The North Star/Chapter 34
XXXIV
THE MARTYR’S CROWN
While the peasants and the followers of King Olaf were combating outside the temple at More, Maidoch was standing in terror a little space apart, in a sheltered grove of fir trees. She had become separated from the Lady Aastrid and she dreaded to go near the angry Norsemen to find her. Not far from Maidoch, Father Meilge was watching the combat. His look was full of horror and compassion.
As Earl Ironbeard fell in death, Thore Klakka came running to the grove. His knife was open in his hand. His eyes were blazing and the white foam of passion was gathered on his lips. As he caught sight of Father Meilge, his fury increased. “Curses on ye, one and all,” he screamed in frenzy. “Curses on your hound of a king, and on ye, miserable hounds, ye priests of the Nazarene. I curse ye, and I curse your Christ!”
“Silence!” Father Meilge turned to the raging man. “Speak not such blasphemies! Blessed be Christ forever, upon earth and in heaven!”
For answer Thore drove the knife into the priest’s heart, and Father Meilge fell at the Norseman’s feet.
Maidoch’s horror broke out into a scream, and forgetting her fear, she came swiftly to Father Meilge’s aid. Thore stood over his victim, in doubt whether to strike again or to fly. He knew, if caught, how surely King Olaf would avenge the priest’s death. He held the dripping dagger still poised. Father Meilge looked up.
“Sheathe thy knife,” he said; “it hath done its work. It needs no other blow. See,” he whispered faintly, pointing to the stream of blood; “so goeth my life out upon that tide, and goeth swiftly. Sheathe thy knife. Nay, there is blood upon it,—fling it far from thee. Now stoop thee down, unhappy man, until I give thee a message from that dear Country to which I go,—from that sweet Christ whom I shall see so soon. Surely, if I die in defence of his holy Name, He will admit me to His presence soon. But thou! I forgive thee even as I hope to be forgiven. The sole punishment thou must bear from me is every day to say, ‘O Christ, show me Thy light!’ Now stoop thee down and say after me, ‘O Christ, show me Thy light!’”
Drawn against his own will by the power of the dying eyes, Thore knelt down and repeated the words.
“Now fly!” said the failing voice; “fly quickly, lest thou be found.”
Thore needed no second order to escape. Maidoch was striving to stop the flow of blood with the torn pieces of her veil. Father Meilge smiled gratefully in her anguished face. ”Poor little maid of my own land!” he said, with infinite pity in his tone. “Poor little white lamb, in a land of ravening wolves! Christ pity and protect thee, and His Holy Mother shield thee.” Then he was silent, with closed eyes, the death weakness conquering for the moment the strong will.
Maidoch said, between her sobs, “Oh, if help would but come!” She glanced wildly around.
“I am past all human aid, my child, but I would crave to see Father Tuathal, that he may shrive me before I die. Yet stay,” he said, holding out his hand to detain her. “Before thou goest I must bind thy soul with a vow to my dying breath. Yon wretched man hath a soul too, and I would bring his soul to the Christ, even as the thief upon the Cross was brought. If he be punished now for his crime, he will be taken off in all his sins. So kneel thou down beside me, while life lasts, and remember this my dying prayer until the hour of thy own death.”
Father Meilge raised his palsied hand and made the sign of the cross upon both of Maidoch’s tearful eyes. “When thou art asked of the manner of my death, thou hast seen nothing, for I seal thy eyes with this sacred sign, and,” touching both her ears, “thou hast heard nothing, for I close thy ears with this sacred sign; and,” laying his trembling fingers upon her mouth, “with Christ’s holy sign I close thy lips forever as to the manner of my death.”
As Father Meilge finished speaking, Maidoch rose and looked around. “If I leave thee, my father, to go for the priest, thou wilt be all alone. Ah! there is the Lord Thorgills, the scald of King Olaf.” She waved her handkerchief, and Thorgills, wondering greatly why she should call him, came rapidly up to the grove. As he caught sight of the dying priest, he started back.
“What hath befallen Father Meilge?”
“He is dying,” Maidoch whispered, and Father Meilge unclosed his eyes.
“Go thou,” he said to Thorgills, “and bring to my aid Father Tuathal. Go quickly, for my life is going fast.”
Thorgills stood as if unable to move. “But who hath so harmed thee? Thou, the friend of the king, and a priest, who hath dared—?”
“Go quickly, my son,” the dying voice entreated; and Thorgills sped away to find Father Tuathal.
“Maidoch, child,” said the dying martyr, “if thou must stay in this wild land, it were well for thee to have the care and the shield of a Christian lord. So if thou canst place thy hand in that of yon faithful Thorgills, it were a safe future for thee. Thy noble father will follow me soon.”
“Oh, no! No! no!” the girl cried, weeping passionately. “I cannot wed, I cannot live in Norway. No, my father! I would die in so sinful a land. Thou, God’s priest, slain before my eyes! Oh, the horror of it! The spilling of the blood of God’s anointed must forever curse this unholy land. My father, I shall always see Norway in thy martyred blood.”
“But listen, child! Even so, thy work is here. God hath so appointed. I have grieved for thee, but with the wondrous light death leaves on earthly mysteries, I see that here, in this wild, sinful land, thou hast a work to do, the work of a Christian woman, a daughter of the land of Saint Patrick. It hath been our portion to carry in our sad hearts and upon our sorrowing lips the message of Christ to many lands. God hath allowed the heart of Erin to be trodden upon even as the vintager treads down the grapes, and out of that bruised and bleeding heart hath been poured upon the world a wonderful, strong wine of faith. So thou, too, child. Give from the bleeding of thy own heart the full chalice of Christ’s love to this parched and thirsty land. Now comes Father Tuathal to shrive me and to aid me over the lone journey I must take. Farewell! God’s blessing on thee, child!”
“Farewell!” Maidoch moved away a space and covered her tear-filled eyes. Father Tuathal, too grieved for many words, knelt down and laid the head of the dying man upon his breast, shrived him, and whispered the sweet, strong words of holy faith, as the soul of the martyr fluttered away.
“Farewell!” The young priest closed the deep, dark eyes and laid the dead softly on the snowy ground. Then with a rush came the sense of his own loss, and he burst into uncontrolled weeping. “O my beloved! O my more than brother! What hand could slay thee? What heart could be hard enough to harm thee?”
Thorgills went over to where Maidoch sat in her tearful terror. She looked up, as he said with touching gentleness: “Dear lady, this hath been a cruel sight for thy tender eyes. Let me lead thee to thy Lady Aastrid.” And scarcely knowing what she did, or what import the act might have to the scald, Maidoch rose and placed her hand in Thorgills’, and together they went to the tent of Thane Sigvalde’s wife.
For many days King Olaf diligently sought to discover the murderer of Father Meilge. Thorgills and Maidoch were the only witnesses, and all the scald could tell the king was that he had seen no man near the priest when he found him dying. Maidoch was so silent that Thorgills believed she was as ignorant as himself as to the identity of the murderer. He feared to question her too closely, for she seemed so horror-stricken at the crime; and he even dissuaded the king from sending to interrogate her.
“My King,” pleaded Thorgills, “the little maid knoweth nothing of what hand did strike the blow. She hath never seemed to know how Father Meilge met his death. I believe she found him dying, done to death by some wicked man, and her terror and her sorrow have well-nigh broken her tender heart. I would keep this matter from her memory if I could.”
“As thou wilt, Thorgills; but it angers me that so great a crime should go without punishment. But God will remember, and Christ will avenge His true servant in His own time. Let Bishop Sigurd have the funeral with all due honor, and we will attend to do reverence to this martyr of Norway. Ah, Thorgills! I would that my Norsemen were as quick to accept the Christ as were the children of Erin when Patrick came to them. Never a drop of blood was shed when the whole island came to the Cross. In every other land the Faith has cost many martyrs, but not one in Patrick’s land. Now my own Norraway is stained with the blood of God’s anointed. It were indeed a fearful sacrifice. But now, Thorgills, we must hasten back to Nidaros, after we have sojourned a space with Sigurd Syr, the overlord of Ringerike.”