At the door of the hall she stopped, overwhelmed. The long fires were burning on the central hearth, and the sunshine poured in through the smoke-vent, turning the smoke sky-blue as it drifted under the rafters. And lighted torches stood on the board before the high seat, facing the door. There sat her mother by her father’s side, and her mother was dressed in red silk. Instead of the kerchief that Ingunn was used to seeing on her, she wore a starched white coif; it rose like a crown above her forehead and left the back of her head uncovered; her knot of hair gleamed golden within a net.
The other women were not seated at table; they went to and fro, bearing meat and drink. Ingunn then took up a tankard; she carried it in her right hand and held up her gown with her left, making herself as lithe and supple as she could—she thrust her hips well forward, dropped her shoulders to make herself look more narrow-breasted, and bowed her neck, leaning her head to one side like a flower on its stalk. Thus she moved forward, gliding as lightly as she could.
But the men were already half-drunken, and maybe tired too after the night’s exploit; none paid any great heed to her. Her father looked up with a laugh when she filled his beaker. His eyes were bright and stiff, his face blazed red under his tousled tawny hair—and now Ingunn saw that one arm was bound up over his chest. He had on his best cloak over the tight leather jerkin that he wore under the coat of mail. Most of the men seemed to have sat down to table just as they came from the saddle.
Her father signed to her to pour out for Kolbein and his two sons, Einar and Haftor; they sat at Steinfinn’s right hand.
On Steinfinn’s left sat Arnvid. He was red in the face, and his dark-blue eyes shone like metal. A tremor passed over his features as he stared at his young kinswoman. Ingunn could see that he, at any rate, thought her fair this evening, and she smiled with joy as she filled his cup.
She came where Olav Audunsson sat on the outer bench, and squeezed in between him and his neighbour as she poured out for those sitting on the inner bench. Then the boy caught hold of her down by the knees and pressed her toward him, screened by the table, making her spill the drink.
Ingunn saw at once that he was drunken. He sat astride the bench with his legs stretched far out, his head supported in one hand, with the elbow on the table among the food. It was so unlike Olav to sit thus that she could not help laughing—they used always to tease him for keeping just as steady and quiet, no matter what he drank. God’s gifts did not bite on him, said the others.
But this evening the ale had plainly got the better even of his stiffness. When she was going to pour out for him, he seized her hands, put the tankard to his lips, and drank, spilling the drink over himself, so that the breast of his elkskin jerkin was all befouled.
“Now take a drink yourself,” he said, laughing up in her face—but his eyes looked so queer and strange; they gleamed with a wanton wildness. Ingunn was flustered a little, but she filled his beaker and drank; then he clutched her again under the table and came near to making her fall into his arms.
The man by Olav’s side took the tankard from them. “Bide awhile, you two—you must leave a drop for the rest of us—”
Ingunn went out to fill the tankard again—and then she saw that her hands trembled. With surprise she found that she was shaking all over. It was almost as if she had been scared by the boy’s violence. But she was drawn toward him in a way she had never known before—a sweet and consuming curiosity. She had never seen Olav in this state. But it was so joyous—this evening nothing was as it was wont to be. As she went about filling the cups she could not help trying to brush past Olav, that he might have a chance of stealing those rough and furtive caresses of his. It was as though they drew her on.
None had marked that it was growing dark outside before the rain spurted through the smoke-vent. They had to close the ventil; then Ingebjörg bade bring in more lights. The men rose from the board; some went to their places to sleep, but others sat down again to drink and talk to the women, who now began to think of food.
Arnvid and Einar Kolbeinsson, her cousin, sat down by Ingunn, and Einar was to tell her more of the raid:
They had sailed under the eastern shore right up to the river, and there they went across to Vingarheim, so that they came riding down upon Mattias’s manor from the north. This proved unnecessary, however, as Mattias had set no watch.
“He never believed Steinfinn would strike in earnest,” said Einar scornfully. “None can wonder at that—after so much prating and waiting he would be apt to think that, could Steinfinn bear his shame in patience for six years, the seventh would not be too great a burden for him.”
“Meseems I heard a tale of Mattias—that he fled the country for fear of Steinfinn,” said Olav Audunsson, who had joined them. He squeezed in between Arnvid and Ingunn.
“Ay, and Steinfinn is lazy too; he is one to sit under the bush and wait till the bird falls into his hand—”
“You would have had him take to lawsuits and wrangling like your father?”
Arnvid interposed and made them keep the peace. Then Einar took up his story:
They came into the courtyard unopposed and some men were posted to guard those houses in which folk might be sleeping, while Steinfinn and the sons of Kolbein went with Arnvid, Olav, and five of the house-carls to the hall. Kolbein stayed outside. The men within started up from sleep when the door was broken down—some naked and some in their shirts, but all reached for their weapons. There were Mattias and a friend of his, the tenant of the farm and his half-grown son, and two serving-men. There came a short struggle, but the drowsy house-folk were quickly overpowered. And then it was Steinfinn and Mattias.
“This was unlooked for—are you abroad thus betimes, Steinfinn?” said Mattias. “I mind me you were once so sound a sleeper, and a fair wife you had to keep you to your bed.”
“Ay, and ’twas she who sent me hither with her greeting,” said Steinfinn. “You surely won her heart when last you came to us—she cannot put you out of her mind.—But don your clothes,” he said; “I have ever thought it a dastard’s deed to set on a naked man.”
Mattias turned flaming red at those words. But he made light of it and asked: “Will you give me leave to buckle on my coat of mail too, since it seems you would make a show of chivalry?”
“No,” cried Steinfinn. “For I have no thought that you shall come off with your life from this our meeting. But I am nothing loath to meet you unharnessed.”
While Steinfinn unbuckled his coat of mail, Kolbein came in and he and another man held Mattias. This he liked ill, but Steinfinn said with a laugh: “Methinks you are more ticklish than I was—you cannot bear a man’s hand near your skin!” After that Steinfinn let Mattias put on his clothes and take a shield. Then the two set upon each other.
In his youth Steinfinn had been counted most skilful in the use of arms, but of late he had fallen out of practice; it was quickly seen that Mattias, small and slight as he was, would be more than a match for the other. Steinfinn had to give ground, foot by foot; his breath came heavily—then Mattias made a cut at him and disabled his right arm. Steinfinn changed his sword over to his left hand—both men had long since thrown away the wreckage of their shields. But now Steinfinn’s men thought it looked badly for their master: on a sign from Kolbein one of his men sprang to Steinfinn’s side. Mattias was somewhat dazed at this, and now Steinfinn gave him his death-blow.
“But they fought like two good lads, we all said that,” said Arnvid.
Meanwhile, as ill luck would have it, some of the strange men-at-arms whom Steinfinn had with him bethought them of pillage, and others tried to stay them from it. And in the tumult some man set fire to a stack of birchbark which stood in the narrow gangway between the hall and one of the storehouses. It was doubtless that Tjostolv who did it, a man none thought well of, and he must have carried bark into the storehouse too, for it burst into flames on the instant, though timbers and roof were wet from the rain. And then the fire took hold of the hall
. They had to bear out Mattias’s corpse and loose the other men.
Now folk came up from the neighbouring farms, and a number of these peasants came to blows with them. Some were hurt on both sides, but ’twas unlikely that more were slain.
“Ay, we need not have had the fire and the brawling on our hands,” said Einar, “had not Steinfinn been set on showing prowess and chivalry.”
Olav had never liked Einar Kolbeinsson. He was three years older than himself and had always loved to tease the younger boys with his spite. So Olav answered him, pretty scornfully: “Nay, no man will charge your father or you brothers with that—none will accuse Kolbein Borghildsson of goading on his half-brother to ill-timed high-mindedness.”
“Have a care of yourself, young sniveller—Father’s name has always stood next to Tore of Hov’s. Our stock is just as good as Aasa’s offspring—mind that, Olav; and don’t sit there fondling my kinswomen—take your paw out of her lap, and quick about it!”
Olav jumped up and they were at each other. Ingunn and Arnvid ran to part them. Then it was that Steinfinn rose and called for silence.
The house-folk, men and women, and the strangers drew toward the table. Steinfinn stood leaning on his wife’s shoulder—he was no longer red in the face, but white and sunken under the eyes. But he smiled and held himself erect as he spoke: “Now I will give you thanks, all you who were with me in this deed—first will I thank you, brother, and your sons, and then my dear cousin, Arnvid Finnsson, and you others, good kinsmen and trusty men. If God will, we shall soon have peace and atonement for these things that have befallen this night, for He is a righteous God and it is His will that a man shall hold his wife in honour and protect the good name of women. But I am weary now, good friends, and now we will go to bed, I and my wife—and you must forgive me that I say no more—but I am weary, and I have gotten a small scratch too. But Grim and Dalla will have good care of you, and now ye may drink as long as ye list, and play and be merry as is fitting on a joyful day such as this—but now we go to rest, Ingebjörg and I—and so you must forgive us that we leave you now—”
Toward the close his speech had become thick and halting; he swayed slightly on his feet, and Ingebjörg had to support him as they went out of the hall.
Some of the house-carls had raised a cheer, hammering on the tables with their knives and drinking-cups. But the noise died away of itself, and the men stood aside in silence. Not a few of them guessed that Steinfinn’s wound might be worse than he would have it thought.
All followed them out—stood in silent groups watching the tall and handsome couple as they went together to the loft-room in the rain-drenched summer evening. Most of them marked how Steinfinn stood still and seemed to speak hastily to his wife. It looked as though she opposed him and tried to hold his hand; but he tore off the bandage that bound his wounded arm to his breast and flung it impatiently from him. They heard Steinfinn laugh as he went on.
The house-folk were still quiet when they came in again, though Grim and Dalla had more drink brought in and fresh wood thrown on the fire. The table and benches were cleared out of the way. But most of the men were tired and seemed most inclined for sleep. Yet some went out into the yard to dance, but came in again at once; the shower was just overhead and the grass was too wet.
Ingunn still sat between Arnvid and Olav, and Olav had laid his hand in her lap. “Silk,” he said, stroking her knee; “silk is fine,” he went on saying again and again.
“You are bemused and know not what you say,” said Arnvid with vexation. “You’re half-asleep already—go to bed!”
But Olav shook his head and laughed softly to himself: “I’ll go when I please.”
Meanwhile some of the men had taken their swords and stood up for dancing. Haftor Kolbeinsson came up to Arnvid and would have him sing for them. But Arnvid declined—he was too tired, he said. Nor would Olav and Ingunn take part in the dance; they said they did not know that lay—the Kraaka-maal.
Einar headed the chain of dancers with his drawn sword in his right hand. Tora held his left and had placed her other hand on the next man’s shoulder. Thus they stood in a row, a man with drawn sword and then a woman, all down the hall. It was a fine sight with all the blades held high. Einar began the singing:
“Swiftly went the sword-play—”
The chain moved three paces to the right. Then the men stepped to the left, while the women had to take one place to the rear, so that the men stood on a line before them; and then they crossed swords in pairs and marked time with their feet, as the women ran under their weapons and re-formed the chain. Einar sang on:
“Swiftly went the sword-play-
Young was I when east in
Öresound I scattered
Food to greedy grey-legs—”
There was none among the dancers who was quite sure of the steps, it was seen. When the women were to leap forward under the swords, they made a poor shift to keep time with the men’s tramping. The place was too narrow and constrained, between the long hearth and the row of posts that held up the roof and divided the sleeping-places from the hall.
The three on the dais at the end had risen to have a better view. And when the game threatened to break up even in the second verse, people shouted again for Arnvid and bade him come in. They knew that he could sing the whole dance, and he had the finest of voices.
So when he took his sword, drew it, and placed himself at the head of the row of dancers, the game at once took better shape. Olav and Ingunn stepped in just below him. Arnvid led as surely and gracefully as anyone could look for who saw his high-shouldered, stooping figure. He took up the song in his full, clear voice, while the women swayed in and out under the play of the swords.
“Swiftly went the sword-play—
Hild’s game we helped in
When to halls of Odin
Helsing-host we banished.
Keenly did the sword bite
When we lay in Iva—”
Then all was confusion, for there was no woman between Olav and Einar. The dancers had to stop and Einar declared that Olav must stand out; they quarreled over this, until one of the older house-carls said that he had as lief go out. Then Arnvid set the game going again:
“Swiftly went the sword-play—
• • • • • •
Cutting-iron in battle
Bit at Skarpa-skerry—”
But all the time the ranks were in confusion. And as they came farther on in the lay, there was none but Arnvid who knew the words—some had a scrap of one verse, some of another. Olav and Einar were bickering the whole time; and there were all too few who sang the tune. Arnvid was tired, and he had got some scratches that began to smart, he said, as soon as he stirred himself.
So the chain broke up. Some went and threw themselves on their sleeping-benches—some stood chatting and would have more to drink—or they still wished to dance, but to one of these new ballads the steps of which were much easier.
Olav stood in the shadow under the roof-posts; he and Ingunn still held each other’s hands. Olav thrust his sword into the scabbard: “Come, we will go up to your loft and talk together,” he whispered.
Hand in hand they ran through the rain over the dark and empty yard, dashed up the stair, and stopped inside the door, panting with excitement, as though they had done something unlawful. Then they flung their arms about each other.
Ingunn bent the boy’s head against her bosom and sniffed at his hair. “There is a smell of burning on you,” she murmured. “Oh no, oh no,” she begged in fear; he was pressing her against the doorpost.
“No—no—I am going now,” he whispered: “I am going now,” he kept repeating.
“Yes—” but she clung to him closely, dazed and quivering, afraid he would do as he said and go. She knew they had lost their senses, both of them—but all thoughts of past and present seemed swept away on the stream of the last wild, ungoverned hours—and they two had been flung ashore in this dark loft. Why sh
ould they leave each other?—they had but each other.
She felt her gilt circlet pushed up on her crown—Olav was rumpling her loosened hair. The garland fell off, jingling on the floor, and the lad took fistfuls of her hair and pressed them to his face, buried his chin in her shoulder.
Then they heard Reidunn—the serving-maid who slept with Ingunn—calling to someone from the yard below.
They started apart, trembling with guilty conscience. And quick as lightning Olav shot out his arm, pulled the door to, and bolted it.
Reidunn came up into the balcony, knocked, and called to Ingunn. The two children stood in pitch-darkness, shaken by the beating of their hearts.
The maid knocked awhile—thundered on the door. Then she must have thought Ingunn had fallen asleep and soundly. They heard the stairs creak under her heavy tread. Out in the yard she called to another maid—they guessed she had gone off to sleep in another house. And Olav and Ingunn flew to each other’s arms, as though they had escaped a great danger.
9 The reader will find this old lay, with a literal translation, in Vigfusson and Powell: Corpus Poeticum Boreale, Vol. II, p. 339. The song is supposed to be sung by the famous Ragnar Lodbrok (Shaggy-breeks) after he had been thrown into the snake pit by Ælla, King of Northumberland. The editors remark: “The story of the poem is the one legend which has survived in Norway of the great movement which led to the conquest and settlement of half England by the Danes in the ninth century.” Skarpaskerry is Scarborough.
5
OLAV awoke in pitch-darkness—and in the same instant he remembered. He seemed to sink into the depths as he lay. He felt a chill on his brows—his heart shrank suddenly, as a small defenceless creature makes itself smaller when a hand is groping for it.
Against the wall lay Ingunn, breathing calmly, as a happy, innocent child breathes in its sleep. Wave after wave of terror and shame and sorrow broke over Olav—he lay still, as though the very marrow were blown out of his bones. He had but one burning desire—to fly from Frettastein; he was utterly unequal to facing her accusation, when at last she rose from the happy forgetfulness of sleep. But he knew obscurely within himself that the only way to make this terrible thing yet worse would be to steal away from it now.