The North Star/Chapter 13
XI
“WHAT OLAF ART THOU?”
The “Alruna” and the “Aastrid” were still gliding over the North Sea, when one morning a ship was sighted. It was just entering the Skager Rack, on the North of Denmark. Olaf stood up and looked anxiously.
“What is it, Thore?” he asked. Thore shook his head. Olaf approached the helmsman. “What is yon ship?”
The man took his hand from the helm a moment and shading his eyes, eagerly scanned the waters. “It is a ship of the Danes. They have been over to plunder the English and the Irish coasts. Full booty they have, and some slaves.”
“Then I will bid the rowers move quickly and I will give them fight. I want not their booty, but if slaves they have captured, I will ransom them. I would enter my kingdom with the prayers and the blessings of the ransomed. Moreover, they may be Christians and I like not that the heathen Danes should make thralls of Christians. I vowed before the whole Saxon court, when the holy oil of confirmation was given me by Dunstan of Canterbury, that I would never again molest my Christian brothers of England. Sweyn, of Denmark, swore too to Ethelred to be his friend, but the Saxon gold was stronger than Sweyn’s oath. What dost thou see now, Thore?”
The outline of the ship became distincter. Truly it was the viking ship of a band of Danish pirates. Olaf’s rowers worked sturdily, and the strong wind made the dark, square sails like wings of speed. The Virgin’s head at the prow, where erstwhile the heathen bison had been carved, was cutting through the waves. The cross upon the sails and upon Olaf’s own richly wrought banner, stood out clearly in the strong light.
“See! my King,” Thorgills cried, as the ship of the Danes came nearer. “See upon the stern of yon viking ship. Surely it is a little maid, and by her side a white-haired, venerable man. They are thralls, stolen from the English or the Irish coast.”
Bishop Sigurd joined them, and his four priests. “What sayest thou, my father? Shall I give them battle for yon poor captives?”
They could now see distinctly the occupants of the Danish ship. A group of captives stood together on the stern deck, young men and boys, and in their midst a maiden of some sixteen years, clinging in terror to a white-haired man.
Bishop Sigurd looked carefully at the small inferior viking vessel of the Danes, with its rough, undisciplined crew, then at Olaf’s noble ship and his fine array of sailors. “It may be thou couldst by argument and some ransom get the captives without a combat.”
“That will I try,” answered Olaf heartily, and waited until the ships were side by side.
Meanwhile the priests were looking sadly at the captives. “Father Reachta,” said the youngest of the four, to the venerable priest beside him, “canst thou discern yon poor captives? Something tells me they are of our own land.”
The old priest looked again. “Father Tuathal,” he said, “thy young eyes can read clearer than mine. Perhaps the poor captives are from our own land. The Danes have many a time torn the young and tender from the parent roof in Ireland.”
Here Father Breasal, another young priest, spoke. “He is right, Father Reachta, I believe, but do thou, Father Meilge, with thy clear eyes that see so many truths, help us to distinguish yon poor slaves. Dost thou think they are from the Irish coast?”
The handsome, scholarly monk, thus addressed, looking strangely out of place on a viking ship, turned his luminous dark eyes to the Danish vessel. “Too true,” he said; “they are indeed poor children of Ireland. And yon gentle maiden,—it is a sad plight for one of such tender years.”
Thorgills was listening eagerly. Olaf had gone to the prow of the ship, and was signalling the Danish captain.
“What dost thou want?” asked the gruff voice of Ulf, the rough, shaggy Danish commander, who answered well the appellation of “Wolf” which his name implied.
“I would that thou dost release to me yon captives for a fair ransom, or if not I will give thee a fair fight for them.”
“Who art thou?” asked Ulf, in great astonishment, the warlike beauty of Olaf, his rich attire, and his splendidly appointed ship filling the Dane with wonder.
“I am Olaf of Norway. I am coming from Ireland to my own land.”
“Olaf of Norway?” cried the Dane in terror. “Art thou Olaf the White, who ruled more than a hundred years ago in Ireland, or art thou that Olaf that scalds called the North Star and that they sing of at twilight, and that they say is Odin himself come again?”
Olaf did not answer at once. He saw the impression he had made upon the Dane and he resolved to increase the wonder he had caused.
“Shall I show thee, Ulf,” at last he said, “what Olaf I am? Hast ever seen a viking could walk the water?”
As the king spoke, the men at the lockers held the oars horizontally out of the water. Olaf sprang out upon the first oar that was poised above the water, and ran out to the end, then back to the wooden shield, over the locker, and out again upon the next oar, until he had gone backwards and forwards upon every oar on the ship, and over every circular wooden shield at the side of each oar.
“Now row again,” he ordered, and the rowers began to cut the waves in rhythmic motion. As the oars flashed in and out of the water, Olaf sprang upon the first one, and walked upon it, going down into the water as the oar sank, and rising with it as it rose. Running out to the very end of the oar as it rose and fell, he ran back to the locker and sprang upon the next rising oar. Not like anything human seemed the mighty viking, in his glittering armor and golden helmet, but like one of the genii of the world of waters, or like some beautiful gigantic sea-bird poised upon the flashing, dripping oars. The Danes crowded to the side of their vessel to watch Olaf in wide-mouthed wonder.
“It is surely Odin!” shouted Ulf, “none other could so walk the water. Or art thou Njord himself? Hast thou just come from the Noatun, and hast thou sent the storms that plagued us so many days on the shores of the Angles?”
Olaf smiled and turned to the priests. “They believe me to be their old war god, Odin, or the sea god, Njord, who, they say, dwells in the land of Noatun. Every Norse king, when he is victorious, is believed to be Odin himself come again to earth, as he is said to come once in a hundred years.”
Here Olaf drew out his sword, with the cross at the hilt, and held it aloft. The sunlight flashed dazzlingly upon the keen steel blade. The tall viking bent his head reverently. “One far greater than Odin will guide me in the battle. Not the hammer of Thor, but the sign of the Crucified shall be my sign of victory.”
Bishop Sigurd laid his hand upon the bended head. “As another Constantine, my son, thou must conquer by the Sign of the Cross.”
The Danes were still watching in wonder the tall, superbly formed warrior in the glittering coat of mail, and wearing upon his long, red, blond hair the burnished golden helmet. Olaf was about to sheathe his sword. Then he raised it again. Placing it first in his right hand, and then in his left, he fenced with equal skill with either hand. As the Danes were still wondering, he placed the sword in its scabbard, first reverently kissing the crossed hilt.
“My bow, Thore!” he said, and the long, stout bow, with a full quiver of arrows was placed beside him.
“Shall I strike the eye of yon raven on thy sail?” he inquired of Ulf. The pictured bird was high up on the fluttering sail.
“Thou canst not do it,” answered the Dane incredulously. For reply Olaf held the bow in his left hand, and drew the string with his right. The arrow sped in a straight line to the right eye of the raven.
“Well done! well done!” shouted the pirates. “Thou art not only Odin and Njord, but for thy courage thou mightest be Tyr.”
Without answering, Olaf took his bow into his right hand, and with his left he drew the string and speeded the arrow straight to the left eye of the flapping raven. As the Danes shouted in applause, Olaf gathered three spears in his hand. One after another he sent them into the air, and afterwards catching them and flinging them up again he kept the three spears ceaselessly going up and coming down, without ever falling to the ground. Such a feat the Danes had never witnessed, and Ulf cried out in wonder: “I cannot gainsay thee in aught. Thou must indeed be Odin with the magic spear, and yet in thy shining armor and helmet of gold thou must be the battle god, Thor. Still thou must be Njord that walks the water. For thy beauty, thou must be Balder, and for thy courage, Tyr. Thou speakest of ransom for these slaves. Take them at thy own price. I have already felt thy anger in the storms that well-nigh wrecked us. Give me but the value of their food for the three days they have been with us. Give it in gold that the scalds call the tears of Freya, and I will release to thee these slaves that we captured on the coast of Ireland.”
Olaf stood at the prow while Thore counted out the gold, and the captives, ten young men and boys, were taken aboard the “Alruna.”