The Black Jarl/Chapter 11

HROUGHOUT the remainder of the day great preparations were made for the big feast that was to cement a friendship. Harald the Just entertained Svend in his own quarters, while his lieutenants made sure that everything was in readiness.

The warriors mingled, tried tests of skill, played at rough sports, and bathed in the stream at the back of Harald's house. The shield maidens gossiped and rested. Svend's thralls aided their brothers of the household of Harald, stealing scraps of food when they could. None knew better than the thralls the glory of a great feast.

In her own room Thyra consulted with Solveig, her old nurse.

Solveig was a wrinkled hag of uncertain years, a daughter of thralls. But she had been selected as nurse when Thyra's mother had died and Harald had refused to wed again. And between the jarl's daughter and the wrinkled nurse was a love that was deep and understanding.

And now, as to a mother, Thyra went to Solveig, and with flaming cheeks and bright eyes confessed her secret. The ancient nurse grunted and sat in a corner of the room, rocking back and forth on her heels. After a time she went to the fireplace and threw sticks on the fire, and squatted there and peered into the flames.

"What do you see, Solveig?" Thyra asked, kneeling beside her.

"His love is good," the nurse grunted.

"I give you thanks for those sweet words."

"But there will be trouble."

"Trouble?" Thyra gasped.

"Danger! Blood will flow!"

Thyra stopped her with a cry. "Solveig, you frighten me!" she said.

"I read it in the flames, jarl's daughter."

"And what else?"

"I cannot see well. But his love is good, though danger will come."

"Danger to him?"

"I cannot tell. It is growing dark," the old nurse said, and got up and left the fireplace.

Thyra, the jarl's daughter, paced around the room. The words of the nurse had troubled her. She was a Christian, yet had not entirely shaken herself free of witch lore. And old Solveig many times had spoken of things that were to happen, and they did.

For a time she was quiet with her troubles; then she opened the door and looked down into the great hall. Edvard Haakonsson was not far away, and when she descended the steps he hurried forward to join her. Brynhild saw them, and slipped near. Crouching at the side of the steps, she could hear.

"Beloved!" Edvard whispered.

"I am troubled, Ax Thrower," Thyra said. "My nurse can look into the future. She has looked this day. She says that your love is good—but that there is danger near."

"Danger?" he repeated.

"Grave danger, from her manner. She told me that blood will flow. I asked her whether the danger was to you, but she could not tell."

"Do not let her words trouble you."

"But they do, Edvard, and I cannot help it. I fear for you so. Attend, beloved! Near the house lives a witch, an old hag who has the gift, men say. I—I cannot believe in such things, yet she has some wonderful power. If you could see her, perhaps she could tell you more."

"You would have me visit a witch—you, a Christian?"

"Only that we may look into the future for love's sake," she whispered in reply. "That is not the same thing as having her brew confusion to your enemies. You follow the forest trail, Ax Thrower, and after a time you come to a stream. Her hut is beside the stream. It is not a long distance. You could return in time for the feast."

A moment he looked at her, then he smiled.

"It is a command, Thyra," he said. "I go at once. And do you return to your nurse, and not worry about this business."

She glided back up the steps, and Edvard Haakonsson hurried from the great hall. Brynhild searched until she found Magnus, and called him aside. She spoke rapidly and in whispers.

"He has walked into my hands," Magnus said. "I'll attend to him."

But Magnus was troubled as he hurried away to call one of his trusted men-at-arms. For the warriors even now should be approaching through the woods, and Edvard Haakonsson might meet them. Then would the fat be in the fire. So Magnus gave his trusted man orders, and the fellow left the house and made his way slowly to the edge of the forest. And when he had reached it he plunged from sight to seek those coming from Svend's place.

Edvard the Ax Thrower found the end of the forest trail and made his way along it rapidly. It was no more than a leafy tunnel, the bottom worn smooth by the feet of thralls. Soon he was in the stillness of the deep woods, where there was naught to be heard save the whispering of the wind through the trees and sounds from forest life.

On he went, and presently he reached the stream. He found the witch's hut half hidden by brush, and approached it slowly. There was a fire before it, and over the fire a large pot, but the door of the hut was closed and there was no human to be seen.

Edvard hesitated a moment, and then went up to the door. He took his dagger out of his girdle and pounded upon the door with the hilt of the weapon. A croaking voice sounded behind him.

"What does the jarl wish?" it asked.

Edvard Haakonsson whirled at the sound. The witch had slipped from the woods, and now stood beside the boiling pot, her thin hair stringing down from her head, her bent body supported by a crooked stick. She leaned forward and tilted her wrinkled chin, and her tiny eyes gleamed at him.

"What does the black jarl wish?" she asked. "Never have I seen you before, yet I knew that you would come."

"How did you know that?" Edvard asked.

"Old Dagmar knows many things that other folks do not. If you have nothing to ask of me, go your way."

"If you know so much," Edvard said, "perhaps you know what knowledge I seek without me telling you."

"You would look into the future," she said.

"And can you show it me?"

"If the eyes of the jarl are good, perchance he can see for himself."

Edvard started toward the boiling pot, but she threw up her crooked stick and stopped him.

"Is there no reward?" she demanded.

The Ax Thrower laughed and gave a bracelet from his arm. The old hag cackled, drew back the stick, and motioned toward the pot.

Edvard drew nearer and looked down at the steaming mess.

"Closer!" Dagmar whispered. "Look closer, jarl! The future may be seen only by those who wish to see it."

"I see nothing but boiling stuff covered with a scum."

"Look well at the scum, jarl!" The old witch was beside him now, bending forward. "Look, jarl! You love a maid, but she soon will be in peril. You must fight to protect her. Look again, jarl! There is blood in the air. There is strife abroad. Before the night is over, men will die. Your own life is threatened, and that of the maid you love."

Edvard Haakonsson gave a cry and covered his eyes with his arm. Whether he saw it or not, he believed that he did. He bent forward again and looked at the foaming stuff in the pot.

"Beware those you think are your friends!" the old hag croaked. "Put not your trust in any man during the night that is coming. Even now the forces of evil are gathering. Guard well yourself and the maid you love."

"Tell me more!" he commanded.

"I cannot tell you what is not shown, jarl. Sharpen your ax. I can tell you that much—sharpen your ax!"

"More!" he commanded again, looking at the scum in the pot.

"Then, look, jarl."

"I see nothing."

"That is because you cannot read. Let Dagmar read it for you. Jarl you are now, in your own right. Double jarl you may be soon."

"What is the meaning of that?"

"Ruler over two jarldoms," she said. "That is all, mighty one!"

He backed away from the pot, looked at her, then whirled and darted back along the forest trail. He felt forced to believe. Ruler over two jarldoms! Did that mean his own and the jarldom of Harald the Just? Was Thyra's father to be slain, and he to rule by virtue of marriage with Harald's daughter?

Dagmar predicted strife. Did she mean that Svend would break the law of hospitality and commence an attack? But he put aside that thought as unworthy. Perhaps the danger to himself would come from personal enemies, he thought. And she might have meant that he would rule over two jarldoms after Svend's death, as was to be expected if he outlived Svend.

He hurried along the trail, his head bent on his chest. It was almost dark now, and soon the feast would begin, and he had to be there for that, and wanted a private word with Thyra first. He sprang across a brook, darted over rocks, and once more followed the well worn trail.

And suddenly men sprang out at him, ovewhelmed [sic] him, and made him prisoner before he could reach his dagger. Then he was pulled back into the brush, still struggling and trying to fight. A skin was thrown over his head, half smothering him, blinding him.

"Fiends!" he gasped. "What treachery is this?"

But the skin over his head muffled his voice.