The Black Jarl/Chapter 14

HYRA had moved mechanically and as though numbed through the tragic events of the hour.

One moment she had been sitting at table, listening to her father and wishing that Edvard the As Thrower would come to his seat. The next, men were at one another's throats, weapons were clashing, death shrieks rang out.

She scarcely knew how she managed to get away from the table. It seemed that somebody helped her at first, perhaps one of her father's men. Once, she remembered, she had stumbled and for a time had been beneath the feet of the warriors. But she managed to get to the wall and follow it to the steps, and rush up them and through the door into her own room.

Once inside, she put up the bar across the door, then turned and leaned against it, panting, frightened, her breath coming in little gasps, her bosom heaving. The din of the battle already was like a roar and beat against her ears like crashing waves on a rocky coast.

"Little one! Little one!"

Old Solveig, her nurse, hobbled toward her across the room. Solveig had not left the room, for she was old and walking a task with her. One of the thralls had carried her food, and she had been eating when the jarl's daughter had entered and barred the door.

And now Thyra turned to the old nurse as to a protector, and threw her arms around the hag.

"It is war again," she sobbed. "Svend the Bloody began it, It happened so quickly that I scarce know how it started. There was to have been peace and happiness, and now—"

"Often have I seen war and heard the clash of arms," the old nurse said. "It is the part of a woman to stand aside and wait."

"There was to have been peace! They touched hands before the king," said Thyra. "And because my father would have asked the blessing, Svend called upon Thor and shouted to his men-at-arms. Now they are fighting and dying! And I was so happy but a short time ago!"

"The young jarl—?" Solveig questioned.

"He was not at the table. I sent him to the witch and he had not returned when the trouble began."

"He is of the house of Svend!"

"But he did not know of this!" Thyra cried. "I am sure he did not know of this, if it was prearranged. He is the soul of honor."

"Many men seem so, are so, to women, but forget their honor among men."

"He did not know!" Thyra declared in faith. "I could have told if he had meant treachery. This will bring a curse upon Svend. He has violated the law of hospitality. And what will the end be?"

"A woman can but wait," old Solveig said. "You have barred the door?"

"Yes, I have barred it.”

"Then pray, little one—pray that Harald's men drive out the others. Else, if they do not, it would be better for you to plunge a knife into your bosom. Svend will not be merciful to the daughter of the jarl he hates. He might betroth you to one of his thralls."

"Solveig! Oh, it could not end so!" she cried. "If my Ax Thrower would come to help!"

"Ha! Think you he would fight against his own house?"

"He is but new come to the land."

"But the blood in his veins will speak."

"Only half of it is the blood of Svend's brother!" she declared, faithfully. "I have read his eyes, Solveig. He is good and noble! Do not ask me to doubt him!"

They were silent for a time, Thyra cringing near the door. The old nurse hobbled back to her corner, and her lips moved in prayer, and thus she remained.

Now the girl could hear the warriors clashing at the foot of the flight of steps.

"Thor! Thor!" she heard them shriek.

And because of that she deemed that Svend's men were having the better of the fighting. She did not know that sometimes losing men make the greater noise. Once she sobbed, thinking of her father and once again because of Edvard.

She could not bring herself to believe that the Ax Thrower had a part in the black treachery. Yet she looked into the future, and failed to see happiness. Though her father lived, though he and his men conquered, he would not listen to her love for Edvard Haakonsson now.

And so she sobbed, because she felt that she was losing the first and only love in her life, no matter what the outcome of the battle. And then she remembered that she was the daughter of a jarl!

Her little head was lifted quickly, and her eyes were dried. Anger flamed in them, and strength of purpose. She turned quickly and glanced around the room.

She found what she had sought. In a corner stood a great bow, such as her father's archers used, and arrows for it. It was a serviceable bow, made by one of the old men, and presented to her on the new feast day that celebrated the birth of Him they meant when they spoke of the cross.

There was a dagger in the corner, too, as could be found in every room of the great house. Thyra hurried to the corner and took up the dagger and slipped it into her girdle. Then she picked up the big bow. Her purpose was clear now. If Svend's bloody men won the battle, she would act the part of a jarl's daughter. The bow would be for the first foe who entered the room, and the dagger for herself. Never would Svend the Bloody carry her in triumph to his jarldom to make a mock of her!

But the bow was a strong one meant for a warrior, and she could not handle it. Yet she found a way. She hurried to the great fireplace, where old Solveig's little fire of twigs long since had died. And there she braced the big bow in one end, the bottom of it in a cleft between two rocks, of which the fireplace was built. The top she allowed to remain outside, pressed against the mantel. And so, holding it in the middle, she could draw it back.

She tried it, and succeeded. She placed one of the arrows on the bowstring, and drew it back with all her strength, and then let it loose again.

One shot she could make, she knew. When they battered at the door, she would draw back the arrow and hold it so, aimed at the opening. And when the first foe entered, she would let the arrow go. Then there would remain the dagger for herself.

Again she rushed across the room and crouched close beside the door. It seemed to her that the tumult of the fight had drawn nearer. She heard curses and cheering, but she could make out no words to tell her how the fight was going. Old Solveig was still praying in the corner, and Thyra made shift to say a little prayer also.

She glanced down at the floor, and recoiled. Blood was trickling beneath the door. A tiny stream of it followed a crack, and then widened to a tiny pool. She drew away from it, covering her eyes with her hands, shivering a bit. And then she remembered again that she was the daughter of a jarl!

And then there came a blow against the door, as though some warrior had hurled himself at it.

Thyra gave a little cry and rushed back to the big fireplace. She picked up the bow, put the arrow against the string, and waited. There came another thud against the door, and she heard a man's voice shouting. The door gave a little. The bar across it seemed to groan in agony.

Still another thud, and the door gave a trifle more. In a moment it would be torn open, she knew. Once more her lips moved in prayer—and then she drew back the arrow as far as her strength would permit.

Another chorus of cries came from the great hall beyond, another clash of weapons. An instant of comparative silence, and then the door was struck with a crash! Open it flew, a man in armor stood stooped in it. Through her half closed eyes, Thyra saw him. Then she let the arrow go.

Straight it went, and true it struck. The man whirled halfway around and crashed to the floor of the landing, half inside the room, half out. The dagger already was in Thyra's hand ready for use on her own tender breast. But she did not use it.

One frightened glance she gave, and then screamed with pain. For the man her arrow had struck was Edvard Haakonsson!

A moment she stood as though turned to stone. Then the dagger dropped to her feet. Across the room she flew, and down upon her knees she went, not caring that her garment soaked up the blood on the floor.

"Edvard!" she cried. "Edvard!"

She brushed against the arrow, and it fell aside, but she did not notice that. Neither did she notice that the force of the arrow had not been great enough to make it pierce his armor. He had slipped in the blood of Eric the Dumb, had crashed backward, and his head had struck. But she thought that she had killed him.

Again she cried out as though in agony. She had eyes for nothing save the man upon the floor, whose head she was trying to lift. She took off his helmet and threw it aside. The din of the battle was growing less, but she did not notice. She heard voices as though from a distance, and among them that of her father.

And then there came a touch on her arm, and at first she recoiled in horror, remembering that she had dropped the dagger. But it was her father who had touched her. He stood before her, his face stern and marked with blood. And behind him were other men of the house of Harald.

"Here is one of the viper's brood," Harald said. "If he is not dead, slay him! What do you here, my daughter?"

One of the men would have pulled Edvard outside, but she sprang to her feet and stopped him.

"Don't you understand?" she cried. "I have killed him! I braced the big bow in the fireplace, and shot the arrow. It struck his breast!"

"A worthy deed, worthy of a jarl's woman," Harald said.

"I killed him!" she wailed.

"Not yet is he dead," said one of the men.

"Then away with him!" Harald cried. "Work your will on him! Scum of a pagan—"

Once more she was down upon her knees, pillowing Edvard's head against her breast.

"No—no!" she cried.

"What is this?" Harald's voice was stern.

"Don't you understand? I have wounded him. And you must not touch him. I—I love him, my father!"

"Love him?" Harald the Just cried. "Love one of the brood of Svend?"

"Since that day at the fair," she said, weeping again. "I love him, and he loves me. We have spoken of it. Perhaps it was wrong to keep it from you. But he wanted to ask you to-night, ask you to let him wed with me."

"Can this be my daughter? Are your wits asleep?" Harald cried. "Scum, he is! One of Svend's brood!"

"Nor is he!" she screeched. "He is new come to the land!"

"A part of the black treachery of tonight!"

"He did not know! I am sure that he did not know!" she cried. "He was not at the table when it happened—"

"He has turned your head, this pretty jarl! But we'll have an end of him!”

"Then it will be the end of me, too, my father! For if he is slain, then will I slay myself. I swear it—on the cross!"

The men recoiled, and for a moment Harald himself was dumb. But he looked down at the Ax Thrower again, and again was stern.

"He merits death! A follower of Thor—"

"No, no!"

She stooped closer over him, as though to protect him from harm. Her face was against his. Her hands were at his throat, fondling it. And they touched something there.

Her father bent over to pull her away. But her sharp cry stopped him. He looked down at her, and the others also. She had tugged at the thing about his neck beneath the armor, and it was a metal chain. She pulled it forth—and on the end of it was a crucifix!

"See!" she cried. "He wears the cross!"

"The cross!" Harald cried. "Nephew of Svend the Bloody wear a cross? Then it is stolen, perhaps—he wears it as a mockery—"

Edvard Haakonsson moaned and opened his eyes. He struggled to sit up, and Thyra aided him. He looked around, and smiled.

"I fell," he said. "I slipped in blood, and crashed my head!"

"No, my Ax Thrower! I shot you with an arrow!" Thyra told him.

"Then am I content to die—"

But Harald stopped it. "On your feet, black jarl!" he cried. "Men, lift him!"

They jerked him to his feet, and he leaned weakly against the wall. The smile had fled from his face. Thyra pulled away from her father and, ran to his side, and clung to him.

"I love him!" she said. "Can you not understand?"

But Harald the Just was looking straight into Edvard's eyes and was deaf to her plea.

"What have you to say to me, black jarl?" he demanded. "Such black treachery—"

"I knew nothing of it, on my word!" the Ax Thrower said.

"And what is your word worth to me? You knew nothing of it—you, Svend's kinsman? How could he plan it, except with you?"

"Yet he did," Edvard Haakonsson replied. "I speak the truth! I knew nothing of it until Svend's men caught me in the woods and made me prisoner. I would have warned you, but escaped only just as the signal was given?"

"And by whom can you prove this?"

"By only one man, and there he lies—dead!" He pointed to the body of Eric.

"It is poor evidence. You, a man of Thor—"

"I am a Christian!" Edvard announced. "Always have I been a Christian. That was why my father did not return to the land of his birth to claim his jarldom. In the southland where he met my mother he turned Christian, and he was happier there."

"How do I know this is not a lie?" Harald demanded. "A pagan might lie to save his life's blood! The cross at your throat may have been stolen."

"Think so, if you will."

"Enough of this!" Harald cried. "One of you pull my daughter away, for she is bewitched. And hand me an ax. Mine own is missing. With my own hands will I slay the last of the brood of Svend, in the name of the cross!"

Edvard Haakonsson stood straight and tall and pale against the wall. His eyes narrowed as they pulled the weeping Thyra away, and he looked after her with love in his glance.

Harald the Just grasped the ax a man gave him and stood before the black jarl.

"It is but justice!" he said.

"Would you strike down an unarmed jarl?"

"This is an execution, jarl! You are not worthy to be met in honorable combat! Scum of the Svend blood! Do you even falter in the face of death?"

"Not I!" Edvard cried. "But I crave an instant before you strike!"

Harald held his hand a moment, then slowly raised the ax over his shoulder. But Edvard Haakonsson was not praying to Odin for aid. The smile touched his lips again, he raised his right hand, and swiftly he made the sign of the cross!

"Strike, Harald, surnamed the Just!" his voice rang out. "Strike through that sign—if you dare!"

The ax fell to the floor. Harald the Just stepped a pace backward.

"You—you—" he gasped. "You are—indeed—a Christian?"

"I have spoken truth. Blind man, can you see now?"

A sudden tumult in the great hall below! Men were cheering, and there came the tramping of many feet. Harald the just and his men whirled as though to face new foes, and Thyra crept forward again and into the shelter of Edvard's arms.

And in upon them walked—Olaf Trygvesson!

"Hail, Harald!" said the king. "I had some inkling of this, and hurried hence with warriors to give you aid. But you needed no aid, it seems! And what is this? My black jarl? You would have slain him?"

"Had I not found him a Christian!" Harald said.

"Give thanks that you did not. I am convinced that he knew nothing of this treachery. I do know that Svend even plotted against him to get his estates, and now he may have his own and Svend's also. The day you left the fair a ship out in from the south, and brought me news of this black jarl. A good Christian he is, and always has been! And he is our friend!"

"I am glad I stayed my hand," Harald said.

But Olaf Trygvesson had turned to the Ax Thrower.

"Claim your estates, weed out the unworthy, and build your house anew, Edvard, my friend," he said. "I'll lend you warriors. And when you have done those things, come to me at Trondhjem, like a good Christian, and help me build my church."

He paused a moment, and his eyes twinkled as he looked down at Thyra.

"And when you come to Trondhjem, black jarl, bring your bride with you," he added. "It is our royal command!"