Prisoners of War/Chapter 7

by Talbot Mundy

 

CHAPTER VII

IN LUNDEN POOL

A GRAY, wet dawn was paling in the sky when Tros dropped anchor in the pool below the ford by Lunden Town. Caswallon's mouse-hued wooden roof, green-splashed with lichen, loomed through drifting mist between the autumn-tinted oaks.

Tros sighed for his sun-lit Mediterranean, but he noticed that his Northmen prisoners, oar-weary though they were and stiff from the fighting of the day before, were in an environment they liked.

They sniffed the autumn air, leaned over-side and praised the lush green meadows, nodded to one another sleepily as wooden and thatched roofs, barns and neat enclosures peeped out of the mist a moment to vanish again like dreams of fairyland. The lowing of cows asking to be milked appeared to fill them with excitement. They spoke of wealth in whispers.

Sigurdsen's high fever had abated. He had slept like a child and now seemed hardly to understand what had happened to him; his wife was talking in low tones, he answering in grunts, fingering the edge of the great battle-ax that lay across his knees and glancing from his wife to Helma, who sat facing him. The other woman was still keening her dead husband.

The Lunden Britons were late sleepers. Not a human being stirred along the water-front on either side of the river, although a dog howled a general alarm and a whole pack joined him, galloping from house yards to patrol the river and bay indignant challenge to the skies. There were several rotting ships among the reeds, all smaller than the longship, and not one even river-worthy.

"This will never be a nation!" Tros reflected. "There is no hope for them. Think of bringing two ships into Ostia, Tarentum, the Piraeus, Smyrna, Alexandria, and none but a pack of dogs to give the challenge! They will be overwhelmed by foreigners. They will cease. A hundred years hence none will know the name of Britain."

But he was nearly as tired out as his oarsmen and as Conops, in no true mood for prophecy. Unlike them, he might not curl himself to sleep under the benches. He had no more fear on account of his British hirelings, who would stick like leeches now until he paid them. But he did not propose to be caught asleep by any of Caswallon's men, who might remove his prisoners, might even execute them, especially if Caswallon should be away from home; and that seemed likely.

He thought it strange, otherwise, that there should be none to receive him and bid him welcome, for the sake of good manners, however unfriendly they might feel. Caswallon must have known he would bring both ships up-river. Or—the thought stirred Tros to rumbling anger—had Caswallon left him purposely hard and fast on the river mud in hope that longshore pirates would wipe a difficulty off the slate? To be roundly punished for it afterward, no doubt, since kings must punish criminals and friendships must be honored. When the first hot flush of indignation died he decided to give Caswallon the benefit of that doubt; but he found it difficult, knowing that kings have harder work than other men to keep faith, subtler means of breaking it, and more excuse. There was Cæsar's gold, for instance.

When he had watched shore-bearings for a while to make sure the anchor held, he turned to Helma, hoping to take his mind off one worry by considering another.

"How did you learn Gaulish?" he asked

"Some of us always do," she answered. "Don't we need it when we raid the coasts? I learned it from my nurse, who was a Briton taken in a raid and carried off to Malmoe. Britons are good servants, once they yield. She worked hard, I loved her."

"Love? Or was it belly-yearning?" Tros asked. "I have heard tell that Northmen think of nothing else but fighting, feasting and taking wives."

"None has had me to wife!" she retorted, and there was pride in her blue eyes such as Tros had never seen.

"Well—well you behaved last night," he said, looking straight at her. "You are a poor cook, for you burned the stew; but you shall cook no more for me. What shall be done with you? Speak. Will you return to Malmoe?"

She bit her lip, then stabbed out words like dagger-blades.

"The men of Helsing drove my brother forth. Shall I return and serve them, saying that with my brother's ship I bought myself to give to them?"

"You hate me. Why did you stand by me in the pinch last night?" Tros asked.

"I am a sea-king's daughter! Should I side with pirates?" she demanded.

"What were you when you raided the Thames or when you burned a south coast village?" Tros inquired.

"Good Norse stock!" she retorted. "We are vikings!^[1] "

Tros was puzzled.

"What if I should take you back to Malmoe, and try an issue with the men of Helsing and reestablish you? What then?"

"Ah, you laugh at me." But there was no laughter in his eyes, and she was watching them. "You might make my brother a king again, for you are a bold man and you can handle a ship. But the scalds would call me a black-haired foreigner's wife until the very serving-wenches mocked me."

"Said I one word about wifing?" Tros asked, astonished.

But she was astonished, too; backed away two steps from him looking as if he had struck her with a whip.

"I am a prisoner by my brother's oath of battle. I must abide that," she answered. "You are a prince? Have you a wife?"

"No," said Tros, watching her.

He knew now she was much more puzzled than he had been.

"You will not degrade me," she said with an air of confidence.

She implied they had both been talking in a foreign tongue and so could hardly understand each other. Biting her lip again, she calmed herself, made a nervous effort to be patient with him.

"I will speak with Olaf Sigurdsen," said Tros, and strode to where the Northman leaned against the stern all swathed in bandages, nervously thumbing his ax-hilt.

But Sigurdsen knew no Gaulish other than the words for mast and oar, beef, beer and a dozen place-names. Helma had to stand there and interpret.

"What shall I do with her?" Tros asked, signifying Helma with a sidewise motion of his head.

"She is yours!" said the Northman, astonished. "You won her!"

Helma interpreted, mimicking even the voice-note. Suddenly, as if she thought Tros had not understood yet, she pulled off her amber-and-gold shoulder ornaments and thrust them toward him.

"Have you a wife?" asked Sigurdsen.

Helma translated. Sigurdsen's wife stood up beside her husband, staring at Tros as if he were some new kind of creature she had never heard of. She began whispering, and Sigurdsen nodded, spoke, with a note of grandeur in his voice.

"What does he say?" Tros demanded.

"He says—you returned him his weapon; you accepted his oath as a free man; but you did not say you returned me to him Nevertheless, perhaps you meant that. Therefore, he being my brother and a king's son although without fief or following, and you his conqueror in battle and his sworn friend, he swears by Thor and Odin and his ax-blade I am born in noble wedlock and a fit bride; and he gives me to you, to be wife and to share your destiny on land and sea."

"Zeus!"

NO THOUGHT of marrying had ever entered Tros' head, except as something he would never do. He made no oath, but he had seen too many men grow fat and lazy in the meshes of a family not to promise himself he would die free of woman's ministering. He had something of his father's conviction that marriage was earthy of the earth, a good enough thing for the rabble but a trap that kept a strong soul from aspiring to the heights.

Sigurdsen spoke again, not knowing who Zeus might be, not understanding the explosion. He had never heard of a man's refusing a king's daughter.

"She is fair. She is young. She is a virgin. Call her wife before the Britons come and men speak ill of her."

Helma had to translate. She did it in womanlywise, her blue eyes—they were more blue, than the northern sky—accepting destiny as something to be met and very proudly borne.

"I think you did not understand me yesterday," she said. "Nor I you. You are a brave man, Tros, and I will bear you sons of whom you shall not be ashamed."

Brave! Tros felt as weak as a seasick landsman! He was ashamed. He might refuse, and he would hate himself. He might accept, and learn to hate the woman! He might give her to some other man, and evermore regret it! Why had he taken prisoners? Why hadn't he made a gift of them to Caswallon when he had the chance?

Slowly—he was striving to hear the inner voice that usually guided; but either the inner man was deaf or the voice was sleeping. He let his left hand leave his sword-hilt; he did not know why. She stepped closer, smiling. Both arms stretched toward the girl before he knew it. She came into them, her head on his breast and at that very moment Conops wakened.

"Master!"

It was the exclamation of a man bereft of faith in the one eye that Cæsar's torturers had left him. Love-and-run in half the ports of the Levant was Conops' history, brief interludes of lazy days and tavern-haunting nights between long spells of hardship and service to Tros on land and sea. Loose, superstitious morals for himself but rigorous aloofness for his master from all worldly ways, was his religion. He had but one eye because he had dared to rebuke Cæsar for insulting Tros. He rubbed the other one, crestfallen, as if the Tros he knew were gone and some one substituted whom he could not recognize.

Tros with a girl in his arms? He could not believe it. He came and glared, the tassel of his red cap down over his empty eye; the long tooth sneering through the slit in his upper lip; blood on his nose from yesterday. He fingered his long knife. He sidled three-quarters of a circle around Helma as if looking for an un-witch-protected opening through which to drive his knife.

"Master! And your father not buried!" he said, hardly reproachfully, rather as if he did not believe his senses.

He was jealous—jealous as a harbor-strumpet of a rival light o' love. The slobber blew in bubbles on his lean lips.

"Dionusus!"

Tros was in no mood to be reproved by a servant. He let out a lick with his fist—caught Conops on the ear and sent him sprawling between the oar-benches.

"Dog!" he thundered. "Will you judge your betters?"

Conops did not hear that. He lay hugging his bruised head, grateful for it, glad of anything that drove the greater anguish out of mind, rocking himself, moaning, knees and elbows bunched.

Angry—for emotions such as Tros had come through turn to anger as the sour milk turns to whey—Tros swung his hands behind him and stood breast out, grim chin high, staring at the shore, ignoring Helma. She was the real irritant. He told himself it was not born in him to love a woman. If he had thought he loved her—had he?—that was only the emotion of a drunken sailor. Worse! it was sordid backsliding. A descent from his own Olympian heights of manhood to the common level of unmoral fools like Conops!

What would old Perseus have said to it? Hah! Old father Perseus did the same thing, didn't he? Tros wondered who his own mother had been, and by what means she had wheedled a middle-aged saint into the snares of marriage!

Tros knew she had died when he was born, but others had told him she was a royal woman, born of a fine of kings whose throne was overturned by Rome. Perseus had forbidden speech of her, and as usual Tros had obeyed, only listening when other men dropped information.

Her death, as far as Perseus was concerned, had closed a life's chapter; thenceforth he had preached celibacy, not failing to instill into his son a wholesome—was it wholesome?—dread of women, or rather of the love of women and of the loss of spiritual vision that ensued from it.

"Yet here am I!" said Tros, his hands clenched tight behind him. "But for Perseus and a woman, I should not have been! I live! By Zeus and the immortal gods, I laugh!"

But he did not laugh. It irked him that Helma's eyes were on his back. He wished he had struck Conops harder. He wished all Lunden would awake and come down to the waterside. He would have welcomed anything just then, anything to save him the necessity of speech with Helma. He hated the girl! She and destiny between them had made a fine fool of him!

Yet as he turned to meet her gaze a new shame reddened his cheeks under the bronze. He realized he did not hate her. He knew he would be ashamed to withdraw the unspoken pledge he had made when he took her in his arms. She was his wife! He wished he had killed Conops!

HE HELD out his hand to her with a stubborn gesture, drew her beside him, made her stand hand-in-hand with him there on the ship's stern, gesturing to Olaf Sigurdsen to rouse his Northmen. And when they had rubbed sleep out of their eyes they stood up, grinning, until it dawned on them that something else was due.

Sigurdsen led the cheering then shaking his great battle-ax; and the din carried over-water to the houses near the riverbank, so that a dozen Britons came to stare, hitching their ungainly looking trousers.

Presently—being Britons, who would rather ride a dozen miles than walk one—horsemen came, riding bare-backed mounts into the river. A yellow-haired expert swam his horse all the way out to the longship, and mounted the stern, leaving the horse to swim where it chose.

"Lud love you!" he said, grinning, patting himself to squeeze water from his clothes. He eyed Helma appraisingly. "Norse girls are good. Those cursed red sea-robbers steal more of ours than we ever see of theirs, though! Wife, or ransom?" he asked not pausing for an answer. "Caswallon took some prisoners, but they say there's no hope of ransom; some other gang of pirates drove them forth, so they came to seize holding in Britain. No homes—no friends! Still—is she a virgin?

"She's a well-bred filly. Those Northmen who raided her home might like to pay a long price for her. Lud love me! Is that Sigurdsen? What have you done to him, Tros? He fought his way out of the woods without a scratch on him. What's he doing with his ax? He's a prisoner, isn't he? Lud look at them! They're all armed! Who's the prisoner—you?"

"Where is Caswallon?" Tros asked him.

"Over on the hilltop with the druids, hours away, loving the wounded, you know; wants to be popular. But it won't work. There are too many who say he shouldn't have fitted out your expedition, sixty or seventy killed and maimed. Lud think of it! As if these bloody Northmen weren't trouble enough!

"And there's a woman from Gaul—wait till you see her! You'll soon forget that one, Tros! She had a letter for you from Cæsar. Caswallon burned it in a rage, but she says she knows what Cæsar wrote, and she'll tell you. Caswallon didn't dare to treat her roughly, because half of us fell hide-and- hoof in love with her, and there are plenty who say he ought to make terms with Cæsar.

"She says you and Cæsar understand each other, and we all want to know what Cæsar's terms are. Skell came shortly after midnight, wandered all over town trying to wake people, but we were too tired to listen to him. Besides, Skell is a liar. He's in his own house now. I saw the smoke as I came by."

"Skell?" said Tros.

"Yes, Skell, the box you packed off to Caritia to talk to Cæsar. Skell the liar, Skell who said you helped him to wreck Cæsar's fleet, although everybody knew you did it all alone. Why didn't you kill him, Tros? Skell said something last night about having saved you in the river—longshoremen or something. Nobody believed him. He said you'd sent him ahead to warn us all not to listen to anything Caswallon says until we've heard you."

"Where is Fflur?" Tros asked, when the youngster paused for breath.

"With Caswallon, getting in the druids' way, I suppose, helping to hurt the wounded. What are you going to do with this ship? Burn it? Say—that's a good idea! Burn both ships! Make a floating bonfire in the Pool tonight! Tonight's the funeral. All the countryside in procession from Lunden to the burying-ground, chariots, torches. They say your father's corpse'll be right in front, ahead of everything except old 'Longbeard.' Why not have a bonfire of two ships when we come back? Something to show Cæsar's woman. Show her we Britons can stage a circus too!"

He paused for breath again.

"Where is Orwic?" Tros inquired.

"Nursing himself and trying to rule Lunden. Caswallon left him in charge. But Orwic isn't popular just now—lost too many men on your expedition. Everybody says it must have been his fault. And no loot—didn't bring a stick of loot back with him from Gaul.

"Everybody says, 'Caswallon's nephew is Caswallon's man,' and the chief hasn't been popular these ten days past. Besides, why did Orwic wait so long before he came to help us in the woods? Say, did you see me cut down three Northmen on the run, right down by the riverbank there, where the mud's deep and the thicket goes clear to the water?

"They're trying to make out now that I had help. Three men claim they were in that with me; but maybe you saw from across the river. Did you? Maybe you can swear I did it single-handed. Three great brutes of Northmen as big as Sigurdsen there! Did you hear the first one roar when I stuck a spear in him?

"The other two went down silent, but the first one made noise enough for all three. Did you hear him? Their weapons and armor are held for prize-court and those others'll lie me out of them unless you can uphold me. Can you?"

Tros did not answer. Orwic's boat came hurrying out of the reeds, and Orwic hailed him.

"Lud!" exclaimed the visitor. "Where's my horse? Gone? No matter!"

He plunged into the river and swam shoreward. Orwic, standing in a boat's stern, could not help but see him; he stared hard, watched the yellow head go rippling like a water-rat, but said nothing. He boarded the longship, saluting Tros with a genial grin that, nevertheless, not more than masked a feeling of restraint.

"Skell is here," he said, pursing his lips, staring hard at Helma. "So is Cornelia, a Gaulish woman with Roman paint on her. She says she knows you, Tros."

"She lies. She lies," Tros answered calmly.

"So does Skell!" said Orwic. "But they both lie artfully! The woman says Cæsar has appointed you his agent here in Britain. Skell says he preserved you from the river-pirates, in return for which you and he made peace. He says you grant him the protection of your privilege. Is that true? Is there any truth in it?"

"You were with me, Orwic. You heard all I said to Cæsar."

"Aye, but I know no Latin, Tros! I know you called me off when I was hard at Cæsar with eight men in the bireme's bows. What about Skell? Did you promise him anything?"

Tros grew hot under the bandages that swathed his head. He tore them off.

"I promised you my friendship!" he said grimly.

"Yes, I know you did. You beat me in fair fight, and I took your hand, Tros. Haven't I stood by you since? Caswallon is your friend, too. But don't forget, Tros, Caswallon is king here, and you are a foreigner. Your life and your goods are in our safe-keeping, but if you make difficulties for us we must think of ourselves first."

"If I am not welcome, I will go!" Tros answered.

Orwic hesitated, stroking his mustache. Tros' thought leaped to the chest of Cæsar's gold that Fflur, Caswallon's wife, was supposed to be keeping for him. Thoughtfully he eyed his Northmen prisoners, and wondered whether he could manage the longship with that scant crew. There was the Belgian coast; he might make that. And there was the unknown Norse country, that his bones almost ached to explore.

"I would bid you go," Orwic said at last, "but I dare not. There are too many now who believe you bring Cæsar's message, and they want to hear it. There are too many who accuse Caswallon of having sent you to make overtures to Cæsar; too many, again, who believe the contrary and blame Caswallon for having sent you to stir Cæsar against us. We are all divided.

"Some say Caswallon looks to Cæsar to make him king over all Britain; others say Cæsar will conquer Britain first and crucify Caswallon afterwards! There are some who want to kill you, Tros, and some who want to honor you as Cæsar's messenger."

"What say the druids?" Tros asked.

"That they will bury your father's body. And that unless we can persuade you there will be none to answer all these tales. They say: If you should go, then all men would declare Caswallon was afraid of you, and would turn against him; but if you should stay, Britons will be at one another's throats within a day or two!"

He paused a moment, watching Tros' eyes steadily, then suddenly advanced with a dramatic gesture.

"Tros, I speak you frankly! If we, Caswallon's friends, should treat you as less than an honored guest, your life would be in danger from our own hot-heads, who are ready to admire you if Caswallon does, or to hate you if he doesn't. They will follow his lead.

"But if we honor you, then Caswallon's enemies will hurl that as a charge against him. Nevertheless, those same men will befriend you, if you let them, and make use of you to attack Caswallon! What do you say, Tros?"

"I? What should I say?" Tros answered. "What do I care for the feuds of Briton against Briton? I come to attend my father's funeral."

"Are you Cæsar's man?" asked Orwic.

TROS flew into a rage at that. He clenched his fists and answered in a voice that made the Northmen jump and brought Conops knife in hand from between the benches.

"No! By Zeus and the dome of heaven, no! Do you understand what no means? Rot you and your muddy Lud of Lunden! Rot you all! I vomit on you! Cæsar may help himself to your wives and children! Let him enslave you! What do I care! War-r-r-ugh! You bickering fools—town against town—you are worse than my own Greeks!

"Do you listen to your druids? No! Do you listen to your chiefs? No! What do you listen to? Your belly-rumblings! You believe your colic is a cosmic urge! You think your island is the middle of the universe!

"You accuse your friends and make love to your enemies! You and your chariots! Look at your ships there, rotting! Look at me—" Tros struck his breast—"I grieve! Look at me! I weep! Why? On your account? The gods forbid it! I hope Cæsar treads you underfoot! I grieve that my father's dust must mingle with the dirt of Britain! Wo is me! Wo that I ever set foot in Britain!"

"Peace!" said Orwic, but Tros turned away from him, shaking with fury.

His violence had reopened the wound on his cheek and Helma stanched the blood, using the bandage he had tossed aside. Conops whispered to him; he struck Conops, hurling him headlong again between the benches. Then, black with anger, he strode up close to Orwic, hands behind him.

"Tell Caswallon, I attend my father's funeral. Say this: By Zeus I'll solve his difficulties! Can he fight? Is he a man? Hah! Let him believe either me, or else Skell and these other liars! Let him waste no time about it! If he chooses to call me an enemy, he shall fight me before all Lunden!"

Orwic forced a smile and tried to pour the oil of jest on anger.

"How would that help? They would say you fought him for the kingdom, Tros!"

"Caswallon's kingdom? I? That for it!" Tros spat into the river. "Hah! Barter my freedom for the right to be disobeyed and chorused by long-haired horse-copers? Gods listen to him! Tell Caswallon I wouldn't thank him for what he calls his kingdom! Tell him I doubt his friendship! Bid him haste and prove it or else fight me! Go tell him!"

"Tros, those are unwise words!" said Orwic.

"They are mine! This is my sword!" Tros answered, tapping the gilded hilt of his long weapon.

"Tros, you and I swore friendship."

"Swore? What is a man's oath worth! Show me the friendship!"

"Tros, I spoke you fair. I only told you how the matter lies. I asked an honest question."

"Zeus! I gave an honest answer! Call me friend or enemy! By Zeus, it means nothing to me which way a fish jumps!"

"Your eyes burn. You are tired, Tros."

"Aye! Tired of you Britons and your ways! 'Am I Cæsar's man!' Ye gods of sea and earth! Get off my ship!"

But Orwic did not move, except to smile and hold his hand out.

"Nay, Tros. I rule Lunden in Caswallon's absence. Welcome to Lunden! I speak in Caswallon's name."

He showed a great ring on this thumb. Tros glared at it.

"I know you are not Cæsar's man," said Orwic.

At which Tros flew into another fury.

"Pantheon of Heaven! You! You know that? You, who saw me wreck all Cæsar's ships! You, who were with me at Seine-mouth and saw me rape Cæsar's lair! You, who saw my father's tortured body! You! You know I am not Cæsar's man—because I said it?"

Orwic smiled again, his hand outheld.

"You will admit, Tros, that you said it with a certain emphasis. A man may be excused if he believes you."

"Take my message to Caswallon!"

"I stand in Caswallon's place. I speak for him. I have received the message. I prefer to call you friend."

"Words again?" Tros asked.

He felt disappointed. He had enjoyed the burst of anger. In the moment's mood it would have suited him to carry challenge to conclusion.

"No more words," said Orwic. "Give me your hand, Tros. There."

He stepped close and embraced him, smearing his own cheek with Tros' blood.

"Welcome to Lunden! Now I go to make a good room ready for you in Caswallon's house."

"Young cockerel! Brave young cockerel!" Tros muttered, watching him overside, then turning suddenly to Helma:

"That is the man you should have married! Shall I give you to him? Orwic is the best bred cockerel in Britain."

She looked puzzled, wondering whether he imagined that was humor.

"I am pledged to you, Tros."

"I will free you."

"No. He is only a Briton. You are a sea-king. I will bear your sons."

"Zeus!" he muttered, wondering. "Has all the world gone mad? Come here!" he ordered.

When she came, he kissed her and Conops cried shame at him from beneath an oar-bench. It was a dawn of mixed emotions as opaque and changing as the Lunden mist.

1. Vikings: the word means, literally, "Creek-men" and is probably a great deal older than the period of this story; originally a term of contempt it ended, like similar words in other languages, by being proudly adopted by those whom it was coined to offend.