failed to notice. I twanged my harp loudly to announce the climax of the lay.

  “Before the ruler could roar for help

  Hogni’s axe was high above him.

  Keen was the edge the king saw then;

  Trapped in his hall the troll sat moveless.

  ‘What will the hero have for my ransom?’

  The ring-bestower wrathfully asked him.

  ‘I’ll give you gold or gorgeous gems

  Craftily hewn from the hold of the earth.’

  Loud laughed Hogni. ‘Leave it for dragons

  Sour with aging to sulk over treasure!

  Let cowards be misers—a man is before you!

  I want no baubles, but Wayland’s sword!’ ”

  They cheered the sentiment, but I was wry in my mind. Catch these or any other Danes I’d ever met turning down loot in favor of honor! Still the fact that they knew how they ought to feel was sufficient for my purposes.

  “Not gladly given, the glaive was his

  And warriors ran for weapons, raging;

  They were all fain to follow Hogni;

&nbs
p; Who leaped to leave them, laughing his triumph.

  The noise unknotted the noose of sleep

  That bound the fire-drake, fiercely it reared;

  Sure no sword could shear its armor,

  It deemed then Hogni was done with life.

  But Way land forges no false weapons—

  They’re valkyries with vampire mouths,

  Brands that none but the Norns can break—

  And Hogni carved to its cold heart.

  Maddened with anger oncoming trolls

  Rushed to catch and kill the riever,

  But skillful on skis he skimmed away,

  Bearing his booty back to his steading.”

  They roared cheers, and Thorgrim himself refilled my cup. “Have you any particular plan?” he asked when we had toasted each other.

  “Why?” I inquired offhandedly.

  “We’ve a long voyage ahead, and there’s not a scald in the company. It ought to be a pretty interesting trip for you, too. Why don’t you join us?”

  I made as if to consider. “Where do you go now?”

  “To the Spanish slave markets,” he answered. “Maybe?” and he tapped the Varangian axe, “I may even decide to go back to Miklagard after that.”

  Constantinople was a place I had long wanted to see, and Spain I had only visited once. “Thanks. I’d like to join you.”

  “Good,” he nodded, and we both turned to watch the galleys land.

  Chapter

  Nine

  I WAS feeling good. Here my life was all arranged once more, and the prospects were excellent. If we made the great journey to Byzantium it would be strange if I couldn’t find the makings of some good poems. Moreover, if the expedition was successful I should return with pelf to spare. Triumphant chiefs are generous in their gifts to scalds.

  Best of all was the thought of getting out of that accursed country where nothing ever turned out well for me. I shook my head cheerfully at thought of the Pictish priest. He had made good his threat, and I was glad to get out from under.

  The first boat contained the plunder, including a half-dozen newly made slaves. With drowsy compassion I watched them being herded ashore. Then the roof of hope fell in. “Holy St. Patrick!” I breathed. But I knew that neither he nor anyone else would help me.