Book: Hereward, The Last of the English

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More than forty years had elapsed since that famous battle of Clontarf,
and since Ragnvald, Reginald, or Ranald, son of Sigtryg the Norseman, had
been slain therein by Brian Boru. On that one day, so the Irish sang, the
Northern invaders were exterminated, once and for all, by the Milesian
hero, who had craftily used the strangers to fight his battles, and then,
the moment they became formidable to himself, crushed them, till "from
Howth to Brandon in Kerry there was not a threshing-floor without a Danish
slave threshing thereon, or a quern without a Danish woman grinding
thereat."

Nevertheless, in spite of the total annihilation of the Danish power in
the Emerald isle, Ranald seemed to the eyes of men to be still a hale old
warrior, ruling constitutionally--that is, with a wholesome fear of being
outlawed or murdered if he misbehaved--over the Danes in Waterford; with
five hundred fair-haired warriors at his back, two-edged axe on shoulder
and two-edged sword on thigh. His ships drove a thriving trade with France
and Spain in Irish fish, butter, honey, and furs. His workmen coined money
in the old round tower of Dundory, built by his predecessor and namesake
about the year 1003, which stands as Reginald's tower to this day. He had
fought many a bloody battle since his death at Clontarf, by the side of
his old leader Sigtryg Silkbeard. He had been many a time to Dublin to
visit his even more prosperous and formidable friend; and was so delighted
with the new church of the Holy Trinity, which Sigtryg and his bishop
Donatus had just built, not in the Danish or Ostman town, but in the heart
of ancient Celtic Dublin, (plain proof of the utter overthrow of the
Danish power,) that he had determined to build a like church in honor of
the Holy Trinity, in Waterford itself. A thriving, valiant old king he
seemed, as he sat in his great house of pine logs under Reginald's Tower
upon the quay, drinking French and Spanish wines out of horns of ivory and
cups of gold; and over his head hanging, upon the wall, the huge
doubled-edged axe with which, so his flatterers had whispered, Brian Boru
had not slain him, but he Brian Boru.

Nevertheless, then as since, alas! the pleasant theory was preferred by
the Milesian historians to the plain truth. And far away inland, monks
wrote and harpers sung of the death of Ranald, the fair-haired Fiongall,
and all his "mailed swarms."

One Teague MacMurrough, indeed, a famous bard of those parts, composed
unto his harp a song of Clontarf, the fame whereof reached Ranald's ears,
and so amused him that he rested not day or night till he had caught the
hapless bard and brought him in triumph into Waterford. There he compelled
him, at sword's point, to sing, to him and his housecarles the Milesian
version of the great historical event: and when the harper, in fear and
trembling, came to the story of Ranald's own death at Brian Boru's hands,
then the jolly old Viking laughed till the tears ran down his face; and
instead of cutting off Teague's head, gave him a cup of goodly wine, made
him his own harper thenceforth, and bade him send for his wife and
children, and sing to him every day, especially the song of Clontarf and
his own death; treating him very much, in fact, as English royalty, during
the last generation, treated another Irish bard whose song was even more
sweet, and his notions of Irish history even more grotesque, than those of
Teague MacMurrough.

It was to this old king, or rather to his son Sigtryg, godson of Sigtryg
Silkbeard, and distant cousin of his own, that Hereward now took his way,
and told his story, as the king sat in his hall, drinking "across the
fire," after the old Norse fashion. The fire of pine logs was in the midst
of the hall, and the smoke went out through a louver in the roof. On one
side was a long bench, and in the middle of it the king's high arm-chair;
right and left of him sat his kinsmen and the ladies, and his sea-captains
and men of wealth. Opposite, on the other side of the fire, was another
bench. In the middle of that sat his marshal, and right and left all his
housecarles. There were other benches behind, on which sat more freemen,
but of lesser rank.

And they were all drinking ale, which a servant poured out of a bucket
into a great bull's horn, and the men handed round to each other.

Then Hereward came in, and sat down on the end of the hindermost bench,
and Martin stood behind him, till one of the ladies said,--

"Who is that young stranger, who sits behind there so humbly, though, he
looks like an earl's son, more fit to sit here with us on the high bench?"

"So he does," quoth King Ranald. "Come forward hither, young sir, and
drink."

And when Hereward came forward, all the ladies agreed that he must be an
earl's son; for he had a great gold torc round his neck, and gold rings on
his wrists; and a new scarlet coat, bound with gold braid; and scarlet
stockings, cross-laced with gold braid up to the knee; and shoes trimmed
with martin's fur; and a short blue silk cloak over all, trimmed with
martin's fur likewise; and by his side, in a broad belt with gold studs,
was the Ogre's sword Brain-biter, with its ivory hilt and velvet sheath;
and all agreed that if he had but been a head taller, they had never seen
a properer man.

"Aha! such a gay young sea-cock does not come hither for naught. Drink
first, man, and tell us thy business after," and he reached the horn to
Hereward.

Hereward took it, and sang,--

"In this Braga-beaker,
Brave Ranald I pledge;
In good liquor, which lightens
Long labor on oar-bench;
Good liquor, which sweetens
The song of the scald."

"Thy voice is as fine as thy feathers, man. Nay, drink it all. We
ourselves drink here by the peg at midday; but a stranger is welcome to
fill his inside all hours of the day."

Whereon Hereward finished the horn duly; and at Ranald's bidding, sat him
down on the high settle. He did not remark, that as he sat down two
handsome youths rose and stood behind him.

"Now then, Sir Priest," quoth the king, "go on with your story."

A priest, Irish by his face and dress, who sat on the high bench, rose,
and renewed an oration which Hereward's entrance had interrupted.

"So, O great King, as says Homerus, this wise king called his earls,
knights, sea-captains, and housecarles, and said unto them, 'Which of
these two kings is in the right, who can tell? But mind you, that this
king of the Enchanters lives far away in India, and we never heard of him
more than his name; but this king Ulixes and his Greeks live hard by; and
which of the two is it wiser to quarrel with, him that lives hard by or
him that lives far off? Therefore, King Ranald, says, by the mouth of my
humility, the great O'Brodar, Lord of Ivark, 'Take example by Alcinous,
the wise king of Fairy, and listen not to the ambassadors of those lying
villains, O'Dea Lord of Slievardagh, Maccarthy King of Cashel, and
O'Sullivan Lord of Knockraffin, who all three between them could not raise
kernes enough to drive off one old widow's cow. Make friends with me, who
live upon your borders; and you shall go peaceably through my lands, to
conquer and destroy them, who live afar off; as they deserve, the sons of
Belial and Judas.'"

And the priest crost himself, and sat down. At which speech Hereward was
seen to laugh.

"Why do you laugh, young sir? The priest seems to talk like a wise man,
and is my guest and an ambassador."

Then rose up Hereward, and bowed to the king. "King Ranald Sigtrygsson, it
was not for rudeness that I laughed, for I learnt good manners long ere I
came here, but because I find clerks alike all over the world."

"How?"

"Quick at hiding false counsel under learned speech. I know nothing of
Ulixes, king, nor of this O'Brodar either; and I am but a lad, as you see:
but I heard a bird once in my own country who gave a very different
counsel from the priest's."

"Speak on, then. This lad is no fool, my merry men all."

"There were three copses, King, in our country, and each copse stood on a
hill. In the first there built an eagle, in the second there built a
sparhawk, in the third there built a crow.

"Now the sparhawk came to the eagle, and said, 'Go shares with me, and we
will kill the crow, and have her wood to ourselves.'

"'Humph!' says the eagle, 'I could kill the crow without your help;
however, I will think of it.'

"When the crow heard that, she came to the eagle herself. 'King Eagle,'
says she, 'why do you want to kill me, who live ten miles from you, and
never flew across your path in my life? Better kill that little rogue of a
sparhawk who lives between us, and is always ready to poach on your
marches whenever your back is turned. So you will have her wood as well as
your own.'

"'You are a wise crow,' said the eagle; and he went out and killed the
sparhawk, and took his wood."

Loud laughed King Ranald and his Vikings all. "Well spoken, young man! We
will take the sparhawk, and let the crow bide."

"Nay, but," quoth Hereward, "hear the end of the story. After a while the
eagle finds the crow beating about the edge of the sparhawk's wood.

"'Oho!' says he, 'so you can poach as well as that little hooknosed
rogue?' and he killed her too.

"'Ah!' says the crow, when she lay a-dying, 'my blood is on my own head.
If I had but left the sparhawk between me and this great tyrant!'

"And so the eagle got all three woods to himself."

At which the Vikings laughed more loudly than ever; and King Ranald,
chuckling at the notion of eating up the hapless Irish princes one by one,
sent back the priest (not without a present for his church, for Ranald was
a pious man) to tell the great O'Brodar, that unless he sent into
Waterford by that day week two hundred head of cattle, a hundred pigs, a
hundredweight of clear honey, and as much of wax, Ranald would not leave
so much as a sucking-pig alive in Ivark.

The cause of quarrel, of course, was too unimportant to be mentioned. Each
had robbed and cheated the other half a dozen times in the last twenty
years. As for the morality of the transaction, Ranald had this salve for
his conscience,--that as he intended to do to O'Brodar, so would O'Brodar
have gladly done to him, had he been living peaceably in Norway, and
O'Brodar been strong enough to invade and rob him. Indeed, so had O'Brodar
done already, ever since he wore beard, to every chieftain of his own race
whom he was strong enough to ill-treat. Many a fair herd had he driven
off, many a fair farm burnt, many a fair woman carried off a slave, after
that inveterate fashion of lawless feuds which makes the history of Celtic
Ireland from the earliest, times one dull and aimless catalogue of murder
and devastation, followed by famine and disease; and now, as he had done
to others, so it was to be done to him.

"And now, young sir, who seem as witty as you are good looking, you may,
if you will, tell us your name and your business. As for the name,
however, if you wish to keep it to yourself, Ranald Sigtrygsson is not the
man to demand it of an honest guest."

Hereward looked round and saw Teague MacMurrough standing close to him,
harp in hand. He took it from him courteously enough, put a silver penny
into the minstrel's hand, and running his fingers over the strings, rose
and began,--

"Outlaw and free thief,
Landless and lawless
Through the world fare I,
Thoughtless of life.
Soft is my beard, but
Hard my Brain-biter.
Wake, men me call, whom
Warrior or watchman
Never caught sleeping,
Far in Northumberland
Slew I the witch-bear,
Cleaving his brain-pan,
At one stroke I felled him."

And so forth, chanting all his doughty deeds, with such a voice and spirit
joined to that musical talent for which he was afterwards so famous, till
the hearts of the wild Norsemen rejoiced, and "Skall to the stranger!
Skall to the young Viking!" rang through the hall.

Then showing proudly the fresh wounds on his bare arms, he sang of his
fight with the Cornish ogre, and his adventure with the Princess. But
always, though he went into the most minute details, he concealed the name
both of her and of her father, while he kept his eyes steadily fixed on
Ranald's eldest son, Sigtryg, who sat at his father's right hand.

The young man grew uneasy, red, almost angry; till at last Hereward
sang,--

"A gold ring she gave me
Right royally dwarf-worked,
To none will I pass it
For prayer or for sword-stroke,
Save to him who can claim it
By love and by troth plight,
Let that hero speak
If that hero be here."

Young Sigtryg half started from his feet: but when Hereward smiled at him,
and laid his finger on his lips, he sat down again. Hereward felt his
shoulder touched from behind. One of the youths who had risen when he sat
down bent over him, and whispered in his ear,--

"Ah, Hereward, we know you. Do you not know us? We are the twins, the sons
of your sister, Siward the White and Siward the Red, the orphans of
Asbiorn Siwardsson, who fell at Dunsinane."

Hereward sprang up, struck the harp again, and sang,--

"Outlaw and free thief,
My kinsfolk have left me,
And no kinsfolk need I
Till kinsfolk shall need me.
My sword is my father,
My shield is my mother,
My ship is my sister,
My horse is my brother."

"Uncle, uncle," whispered one of them, sadly, "listen now or never, for we
have bad news for you and us. Your father is dead, and Earl Algar, your
brother, here in Ireland, outlawed a second time."

A flood of sorrow passed through Hereward's heart. He kept it down, and
rising once more, harp in hand,--

"Hereward, king, hight I,
Holy Leofric my father,
In Westminster wiser
None walked with King Edward.
High minsters he builded,
Pale monks he maintained.
Dead is he, a bed-death,
A leech-death, a priest-death,
A straw-death, a cow's death.
Such doom I desire not.
To high heaven, all so softly,
The angels uphand him,
In meads of May flowers
Mild Mary will meet him.
Me, happier, the Valkyrs
Shall waft from the war-deck,
Shall hail from the holmgang
Or helmet-strewn moorland.
And sword-strokes my shrift be,
Sharp spears be my leeches,
With heroes' hot corpses
High heaped for my pillow."

"Skall to the Viking!" shouted the Danes once more, at this outburst of
heathendom, common enough among their half-converted race, in times when
monasticism made so utter a divorce between the life of the devotee and
that of the worldling, that it seemed reasonable enough for either party
to have their own heaven and their own hell. After all, Hereward was not
original in his wish. He had but copied the death-song which his father's
friend and compeer, Siward Digre, the victor of Dunsinane, had sung for
himself some three years before.

All praised his poetry, and especially the quickness of his alliterations
(then a note of the highest art); and the old king filling not this time
the horn, but a golden goblet, bid him drain it and keep the goblet for
his song.

Young Sigtryg leapt up, and took the cup to Hereward. "Such a scald," he
said, "ought to have no meaner cup-bearer than a king's son."

Hereward drank it dry; and then fixing his eyes meaningly on the Prince,
dropt the Princess's ring into the cup, and putting it back into Sigtryg's
hand, sang,--

"The beaker I reach back
More rich than I took it.
No gold will I grasp
Of the king's, the ring-giver,
Till, by wit or by weapon,
I worthily win it.
When brained by my biter
O'Brodar lies gory,
While over the wolf's meal
Fair widows are wailing."

"Does he refuse my gift?" grumbled Ranald.

"He has given a fair reason," said the Prince, as he hid the ring in his
bosom; "leave him to me; for my brother in arms he is henceforth."

After which, as was the custom of those parts, most of them drank too much
liquor. But neither Sigtryg nor Hereward drank; and the two Siwards stood
behind their young uncle's seat, watching him with that intense admiration
which lads can feel for a young man.

That night, when the warriors were asleep, Sigtryg and Hereward talked out
their plans. They would equip two ships; they would fight all the kinglets
of Cornwall at once, if need was; they would carry off the Princess, and
burn Alef's town over his head, if he said nay. Nothing could be more
simple than the tactics required in an age when might was right.

Then Hereward turned to his two nephews who lingered near him, plainly big
with news.

"And what brings you here, lads?" He had hardened his heart, and made up
his mind to show no kindness to his own kin. The day might come when they
might need him; then it would be his turn.

"Your father, as we told you, is dead."

"So much the better for him, and the worse for England. And Harold and the
Godwinssons, of course, are lords and masters far and wide?"

"Tosti has our grandfather Siward's earldom."

"I know that. I know, too, that he will not keep it long, unless he learns
that Northumbrians are free men, and not Wessex slaves."

"And Algar our uncle is outlawed again, after King Edward had given him
peaceably your father's earldom."

"And why?"

"Why was he outlawed two years ago?"

"Because the Godwinssons hate him, I suppose."

"And Algar is gone to Griffin, the Welshman, and from him on to Dublin to
get ships, just as he did two years ago; and has sent us here to get ships
likewise."

"And what will he do with them when he has got them? He burnt Hereford
last time he was outlawed, by way of a wise deed, minster and all, with
St. Ethelbert's relics on board; and slew seven clergymen: but they were
only honest canons with wives at home, and not shaveling monks, so I
suppose that sin was easily shrived. Well, I robbed a priest of a few
pence, and was outlawed; he plunders and burns a whole minster, and is
made a great earl for if. One law for the weak and one for the strong,
young lads, as you will know when you are as old as I. And now I suppose
he will plunder and burn more minsters, and then patch up a peace with
Harold again; which I advise him strongly to do; for I warn you, young
lads, and you may carry that message from me to Dublin to my good brother
your uncle, that Harold's little finger is thicker than his whole body;
and that, false Godwinsson as he is, he is the only man with a head upon
his shoulders left in England, now that his father, and my father, and
dear old Siward, whom I loved better than my father, are dead and gone."

The lads stood silent, not a little awed, and indeed imposed on, by the
cynical and worldly-wise tone which their renowned uncle had assumed.

At last one of them asked, falteringly, "Then you will do nothing for us?"

"For you, nothing. Against you, nothing. Why should I mix myself up in my
brother's quarrels? Will he make that white-headed driveller at
Westminster reverse my outlawry? And if he does, what shall I get thereby?
A younger brother's portion; a dirty ox-gang of land in Kesteven. Let him
leave me alone as I leave him, and see if I do not come back to him some
day, for or against him as he chooses, with such a host of Vikings' sons
as Harold Hardraade himself would be proud of. By Thor's hammer, boys, I
have been an outlaw but five years now, and I find it so cheery a life,
that I do not care if I am an outlaw for fifty more. The world is a fine
place and a wide place; and it is a very little corner of it that I have
seen yet; and if you were of my mettle, you would come along with me and
see it throughout to the four corners of heaven, instead of mixing
yourselves up in these paltry little quarrels with which our two families
are tearing England in pieces, and being murdered perchance like dogs at
last by treachery, as Sweyn Godwinsson murdered Biorn."

The boys listened, wide-eyed and wide-eared. Hereward knew to whom he was
speaking; and he had not spoken in vain.

"What do you hope to get here?" he went on. "Ranald will give you no
ships: he will have enough to do to fight O'Brodar; and he is too cunning
to thrust his head into Algar's quarrels."

"We hoped to find Vikings here, who would go to any war on the hope of
plunder."

"If there be any, I want them more than you; and, what is more, I will
have them. They know that they will do finer deeds with me for their
captain than burning a few English homesteads. And so may you. Come with
me, lads. Once and for all, come. Help me to fight O'Brodar. Then help me
to another little adventure which I have on hand,--as pretty a one as ever
you heard a minstrel sing,--and then we will fit out a longship or two,
and go where fate leads,--to Constantinople, if you like. What can you do
better? You never will get that earldom from Tosti. Lucky for young
Waltheof, your uncle, if he gets it,--if he, and you too, are not murdered
within seven years; for I know Tosti's humor, when he has rivals in his
way----"

"Algar will protect us," said one.

"I tell you, Algar is no match for the Godwinssons. If the monk-king died
to-morrow, neither his earldom nor his life would be safe. When I saw your
father Asbiorn lie dead at Dunsinane, I said, 'There ends the glory of the
house of the bear;' and if you wish to make my words come false, then
leave England to founder and rot and fall to pieces,--as all men say she
is doing,--without your helping to hasten her ruin; and seek glory and
wealth too with me around the world! The white bear's blood is in your
veins, lads. Take to the sea like your ancestor, and come over the swan's
bath with me!"

"That we will!" said the two lads. And well they kept their word.




CHAPTER V.

HOW HEREWARD SUCCORED THE PRINCESS OF CORNWALL A SECOND TIME.


Fat was the feasting and loud was the harping in the halls of Alef the
Cornishman, King of Gweek. Savory was the smell of fried pilchard and
hake; more savory still that of roast porpoise; most savory of all that of
fifty huge squab pies, built up of layers of apples, bacon, onions, and
mutton, and at the bottom of each a squab, or young cormorant, which
diffused both through the pie and through the ambient air a delicate odor
of mingled guano and polecat. And the occasion was worthy alike of the
smell and of the noise; for King Alef, finding that after the Ogre's death
the neighboring kings were but too ready to make reprisals on him for his
champion's murders and robberies, had made a treaty of alliance, offensive
and defensive, with Hannibal the son of Gryll, King of Marazion, and had
confirmed the same by bestowing on him the hand of his fair daughter.
Whether she approved of the match or not, was asked neither by King Alef
nor by King Hannibal.

To-night was the bridal-feast. To-morrow morning the church was to hallow
the union, and after that Hannibal Grylls was to lead home his bride,
among a gallant company.

And as they ate and drank, and harped and piped, there came into that hall
four shabbily drest men,--one of them a short, broad fellow, with black
elf-locks and a red beard,--and sat them down sneakingly at the very
lowest end of all the benches.

In hospitable Cornwall, especially on such a day, every guest was welcome;
and the strangers sat peaceably, but ate nothing, though there was both
hake and pilchard within reach.

Next to them, by chance, sat a great lourdan of a Dane, as honest, brave,
and stupid a fellow as ever tugged at oar; and after a while they fell
talking, till the strangers had heard the reason of this great feast, and
all the news of the country side.

"But whence did they come, not to know it already; for all Cornwall was
talking thereof?"

"O, they came out of Devonshire, seeking service down west, with some
merchant or rover, being seafaring men."

The stranger with the black hair had been, meanwhile, earnestly watching
the Princess, who sat at the board's head. He saw her watching him in
return, and with a face sad enough.

At last she burst into tears.

"What should the bride weep for, at such a merry wedding?" asked he of his
companion.

"O, cause enough;" and he told bluntly enough the Princess's story. "And
what is more," said he, "the King of Waterford sent a ship over last week,
with forty proper lads on board, and two gallant Holders with them, to
demand her; but for all answer, they were put into the strong house, and
there they lie, chained to a log, at this minute. Pity it is and shame, I
hold, for I am a Dane myself; and pity, too, that such a bonny lass should
go to an unkempt Welshman like this, instead of a tight smart Viking's
son, like the Waterford lad."

The stranger answered nothing, but kept his eyes upon the Princess, till
she looked at him steadfastly in return.

She turned pale and red again; but after a while she spoke:--

"There is a stranger there; and what his rank may be I know not; but he
has been thrust down to the lowest seat, in a house that used to honor
strangers, instead of treating them like slaves. Let him take this dish
from my hand, and eat joyfully, lest when he goes home he may speak scorn
of bridegroom and bride, and our Cornish weddings."

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