The North Star/Chapter 40
XL
“MY OWN SOUL WOULD NOT RELEASE ME”
To Bishop Sigurd and his priests Olaf intrusted the propaganda of the Christian faith. The strained relations between the Eastern and the Western churches, the jealousy of Constantinople at the power and influence of Rome, made the bishop and his priests uneasy. Accustomed to allegiance to the Roman Pontiff, they could give no countenance to the hostility of the Greek priests to Pope Gregory V. So it was with a sense of relief that Bishop Sigurd saw Sergius and his companions depart for Constantinople. These dissensions were a growing cloud that gathered thicker, until four hundred years later it burst, in the fifteenth century, in the formal separation of the Greek and Latin churches.
Bishop Sigurd spoke earnestly to Olaf of this matter, and urged upon the king a firmer loyalty to the Roman See.
“My years among the Saxons have shown me, my King,” he said, “that since Augustine came with his forty monks, from the first Gregory, England has always looked to Rome. In Ireland, too, since the Easter morn that brought Patrick from St. Celestine, the Celtic church has looked to its Roman mother. And now that Constantinople would be a New Rome to the Church, as well as to the world, it were well for our Northern church to hold fast to the Roman See, even as the Saxons and the Celts have done. The Celts, dearly as they love all that was brought to them by Patrick, obediently gave up the day he named for the Easter celebration, and accepted the day that Rome has given. We need to stand fast, for the Eastern church, since the days of the rebellious Photius, has been drifting away from us. Our Northern church is in a perilous place, and must struggle bravely, for we have been betrayed by the East and are isolated from the West. Now the Patriarch Sergius has incited the Greek Catholics at Constantinople to revolt against Gregory. He desires to be called the Ecumenical of the East, whereas Gregory, the Pope, is Ecumenical of the whole Christian world.”
“I have ever held firm faith to Rome,” Olaf said, “and in this dissension my voice is with Gregory. When I went in my youth to Russia, I brought the faith of Christ to King Vladimir, who is now named as an apostle for his zeal, and he too turned to Rome and was always obedient to the Pope. The Christian rulers whom I do most reverence and would be like were faithful to the See of Peter. There was Charlemagne! I would I could journey to Rome and kneel at the feet of Gregory, as Charlemagne knelt to Leo, when the Byzantine dominion was given to the West, and Charlemagne was crowned Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. Ah! but he had a glorious reign after Leo crowned him, and his Franks became a power in the West. Then there was the noble Saxon Alfred. When he was a lad he was taken to Rome, and Stephen anointed him against his coronation, and so hallowed was he by this Roman sacring that he was the greatest and the wisest king the Saxons ever had. But I am only a sea-king, and the overlord of a wild North land, and my poor heathen Norraway is slow to grow Christian. But I will strive for this with all my strength.”
“We must strive together, my dear son,” answered the bishop, and after blessing the king affectionately, left the council room.
The day of his betrothal Thorgills met Father Reachta. “Give me greeting, my father!” the scald exclaimed, “for I have won the desire of my heart, though it comes in a dark hour. Jarl Fiachtna hath betrothed his sweet maid to me.”
The priest looked with great kindness at Thorgills, for whom he had a very cordial friendship. “I indeed give thee greeting, and I pray that every blessing may be thine with the gentle, virtuous wife thou hast gained.” Father Reachta passed on. As he heard Thorgills’ tidings, his heart was filled with a deep pity for the little maid, who he knew so greatly dreaded to remain in Norway, and to whom he knew, being of his own land, that her word of betrothal would be unbroken. “Poor, faithful child,” the old priest said to himself; “she is doomed for her life to dwell in this stern land. Poor, gentle little maid! We must cast about her all the tender protection, all the strengthening force, and all the uplifting grace of Holy Mother Church to smooth her difficult, sorrowful path.”
A few days later Earl Fiachtna died. He was buried with the solemn pomp befitting his Christian nobility. King Olaf stood regretfully at the obsequies, his golden helmet in his hand, and his handsome blond head bowed, as the last rites were performed over the good old earl.
One day, a few weeks after her father’s death, Maidoch sat weaving beside the Lady Aastrid. In the distance without, the sound of the hammer and saw came distinctly.
“Does King Olaf go to sea again?” asked the girl; “else why are the builders in the shipyard so busy?” The building and the launching of the king’s ships held a strong fascination for the girl, and not one ever went over the waves that she did not watch it until out of sight.
“The king is not going to sea,” answered Aastrid, “but he is fitting out a ship to go to Ireland.”
Maidoch laid down her work. Her cheeks paled and her blue eyes grew wide. “To Ireland?” she repeated softly as if to herself. “A ship going to Ireland?”
“It is even so,” Aastrid answered, glancing away, for the yearning in Maidoch’s face touched the older woman almost to tears. Then she could be silent no longer. “Dear child,” she said, “dost thou so greatly crave to go back to thy own land?” Maidoch clasped her hands, closing her eyes. “Even so, then,” went on the kind voice, “I may be able to send thee back. King Olaf is despatching a ship to Ireland for more priests, and for skilled artificers to paint upon glass and steel. None have the skill of these Irish painters, and King Olaf spares no gold to have the finest work upon his new ship. The captain of the ship who goes to Ireland takes with him his wife and his daughters, and they could bear thee company to thy own land.”
Thy own land! Maidoch’s eyes grew starry in their happy light, and her lips opened in smiling answer. To go back to Ireland! Surely it were next to going to heaven!
Lady Aastrid noted the expression of the girl’s face that almost transfigured it, and she said, as if the matter were closed: “Then will I prepare for thy journey. Lord Thorgills, though he will be grieved at thy going, is too noble to hold thee against thy will, and he will of a surety release thee from thy troth.”
Maidoch stood up. Her face paled, and all the light died out of her shining eyes. Her troth! Her promise of betrothal, next in its solemn sense of truth to the marriage vow. All the strong lessons of Holy Mother Church, the sacred meaning of her promise to Thorgills, came to her in that moment. The woman’s soul in her awoke—not to love, but to duty; and sorrowfully, as one might shut down the coffin-lid upon the beloved, Maidoch shut out the vision and the hope of ever seeing her own land.
Not quite understanding the meaning of the girl’s silence, Lady Aastrid repeated encouragingly: “Of a surety, Thorgills will release thee from thy troth.”
“Dear Lady Aastrid! my own soul would not release me. I am my Lord Thorgills’ betrothed bride, and God helping me, I will be his faithful wile, in whatever day he shall bid me come to him.”
Then, as if there were no argument to be made, Maidoch gathered up her skeins of wool and went to her room.
A few days later, Thorgills and Maidoch were married,—Father Reachta pronouncing the solemn words that made them man and wife.
Without, in the wind of spring, the ship was setting sail for Ireland, and the voice of the priest came to Maidoch with the shouts and the cheers of the crew, as the sails were unfurled and the ship began her course.
Oh, the hushed heroisms of a woman’s heart! Maidoch uttered her imperishable vows, and bound her soul with that tie that life—inexorable life—cannot break, and that only death—all-conquering death—can destroy. Holding her husband’s hand in hers, she heard the voices of those who set their faces to her own land, and their happy cheers were to her, in that hour, as a last, sorrowful farewell.