The North Star/Chapter 33
XXXII
THE STATUE OF THOR
It was Yule-tide and King Olaf had come to More. Here the peasants had gathered, angry and defiant. Earl Ironbeard had prompted them to meet the king and his followers in hostile attitude. On Christmas eve, the opposing parties were encamped on the snowy plains of More; and acting under Ironbeard’s advice, the peasants intended to be present at the Christmas mass, and after that ceremony to demand of King Olaf that he attend the sacrifice to Thor in their temple, as was the law for every former overlord of Norway. They represented that they could not serve a king who violated the old Norse law by refusing to offer sacrifices to the gods.
On Christmas eve, the Lady Aastrid had sat with Maidoch through the vesper service. A little way apart was the king with Thorgills and Earl Sigvalde. When the psalms had been sung, and the lights put out, Father Meilge and Father Tuathal strolled out over the snowy fields. A brilliant sky of boreal light was canopied over the still, white earth.
The young priest turned to his companion. “Father Meilge,” he said, “sometimes my heart fails me in my work in this wild land. King Olaf is so zealous, and so earnest, and yet the people are so unbelieving. It seems indeed as if the priceless pearl of our Holy Father were cast before the swine.”
Father Meilge laid his hand upon the young priest’s shoulder. “Thou art still unpractised in patience, for it is not a mark of youth. Thou art grieved, my brother, that our work seems so slow.”
“But see, Father Meilge, when Patrick came to Ireland, how surely, how swiftly, they received the faith. But this terrible land of blood! The poor king hath even tried by persecution to hurry the conversion of his land. He is so anxious for all Norway to be Christian. Now the heathens slay the Christians when they can. It was far otherwise when the gospel came to our land.”
Father Meilge did not answer at once, but as Father Tuathal was speaking, the scene before him melted away. Again he stood on the plains of Leinster and listened to his convent bells. A deep longing for his own fair land came over him in a rush of tenderness. He was faint and tired, heart-sick of this wild land. Then he remembered the vow that bound his life to preach the message of Christ to the heathen. He turned to Father Tuathal. “My brother, we must not think too long or with too great tenderness of our own land, lest our hearts fail us in this stern region.”
Even as he spoke, a faintness came over his own strong spirit. Out of the depths of his longing heart he prayed for strength until the end—the end that sometimes comes so swiftly it seems to more than meet us. So, silently, Father Meilge walked back to the tent, gazing as he went on the wonderful beauty of the Northern sky, and making anew his consecration of life and heart and home.
Christmas morning after the mass the king assembled the peasants to speak to them. Above Olaf’s voice asking them to consider the question of Christianity, rose the loud demands of Ironbeard and his followers, that the king should do as all other kings of Norway had done.
“We want no Nazarene!” they shouted. “He is dead—dead on the cross.”
“Christ is eternal!” declared Olaf.
“We want no Christ, but our own strong gods, who give us victory. If thou will not offer sacrifice, how will the harvest be? Where will our children find bread if the gods curse the grain because thou wilt not appease them?”
“Christ is Lord of the harvest and is Master of all the earth.”
“We want not Christ the White. We want our old gods and a full harvest.”
A tall, dark woman, with deep-set black eyes, stood up before the king. Upon her dress were the cabalistic signs of the magician. The serpents of Odin were entwined all around her skirt, in skilful embroidery; while this same design, with the hammer of Thor, was represented on her long dark cloak. A serpent of bronze was wreathed around her head, its upturned crest just over her black, beetling brows.
“It is Ingrid, the Finnish sorceress,” said some. “It is Ironbeard’s witch of a wife.”
The woman pointed her long forefinger at the king. “If the evil eye come among us, if our children sicken and die, if our cattle drop dead in the fields, and the herrings fly out of the sea from us! Why dost thou anger the old gods that they curse us? Why must we suffer for thy White Christ?”
Unable to stop the flow of protest and even abuse, Olaf agreed to go with them to their temple. With his retinue, the king entered the magnificent structure dedicated to the war-god, Thor. At the door they laid down their arms, for it was a profanation of the temple to bring any weapon of war within its walls. No one noticed, however, that King Olaf still held in his hand his stout, gold-headed stick. Entering the temple, the king walked leisurely up to the costly statue of Thor, resplendent with its gold and silver rings. He glanced around, and at a nod from him, several of his most trusted followers, each carrying a strong stick in his hand, placed themselves before the splendid statues of the Norse gods. King Olaf raised his stick menacingly at Thor. “Thou hast defied the White Christ,” he cried; “I am the champion of the Cross. I send thee back thy challenge, Thor;” and with powerful force, he brought down the stick upon the gilded war-god, and the effigy of Thor shivered into many fragments, that fell glittering on the floor. At the same moment his followers struck down the other statues, and the floor of the temple was strewn with the ruins of the broken idols.
The cries of the peasants rose in anger. “Down with the Christian king, who profanes the temple of his father’s gods!” The shouts and the curses were followed by the sharp smiting of steel, as the knives were unsheathed. King Olaf stood unmoved at the temple door. Upon his finger he wore one of Thor’s richest golden rings. Ironbeard had shouted to his followers to come on and avenge the insult to their gods with the death of the king who had profaned the temple. A shrill voice was heard as Ingrid came up to the king and raised her long lean arm and bony fingers in malediction.
“Ye cravens! Ye coward Norsemen! Must the gods curse us and our children because ye are afraid of yon king? He is false, false to the gods, and he will be false to his people!”
“We are not afraid of any man. Let Olaf Tryggevesson beware!” shouted back the peasants.
The king stood quite still, watching the anger of the peasants and the defiance of Earl Ironbeard. Thorgills came up to the black thane, and would fain argue with him, but Ironbeard turned to him fiercely. “Thou hast put this king over us to make the gods curse us. Thou art a race of dogs, thou and thy hound of a Christian king. When my knife shall reach Olaf’s accursed throat—” but Ironbeard never finished that sentence, for at the first word of the threat Thorgills’ knife was plunged into his heart, and death struck the black earl with the blow.
“Our chieftain is dead! Our leader is slain!” cried the terrified peasants, and retreated in disorder.
With a wild shriek, Ingrid flung herself before Olaf. “Thou accursed king! Ten thousand curses light upon thee! Thy Christian hounds have slain my lord!”
“Is Jarl Ironbeard dead?” asked Olaf in amazement, not having seen the death of the Black Earl.
“Aye! truly, he is dead,” cried the excited witch, flinging up her hands. “Ten thousand curses light upon thee for his death, for thy vassals have slain him. I have neither son nor brother to avenge me! I have only the maiden Gudrun, and thou hast made her fatherless!”
“Art thou the mother of the maid Gudrun?”
“Aye, King Olaf, I am, and ten thousand curses light on thee!”
“Hush, woman!” commanded the king. “I did not slay thy husband, and if my vassals slew him, I will give thee and the maid full gold.” Olaf handed Ingrid his purse, but she dashed it to the ground.
“I want not thy gold, King Olaf. If thou dost not give my maiden the full blood atonement for the death of her father, I will lay upon thee every curse the Finland witches know, that thy bones may rot, that thy children be never born, and that the dearest wish of thy heart be denied thee every hour.”
“Hush, woman!” cried the king. “I care not for thy curses.” He touched his crucifix. “My life is in the keeping of Christ, and thy curses cannot harm me.”
Ingrid laughed shrilly, and continued her muttered maledictions. “The blood atonement! The blood atonement!” she repeated.
Olaf looked down kindly at the witch. “Thou dost mean,” he said slowly, as if deciding a question within himself, “that I should marry the maiden Gudrun, and make myself her faithful lord, because my vassals have slain her father?”
“It is the blood atonement, King Olaf. My maiden hath no father.”
“Dost thou think the maiden would marry me of her own will?”
The whole expression of Ingrid’s face changed. Here at last was her dearest hope about to be realized. She feigned great sadness, and spoke softly to the king. “My maiden hath spoken to me of this matter, and it is not what I might will, but what her own fancy might desire.”
“What said she?” asked the king, eagerly.
“Thou dost well know, King Olaf, she hath been born and bred to like neither thee nor thy name, and yet betimes a maiden’s fancy may override all that she hath been taught to hate. Even so, my Gudrun thinks not of thee as enemy. Thou art a warrior, King Olaf; and thy deeds and thy valor fit all the fancy of a high-born maid.”
“Thou dost mean—?” Olaf leaned forward, his strong heart palpitating with the grateful suggestion of Gudrun’s preference—her affection even.
“Nay, King Olaf, I do only say, the maid is not unwilling. As to her regard for thee, that were a matter between thee and her. It is not meet that the wife of Ironbeard should confess to his enemy that he hath won our daughter’s heart—the one gem of our household that cruel fortune left us.”
Olaf was touched, and said kindly, leaning forward to the witch, “Then thou art willing that the maiden should wed me? I do love her truly, and I will strive to make her the happiest of women, besides the queen of my kingdom. Thou wilt so tell the maiden, and bid her prepare for our nuptials.”
“Save that she hath no father, King Olaf, I would not be willing. Thou sayest thou dost love my maiden. Thou art her choiceamong men. True, she is the daughter of a thane of Norway, and even thou, the king, might not take the maid if I denied thee. The maiden’s welfare is above my will; and her happiness is a stronger call than my enmity. I tell thee plainly, King Olaf, I would not be willing but that she hath no father and hath chosen thee out of her own heart. It is her girl’s fancy for thy great viking deeds. It were not a sweet thought to me, King Olaf, to see her love and her duty going where she hath been born and bred to hate.”
Olaf drew back, his generous impulse frozen by Ingrid’s manner and speech. Turning to leave, the old woman said, with suppressed bitterness, “I go to prepare my Gudrun for her marriage. She hath neither father, nor brother, nor sister. None but my poor self between her and a nation of enemies. Thou art the king, and moreover I deem thee an honest Norseman, and I wot thou wilt protect her and make her happy.”
Olaf detained Ingrid, as he said with sudden gentleness, “Trust me to win her to my love.”
Ingrid smiled. “King Olaf, what I have told thee of my maiden’s fancy is such knowledge as a mother may gain from the confidence of her child. My Gudrun is of a proud spirit and she will not lightly confess to thee her love. But thou art strong and masterful, and the poor little maid will grow loving and docile, seeing she is but a woman; and it is ever our need, the best and strongest of us, to love and to reverence.”
“I will win thy maiden, aye, thy proud, strong Gudrun, to the gentlest and most trusting love.”
As Ingrid left the king, Thorgills came up. “My King,” he said anxiously, “I did hear that the wife of Ironbeard, the Finnish witch, did curse thee for the death of her husband.” Then pleadingly: “Tempt not the sorceress. She hath power to greatly harm thee.”
“Nay,” said the king, smiling graciously, “she will not curse nor harm me more, I have promised to wed her daughter.”
Thorgills turned pale as a ghost. “My King! Thou dost surely jest! Thou and the daughter of Ironbeard?”
“Even so,” answered the king, in a tone that Thorgills knew would endure no opposition; and the bard, troubled with dark forebodings, was silent.