The Last of the Vikings Part 25

"When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?"

Moore.

Ethel, deeply m.u.f.fled and disguised, pa.s.sed through the little postern-gate of the fortress. A word in the ear of the sentinel who paced to and fro before it on guard, secured instant obedience. Ethel's position in the fortress was thoroughly understood by all. Her self-denial, her patience, and her burning patriotism, were well known in this camp of Saxon outlaws. The readiness with which she undertook positions involving fatigue and privation, for the cause, was a constant inspiration to the common people. They watched her come and go with veneration--almost with awe and superst.i.tion. They whispered one to another of her strange journeyings by night and day; and many regarded this young chieftainess as a special favourite of the G.o.ds. As she glided through the gate in the early morning hours, the sentinel thrust his head forth and watched her swiftly descend the slope, like a ghost in the darkness. When her form was no longer visible, he closed the door, and secured it with bolt and bar.

"Whatever can she be after so early in the morning, and before the day dawns? There's something very uncanny about her, tramping over hill and dale by night and day like any wolfshead, or wicca-hag.[3] I saw the fiery lights in the heavens two hours ago. I wonder what it all means. I almost wish I was safely out in the Bruneswald, where I could hop about like a bird from tree to tree, and where never a Norman could corner one. This being cooped up like a rabbit in a hole I don't relish. I like room to ply my heels. Howsomever, I'll stick, and stand my chance, for the women can't be whisked through the air; and the children, too, they must have a nest." So the sentinel continued his watch, and ruminated on these things.

[Footnote 3: Witch.]

Meanwhile, Ethel sped with quick step over the rugged limestone hills, flying before the fastly pursuing dawn like a fugitive who dreaded his revealing power. Ever and anon she turned to measure with her eye the distance she had traversed. The shadowy outlines of the fortress she left behind began to take shape in the distance, and she quickened her pace. "I shall soon be beyond the reach of vision," she muttered to herself. "I would not have Oswald know my errand to-day for worlds. My mind is dark, I know not what I do; but my hope dies, and my heart breaks. Perhaps the Norseman's G.o.ds may help me, for the Christian's G.o.d fails me. 'Tis a dread alternative; but I would know, if I could, what Fate has decreed for me."

For three weary hours she sped over dreary moors and scraggy, precipitous valleys, which were often little better than ravines.

Presently she turned into a declivity running between two banked-up, precipitous sides. A little ahead, the two sides curved inwards and came together, and to all appearance this strange gorge came to an end. Ethel marched forward with unfaltering step, evidently straight at the blunt face of the joined limestone rock. But when she reached the extremity, there became visible, what at a very short distance could not be seen, an obscure opening behind a jagged projection of rock. It might be, to all appearance, merely an entrance to a fox's or wolf's den. Into this opening, however, Ethel crept, without halt or questionings of any kind.

Presently the narrow entrance became larger, and she stood upright, but continued to descend a rough and precipitous path, until she reached a level piece of ground. Looking up--the place was simply a stupendous slit in the limestone rock, broadening downwards into a considerable area. The trees and shrubs growing at the top interlocked from side to side, and the light came streaming through a network of branches.

Desolate and awe-inspiring was the place. At the farther end were two mounds of earth, or tumuli, where the grim priests of Thor and Woden were sleeping the long sleep of death--lives which had been literally burnt out by the fierce fires of fanaticism, and savage asceticism.

Ethel paused to look around, but everything was still as death; she shuddered and drew her cloak tighter about her.

"The last time I came to this spot my father brought me. I feel his untamed Norseman blood stir within me. The fierce G.o.ds of war and revenge and death his Viking ancestors and he wors.h.i.+pped, I dare to consult to-day. 'Tis a cruel necessity, and jars my woman's instincts--I feel it petrifies my heart with unlovely savagery; but the followers of this Christ have slain my people with a wicked and unsparing slaughter.

They differ in no way in their wanton cruelty to Norseman and Dane.

Their women, too, with their fair faces, dainty fingers, and courtly manners, have stolen the heart of Oswald, and I am slighted and disdained; nothing in my beauty--and suitors of n.o.ble lineage have sought me ere now for my beauty; nothing in my rank--and it is but yesterday that I might have stood amongst the proudest of the land. No; I am a withered leaf, battered, bruised, and trampled upon. My love is unrequited! My misfortunes are compa.s.sionated, but that soothes not my wounded spirit, and is but a hateful subst.i.tute for the love I crave.

Alas! nothing avails me, for I am only a heathen woman and an outcast.

So, hard driven by my misfortunes and my wounded love, I will consult the G.o.ds of my father. The Norseman's G.o.ds may help me perhaps. Yet,"

said she, pausing for a moment, whilst her breast heaved with strange and powerful emotions which struggled for the mastery within her, "my mother was Christian and Saxon. She was a follower of this Christ. She was gentle, and taught me to pray to Him. I remember it well, though I was but a child. 'Our Father which art in heaven.' Ah, that is wonderfully soothing to me, and not like the prayers I was taught to offer to Thor and Odin. But my mother could not have known this Jesus; for if He was merciful and gentle, why do His blood-thirsty followers delight in treachery and bloodshed. 'Twas a part of my cruel fate that she should die in my infancy, for had she lived I might have learned of her more perfectly. O ye G.o.ds!" said she, wringing her hands in agony above her head, and looking up to the vaulted roof with tear-blinded eyes and with agonised entreaty,--"have pity on me in my friendlessness!"

Then she sped on with a quick, determined tread. Down each side of this weird retreat there were standing out, like grim, ghostly sentinels in the uncertain light, a long line of runic stones, on which were carved many strange devices; rude figures of uncouth and unearthly animals and reptiles. She had been taught that these strange hieroglyphics and signs had marvellous potency for good or ill. They could cause pa.s.sionate love, or undying hatred, in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of those over whom their spell was thrown. Indeed, the power of life and death was wielded by them.

Strange supernatural agencies and powers were their messengers, and did their bidding. Starting from the rock, or planted here and there, were many of the ominous rowan trees, or witch-wood. The hemlock and the nightshade cl.u.s.tered together, and the nodding cypress dropped sombrely over the runic stones beneath them. Ethel glanced nervously round, but not a living thing was visible; not a sound broke the death-like silence of the place. Quickly gliding beneath the drooping branches of one of the cypress trees, she fell on her knees before the frowning pillar of stone. She had knelt there before by the side of her father, who had remained heathen to the last. But to kneel alone, in this very vestibule of the Place of Darkness, and to pour out her pa.s.sionate entreaties to powers which she knew were the Powers of Darkness, strange to mercy, and which had but the attributes of fiends; the ordeal was terrible indeed.

With feelings tumultuous and frenzied, she apostrophised the weird and forbidding emblem before her.

"O ye G.o.ds of my fathers, whether ye be Powers of Light or of Darkness I know not. Pity my ignorance, and my apostasy, for I have turned to this Jesus whom the Christians wors.h.i.+p, and He has failed me, and turned my joy into mourning. My father and my brother have been slain by the followers of this Jesus. My home is made desolate, and I flee for life and honour from these Christian fiends. There is one also who might have been my lover, who is bravest amongst the brave, and most chivalrous amongst the chivalrous; who is gentle as a sunbeam, and tender as my own lost mother, yet strong as any tower in the storm. He is lost to me through the subtle arts of their women. My life has become to me but a living torment. Can ye turn again the heart of Oswald to me? 'Tis said ye can turn even hatred into love. I know it is unmaidenly to plead for a love I cannot inspire, but I can bear this burden no longer alone, and I would ye could give me favour in his eyes, or give me a long home in one of these sepulchral mounds."

She started to her feet with a shriek, as a deep voice saluted her from behind,--

"Waes hael, Viking's daughter!"

She hastily turned, and behold there stood before her Olaf, the aged priest of this Vikings' temple, to whom for a couple of generations the heathenism and savagery of the countryside had repaired for ghostly consolation, and into whose ears had been poured the secrets of fierce loves and fiercer hatreds of these descendants of the Nors.e.m.e.n. He had been the grim dispenser of dark and mystic rites and potent spells to weirdly savage and credulous votaries. A strange being surely to claim a place in times so advanced as these! He was a living embodiment and personification of a bygone era, and so totally dest.i.tute of all humanising instincts that he might have slid down the ages, glacier-like, from prehistoric times--when men dwelt in caves, and gnawed the flesh from the bones of their prey like wild beasts--without ever having come in contact with the outermost fringe of civilisation; a Viking of the Vikings in savagery and blood. His head was uncovered, and his long and matted grey hair fell over his shoulders. His form was shrunken and racked with rheumatic pains, from his long exposure and unlovely life. Long, deep furrows ploughed his face, and the long, powerful, and uncleanly teeth stood away from the shrunken cheeks, whilst his sunken eyes gleamed like the eyes of some savage beast of prey. He was a visible and concentrated embodiment of the _war spirit_ in its unrelieved and unredeemed essentials. No touch of pen or pencil, however graphic, could depict, in all his hideous grimness, this stranded relic of a bygone age of savage lawlessness and force, who seemed to be but half a dozen removes from the tooth-and-claw methods of wild beasts.

"Ha! ye are come at last, are ye?" he hoa.r.s.ely croaked. "Ye are come now, when ye find that this strange G.o.d, this Christ of whom the Christians speak, has proved to be no G.o.d, and cannot save ye! But the G.o.ds of your fathers have given ye over to desolation because ye have forsaken them. Ha, ha, ha! I could laugh at ye now! Ye despised the old priest, did ye not? ha, ha, ha!"

As the harsh, grating voice of the priest fell upon her ears, Ethel almost cowered in terror before him. At sight of her terror, the old priest somewhat relented his fierceness.

"Hist to me," said he. "Ye are a Viking's daughter, after all, and come of a stock whose deeds our Sagas tell of, though the Christian taint has mixed too freely with your father's blood. It does my old tired bones good, nevertheless, to see ye come back again to me once more. I have been very lonely and forsaken, for my fellow priests are all lying beneath these mounds. I buried the last myself not a month agone. See!

the mound is newly heaped. I shall soon be gone also, and there will be never a priest at hand to give me back into the arms of mother earth, to reveal to ye the dark mysteries of Valhalla, or to call from the land of the dead the Sein-loeca,[4] to speak with you. Viking's daughter, are ye now aweary of following this strange G.o.d of the Christians?"

[Footnote 4: Apparition.]

"Alas! I know not what to do, priest! I am as desolate and forsaken as ye are. I would have the heart of Oswald, the Saxon chieftain, turned towards me. If ye have any charm that will give me favour in his eyes, I covet it, priest."

"Ah, but this Oswald is Christian; ye do not well in seeking thus to further dilute the Viking blood that flows in your veins. Is there no hardy Norseman ye can mate with? and I can help ye."

"None, father! I gave my heart to this valiant Saxon long ago; but alas!

a Norman woman has won his love, and when he comes into my presence now, I see that there is always a far-away look in his eye, and I know he is looking in imagination upon the dark-haired Norman he loves more than me. He shuns his couch to keep nightly tryst with her. I have dogged his steps, and watched them in the starlight nights, pacing the battlements of the castle in loving converse, and in loving embrace. He is kind and gentle to me, but there is none of the subtle tones of love so dear to us women when once our heart is won. Men say I am fair; but have ye any charm to make me fair to _him_? It matters not what men may say, or what the mult.i.tude may say. There is but _one_ man in all the world, and if I am not fair to _him_, why then the sun goes down on all my hopes, and leaves naught behind but the long black shadows of despair! Ah! I fear me, priest, it is in my spirit! There is no charm for him in the pa.s.sion and frenzy, the fire and restlessness, of my Viking spirit. This voluptuous southern maiden, with her courtly manners and her gentle speech, has touched a chord in his heart which never responds to the Saxon maiden!"

"Girl, ye are no Saxon maiden! ye are a Viking's daughter! I claim ye for the old race that has swept every sea, and made the Viking name a terror to all lands. I will not have ye despise the fierce spirit of your race that lives in ye! Listen. I know a Viking of the old stock, a true descendant of our heroes whose mighty deeds our Sagas tell. He hath a pa.s.sion for ye deep and fierce, and pure as a Viking's love should be.

'Tis Sigurd of Lakesland, who was here but yestere'en. Let me plight your troth with him, and there shall spring a progeny like unto our forefathers, who will sweep the infamous Norman brood into the sea, and make the cowardly Saxon cower at the feet of the Norseman, as in the days gone by."

"Ye speak, priest, as though a maiden's heart were like a willow bush, to veer about as any idle wind may blow, or so gross a thing that it may be huckstered for a consideration, or be cast as a mere makeweight into the scale of policy. Never dream, priest, that this is a possible remedy; for I have nothing to offer Sigurd or any other. If ye cannot tell me that I shall be Oswald's bride, then I will be wedded to my people, and I will serve my country till death comes to free me."

"A curse on the evil times I have lived to see, girl!" said the priest savagely. "This simpering sentiment is not like the love of a Viking maiden at all! The st.u.r.diest and fiercest warrior was wont to be the choice of our maidens in the old days. What charm would ye have? There is but one charm will serve the Viking cause in love or war. It never failed them, in the past, and will not fail them now if 'tis wielded fearlessly."

"What is this spell--this charm ye speak of? Tell it me at once!" said Ethel eagerly.

The priest slowly withdrew from his bosom a bright-bladed dagger, at sight of which Ethel shuddered and drew back.

The priest scowled, and said angrily, "If ye shrink at this ye are not fit to be a Viking's daughter. This will serve you if ye are resolute, for 'tis easy to get an audience of this Norman that hath bewitched Oswald, and then it were easy to plunge this dagger into her heart; and what then were thy hated rival? Take the blade in thy hand, nor shrink from it; the touch of steel will fire thy heart, and purge away the accursed leaven of effeminacy which is creeping over our Viking race.

There is a magic in the touch of cold steel; my fingers tingle as I feel it. It has served the Viking's cause as nothing else could do for a thousand years."

As he spoke he pressed the fearsome weapon into her unwilling hand.

"But how then, priest, when I have taken the life of this innocent lady?

Will that bring back the heart of Oswald? Nay, he will loathe me then, and I shall be as a 'daughter of perdition' unto him."

"Idle scruples, daughter!" said the priest, testy and irritable. "Who shall tell him it was your hand did this deed? Be resolute, and fear not; the Vikings' G.o.ds will help ye if ye be bold."

"But after I have done this deed, priest, and if Oswald should never know it was I that did this foul, this desperate deed, I can never rid me of the loathsome memory, nor the clinging horror, of blood-guiltiness. What after that? when self-respect, womanhood--nay, when the last shred of my _humanity_ is gone--what would remain that were worth the having? What should I be, and how could I look to mate with his upright and chivalrous nature? What daily horror would be mine!

for each look of his unsuspecting eye would d.a.m.n me! Nay, priest, take back this dagger, for such means as these can never help me. My innocence is my heaven, and I will keep it while I may; for when this is lost, then all is lost. I thought ye might have gentler means."

At this the old priest fairly roared with impotent rage.

"Avast!" he cried. "'Tis this Christ hath done it all! Why do ye come to the Vikings' G.o.ds until ye have renounced Him? How can I summon spirits from Valhalla to your help, or send the wicca-hag skirling on the wind to ply her sorceries on Oswald, that his heart may be turned to ye, if ye are Christian?"

Then, dropping into a gentler and more persuasive tone, as he saw Ethel fairly cowering in terror before him, he said,--

"Go, Viking's daughter. Ye know my heart is sore for ye and for my race; but it must be either Odin or Jesus. Go renounce this Christ, and then I can help ye. Nay, nay! keep the dagger, for it hath wondrous virtue in it. It was with this dagger that Th.o.r.e Hund slew the Christian renegade Olaf Haraldssen on the b.l.o.o.d.y field of Sticklarstad, and Odin proved himself a mightier than this Christ. It shall be so again, for the Viking race shall be a terror to all lands. Why should ye be fearful and afraid? Why should ye hesitate and shrink at this act of revenge? Surely ye have suffered enough at the hands of this accursed race. How can ye be so scrupulous, when ye think of the vengeance ye owe these Norman tyrants and usurpers for a father and brother slaughtered, for your sadness, and your homelessness? Think of the love this Norman woman hath stolen from ye. Nurse these thoughts, and be courageous, Viking's daughter."

Ethel slowly climbed from the weird retreat, where for generations these savage priests of Thor and Odin had exercised a dread and mystic sway over the descendants of the Nors.e.m.e.n conquerors, who in past times had swooped down on Northumbria, peopling it with rough and hardy warriors; and still the barbarous rites and crude beliefs held extensive sway, in spite of the leavening influences of the Saxons' Christ. Ethel had entered this nature's temple with dim hopes that by some exercise of supernatural powers the heart of Oswald might be influenced so as to turn to her; and if not this, that she might know the worst. Alas! the sad heart and the wounded love had met with no amelioration of its sadness and despair; but the dormant pa.s.sion and frenzy which ran in her Viking blood had been stirred in its lethargy into a madness of revenge, the extent and power of which she had never felt before.

"What is to be the end of this?" she said to herself, as she sped over the wild hills. "Either I must conquer or be crushed. There is no middle course; either it is h.e.l.l or heaven. I cannot cast off or change my love; that is given unreservedly and beyond recall. This Viking, Sigurd, is a warrior true as steel, and his love is as sincere and true. But what of that? To wed him were a suggestion most gross, and impossible as gross. How could I crouch beside the ingle of an untamed Viking husband, and in all unloveliness mother a rude progeny, and blur out, in the grossness and savagery of it, the vision of better things, and of the n.o.bler love I have seen? Question. Shall I tamely submit to the usurpation of a love that might have been mine, but of which I have been despoiled by a Norman woman? Or shall I fling to the winds my Christian trammels and scruples, and, Viking-like, take the Viking's remedy?" and she drew forth from her bosom the unlovely and murderous weapon the priest had given her. "The priest said this was my only remedy. 'Tis a grim alternative. But why should I suffer this for a love too readily given? I never told my heart to dote on Oswald. 'Twas a wild freak of affection I could not bridle; and I cannot undo it now, so that change is impossible. It was without effort of mine, also, that he has filled my eye so fully that I cannot see another. Shall I tamely suffer this eclipse at the hands of this southern woman? This priest tells me what a Viking woman would do, and surely, if foul wrongs call for fierce revenge, then I should not timidly shrink from this avenging act.

Madness and despair nerve my arm and steel my heart, and I will act as a Viking woman would act!"

But just at that moment, as the fierce spirit of revenge a.s.sumed the mastery, there flitted before her mental vision a scene of long ago, when, as a child, she knelt at her mother's knee, and heard the wondrous story of the Redeemer's mercifulness and love for his enemies. The revulsion of feeling was instant and overpowering. Stretching her clenched hands heavenwards, she shrieked, in an agony of prayer, "Jesu, _G.o.d of mercy_, help!"

Overwrought nature could bear no more, and she sank in insensibility to the ground, her fair countenance convulsed with agony. Speedily, however, the shadows of despair gave place to a placid smile of sweet content. Again she was a child, and her mother's form was bending over her, but wondrously enn.o.bled and beautified; and she spoke words of comfort and of hope. "Daughter, be of good courage, and remember the words of the Master that I taught you: 'Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest'; 'Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.'" Then, with a smile angelic in its sweetness, the heavenly vision faded away.

Slowly Ethel staggered to her feet, for her physical strength was exhausted; but the look of blank despair had pa.s.sed away, and her countenance was transfigured until it shone like the countenance of a saint of G.o.d. And drawing the dagger from her bosom she hurled it over a precipice, shuddering as she did so. Then she slowly turned her footsteps towards the fortress on the hill.